Love In Retrospect

I’ve been sat trying to write this piece for the better part of three nights; well aware of the message I want to get across, but completely unable to find the right words to convey it. I’ve written about 5 other drafts that may one day turn into something else because they each have their own potential, but I think for now I may have to forego the creative urge to write something profound or beautiful and simply aim for honesty.

I’ve been unemployed for 3 months; I lost my job following the PTSD diagnosis and the subsequent sick note. In that time, I’ve done very little more than rattle around my house with nothing but my thoughts to keep me busy. These thoughts almost invariably involve love in some form or another. Often, I think of familial love and responsibility. Occasionally I think of platonic love; the kind you find amongst friends. Most commonly though, I think of romantic love. The type of love you find when you meet somebody in who’s eyes you see the most perfect version of yourself.

The truth is, I miss being in love. Over the years, I have come to fall in love with not just people, but individual moments themselves, and these moments are stored like photographs in the sepia-toned confines of my mind. I can remember damn near every moment wherein love literally took my breath away.

Dancing in our favourite spot. Travelling together and watching her peacefully curled up on the train. Seeing her for the first time. Seeing her for the millionth time. Waiting for her to wake up, whilst at the same time wishing that the moment before she does would last forever. The brightness in her eyes as I’m the first thing she sees. Our first kiss, and seeing her appear out of nowhere in that dress, as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen.

I’ve written about love more times than I can count, and whilst I’ve touched upon my experiences with those I’ve loved and lost before, I don’t think I’ve ever been so honest as I’m being now. For that reason, I don’t know if anybody will even ever see this. Maybe you will, maybe they will and maybe she will. I guess it literally remains to be seen.

You see, I’m in that in-between place. That place inhabited by those that have come to accept the end of a relationship, but still occasionally mourn it.

They say that “time heals all wounds”, but it also creates them. Time affords you both the ability to make peace with what no longer is, but also inherently serves as a reminder of everything you’re missing out on. I think most people follow a similar pattern after a break-up. Maybe you try to stay friends, then realise that you can’t. Eventually you become angry at each other, and ultimately all contact is cut. Social media accounts are blocked so that you remove the temptation to see how the other is doing.

“Is she happier?”

“Am I?”

You begin to question every single moment of the relationship. Everything you should have said but didn’t. Everything you shouldn’t have said, but did. All the things you may or may not do differently given the chance.

At this point, you may be wondering if I’d go back if I had the chance. I know I am. If I’m honest, I don’t think I would, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the little things. These past 18 months have been the hardest of my life, and I can’t help but wonder how different things would be if I hadn’t gone through them alone. It’s not the lover that I miss. That person no longer exists. It’s the friend, but maybe she doesn’t exist either. There are days that I wonder what we’d say if we ever spoke again.

As I sit here writing, and reading over the words I’ve already written, I’m fully aware that I sound like a man not yet over that loss, but the truth is far more mundane and simple. I’m a romantic. I believe that there are things in this world that you only get to experience with one person, and once that person disappears, those things leave with them. Those are the things that I miss.

When you consider the time we have here, our lives essentially last for no more than a fleeting moment, but the beauty of love is that a moment can last a lifetime.

Of all the emotions that exist in this world, of all the incredible and infinite possibilities afforded by the phenomenon of our existence itself, nothing is so powerful as the experience that is true love. Whether we care to admit it or not, we are all searching for it; yearning to find that cosmic dance partner with whom we can share our own private universe.

Even just for a moment.

That’s what love means to me.

Self-Reflection

A couple of days ago, Facebook reminded me of the below picture. It was taken outside the front of Yale College on the last day of my second year. During those two years at college, I was lucky enough to find myself as part of a group of about 30-40 tight-knit friends. I remember the day the picture was taken; I was so proud to be there. I was even more proud to be in the center; it added to the feeling that I mattered. At that very moment, I was surrounded by the best friends I had ever had.

This picture made me think about how I've changed over the years. Within many of the photos taken during that period of time, I can be seen pulling stupid faces and trying to overcompensate for my lack of identity and self-confidence. I often talked too much about very little. I was unsure of myself and so I mimicked the behaviour and mannerisms of friends as a means of fitting in and having people like me. There are few things more powerful than the urge to belong; to be a part of something bigger than yourself, that in turn makes you a bigger, better person. These people shaped who I was for years to come, and I am forever grateful to them for doing so. For as unsure of myself as I was, God knows I was happy. It was that happiness that dictated my behaviour around others going forward for a very long time. I just wanted to fit in; I was desperate for people to like me and so being included in anything was an absolute gift. 

This next photo is another example of that. Atop a pyramid of my friends, I felt like a king. I was literally and figuratively lifted by these people. They made me feel worth something at a time when I was still trying to figure out who the hell I actually was. The reason these pictures stood out to me this week (aside from simply being wonderful memories) is because I recognise just how different the "Ethan" in these photos is when compared to the "Ethan" many of you now know, but I'll come to that later. For now, I'd like to continue delving into the unseen depths held within these snapshots of my life, because it wasn't until I went back and actually looked at these photos that I realised that the person smiling back at the camera wasn't necessarily the person he thought he was. 

For the next photo, we go back even further. High School. It's worth noting that during my last two years of high school I did have a group of friends whom I loved dearly. The few that I still talk to continue to hold a special place and I consider them good friends regardless of the distance or time between our last meetings - particularly Phil, Jack and Naomi who have each in their own way remained pillars of support and friendship in times of need, just as Charlotte W has since college. What's worth noting in this picture (besides my incredible haircut) is the smile on my face. By no means false, but when I look at it now I see a kid who was very unsure of himself. Somebody who was simply happy to have found a group of people willing to call him their friend. The only one in the picture not focused on the camera itself, but the moment it was capturing. Proof that I belonged. In that moment, and many others to follow, that was all I cared about. 

This mindset and sentiment is echoed in another picture taken at the end of college. This picture, taken as a joke between four gingers, shows me looking about as shy as I've ever looked. My smile is coy, my shoulders hunched, hands clasped and my body language in general is very submissive. Unsure that I belong, but happy to be there nonetheless. 

As we move toward the future, beyond the uncertainties of college and the follies of youth, I find myself forever grateful to have had, and continue to have, these people in my life. They have given me gifts that I couldn't possibly repay, and my admiration and respect for each of them is boundless. 

That brings me to University. The 18 months I spent there were complicated, to say the least. I found myself another group of wonderful friends almost by accident. Unfortunately, my behaviour during that time eventually led to the alienation of these people. In the unlikely event that any of you ever find yourself reading this - thank you for the time you gave me, and I'm sorry for the person I ended up being in the end. That person is found within this picture.  Skinny and badly dressed, I began to allow the mask of confidence I had worn up until that point become a permanent fixture; one that slowly developed into a face of arrogance and hubris, instead of the self-assuredness I should have been aiming for. I began University still very keen to impress, but without realising it, I soon hit a 180 and became somebody absolutely convinced he was right all the time. Suffice it to say I was anything but.

My life between school and university had been one spent re-inventing myself; following the examples of others as a means of attaining acceptance. It wasn't until I left university to come home that I began to change for the better. No longer were the camera-captured smiles shy, forced or even "grateful". There's just a simple comfort in my smile; an ease with who I was, and who I was with. When I look at this picture, I'm reminded of the last time my life was unmarred by depression, anxiety or any other worries. It is one of the only pictures in existence that was taken at a time where my mind wasn't filled with noise. Just a normal 22-year old in a normal relationship. Of all the pictures you'll see here today, this is unquestionably the most authentic smile. 

As time went by, I began to lose people. Dad passed away, my relationship with Charlotte ended, and my mental health began to decline. The smiles became forced in a way they never had been before. The mask had once again shifted. What once was a mask of false confidence became a mask of false happiness. That isn't to say there weren't moments of genuine peace and happiness, but generally I'd smile simply because that is what one does in photos. I began my relationship with Hannah and we shared experiences and times together that despite everything, I continue to treasure. Even so, the smile began to fade. It was harder to muster. Heavier. During our travels together, I suffered a huge amount with anxiety. I wasn't even sure why at the time; it just hit me. We were travelling, however, and nobody wants to see or be a part of travel photos populated by somebody unable to summon a smile. So I did. I smiled, and I pretended I was well. This denial, or lack of realisation on my part, was no doubt detrimental to my health, but it was what I felt I was supposed to do at the time.

Back then, I was hiding my illness. Very few people were aware of the noise within my head and only those who looked closely enough could see it. Looking back now, it's rather obvious. When you look at this picture, you'll initially see me smiling with an idiot behind me. I might look happy, but look at my eyes. They're sunken, with a heavy purple tinge. They're tired, worn eyes. I didn't notice it myself until Hannah pointed it out to me. I was ill, and I wasn't being open about it. The lie continued. I wasn't to know it at the time, but things progressively deteriorated. Over the next few years, this relationship fell apart, my depression worsened, my anxiety increased and my self-worth plummeted. Germany happened, along with all the things I've written about to no end here. 

But what's worth noticing, and what is perhaps the point of this entire (rather self-indulgent) piece, is that for better or worse now, the way I feel is reflected in my photos. Those of you who follow me on Instagram will likely notice that I rarely smile. I often look rather blank, maybe angry or stressed, or tired. But it's honest. It's real. The kid who withdrew in photos with his shoulders hunched now stands with them squared and confident. The child who spent years trying to figure out who he was finally knows. It may be far from perfect, but it's me. The countless hours of portraying somebody else has given me the ability to know who I truly am better than ever. So I'll smile when I'm happy, and I'll no doubt continue to look tired and frustrated when I'm not. 

Either way, you can be damn sure that the person you're looking at is me. Ethan Ross. I've come through far too fucking much to waste my time pretending to be something I'm not. 

So I'll leave you with both. One sincere smile, and one weary-eyed, restless soul getting up to face another day of noise. 

Of all the things I worry about, the man I am today is not one of them. 

For better or worse, I've come a long way.

"I Took a Pill in Ibiza"

There’s a great song by Mike Posner that I just discovered – “I Took a Pill in Ibiza”. As music often does, it got me thinking. It may come as a surprise to some of you that I, on a number of occasions over the past 12 years, have experimented with drugs. Not many, and not frequently, but I have.

The first was fairly tame - marijuana. In my college days I suffered a lot with migraines, and so an acquaintance named “Sketchy” gave me a spliff in the hope that it would fend off the migraine I was having at the time. I don’t recall whether or not it worked, I just remember being drowsy and telling Mum about it when I got home.

Before I continue - as soon as I’d finished writing the above passage about weed I began to smell the stuff so clearly that I called my flatmate into my bedroom to confirm that the smell was indeed real; sure enough, it was. Weird. The first time I decide to write about my drug use, somebody lights up a fucking blunt outside my house. Funny that all the years I’ve spent writing about mental health hasn’t produced any therapists. Also, yes. His name really was “Sketchy”. He was giving out free drugs; of course that was his name.

Anyway, back to the point.

I told Mum, and she was fine about it. I knew that she had done drugs in her younger years and so I had no concerns about confiding in her. This level of trust is why we’re best friends today. She simply asked that I was careful and responsible with it, and trusted that I would be. For what it’s worth, I was. I never really took to the stuff anyway, and subsequently tried it a handful of times to very little fanfare or consequence.

Years later in 2013, my old man passed away. This happened during my first major bout of depression, and I made a point of carrying the whole thing on my back. I organised the funeral down to exactly what the speakers would each say and ensured that my family never saw me cry. At the time, I felt that this was the right thing to do. “Show no weakness, be strong for them.” As should hopefully now be apparent, I was a very different person then. I now understand the importance of speaking up and sharing pain, and I believe that vulnerability and openness are each demonstrations of a greater strength within. That said, I wasn’t handling it well.

Around 10 months later, another acquaintance of mine informed me that they had come into possession of a stash of magic mushrooms and offered me the chance to experience them free of charge. Intrigued by the prospect, I gave it thought. I consulted my Mum, and this time she was more concerned. She had known people to have life-altering “bad trips” and was worried that my head wasn’t in the right place. I told her that I was going to try it anyway but assured her that I would set the conditions of my “experiment” in such a way that would be as safe as one could be whilst trying magic mushrooms. Once again, she trusted me, albeit nervously.

I waited for a night when I was happy and relaxed. I surrounded myself with trusted friends who talked me through what I should expect and advised that the necessary help would be called in the event that something bad should happen. I went into the whole thing with nothing more than an open mind and intrigue.

This is me, very high. Note the plate-sized pupils.

I hadn’t given the remotest consideration to the idea that it might help me process a tragedy that I had yet to come to terms with, but that night wound up being the most profound night of my life. Chemically speaking, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I experienced various hallucinations of my parents, and had a conversation in my head that sincerely helped me come to terms with both Dad’s life and death. Aside from that, the night was genuinely fascinating. I walked four miles to get home, and it felt as though the stars themselves had aligned. A few years later, when “GreyMatterLeaks” first began, I even wrote a piece detailing the whole experience for a reasonably well-known artist. They were seeking drug-based story inspiration for an art piece and I was looking to write. Whether my experience was of any consequence to her remains a mystery, but I may release the article one day if there’s any significant interest.

I never did mushrooms again, simply because that first experience meant too much to me. I knew that what had taken place went exactly as it was meant to, and whilst I’m no believer in fate or grand design, I do feel as though somehow that night was a necessary part of my story.

Fast forward to a year or so later. I’ve just come out of a very intense and difficult relationship that ended in a weird way. The depression has returned, stronger than ever. In large part, this bout of depression was a result of the breakup, but as ever there were other inner demons at play. My self-worth was disappearing at a terrifying rate and I was spiralling. This time I was abroad, and I wound up scoring 20 euros worth of ecstasy from some random bloke selling knock-off Ray-Bans.

This was significant for me because it’s a drug I would never have considered taking were it not for the complete lack of interest I had in being alive at that time. I was pissed up, and the offer of something else to either kill me or dull the pain for an hour or six seemed inconsequential. Fortunately for me, it was. I don’t remember much of the night, but I do remember that guilt that caused me to hide it from Mum for years.

Whilst it’s true that I’d never considered taking it before, it wasn’t that that haunted me. Were I so inclined, I could no doubt have sourced it at home from somebody I trusted. Still stupid, but far less so than taking it from a stranger in a country I’d never been to before. I didn’t feel guilty because of the drug; that was what it was. I felt guilty because in my depression, I cared so little about my own wellbeing that I gave no thought to the people who did.

I realise in hindsight that this was to some degree a symptom of the illness, but I’m still not proud of it. Eventually, I told Mum. She tells me she was heartbroken, but mostly because she realised exactly what I now know – that I must have been truly broken to be so stupid. I knew it would hurt her to know, but like I said, I tell her everything. Good and bad.

We’re just shy of 1300 words in, and if you’re still here, you may be wondering what prompted this “laptop confessional”. Aside from the song I listened to, it’s my current relationship with drugs that brings this topic to the forefront of my mind.

As you may know, I was drugged a year ago, leading to PTSD and the drastic and at times near-fatal exacerbation of my depression and anxiety. 215 days ago I found out I was negative for HIV and I stopped smoking an hour later. 53 days ago I stopped drinking completely. As a result of what happened, I can’t stand the thought of losing control over my own body.

3 days ago, I was medication free for the first time in 2 years.

For the record, I transitioned to another medication today that I’m currently scrutinising in real-time in order to catalogue the effects, but I wanted to spend a few days medication-free first. I wanted to know how I would feel.

The answer surprised me. The days I spent without my medication were the clearest and most normal days I’ve had in months. A week ago, I was having daily thoughts of suicide. Mum suggested that the Mirtazapine I was on might be the reason I’d been so much worse the last few months. I think she may have been right. I truly believe that continuing with that drug would have resulted in my death within the next 18 months.

This revelation that I was perhaps better off without the medication is why I’m tracking the side-effects – come this Friday I’m seeing my doctor and strongly considering ceasing medication almost entirely. My experience this morning with the new medication was unpleasant, and whilst the second dose tonight hasn’t been bad at all, it doesn’t feel like it helped. So essentially, it fucks me up or leaves me as I am. There’s the rub.

Over the years I’ve been willing to subject myself to all manner of mind-altering experiences for the sake of having stories to tell when I’m older. I wouldn’t change that. I’m glad that I made those choices because they informed both who I am now and the opinions I have on certain drugs. With that said, my mind is twisted up enough without adding more knots. It may be time to accept that I’m just not a person that can be helped by medication; a realisation that is both a slight concern and minor relief. I’m still processing it.

As for everything else, I guess now just felt like the right time to tell the story. I realise that whilst some of you already knew, many of those who know me personally may be surprised/disappointed/amused/etc to find out that I’ve taken drugs in the past, but ask yourself if you liked me before you read this? If you did, consider that experiences such as these are why I am who I am. More to the point, I’ve made a habit of being open and honest when I write, so if you’ve ever admired that quality at all in me, this is still that.

My thoughts on the matter are much the same as they’ve always been – so long as what you’re doing is of no harm to others, do whatever the fuck you want. Just be careful, be safe, and learn from everything.

Good or bad.

"You have memories to look back on today."

The ongoing debate; which matters more?

The past that shaped you? The present that now defines you? Or the future that will continue to change you?

That aside, it’s an interesting time to be me. I realise that means nothing when you’re not me, but take my word for it.

As if to signify a healthy step forward in my general well-being, I find myself learning again; both actively and passively. More and more, I’m learning the difference between knowing something and understanding something.

I’m casually learning a new language (Italian), and less-casually learning an old one (English).  I’m planning again. I’m looking ahead more than I’m looking behind.

Perhaps most importantly, when I do look to the past, it doesn’t hurt quite like it used to. It doesn’t really hurt at all, now that I actually sit and think about it. It’s more akin to looking at an old photograph and being reminded of somebody I’d long forgotten about. They’re nice snapshots of life to be reminded of now and then, and once I let go of the negativity that surrounded a lot of them, they just started to become little foot-notes in the history of being me.

One of the many pleasant memories Facebook has reminded me of.

I’m guess I’m noticing this mostly because Facebook has a habit of reminding me of “memories” from years past. It raises the question though; can something be considered a memory if the only reason I remember it at all is because Facebook tells me about it?

Regardless of the answer, things are pretty good lately. I’m generally quite happy in my own company, and barring the occasional stumble I find that I’ve begun to move on from many of the things that have been gnawing away at me over the past few months and years.

I think it’s because the future is looking brighter and more defined than it has done in a very long time. I’m building something for myself that I wouldn’t have thought even remotely possible six months ago.

To put it simply: life has potential again.

More than anything, I’ve noticed that my priorities have shifted in a big way over the past year. Being alone is what I need right now. It’s allowing me both the time and the space to focus on myself without the added pressure of trying to live up to somebody else’s idea of who I should be.

With that said, the prospect of eventually finding somebody special is actually appealing again. It also scares the shit out of me, but I think that’s because I finally feel ready to have the next great love of my life be the last. Once I’ve put all the puzzle-pieces in the right places, I’m excited to look at this big picture with somebody I love.

Since the past is on my mind though, there are a lot of conversations that I wish I could have. Some are with younger versions of myself; I’d like to able to prepare him for the multitude of difficult times that will inevitably head his way.

Many more of these conversations are with my old man; the older I get, the more I find I have in common with who he was, for better or worse. I’d like the chance to talk to him one last time and ask him “why” and “how” a lot of things are the way they are. I’d love to know his thoughts on the man I’ve turned into.

The remainder of these hypothetical conversations take place with people who used to be important to me. Old friends to whom I don’t speak any more. Old loves. People that were once both, and now are neither.

I often think about what it would be like to sit down with people that had a large part in shaping the person I am, just to find out how much they’ve changed in the years we’ve spent growing up and apart.

In my limited experience, these conversations are best left to the imagination rather than having them actually take place. If watching The Lion King over a thousand times has taught me anything, it’s that the past is best left where it is.

With the best will in the world, there is a good reason you drifted away from each other. You’re no longer compatible.

You each belong to a new puzzle. Your own personal “big picture”.

So, as I look to the future and make peace with the past, I suppose it’s time to embrace the present and keep on keeping on.

Have a nice day, folks.

Suicide & Toxic Masculinity - It's Time We Talked About It.

In recent weeks, months and years, we as a society have witnessed the emergence of a devastating epidemic amongst men. An epidemic widely known of and yet woefully under-discussed. An epidemic that is claiming life after life, day after day.

Kurt Cobain. Robin Williams. Chris Cornell. Chester Bennington. Verne Troyer. Kim Jong-Hyun. Tim "Avicii" Bergling.

These are but a few names that belong to a group of men who collectively appeared to have a great deal in common. They were each wealthy and successful. They were each entertaining and well-loved. They were each iconic in their own unique and wonderful way.

They each suffered from something unbearable, and they each succumbed to it.

What perhaps now unites these men more than anything is the last, heartbreaking decision each of them ever made. Despite the so-called "fame and fortune", and despite the love of countless humans around the world, these men reached a point in their respective lives that resulted in each of them choosing to end it.

As I write, I'm all too aware that I myself have come extremely close to joining this growing list of names on a number of occasions over the past 18 months. I'm grateful to be able to say that there is still something within me that feels that living is the best way to solve my problems, but there are so many men out there that sadly don't.

Statistics show that males aged between 15 to 75+ years old are on average three times more likely to take their own lives than women. Suicide among men is one of the leading causes of death in this country, and the numbers continue to rise.

Why is this? Why are men seemingly so much more susceptible to the spectre of self-destruction?

One of the more recent schools of thought blames "toxic masculinity", and I believe there is a lot to this argument. "Toxic masculinity" refers to the societal pressures and expectations placed on men to be strong, tough, and unbroken. It's the idea that suggests that males should be unflinching and unfeeling in the face of hardship and adversity; that they should hide their feelings for fear of being seen as "weak" or less of a man.

I've seen this toxicity affect people I care about. I've seen it affect me. I've seen it affecting countless others around the world.

I believe it's time we tackled this problem together. It's time to talk. It's time to listen. It's time that we accepted that we are not as alone as we feel.

It takes untold strength to open yourself up to judgement, of any kind.

A friend of mine recently confided in me; telling me how much he was struggling and what he was going to do to begin his recovery. The moment I got that message I felt a huge swell of pride for him. His confession took courage. An admission of "weakness" is one of the biggest demonstrations of strength a person can display.

There is nothing wrong, weak, "unmanly" or shameful in seeking help.

Depression is an illness like any other. When your brain is telling you that it no longer wants to exist, how can you expect to tackle that alone? Broken bones require casts. Cancers require treatment. This is no different. You need support.

When I was 21 years old I swore that I would kill myself at 30 if I hadn't found a way to be happy by then. It's a deadline I've thought about time and again over the years.

I'm currently working towards a different vow. When I reach 30 years of age, I'll celebrate my survival. I'll celebrate every hardship I ever overcame and I'll celebrate every person that had the strength to stand up and say "Help me."

To anybody reading this that is suffering, I beg you: talk about it. Ask for help. Be honest, and be strong. I'm leaving some phone numbers below; some of these are numbers that I have called in times of desperation, and the people there are trained to listen and help.

You are not alone. You are not weak. You are not finished.

To everybody else, I urge you to look for the signs. Being there for someone who needs a hand is one of the most noble and important things you will ever do.

#TalkAboutIt

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Mental Health Advice/Listening Helpine - 0800 132 737
Samaritans (24-hours, free to call) - 116 123 - www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help-you/contact-us
Wales Helpline (Domestic Abuse) - 0808 801 0800
Bereavement Counselling (CRUSE) - 0844 561 7856
Papyrus Hopeline UK Freephone - 08000 684 141 - papyrus-uk.org/help-advice/resources/spot-the-signs

Taking Your Time

I’ve been thinking a lot about time recently, and the way in which it presents itself.

Watches, clocks, phones, alarms and even the sun itself would have you believe that time flows consistently. Ironically, it’s all relative. I’m not talking Einstein here; nor am I about to start an article on gravitational time dilation, but it is relative. It’s subjective to a certain degree.

Time ebbs and flows. It flies when you’re having fun, and slows to a crawl when you’re in the midst of a battle you’d sooner not be fighting.

We’re in March already; a month which holds a few significant dates for me. Amongst other things, tomorrow will be 2 years since I travelled for the first time. As if to prove my point, the six weeks I spent travelling through Europe felt as though they lasted a lifetime. The experience changed me. It changed a lot; not least my relationship at the time. I came back from my travels with a view of the world I didn’t have before. Everyday things became a little more mundane and pointless when compared to the journey I had just been on.

See, we use time as a benchmark for the experiences and events in life which change us. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. Dates we lost loved ones. Dates we found new loved ones. Time is so much more than a calendar year. It’s so much more than a life time. It’s the one thing humans will all invariably fall victim to. It takes time for us to come into this world, time to learn how to live in it, and time for us to eventually leave it for those whose own time has just begun.

2017 dragged as though I was pulling a truck behind me. 2018 is flying like it was born with wings. I’m not sure which scares me more.

I’ve always felt as though time is the most valuable commodity we have. You can’t buy more of it. You can’t get it back, and you can’t return it in exchange for “better time”. I’ve spent so long trying to find a way to make the most of mine that I’ve probably wasted far too much of it worrying in the first place.

Time is the one thing that is always on my mind. It’s a source of anxiety that I fail to battle against in every instance. I constantly wonder if there’s something I could be doing that’s more worthwhile. Maybe that’s why travelling is such a beautiful idea to me; it’s time spent viewing the world I’ll one day leave, so I want to see as much of it as I possibly can. Meet as many people as time will allow and see how I look back at my time just as it begins to run out.

As a result of my constant obsession with time, I can remember almost every single date of significance I’ve ever known. The date my relationships began. The date they ended. First kisses. First “I love you”s. Last “I love you”s. Dates of great joy, and overwhelming sadness.

I’ve often pondered what I would do were I granted the ability to manipulate time. I was once certain that if I could go back in time and change things, I wouldn’t. I felt this way because I was more or less happy with who time had turned me into.

More and more, I’m unsure that that’s the case. Maybe I’d go back and stop myself from saying or doing something. Maybe I’d go back and say or do something I should have.

The irony is, and as if to further prove my point, I’ve just spent the past 20 minutes writing about time and now I’m wondering how much it was worth. I think in this instance, it needed to happen. I needed to vent.

Today is Mother’s day. I know two dear friends who, due to time, didn’t have the opportunity to spend today with the one person that brought them into this world and granted them every single second they’ve ever had.

If you’re both reading this, you hopefully know who you are; I’d like to take this time to thank you both for being such good friends to me. I hope you were able to spend today looking back fondly on the time you had with your Mums. Wherever they are, I’m hopeful that they’re doing the same.

At this point, you may be wondering what the point of my words have been. I know I am.

I guess I’m saying “make the most of it, if you can”. It’s not always, if ever, that easy, but try. Time is a gift, so I’m sorry if you feel as though you wasted some of that gift reading this.

I’ll end by saying this. To those of you I once cherished, alive or dead, who are no longer in my life; I miss you. I hope the time you spent with me made you a happier person.

And to those of you I have in my life that I cherish, thank you for making my time worth spending on you. It’s a gift I am endlessly happy to share with you. I’ll be grateful for that time until mine runs out.

Love to you all.

E.

Love, Relationships & Mental Health

Today marks 9 years to the day since I first told a girl I loved her. Why do I remember this date? Primarily it's because I'm good with dates, but I'm also quite sentimental.

In the intervening years I've told three more women the same thing, and I can honestly say that I've meant it each time, without hesitation. I'm always rather cagey during the early stages of a relationship; primarily because of how much they mean to me. I love being in a relationship; I love everything that comes with it. The companionship, the private jokes, the pet names etc. So, as I say, during the early stages I'm always a little nervous about things; making promises, talking about the future and so forth.

This rarely, if ever, has anything to do with the woman herself, but rather how much it means to me to be able to say something and truly mean it. The idea of making plans for the future before I'm certain that there's a future to plan scares the shit out of me; I can't stand the thought of letting somebody down anymore than I can stand the thought of being let down myself.

An old memory; it's called "Daft Subway Photo Shit"

As you've no doubt gathered, these four relationships have each now come to an end, and for the most part I treasure the memories I made during my time with each of my previous girlfriends. Hannah C showed me what it was to be in love for the first time. Lucy taught me what it was to have a family outside of my own; her family were deeply welcoming and loving, and embraced me immediately, for which I was immeasurably grateful. Charlotte showed me what it was to be carefree and adventurous, but also what it was to have somebody deal with my mental health issues for the first time as Dad passed away midway through our relationship and I began a downward spiral that I've struggled with ever since.

Lastly, Hannah L provided a drive to see the world and step beyond my comfort zone. Moreover, her family also became my family. Her parents were loving and caring, her siblings were welcoming and familiar. Even her family friends welcomed me with open arms.

For as wonderful as each of these relationships were for the most part, they were often met with complications brought about by my predisposition to depression and anxiety. I've fortunately never been a jealous or suspicious person, so that never factored into it, but having to explain to somebody why you're not always beaming when you see them or why sometimes the idea of going into town or doing the usual "date night" stuff scared me was always a difficulty. When you're getting about 12 hours sleep per week and dealing with a deep-seated anxiety and insecurity, it's often the case that the last thing you want is a Nando's or a cinema date.

These people begin to truly believe that what's wrong with you is a direct reflection on them, and the feelings you have for them. This, as you might expect, becomes something of an issue.

What's worse is that I personally consider myself somewhat of a romantic. I love big gestures and I love small gestures. I love surprising my girlfriend with flowers, hand-making cards for certain anniversaries, dates or birthdays, or just showing up with their favourite pizza or bar of chocolate. All this may sound insignificant and small, but these things were always my way of proving that "I do sincerely love you", despite all the arguments and the seclusion.

Four months into 2017, my most recent relationship came to an end rather abruptly. Things had been difficult for a while; my head was going, and generally the state of the relationship wasn't what you'd call ideal. She had often worried that I would leave her for somebody else. Ironically, she met a man at a new job and decided that was where life should take her next. It's a tough thing to reconcile when you're already that low, and when you follow it up with a drugging and an assault, you find yourself with little to no self-worth whatsoever.

So today being any other day, I find myself still in two minds about relationships. On the one hand, there's nothing I love more than pizza nights and Netflix with a partner. I love falling asleep with the woman I love in my arms, and I love waking up before they do and seeing them sleeping safely and soundly only to wake up, bright eyed and look at me with unconditional adoration.

To revisit my initial point, since this relationship ended I made a conscious decision to remain single for the foreseeable future. In large part, this was due to the prospect of having contracted HIV or Hepatitis hanging over me, but more so it was because I realised how much healthier I tend to be when I'm single.

It's an odd paradox. I love being in love, but it brings so many complications that become near impossible to deal with when you can barely bring yourself to wake up in the morning. With that said, I've been single for nearly nine months now. In terms of my mental health I'm leaps and bounds ahead of where I was a year or two ago.

Partly it's due to the time I've taken off work to heal after the events of last year, but I also feel it's because I'm not currently beholden to the duties inherent in relationships.

To clarify, I loved Hannah. We travelled Europe together, made plans, celebrated various occasions and had all the things you'd expect of a relationship (good and bad). Now, however, I'm able to focus entirely on myself. I can ensure I'm recovering properly and I don't have to worry about letting anybody down or visiting people when I simply don't feel up to it.

So where does that leave me? Do I believe relationships mix well with mental health issues?

Ultimately, I think it boils down to the individual. If you're the sort of couple that is each able to accept the nature of one another's problems, then yes, you can likely make it work, but for the time being I'm reasonably sure I'm happy being alone. That is to say, until such a time as I meet somebody that takes my breath away again.

I bear both a great deal of fondness and resentment regarding the past, especially the recent past. I'm still working through it, and I fully believe that for the time being I'm far safer keeping to myself and continuing to recover. I still lament the lack of somebody to fall asleep with and wake up to, but honestly I couldn't in truth say that I'd be willing to have that again if it meant a regression into old schools of thought. I don't have the energy or inclination for pointless arguments or jealousy. I suppose it's much simpler to say the following, and hope that it comes to pass:

I'm nearly 28. I've had some of the worst experiences I'll ever have since I turned 20, and I'm determined to make 2018 and beyond a time filled with as much positivity and happiness as I can manage. I want the next woman I say "I love you" to, to be the last person I say it to.

Though maybe you hope for that with every relationship; who knows?

Point is, a lot of my friends have recently married, had children and begun a life together. I honestly could not be happier for them. Not only because they deserve it, but also because they keep having beautiful children that I get to visit with and coo over because I love kids.

So I'll finish with this. I'm happy. I'm healthy. I'm content for that to remain the case. Should the circumstances surrounding that contentment change without affecting the happiness itself then I'll be the first to celebrate it.

Until then, I'll remain happily alone, but not lonely; excited to tell the next amazing person to enter my life - "I love you."

A Letter to Dad - 5 Years On

Hey Dad.

It's five years today since you left; feels like a lifetime. It's been a while since we caught up so I figured I should write and let you know how I've been, and how the others are. You'll have to forgive me for not writing this by hand, but given how much you were enjoying getting the hang of technology before you died, I suppose this is fitting in some way.

As you'd no doubt have wanted, we'll begin with the most important topic; you'd be crazy proud of Ben. When you left he felt as though he'd somehow let you down. That always pissed me off, because you were the parent and you should never have let him feel like that. With that said, if you were around now you'd be amazed at how far he's come in spite of everything.

Time tends to warp in my head when it comes to your death; it's very much a "life before"/"life after" thing. I'm not going to give you the whole "Before Andy"/"After Andy" shit because I think you'd agree that's a little grandiose, but I digress.

Ben went to Ormskirk University; he's still there now. Prior to this, he was going to go a year earlier to another university but I convinced him (based on my experience and who he was at the time) that it wasn't the right time for him to go. He maintains to this day that that was the best advice I ever gave him, and given how he's flying I'm inclined to accept such praise.

He graduated from his Performing Arts degree with a First. A fucking first, Dad. Imagine that. It wasn't an easily won grade either. He had his problems; alcoholism being at the forefront of those.

There was a time where I was concerned he wouldn't make it (both to the end of the course and to the end of the year), but thanks to a wonderful young woman named Gemma, a young woman with whom he celebrated his third anniversary two days ago, he got sober and has been ever since. He used his sobriety to pass his degree with flying colours and has since gone on to do a Masters in Psychology.

I wish you could have been at his graduation; Mum wept, naturally. I cried my eyes out. To this day it's the proudest moment of my life. Watching him go up to get his diploma wasn't like watching a 20-something Ben graduate. All I could see was the chubby-cheeked toddler with the shit-eating grin going up there. Of all the things I've witnessed in my life, that day was the first to contain an event I'd call a miracle. Not because he wasn't capable of it, but because he had finally proved to himself that he was.

He had overcome all the events of our childhood; all the bullying at the hands of others, all the insults and fighting with me, as well as alcoholism to prove everybody including himself wrong.

What's even crazier than the educational side of things however, is the fact that we're now best friends. Fuck me, think of that. When you were alive, he and I could barely be in a room together without wanting to rip each other's throats out. Now all we do is laugh. He'd have made a good big brother too; 2017 was proof of that.

I'll come to that a little later.

All this is to say that if you were to weigh all of the things that you accomplished in your life against all the things that you fucked up, Ben alone tips the scales in your favour. He is without question the most remarkable triumph you ever had.

I just wish that you had been around to see it. For both of your sakes. You'd be so proud of him.

Onto Ma.

She remains, to this day, the most amazing woman to have ever been in either of our lives. I think towards the end (and perhaps before) you were aware of that, for all the mistakes you made, but it's worth noting anyway that despite all she's been through she continues to be the sweetest, kindest and strongest woman I've ever known. She would never fucking believe it, but I'll tell her as often as possible anyway. Like Ben, she's my best friend. There is literally nothing she doesn't know about me, and we're closer than ever.

She and I haven't had a crossed word in as long as I can remember; primarily because I stopped being such a moody little shit all the time, but regardless, I'm proud of how close we are. We've been talking a lot lately about all the stuff we'd like to do this year to make up for what a shit-show 2017 was, and I'm looking forward to getting them done.

We've both spent far too long in stasis for various reasons and it's about time we tried to move again. She's strong, Dad. Much stronger than you'd ever have seen her. She's kept the heads of her three kids above water more times than I can count, and still has the nerve to "apologise" for how we were brought up. I wouldn't change anything. Not even the mistakes you made, because they all made us closer in the end.

Anyway, she's happily enjoying time to herself and I visit her about 4 times a week. We sit, we drink tea, we reminisce and we take the piss out of each other. It's nice; it's a place I can go when everything gets too much. A sanctuary. Though she watches some fucking awful television. What's worse is how much I sound like you when I moan about it.

It's only just occurred to me that the reason I refer to her as "Ma" (something commonplace nowadays) is because you'd always ask "How's your Ma?". Must be one of the many things I picked up from you during our time together. Whilst this one is more of a tongue-in-cheek title; I find myself becoming more and more like you the older I get. Many of our traits-in-common are balanced out by those I inherited from Mum.

For example, I'm fully capable of your temper and rage, but generally I'm able to maintain her level of patience and calm. I sound like you, I talk like you did, and I even find myself making similar facial expressions. More and more, I look in the mirror and see aspects of you staring back at me.

In many ways this is both a comfort and a source of trepidation. I've spent a lifetime trying to make up for the mistakes you made, but I'm also proud of the good things we have in common. Not least of which is our love of writing. I'm pretty good at it; arguably better than you. I sing, I play guitar and I still love films. I miss the Sundays I'd spent visiting you; you'd show me a film you thought I should see and I'd sit and watch, learning about the importance that is the art of film-making and storytelling.

I met a man about 10 months after you died that actually guessed where my name was from without prompt. I introduced myself as "Ethan", and he replied "Like Ethan Edwards, from The Searchers.". It blew my fucking mind, and honestly I missed you a lot at that moment. I could picture how pleased you'd be at that exchange. To this day, he's the only person to ever pick up on that. Usually I get "Ethan Hunt from Mission Impossible" or "Ethan Hawke".

Again, I digress.

With today being five years since you died, you've now been out of my life for as long as I had you back in it. That's a sobering thought. Truth be told, I miss you.

There have been many times over the past half-decade where I really wished I could talk to you. At times just to chat, about an upcoming film or some global event, but mostly to find out why I am like I am. To ask you about the parts of myself I know I inherited from you, and to ask you how you felt at my age. To ask you what you'd have done in my position.

So, what have I been up to in the last five years then? Charlotte, the girl I was with when you died, is no longer in my life. To my knowledge she's still pursuing her qualification as a medical doctor and she's doing well.

I finally managed to obtain my passport after months of sleuthing and family-tree climbing and went on my first holiday with four friends. I was pretty low at the time, but I'd love to go back. It was an important time for me in retrospect. Robin Williams killed himself during the time I was away, and I think it brought the world a slightly heightened awareness of mental health. I recall waking up, hungover as all hell, and hearing that news. I sat in the hotel lobby for hours (deep in depression and close to suicide myself at that time in my life) and I couldn't believe it. Somebody that outwardly full of life and love, driven to suicide by the thoughts in his own head.

Were it not for a friend named Jack, and a day spent by the pool alone on a sunny Wednesday in Spain with some cheap beer, I likely wouldn't be here. He saved my life that day. Though you should know, he doesn't think much of your table. He calls it a fire-hazard and thinks it looks more like a ramp than a table. If I die before him, I think I might leave it to him in my will as one final "Fuck you, Jack". He'd probably use it for disabled access or something.

I was working at Avox/DTCC when you were alive. Shortly after you passed away, two men named Mark Roberts and Ashley Powell were kind enough to let me move departments so that I could be with Jake when I returned to work after your funeral. This was the start of my progression there and I won't forget what they both did for me. I went on to become manager of my own Billing department.

I was pretty proud of that; I had a great team working with me and I accomplished some pretty good things. For whatever reason, you dying gave me an actual work ethic. Part of me worries that it's because you had so much talent that went to waste because of the problems you had. It's one of the many concerns I have for myself to this day.

During my time at DTCC, I met a young woman named Hannah. We spent 2 years together. We travelled Europe, and had a pretty turbulent relationship. She had a wonderful family; they really embraced me as one of their own and I won't forget that. 2017 rolled around and I think in the end my mental health and her own issues became too heavy a burden, so we split and she got with somebody else a couple weeks later. There's not much more to say about that.

Travelling might be the closest I ever feel to you on account of how much you always talked about your adventures in Amsterdam and such. I remember being there myself a couple of times (high as a kite) and wondering whether we were both stood in the same spot 40 years apart. I'm hoping to travel more this year to make up for the trauma of last year.

Following the break-up with Hannah, I visited George in Germany with Jake (who I'm now living with). Something bad happened there. I was drugged, robbed and remember none of it. There's unfortunately a legitimate chance that something more happened, so I've had regular blood tests since to eliminate the potential for HIV and such.

Fortunately I'm physically healthy, but the doctor believes that I may be suffering from a degree of PTSD. I'm not really sure about that myself, but I also have no way of bench-marking that type of trauma, so I'm awaiting counselling and we'll see what comes of it. I had to leave my job, and I'm still out of work, but things are on the mend. I'm happier now, and 2018 is hopefully shaping up to be a good year.

I've set a lot of goals that I intend to achieve (not least of which is travelling more) and all being well, this will be a better year and I can start moving on with my life. I'm hoping to pursue writing too; I enjoy it and I'm told I'm good at it. Those two things seem more than sufficient as far as reasons to pursue something go.

Anyway, that's a relatively brief summary of life without you. I'm sure there's more that I've forgotten, but I can't even know if you're reading this so I suppose what I've forgotten doesn't matter. If you're reading it, you already know because you'll have seen it. If you're not; none of it matters anyway.

I miss you, old man. I have questions for you, about me. About you. About our family. All sorts, really. I wish we could sit and watch one more film together and shoot the shit for a while, but given that life is what it is I'll have to settle for writing you this letter. I hope wherever we go after this, you're at peace.

You'll no doubt be asking "In the immortal words of The Three Degrees, when will I see you again?"

Somewhere down the line I expect, on this side or the next.

Until then - "Keep a clean nose, watch the plain clothes; you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows."

Rest easy Dad. I love and miss you.

The Spider & The Fly

I knew the title for this post before I even knew the content. Primarily because I only write tonight as an attempt to commit to and honour one of the many goals I've set for myself this year - write one piece a week, on a Sunday.

So why the title, and what train of thought left the station upon deciding on it?

Well. I'm 27, and for the vast majority of these 27 years I've been scared of spiders. I used to have my Ma kill them for me, but for one reason or another I've become almost fond of them over the course of the last six months. This fondness has resulted in me handling a house-spider to put it outside, and generally going out of my way around the house to ensure that the spiders are evacuated without injury.

Prior to this, however, there was a spider on the ceiling in my room. Thinking quickly, and with pinpoint precision, I squashed it with the edge of a mirror. I'm not proud of myself, but it happened and we must press on.

When I moved in to this house I was told that spiders would be a big problem, but in truth, this has been the only spider I've seen in my room since May 2017. In fact, aside from myself, my flatmate or other friends, it's been the only creature to enter my room since I moved in.

Cut to tonight. Something catches my eye. I glance around and I see a fly. Whilst I am in no way scared of flies, I am usually deeply irritated by them and often do my best to shoo them out of the room or annihilate them entirely. Again, it seems my baser instincts are failing me because I chose to allow this fly to glide around my room uninterrupted. It landed on the giant map of the world I have hanging in my room (in Russia, specifically. Not sure why; never been.) and I developed a fondness for this fly.

I had sat there for hours prior to his/her unexpected arrival; restless and impatient. There's not much to do on a Sunday evening, and even what there is lacks a certain appeal. One of the other goals I've set for the year is to see some more of the world and get back into what I love without having anything from last year hanging over me. So the fact that the fly landed on the map held a certain significance for me regardless of it being completely without agenda on its part.

It reminded me why I'm impatient and why I'm restless. Because I'm a week into this year and I want to start accomplishing things. Me being me, I want everything to happen at once; I want the successes, the plans and the bumps to be past me so that I can just enjoy the fact that the experience was one I got to have.

My issue reminds me of an Eagles song I love - "Learn to be Still". That's what I need to do. Not still and unproductive. Not still and unaware. Just still, and content to wait.

With that in mind and following a brief conversation with my Ma about how we both want to do more this year to make up for last year, I bought myself a stupid amount of food I couldn't possibly eat, listened to some Disney music and relaxed, whilst the thought that I hadn't written anything slowly chewed away at me.

At that moment, I glanced down, and I saw the fly on the floor. He/she was motionless. For the first time in my life I mourned the loss of a fly. Not because I suddenly love flies or because I'd developed some deep relationship with her/him, but because I had chosen to let him/her fly around my room and the fly died anyway.

Art by BlackBoxBerlin

It ties into something I was looking into last night as I pondered getting a tattoo, and if so, which I should get. Existentialist that I am, I was attracted to the idea of "Memento Mori".

For those who don't know, "Memento Mori" is Latin for "Remember death" or something along those lines; "Remember that you will die."

Seems bleak, yeah? Perhaps. For me, it's a reminder that I've only got so much time. So where possible I should spend the time I have being happy, content and patient.

The fly reminded me of my thoughts on this. The fly came in, flew around, lived and died. I picked the fly up on some paper, dropped him/her on the windowsill outside, and closed the window. Admittedly, this fly had in actuality taught me nothing. It just reminded me of things I already know, and need to bear in mind.

With that, I say to you all: Memento Mori.

Remember that, and use it to fuel the best year you've ever had.

Happy 2018 and I'll see you next Sunday.