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.