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.

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

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."

Entanglement

As I look towards the future and the plans I've set in place for myself, I can't help but reflect upon the past and the steps I've taken to get here.

Purposelessness has been a feeling that has at times enveloped me entirely, and to finally have set a goal that could potentially set me up for life is a terrifying and gleeful concept.

The glee lies in the unknown and the potential for success, and the terror naturally lies also in the unknown, as well as the potential for failure. But fear of failure should never get in the way of the pursuit of happiness and betterment. Knowing that and putting it into practice however are two entirely separate things.

Over the past few days, I've found that there's only so happy you can be about success or the potential for it without people to share it with. Naturally as a result of my internal issues I'm often at the mercy of over-thinking and seeing a half-empty glass, but I truly believe life is enriched by having somebody you can share the wins in life with who will tell you that they love you and that they're proud of you.

Currently this positive reinforcement is provided in spades by my family and friends, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that having one person with whom you share something unique, sacred and intimate would make the wins that much sweeter.

I find myself missing people I shouldn't; people that are long gone and would usually hold no weight in the scales of my mind. I miss people that don't even exist; a feeling brought about by dreams of idealised versions of love and happiness. I even miss older versions of myself. Happier, more optimistic versions that believed they could conquer anything.

The delicate flame of life is easily extinguished without hope, and equally fuelled by love and its many beautiful gifts. External loneliness isn't something I'm used to feeling; I'm a fiercely independent person. With that said, it'd be nice to call somebody I love and say "I accomplished this today." and have them tell me they're proud, and unsurprised because their love for me makes them believe I can do anything. They become the embodiment of that past "you". They believe you're invincible and endlessly capable, and they keep you on that path.

Love and loyalty are complicated. They can burn, they can leave you cold and they can make you more than you ever thought yourself capable of being.

Is it any wonder we're biologically wired to seek this out? It's a drug. Just one that's perhaps best used in moderation.

Thank You

For better or worse, I spend a large portion of my life lost inside my own head. Thoughts can creep in like spiders and nest there for days or weeks at a time. Such is the nature of a man who overthinks everything to the nth degree.

Self-doubt is an obstacle that I often struggle to overcome. I frequently liken my life to a game of chess. I strive to be 10 moves ahead as a means of limiting the number of surprises that head my way. This naturally means I have trouble living in the moment and embracing the "now".

There are benefits to this, in so far as I can generally figure out when I might wind up in check, but I'm reminded constantly that chess isn't really my game. It's a game to which I know the rules, but by no means am I necessarily any good at.

It's as hard to see victories coming as it is to see losses, and just as hard to know the difference sometimes. Were it not for the opposing colours and the pieces left on the board, I'm not sure I would ever truly know.

I head back to work on Monday after 5 weeks away. It's certainly been a reflective 5 weeks and I'd like to think a large portion of the issues that prompted the initial breakdown have subsided. Within a month or so I should hopefully be able to finally put the events of Germany to rest and move on from it. As for everything else, I feel I've made steps to move past the majority.

We all encounter obstacles, and realising you need help or time away is key to recovery. In the last 8 months I've been depressed, lost a love, been drugged, robbed, borderline-kidnapped, considered ending it, and come through the other side for the most part. I couldn't have done this without the help of my closest friends. So I suppose it's time again to thank those who have stuck by me.

To my family, I thank you for being the most supportive, loving, close-knit and bonkers family I could have asked for. I am immeasurably proud of you all, and I'm constantly in awe of what each of you are capable of.

To Jake, I thank you for being there everyday and being a solid enough friend to put up with each other's bullshit.

To Matt, I thank you for being the least judgemental, most honest and loyal man I know and keeping my head on straight in spite of your own issues.

To Hel, Jamie, Will T, Annie, and Ned, I thank you for providing an escape and a true representation of friendship.

To Jack and Will C, I thank you for being the truest of friends and never allowing me to stray down a path I'd struggle to return from.

To Amy, I thank you for showing me normality and contentment by simply being there and being your wonderful self.

To George and Louise Cheesbrough, I thank you for providing me with the happiest day I've had this year, and I wish you all the happiness there is to find in this world. It means an indescribable amount to me to know how frequently you've kept an eye on me despite how busy you've both been.

To Smethy, Swales, Lister, Franny, Arblaster, Shreevo, Mark, Big Cheese and King, I thank you for being so welcoming of a stranger and becoming friends I hope will be around for a long time.

To Dan Prescott, I thank you for being the man I've counted on for the last 6 months to keep me sane in work; you'll be missed but I couldn't be happier to see you making the dream come true.

To Geraint, I thank you for being a friend even in absence, and promise to see you soon.

You've all kept me on track in one way or another and it's my sincere privilege to know each and every one of you.

All the dramatics aside, I feel it's important to let those who've helped know that they have; especially when they've done so to such a degree.

The rest of my year is entirely without direction and for the first time in a long time, I think I'm okay with that. Life may be good again, that remains to be seen. What doesn't is the knowledge that I'm surrounded by the finest people I could ask for.

I won't forget that. To all of you, I look forward to the next adventure.

Thanks again folks; I'll see you soon.

Stardust

If life has taught me anything this year, it's that it can throw some devastating curveballs.

Many of them can knock you straight on your back, but if you're vigilant and lucky, you can, on occasion, smash these curveballs out of the park.

From the depths of despair you can arise enraptured by something as simple as a kiss, or the smile of a beautiful girl. These glancing blows of fate are the violent and melodic songs written by the universe itself.

If asked, could you accurately count the moments in which life has, for better or worse, taken your breath away? Most days go by without any degree of significance or occasion, and are lost to the chaos of time.

There's tragedy in the idea that the majority of our lives will go unremembered by the very people that lived them. This is the nature of the universal rhapsody. An unpredictable, often unremarkable series of expressions that are punctuated by instances of great elation, or deep depression.

Without these peaks and troughs however, life would lose its purpose; the lesson to be found from simply living. There is no profundity to be gleaned from beauty if there is no mundanity in the ugly. There must be two sides to the coin, or the coin is entirely without character and value.

Deep-seated sadness is a painful thing to endure for even the shortest amount of time, but it is also necessary in order to truly appreciate and envelope oneself in the absolute release of joy.

Life is neither one thing, nor the other. It is everything at once. It is love and loss, pain and relief, wonder and horror. But in times of great strength, we may find ourselves granted a glimpse of the celestial, and in doing so, we can see the infinite possibilities to be found amongst the stars.

We are after all simply stardust made sentient.

I wonder what the universe will conspire to sing next?

Lights & Crossroads.

Lately I find myself at something of a crossroads. I'll come back to this crossroads later, but I'll begin by saying without question that the year so far has been the most difficult year of my life. Given what I've seen and done in my near 27 years, that's a scary and sobering thought.

For a great deal of time I came to believe that I had rid myself of the demons I'd come to know all too well, but the events of the past few months have taught me that they never truly go away. They hide, they retreat and if you're lucky you're granted a brief respite from the darkness these demons can bring. I guess you just have to hope that you can find the light again and reach it before the darkness becomes too much to bear.

As some of you know, I recently experienced what I feel to be the most traumatic and vulnerable event of my life thus far. Robbed of any control (and a few materialistic things that mean far less in the grand scheme) I found myself in a place I rarely allow myself to be. I found myself scared, numb and broken.

In many ways I'm still combating that fear, and the fears that permeate through the upswing of happiness that preceded them. I had allowed myself to believe that I was finally happy again. To have that so violently and suddenly stripped away is the most difficult thing I've ever had to reconcile.

Why then do I maintain some degree of optimism in the face of such a painful year? Because as I'm reminded by my friends, I've gone through so much by now that the only thing I can hold onto is the memory that with time, everything improves.

I don't write too much anymore. It bothers me that I've allowed something I was so passionate about at one point to be relegated to an old hobby. Because in all honesty, that's never what this was for me. It was catharsis. It was truth, and it was an acknowledgement on my part that shitty things and shitty people will always be a part of life.

Whilst it's often difficult to remember, the opposite is also true. I find myself for the most part surrounded by the dearest friends I could hope for, and a family that I would do anything to protect because that's my job. They are my whole life, and not all of my "family" are blood.

I've never, ever let my family see me cry. When my old man died, I held it in. When past loves were lost, I held it in.

What happened in Germany threw me in a way I cannot begin to express. I'm just lucky I had people around me who were willing to sit through and support my pain without question or judgement.

So I guess my optimism lies in those I love. The knowledge that I have people I would die for, and people that would die for me.

There's no debating what a rough place I'm in at the moment. I'm battling depression, anxiety, trauma, the remnants of a relationship that to this day confuses me, and the fear that things will never get better for me or those I hold so dearly.

But they will. They have to. They always do.

I apologise for what a heavy piece this has been, but in truth there is a huge amount I keep bottled up that I need to talk about. Maybe this is the place to do it; maybe it isn't. Honestly, I don't care.

To anybody suffering with anything, please get help. See family. See friends. See a doctor. See new horizons. Be adventurous, but with care. Be open to new things and new people, because it's amazing the effect these people can have.

My name is Ethan, and my head is a fucking mess. It's important that I acknowledge it because these things only ever seem to be whispered about. Depression and pain are tricky bastards to tackle, but they're also necessary evils. I've never met a single person who's gone through heartbreak, loneliness and depression and come out of it a less empathetic person.

These things make you stronger. They make you a better person. Hold on to that, and live for it. Because I honestly believe that you will be better for it in the long run. I wouldn't change a single thing that's happened to me. I wouldn't change things with my old man, my family, my friends or even past relationships that may not have been the wisest positions to be in. Because I'm who I am now because of them, and all the self-loathing, insecurity and doubt aside, I know I do my best.

I know they did too.

So back to the crossroads. Where do I go from here? I honestly don't know. I figure I stay on the path I'm on and hope that it leads me somewhere good. If not, I'll retreat and try another direction. Repeat until happy.

Life is a series of paths, diversions, dead ends, retreads, locked doors and stunning vistas. But the journey is what matters. The lessons you take with you on the way.

People come and go. They're not always good people. Sometimes they are and they leave anyway because that's where their path leads them. But stay true to yours and I truly believe it'll take you where you're going.

In the words of my old man, you just have to "keep on keepin' on". One day we'll all find it.

Until then, don't stop looking. Find the small things, and use them to build something monolithic. Something unbreakable. That's where happiness lies.

In summary, I realise this isn't the most upbeat of messages. But these things are so often brushed under the carpet that it scares me how little people feel they can discuss it. So this is an open message to anybody reading this.

If you're struggling, lost, or just need to talk through something you don't understand, I'm here, and I would welcome the friends. Because that's all life really is. It's not you.

It's the people around you. Those are what you live for.

I'll see you next time I have a long-winded, pointless rant to write. Until then, stay in touch, and keep looking for the light.

Where ever it might be.

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.