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.

"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

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."

Progress Without Movement

I've reached that point in my week where I sit here and try to find something to write. I don't know if I struggle because I have too much to say, or because I have too little. I feel that in this instance, it is the former.

You see, I woke up yesterday morning in a state that's left me a little worse for wear. Arguably, not the worst hangover I've ever had, but it appears that the older I get, the more of an effect alcohol seems to have on me. Shit, at 17 I would drink anything I could find and wake up the next day as fresh as an early Spring morning. Nowadays I've had to resign myself to the fact that a few drinks on a Friday night will leave me bedridden until Sunday morning. Such is the inadvertent sacrifice of age.

This got me thinking about what else has changed over the years; where I am now, compared to where I was "then". I've thought upon the miles I must have walked, and where they've ultimately led me and I've realised that it's all too easy to wake up every morning and feel like you're in the same place you've been for years, for no other reason than because you physically are.

Maybe this is because we tend to measure progress in the spatial dimensions; distance travelled, heights climbed and so on. But if you were to sit in the same place for one whole year and devote that time to learning as much as you could, would you be the same person you were 12 months ago? You won't have moved, but I guarantee you'll be a very different person. Albeit, with a bad cramp.

As many of you know, I consider my life to be a journey towards a worthwhile story. My journey over the last year has been a very strange one. I have experienced the absolute heights and depths of my emotional spectrum and as I reach the end of it, there are a few people that I feel I should thank. After all, what makes a journey more than the people you meet whilst you're on it?

So in no particular order, I give the following people my thanks.

I thank Jack Freeburn for saving my life, and I thank Matt Pike for being a brother to me in the truest sense. I thank Jacob Dobby for being my best friend for the 17 years that I've known him, and I thank Hannah Lloyd for being that light in my hand that keeps me smiling. I thank Becca Peters for reigniting the creative spark that I thought I had lost a long time ago, and I thank my Ma for making the home I've had all my life. I thank Ben Ross for turning into a brother that I am immeasurably proud of, and I thank Tom Chester for being an older brother in whom I see a strength I hope to one day achieve.

Lastly, I thank Charlotte Kelly. Thank you for being the deepest love of my life for the time that you were in it. Thank you for the times that you tried to understand what I was going through, and thank you for standing by me for as long as you did; you were a saint to do so. For that, you will always be my friend.

I thank anybody that has changed me into the person I am, for better or worse. Some of you were in my life for the briefest of moments, and yet you have had an impact that you will never know.

So to anybody reading this, I ask you to look back at the last 12 months and consider the people who have shaped you. Thank them, because you may feel the effects of their friendships for the rest of your life.

Lastly, consider who you were at the beginning of the year. Are you the same person? I know I'm not.

So here's to next year. To the friends we've yet to meet, and to the people we'll become.

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.