Why I Haven’t Posted in a While / Love doesn’t cure everything….

Love doesn’t cure depression.

I’ve tried the application of Love as a band aid, as a plaster, a quick solution to paper over the cracks. It’s in the busy-ness of a weekend I have organised to silence the bells inside my own head and heart, under the pretence of a birthday, a reunion, a wedding, an anything at all. I came away from these with the knowledge not that I was loved, but that its exhausting to be happy and smile at people when inside you are screaming and breaking and struggling to breath. That when you look for love, you trust the wrong friends, friends who you have known you for years and seen you at your worst and best. They will be the ones who don’t tell you they have girlfriends, lovers, lives, that hand you their guilt and ask you to carry it for them, who don’t listen to what you are really asking them for. A sigh, a kiss, is really a scream, a notification that ‘I need help’, that a one night stand or a fling is not asking for a relationship but a pillar to hold onto in the middle of the night.

People don’t listen, people don’t see.

Nights are darker when you have your own personal rain-clouds. The stars don’t even light. And when a solid day has passed and all the people you hope to hear from don’t even text a funny joke, you cry and you cry and you cry, and you become thankful that the stars aren’t here to bear witness. Because they hold nights like this forever within them, and you will never see starlight in the same way, never see a field washed in silver without feeling metal between your fingers. Tasting medicine in the back of your throat. Remembering lessons hard learned – how to do it better, that if you swallow too much too quickly you will vomit it all out and sob, sob, sob, realising you failed even at this.

Depression is when the easiest way to stop the cycle is to fall asleep and disappear. To buy a ticket on a train that races behind the dawn, and ask for it to stop only when it reaches a city where the lights never come on. When you check the weather and think you could go outside and fall asleep and you wouldn’t even realise you never woke up. How easy it would be, how calm, how quiet. When you have to scrabble in the dirt for reasons not too, and it can be something simple that stops that forward rush. I cannot choose the right scarf, the right shoes, which beach to lie upon. And here I am again, sat behind my closed door and crying. I should be thankful. I never am.

Love is not a reason not to give into the pull in my stomach that urges me on to the cliff-top. Love is what put me here. The wrong man, wrong job, wrong city, wrong medicine, wrong medication, wrong genetic make-up, wrong hormone levels. Love only works when it is a two way thing. I have loved, so many people, so many things that never felt the same, never warmed to my particular traits. I have loved friends who walked away one day with no explanation. Friends who never rang me first. Friends who only ever came to me when I could offer them something they needed. Friends who weren’t friends. Family who never wanted me and didn’t try to hide it. Walking into a house and having nowhere to sleep at Christmas, being the one forever being made to sleep in a temporary bed in a temporary space – neon signs that said I didn’t belong here.

I sit here now and I know later, in a day, a week, an hour, I will try again to make this all stop in a most permanent fashion. God I hope it works.

I know no-one I know realises this blog exists, and so this is safe to post. If it is a goodbye or a cry for help, I don’t really know. It is something of the two.


Post Break up Blues

When you break up with someone, and finally accept you are no longer an item, together, coupled – when that moment of dreaded realisation hits, how exactly does one go about quantifying whether or not the relation ship was a good one? What parameters, what possible scale could possibly do justice to the feelings and moments you want to preserve and evaluate? Perhaps some of us judge the quality by how many souvenirs are left to place in a shoebox stained with tears – dried flowers, a resteraunt menu, a tester strip of his signature scent. Others may feel that if anything is kept it means it is not over, that to keep these scraps of a life in a box only means you are waiting to revisit them, to draw out the pain. However, what if you have nothing to keep? No scraps of paper or ephemeral tat to immortalise this partition, this severance?

So many people, male and female, these days seem to judge a relationship purely on its length.Were they there for a few weeks? Not that important then. A few months? Semi- realistic, almost meant something. A year? That’s a real relationship. However what if the flame that burnt brighter for a shorter time meant more than a protracted slow yet comfortable relationship? I am thinking this, as you have probably imagined, as I have just had the ‘good friends’ chat with a boyfriend of three months. Not partner, he never reached those dizzying plains of togetherness. But boyfriend, yes that covers it. I am not going to name him, he is a private person who prefers the non digitization of his life – so I can only hope he forgives me for using him as the catalyst to this ponderence.

I have known him in total for six months, roughly, been together for half of that. So a three-month relationship – met online, met in person, and yes I tumbled him into bed on the first night – don’t judge me, he was (and still is) a handsome, sweet and amazing man. At first I thought he was perfect (in a quiet whisper in the dead of night I may still admit it) , we shared the same tastes in food, movies, music, people and drinking. And it was all happy. All good. He told me he loved me – I didn’t respond in kind (I wish I had, it may have meant things turned out differently). And then in the space of a weekend it changed, he wanted just friends, we fought I acted like an idiot, secrets were revealed and accusations flung – and it was all over. We are however, good friends, who have seen each other naked.

So how do I class this three-month relationship? Some of my friends call it a fling. Some call it a relationship. Some say bad. Others good. I have come to the way of thinking however it is not the quantity but the quality that I judge this on. And it was great. We laughed, a lot, about everything – even the awkward things. Spent fantastic nights getting drunk in pricey cocktail bars we could not afford. He introduced me to new and exciting music and films – and some disturbing new photographers. He made me drink wheat beers and port with my Stilton. I had never before tried port. Bless him he tried, but I just didn’t like it.I may not have much to put away in that box, but what I do have means a lot.  A Molten Brown handwash, a toothbrush, a cinema ticket stub, a CD. They do perhaps mean more than that which I gleaned from a four-year extravagance of a relationship. In the fullness of time we may lose contact, he may meet someone who is uncomfortable with me, I may move abroad, life happens. I hope not though – I feel he has more to offer, to teach me that I havent yet touched upon and so for now, selfishly perhaps, I want him to stay a part of my life even if not as involved.

This has given me pause in the way I approach relationships however. They are all worth something – just because they do not end in the way you wish them too does not make them any less amazing. Some people enter your life in one role, but are destined to continue in another. Friends become lovers, lovers become the best of friends, enemies become partners, teachers become colleagues. Who knows, he may yet have a very important role to play. It just isn’t the one I originally had mapped for him.


Who killed Amy Winehouse?

In the last few days, my generation has finally joined the great and the good decades before us. We have finally constructed our own entry to the 27 club. Forever 27. It has a lovely ring to it, does it not? Suitably romantic and yet tragically desperate, one would think it is a marketing gimmick that exists for no other reason than to appeal to the dissolute youth of today. You know the ones. The ‘emotional’ ones who not only correctly use the word ennui to describe their day to day feelings but actually mean it.

 Amy Winehouse and her death seems to me to be much more than the tragic decline of a talented singer. The fact that the time and date of her death played right into the hands of that well known statistical spike just places the cherry neatly on the cake. She was a young girl that was contorted and moulded by the press and industry to represent something more than the sum of her parts. The intense searing fame she had to endure no doubt was a major contributing factor to her eventual dramatic denouement – but, I put the question to you, how much of a part did you play in her death?

 Before you bluster and bite back, with ‘nothing, I never even met her!’ , consider this. How many times did you read a newspaper column that devoted inch upon sordid inch to her decline and fall? Did you ever read a magazine that delivered to its readers the glossy double page spread  that paid homage to her desperation? Watch the coverage of her final tumultuous shows? Comment on any of the numerous articles about her lifestyle, loves, finances, holidays, bikinis, tattoos, pub crawls, death ? Think about it. I imagine you did.

 The liberties taken with her privacy and life are painful to think about now. Looking back there are things and incidents that could so easily have been avoided. How much would it have pained a journalist to take the decision not to give in to the voyeuristic tendencies of their editors just once? Any of the magazines and columnists could have decided against exploiting this girl to sell their products. Every word and picture printed, every time she opened her door to find flash bulbs in her eyes or tried to get away from the pressures of her life in remote destinations only to find the paparazzi already in residence….another moment that served no reason other than to hurt her.

 Addiction and the downward spiral of the celebrity has become something of a spectator sport these days. It is no longer taboo – indeed track marks and bloody insoles are almost badges of honour. They become inspirational to a certain type of person who craves the validation of their lifestyle that this seems to give. In turn this pushed Amy Winehouse to greater and greater heights. Addiction is not romantic. In fairy-tale parlance, it is a curse. Addiction is not inspirational. It is a ruiner. Addiction is a disease – not a game show that people choose to participate in. Addiction is not a way to sell papers or make money. Yet that is what it is rapidly becoming.

 We all killed Amy Winehouse. We may not have realised it at the time, but we did. Hopefully the lessons learnt from this tragic and unnecessary loss of life are huge and game changing. Perhaps now photographers will think twice about chasing a celebrity addict into the Priory to get that last money shot, or encouraging them to leap to higher levels of depravity all for the sake of good copy.

 However I really doubt this is the case.