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When your day is long…

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I’ve been teaching Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs Dalloway” at A level recently. Prepping it was the first time I’d read it since 2nd year Modernism.

The bits with Septimus – the traumatised, broken veteran who’s one of the two main voices of the novel – cut like a knife, in a way I hadn’t remembered them doing. You really feel Woolf’s own voice in his psychosis, the grandiose delusions, the suicidal ideation, the lost little-boyness peeking out between the hallucinations and the madness.

I read them Woolf’s suicide letter to her husband. It made me cry. It’s so heartbreaking, not least in its wrongness: she’s a burden, she says. It will never be good again, she says. Thank you for making me so happy, but I have to go, she says. None of that was true, and yet her illness made her believe that it was.

We’re such beautiful sad creatures. This jet engine of a brain bolted to our Ford Fiesta of a brain stem. The things we do to ourselves. How our brains torture us.

I hope you’re all doing ok out there in Afterword-land, is the long and the short of it. As much as I know my argument-as-fun style rubs some of you wrong, you’re all pretty great, and I wouldn’t be without you all.

If it hurts for any of you right now, there are people who love you and probably don’t know you’re struggling. Get in touch with them.

Or, to put it more succinctly: “Don’t throw your hand. When you feel like you’re alone – no. No. No. You’re not alone.”

Message ends.

17

Comments

  1. Thanks, Bob. I for one welcome our argument-as-fun blogging overlord.

    And more seriously, your point is well-made. I hurt, often, and hurt a lot. I share Woolf’s sense of feeling a burden on my loved one (never thought I’d be comparing myself in any way with Woolf!) but mostly feel that if I was to share my pain and anxiety it would put even more of a burden on her, and she has enough to carry right now. I’ve intimated to her once about how much emotional energy it takes for me to keep it all under, so I can present a reasonable approximation of a functioning being to the outside world, but that’s about the extent of my comfort level in disclosure. Probably not healthy, but it’ll have to do for now.

    • Oh, BT.

      I don’t know your partner but I do know one thing: you don’t need to do it alone, and nobody wants you to. I carried my illness around more or less unnoticed for many years and absolutely presented “a reasonable approximation of a functioning being to the outside world” too. It leaked out sometimes when I couldn’t stop it, and last year/earlier this year it burst out of its cage entirely and nearly won.

      None of it was made better by trying to be strong. Your mileage may vary, but I know for a fact that keeping it all locked down – something I’m exceptionally good at – hurt me more.

      I guarantee you’re not a burden, and even if I’m wrong, helping carry you is something she wants to do, because that’s part of what loving someone is. You wouldn’t run out on her if she had cancer, and you wouldn’t be staying out of duty or obligation. This is the same.

      And now I’ll shut up, except to say that I hope you’re OK. x

  2. Lovely, Bob. Never read Mrs Dalloway – I must.

    I’m a little sad, as it goes. Well, happy/sad actually. My daughter has just announced she’s presenting me with twin grandchildren next May – one of each the doc thinks. Blimey, and indeed yikes! You wait ages for grandchildren and then two come along at once. I’m the only parent she’s got left, so she wants me to go back to Blighty, and that’s what I’m doing. I’m thrilled to bits of course, but…Mrs thep has a well-paid job in Brisbane and it would be economic suicide for her to try her luck in post-Brexit Britain (unless she can get a job counting the trucks on the M20), so she’ll go back to Oz after a couple of months and we’ll resume our Skype relationship. Not ideal, but we’ve done it before, and we’ll see each other at least twice a year. And it’s not for ever.

    We’ll eject the tenants from the flat in Folkestone we traded our house in Cornwall for (anyone up for a UKIP central mini-mingle?) and I’ll lead a solitary existence there, pottering along the prom, doing the same work I do now, and scouring Kent for a doubtless dwindling number of second-hand bookshops. It will be a strange experience back talking bollocks at the same time as the majority.

    Things I’ll need to buy: a car, two car seats, two highchairs, two of all sorts of other gubbins, an electric piano (I have a piano, but to judge by the tenor of the building management minutes it won’t go down well with the neighbours), a pair of Ruark MR1 Mk 2 speakers (leaving the Sonoi in Oz for Mrs thep, and I can’t afford another pair). I’ll think of other things, no doubt, even if it means I can’t eat. I’ll convince myself I deserve them. On the plus side, I’ll get all my books out of storage (and ship over the ones I’ve bought in Oz) and I’ll see my Gibson J-45 again. Hurrah!

    This’ll be my fifth house move in less than ten years. I’d like to settle down one day.

              • The answer is yes and no. I’m quite happy in Oz, but the deal was always that I’d go back when she had a kid. She has an admirable and fully functioning (obviously) husband, but she seems to need me, and who am I to argue? Anyway, this is probably all for another thread.

                • I wondered if it was a good idea to let this one out…yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m not 1000% happy about it, but I made a promise when her mum died, and I’m keeping it. Call me a sentimental old fool if you like.

                  • You missed out some of this detail when we met Mike. That’s quite a sacrifice you’re making to leave your partner behind, but though it sounds awfully inconvenient, I’m sure you can make it work.
                    None of us who live a long way from the country of our birth ever thought we’d be where we are now. But we adapt and if the love is strong enough, we work it out. I lived apart from my wife for three years (she in NZ, me in Hong Kong) barring the odd visit by one or other of us. It took a while to acclimatise when we began living together again, but we are none the worse for it now. You’re a special Dad, that’s for sure.

                    And I meant to say, thanks for posting, Bob

                    • I’ve got two grandsons 16 months apart. Bloody hell, they are hard work but they are wonderful and joyful and funny and an utter delight. I get where you are coming from, Mike, and I certainly get why your daughter needs you. If your partner is content about the arrangement, good for you.

                    • No worries Nick. Despite what Bri seems to have inferred below, there’s nothing wrong with *me* just at the moment. I’m generally more on the level than I’ve been in years. But many people aren’t, and it’s not a choice or their fault and I just wanted to say something.

                      Mike, I understand completely why you’re doing what you’re doing and wish you, Mrs Thep, Theplet and the imminent Theplings all the best. It’ll work out. x

                    • Aw…thanks guys. Mrs thep, or Jen to give her her actual name, lived on her own for years between marriages, so she says she’ll be ok. For some reason she blames me for the fact that she’s put on weight, because I will insist on feeding her and making her drink wine. So she’s planning to lose weight, plus all sorts of lady things like yoga, pilates, meditation, running through the forest etc, none of which I’ve prevented her from doing, except, somehow, I have apparently…I’m beginning to believe she’s actually quite looking forward to it.

                    • No she isn’t. She’s just saying all the right things to be supportive. Jen sounds like a treasure, Mike. You are a very lucky man to have two women who adore you!

                      Hope all goes well.

                    • Why thank you, @retropath2. The “Folkestone Town Centre Management” festive market! They obviously have a way with words in that town…due to foreseen circumstances I’ll miss the evening of clairvoyance, sadly. Also “Brooklyn-based contemporary percussion group Sō Percussion present an audio-visual exploration of the social history of British coal mining in From Out a Darker Sea.”

                      Looking on the bright side, if I were there I could look forward to John Mayall, UB40, Nik Kershaw, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (doing disco favourites no doubt) and the Damned, not to mention Think Floyd and the Illegal Eagles.

                  • I take my (woolly bobble) hat off to you and Jen, Mike. That cannot have been an easy decision to make.

                    But with the paltry parental leave allowance in the UK and the prospect of two P-sprogs to take care of, I’m sure your presence will make a very big difference to your daughter.

  3. Thankfully I’m not by nature prone to melancholy, much less depression. My thoughts tend to be pretty superficial. Three of them spring immediately to mind:
    1. I’ve not read Mrs. Dalloway, but one of my favourite passages was written by Woolf in To The Lighthouse. Prose that is poetry. (I copy/paste this out of laziness, but know it off by heart):
    The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands.

    2. I must watch The Hours again. i remember it as very sad and beautiful, especially Nicole Kidman’s potrayal of Woolf.

    3. Paul Simon’s Long, Long Day, from the flawless One Trick Pony Album, is gorgeous. Especially when his and Patti Austin’s divergent melodies intertwine, around 2.15.

  4. A thoughtful post Bob, thank you.

    When it comes to mental health, it seems that we are not quite there yet. In the same way that most people who eat too much do not end up 300kgs, wearing a curtain and being winched out of their house – it is also true that mental health issues have degrees of severity.

    There are gyms for people to help keep in physical shape – but none specifically to maintain good noggin health (apart from pubs). When I learned that doing word games and crosswords etc was good for my brain and helps delay any onset of dementia, I was pleased – because I do that anyway and I like it. More of that kind of thing!

    I don’t know this for sure – but I am thinking that mental health helplines seem to be geared toward those who are already desperately unwell. I just want to be able to think good and manage that persistent nagging voice of Duncan Norvelle begging me to chase him. Go AWAY Duncan!

  7. I’m absurdly happy. You may not get that from my posts, which can read as curmudgeonly, but I am. Life for me started with moving out here (an incredible ten years ago now), and everything prior seems like a black-and-white movie. I’ve been suicidally miserable in the past, but that was largely due to where I lived and with whom, rather than any mental “issues”. If I look through the open doors here I can see the Mekong river sparkling under a blue sky, the jungles of Lao on the other side. The scent of spices comes from the kitchen where my wife is preparing lunch. Vegetables from the garden, rice from her parents’ farm, fish from the river. I’m working on my book in between mucking about on the internet and idling about with the dogs on the deck. Reilly wants his life back from the nephew of Robert – he ain’t getting it.

    Next time you’re a bit more depressed than usual, if you get that way, take a look out of the window. It may not be you, you know. Grey skies, grey buildings, grey people … they have an effect.

    • There’s a lot in this. I look out the back and see trees and birds. If I look out the front I see more trees , grass, people walking dogs. And occasionally a woman in tight jeans. Life is grand.

  9. I’ve always skipped between the raindrops. I don’t know if it’s because of a lack of emotional intelligence or a surfeit of it. I do know better than to think about it too much. I sometimes wonder if only those who have known real sadness can experience real happiness, and that perched here on the middle of the see-saw I’ll never know the highs or lows; but you can’t think too much about that either. Concentrate on not falling off.

    What I do well – apart from bragging about what I do well – is relishing the small stuff. The other day I walked through a shower of leaves on the way to the station. It was a glorious golden evening and I was in black tie, on my way to a dinner. A stream of tired commuters was coming the other way. I remembered it’s supposed to be lucky to catch a falling leaf. So I did, at about the 10th attempt. I held it aloft for all to see. People either beamed at me or avoided eye contact. I’m fifty-three.

    Happy thanksgiving everyone.

  11. I remember reading ‘Mrs. Dalloway’ many years ago, and having my reading life transfomed- I had no idea that there was such writing. It is remarkable on the experience of interior existence. (See also Doris Lessing’s ‘Martha Quest’ for a similar effect- that people can actually write like this and you can find yourself there.)

    It’s actually a great comfort that others can put down in writing such things. That your own mental life can in a small way be reflected on the page and also electronically, like in this blog post.

    Thanks Bob, happy Friday to you and all. x

    • It’s an incredible thing, Mrs Dalloway. I worked out once that Clarissa’s walk to the florist’s at the start pretty much happens in real time, in that the time it takes to read it aloud is probably about the time it takes to walk from Bloomsbury to Bond St. The way she does that stream of consciousness thing, and so skilfully slides into other voices and minds without our even really noticing. I’ve never read anything like it either. Less showy than Joyce, and truer.

      And its treatment of mental health is still groundbreaking, nearly 100 years later.

        • In a private email, a friend has this to say about Mrs. Dalloway (added here in the interests of critical balance):

          “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no and no.”

      • It’s a remarkable book and your post has made me want to seek it out again. Incidentally, I have a magazine somewhere which has mapped out that walk she took through London, I must dig it out

  12. Virginia’s “note” set to music from one of the musical highlights of the year. Gillian Anderson unbearably sad reading and then 20 mins of Max Richter’s finest.

  13. Crikey, I haven’t ‘read’ that since school 50 years ago, and I’m sure it meant nothing then to a spotty oik much more interested in the Beatles’ new record.

    I consider myself incredibly lucky mental health wise (maybe I’m just a simple soul), but I fear for my son – a lovely, bright lad of 33 who has recently become deeply depressed and prone to panic attacks, even dreaming them. He has a job now that he loves, thankfully, as a year ago I was afraid he was suicidal over work, and he has a lovely girlfriend, but I know he is fragile. He never believes he is good enough, and I have no idea where this comes from – we never pushed him or pressurised him. We have a good relationship, but he doesn’t let me or his Mum in too close…I’m frightened out of my wits sometimes.

    • Gosh, Nigel. I have grown up children. I worry about them endlessly, far more than when they were small and none of them have mental health problems. Every parent wants their offspring to be happy. It must be a living nightmare when they are not.

      • Don’t really know what to say, Nigel, except to send solidarity and empathy. As my elder daughter enters the foothills of puberty, things are less and less plain sailing than they used to be. Turns out I’m the parent she’s going to strike sparks off, and it turns out that it’s because we’re incredibly similar in some ways.

        So I worry a lot. I want her to be different from me, because being me can be bloody hard work sometimes.

        I hope your son finds his way through it all very soon. If he’s not in therapy, he might like to give it a go.

        • Yes, I have the same fears about my son; I’m the one he strikes sparks off, because we are so similar. Don’t be like me, boy!

          I’m sorry, Nigel. I know that fear and worry very well. Although you feel he keeps you at arm’s length I’m sure he knows that you are a rock-solid base to go to when things are tough. Wishing you all well.

          I think it’s very tough to be young these days (by ‘young’ I mean, under aboout 35.) I’m sure life is harder than we ever had it; or maybe hard in different ways.

  14. Here’s another attempt at the said ‘critical balance’. I’m all for writing that explores interior existence, I recognize Woolf’s exquisite stylistic talents and of course support all the worthy sentiments expressed here. And yet … there’s something about this Bloomsbury-style modernism that I’ve never liked. It’s a quality something like intellectual snobbery perhaps, although I’ve never quite put my finger on it. From an aesthetic point of view, certainly, I tend to admire a more spare style than such overly poetic prose. But that’s an aside.

    There’s something in Bloomsbury modernism that seems to over-glorify the plight of the sensitive, alienated, somewhat ill and isolated individual, as if such individuals make up a kind of aristocracy of taste. This is sometimes reflected in the attitudes and behavior of the Bloomsbury set themselves. (Did anyone see the movie Tom and Viv?) The group were often appalled by, and cruel to, women who married into the group, perhaps without sharing its sensibilities, the wives of Eliot and Keynes being cases in point.

    However, I have no doubt that one purpose of art is to make us feel better about ourselves and stronger in our internal resources, so I wouldn’t knock that. Funnily enough a woman writer who sometimes did that for me was Iris Murdoch, someone very different. Somehow she turned much of the emotional life into a kind of wise comedy that did me the world of good in my own screwedupness.

  15. That’s a good read Bob. Appreciate the time and effort a post like that takes. I’ve not read any Woolf. Her suicide letter sounds like something that would leave me in a terrible sadness so I’m not sure I will look it up or not.

    I think being part of a tight family unit (second time around I got it right) helps. But as the kids get older, it gets more complicated. My son put that he wanted a best friend on his Christmas list. That is tough as he is generally a happy and lively boy. He just can’t seem to find someone he has enough in common with at school or football or cubs. My daughter is starting to feel she is too gawky (which she isn’t especially but she is tall and thin and I (biased I know) think she is beguilingly beautiful). My eldest is now living with his girlfriend and is sort of manly but with a little teenager left in him. All of these things feel beyond my control (which they are of course) but I struggle to work out how to influence positively without being an arsedad.

    Good luck to us all. It’s not easy but there is joy to be had as well.

    • I feel your son’s pain @Leedsboy. We moved from Cheshire to south Wales in the middle of my childhood and from then on, I struggled to find anyone who remotely ‘got’ me, let alone wanted to be a friend. It wasn’t until I got to university that I met people even remotely like me and then only in my 20s, when I stopped trying to fit in or be like other people that people remotely warmed to me. The secret turned out to be liking oneself. Who knew. Not me, that’s for sure. Now I see my youngest daughter struggling with friendships at school and am I able to solve all her problems with the wave of my magic wand of experience? Am I fuck.

  16. Reading Bob’s post and the replies (god I feel for Nigel, Black Type and mikethep), I realise I’m almost untouchably happy these days, which is a great distance from the desperately unhappily married Bartleby of 5+ years ago. Although I have always been fascinated by the Bloomsbury set and have tried to live my life in according to some of their (flawed) principles, I still remember the joy with which I abandoned To the Lighthouse. Somehow I’m not tempted back by Mrs D. I have known desperate bleakness and the misery-making pain of keeping up appearances and I choose happiness.

    • I’m with Chiz and yourself, which is to say very happy indeed – far, far happier than I ever thought I’d be.

      Obviously, things will change, and life will surely apply a kick directly in the seat of the pants at some stage, but just now everything is jake. And all this despite living in a country that is grey, depressing and finished (over! kaput!). What a fortunate chap I must be!

      For me, the secrets have been to keep busy, get enough sleep (which doesn’t always happen), exercise plentifully and try to take joy in the small things (and specifically the small people). I also married lucky, which helps. Honestly – what was she thinking?

      I’ve no idea what it’s like to go through some of the stuff being discussed on this thread. All I can say is that I find it’s best in life to go a little easy on yourself, because there are plenty of people out there who will bring the downs on your behalf. If you can put your hand on your heart and say you’ve legitimately tried to be a good person then you’re already head and shoulders above most, and – really – all the rest is noise. Be good to yourself. Be excellent to others. Have a good time all the time. Choose life.

      • Spot on Bingo. Small things, like actually noticing when it isn’t bloody grey and damp, becoming a sleep Nazi, keeping busy (and trying not to get overwhelmed) and the odd spot of exercise have helped hugely. I also find it helps to steer clear of self-serving bien pensant doom and gloom, but that’s adequately covered elsewhere.

      • Almost the biggest thing for me over the last year – and I am resigned to the fact that my brain’s wiring makes me susceptible to depression, and that it will happen again – has been letting go of giving a fuck what people think.

        When I was married, before I jacked in my career, I couldn’t stop thinking about what other people thought. It was a proper weight: what will my family think of me, if I throw it all in? What will my kids do – might I ruin their lives? How will people look at me at work, now I’m one of the grunts again? Did I really offend that person? And so on.

        Although I’m always going to be vulnerable to mental illness, what was going on for me was a combination of that and actual, garden-variety unhappiness. As it turned out, neither the breakup nor the career suicide was anything but positive. I have more of everything, except money.

        That doesn’t help with the way my brain is made. It does help with quite a lot else. And I found, once I’d chucked it all up in the air, that what other people think turns out to mean – if not fuck all – then a hell of a lot less than I had assumed.

        A lovely former colleague of mine used to reply to “how are you?” with the stock phrase, in fake Eliza Doolittle cockney, “It ain’t me, it’s all the fackin uvvers”. I remembered after I came round from the worst year of my life that everyone who’s actually a part of my life likes me quite a lot, and that I don’t care about the opinions of the ones who don’t. That’s been surprisingly huge.

        • For me too Bob. I’ve always affected not to care, but that’s largely a survival instinct. Divorce was always going to be a popularity contest that I was going to lose, but FUCK THEM frankly. Yes the first few years were lonely as fuck, but now I have a few people in my life who like me for me and that’s a big step in the right direction.

        • Spot on!

          When I was 11, my family moved from London to a small commuter belt town. We moved with barely a month’s notice, in the Summer I was between primary and secondary school. We moved from an area where i fit like a glove, the metropolitan little twat I already was, to what was basically Brexit central. In the space of four weeks I went from near universal approval for my antics to literal stares of angry dismay.

          It was the absolute making of me. I realised that I hadn’t changed at all, just my surroundings, and that the response you’re getting at any given moment says as much about your audience as it does about you. Being able to separate myself from the reaction I was getting also gave me a chance to figure out who I actually was, which paid dividends down the line.

          I honestly don’t think I’ve worried much what people think of me since that point. If someone tells me I’m a total asshole, I’ll ask myself whether (honestly) they might have a legit basis for doing so and, if not, on I merrily sail. In fact, I may even enjoy their honesty. My best mate in the world told me exactly the above a couple of weeks after we first met – it was literally the point at which I realised he was going to be my best mate.

          When I was 15 I decided I was going to be teetotal (which has also proved a good decision). The reaction I got from my mates was bloody awful, as you’d expect. But it was also fantastic, because I knew in my boots that booze wasn’t for me, and over the years the not drinking thing became sort of like a flag I’d planted in the ground – it was a pure and honest statement of self, and reminded me, whenever in doubt, that I don’t need to worry about what others think (which is just as well). Just do you, and the rest will come.

          I’m not really one for finding wisdom in pop songs, but a few years back I heard this, a relatively minor, pretty average, tune by Pearl Jam, and realised that it basically encapsulates how I see life: “I know I was born and I know that I’ll die, The in between is mine. I am mine”. A small town in Kent taught me that when I was 11 years old. I’ll always be grateful, but not so grateful that I’ll be back to visit.

          • I really envy you deciding to be teetotal at 15. What maturity and foresight! I wish I’d done that. Instead I decided same at 50. Best decision I ever made and I so wish I’d made it many years earlier.

          • Blimey – you figured it out a lot quicker than I did. I concluded that I was unlikeable, thick and a fraud. Like you I felt no pull from alcohol and having succumbed in the intervening years, I’m now back on the wagon, not missing it in the slightest.

            I moved from a suburb of Manchester, wearing drainpipe trousers and talking like a slightly posher Gallagher brother to Under Milk Wood, where 11 year olds still wore short trousers and sarcasm hadn’t been invented. My pathetic attempts to gain acceptance were doomed. My folks still live there, so I get to revisit a place I’d happily torch frequently.

            There have been many songs that resonate as a bit of a creed – Couldn’t Get Ahead by TheMightyFall, The Only Living Boy in New York, AC/DC’s Kicked in the Teeth and Fleetwood Mac’s Showbiz Blues in particular, but this one sums up how I prefer to be and to think.

            • I’ll join your club of city boys exiled to the sticks at the vulnerable age of 11 (Glasgow to North Wales, God help us).

              I think I was protected to an extent by feeling a bit more sophisticated than my new found friends and companions, so it didn’t occur to me to try to adapt myself to them, but it still took me a while to feel I had a group of people I felt at home with (sixth form, as mentioned in a post above) and much longer to feel comfortable in my own skin (pretty much done, though it’s an ongoing process).

            • Funnily enough, I’ve just spent the weekend with an old school friend. He was another of the misfits who never quite fit in, and for the first time he explained to me exactly how hard he found it, and how damaging. I’d had no idea – he was always mucking about, seemed to wear it all quite lightly and I’d assumed he was just adopting the same approach I was.

              The conversation got me thinking as to why we both reacted so differently to the same problem, and I honestly think I might have been massively assisted/protected by the movies and books I’d already devoured as a kid up to that point. Huck Finn, Ferris Bueller, Psmith, etc. I’d pretty much been raised on the idea that one day the “system” would challenge my sacred individuality, and that I’d need to stare it down.

              When we moved and I found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time, I basically just thought “Oh, OK – that thing’s happening now then”, and busily got on with insisting on being myself, regardless.

              It’s not a philosophy entirely without its downsides (and my account above is very much the sanitised version of the story, with none of the frictions or bumps in the road), but it served me well in that instance.

              • I moved schools at 13. Specifically, I moved from a state-assisted independent school where my parents paid zero fees, to the Victorian none-more-public school where Lindsay Anderson’s “If” was filmed, and which hadn’t changed much in the intervening 30 years. I was there on a major bursary, otherwise known as carrying a HI I’M ROB AND I’M NOT SURE WHAT THIS FORK IS FOR sign around with me everywhere.

                It wasn’t the not fitting in; I could handle that. In some ways, me at 13 was a lot tougher than me at 39.

                It was more the sense that my failure to fit in (and thus turn into a future Oxbridge pillar of the establishment, ideally ending up as a barrister and – let’s not aim low – maybe Lord Chancellor one day) was a disappointment and a worry to my parents.

                I have an overactive sense of responsibility. I always think everything’s my fault. That was a big one, and a lot of ISHOOZ I’ve experienced since have been rooted in it. Therapy helped a lot.

              • Fascinating. We didn’t really have books at home (does a sole Jeffrey Archer novel count?) and I ran out of inspiration after Agatha Christie. Then at 15 or so my insecurities led me to the local library and Kingsley Amis, Evelyn Waugh, Robert Graves, TS Eliot, as well as biographies of the Pythons, the Comic Strip lot, the Bloomsbury set and other misfits who’d escaped provincial dumps and their tall poppy/narrow minded worldview. A living escape was possible after all, I just had to keep going.

                • Reading and music were so much my saviours it’s not even funny. I read and read and read and read and read. Then when I was done I read some more. Then I’d put a record on.

                  Proper-style refuge, were books and records. No wonder I grew up to want to do nothing but make music and write.

  17. Accepting who you are and liking that person is something never to be taken for granted, not least as most assessments and appraisals throughout life, from parents, teachers, bosses, “helpful friends”, spouses even, are about self-improvement, whatever that is, other than the wish for others seeking you to be more like they wished they were. Projection is all. A long way of saying be kind to yourselves.
    Wish I had known for the first 50 odd years of my life.
    Whilst scribbling, anyone care to analyse the dream I awoke in memory of earlier in the week: it was a sort of Peaky Blinders setting, except with odd aliens able to jump off buildings and bounce, in the avoidance of bullets from massed ranks of old fashioned Vickers machine guns. As I followed this aged gypsy crone, she turned, pulled down her right lower eyelid, leaving a stain of blood on her cheek as she pulled it downwards. Lacrima christi, she said, and I woke. Bit unnerving or what, but impressed I can dream in latin.

  18. The best advice I was ever given was during a counselling session in the depths of my marriage related melt down. Basically I was told in no uncertain terms that unless I concentrated on me and getting my own head straight I wouldn’t be any good to those nearest and dearest to me. It was a genuine lightbulb moment stop trying to fix everyone and everything else. I also have to refer again to the impact Marcus Trescothicks auto biography. Even if you don’t like cricket, as a an insight into the human condition and it’s impact on even those who apparently have everything it is incredible.

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