Great Potential in 2015

There are many methods to putting in the psychic energy required to improve outlook and action. This is not to say I need to be optimistic (or, of course, pessimistic) but that I need a realistic approach replete with great potential. My coping mechanisms and the outcomes subsequent to changes in my life have space to become most successful if I consider the potential future change instead of considering the cessation of the past.

There have been recent changes from an achromatic palette to a warmer breadth of colours in my mind so what potential does 2015 hold for me? How will I move forward?

No longer did Ruby die "last year" but instead "about two years ago". I am more comfortable saying "recently" or the specific number of months - most bereaved parents, without missing a beat, can immediately recite the number of weeks, months and years they last saw their child. This lack of "last year", like the loss of "this year" or "in May just gone" initially made me fearful that my connection to Ruby would decrease, that obvious recognition of passing time would pull me away from memories of her. Well, it has done this. Time has faded my mind a little, the relentless distance has dissociated me a little. But it turns out all of that is fine and has been less distressing than I had feared. The advantages of chronological remoteness from Ruby's life have recently outweighed the disadvantages due to the reduction of one narrow, deep, all-pervading destructor- the pain.

My grief is still very real, I still miss Ruby, I am still sad, I mourn for my loss and for hers and there is no closure, I still feel many natural discomforts and aches and yearning. But my pain has lessened. And it is the pain- the tectonic, epic grinding- whose edges are now less jagged. It disables me less, disconnects me less. 

No cost is comparable with the amelioration of pain caused by grief. The pain slices through all softness like a cutthroat razor and crushes like a desert boulder. Any cost I know of its' recess- side-effects of medication, bleaching of memories, separation from Ruby's time alive- is not a penalty but is a sacrifice for a beneficial gain. It has taken time and anxiety and hard work to recognise this but I got there in the end. 

So what potential does 2015 have? The potential for reduction of pain. It also, therefore, has potential for increased autonomy, grater warmth for me and those I know, reduced anxiety and distress, closer relationships and less necessity for courage (I don't ever want to feel the need for courage again). 

Two of the many other things I now know that I did not know before is that failure is a copable option and that it is important to start actions resolving long-term plans and this is why I tentatively started looking at two changes of career. 

Firstly I spent weeks investigating the possibility of becoming a firefighter (I have decided not to but at least I looked). Secondly after many years of baking biscuits, tarts and cakes I have been selling them for the first time ever. Only a handful here and there but, nevertheless, I have been baking professionally. 

Aside from addressing some long-term goals and some improvements in my mental health I have decided to be more adventurous in 2015 so I have strapped on my hiking boots and starting rambling over the local hills through the wind, rain and snow. I am looking forward to scaling greater heights over greater distances and I am looking forward to being with friends on the way. 

Humanity and Inhumanity

A literary and political hero, George Orwell, died this day in 1950 at only 46 years old. He was beginning to be recognised as a brilliant satirist with longitudinal aptitude after Animal Farm but nothing prepared the world for the incisive parody of 1984, my favourite novel of all time. Orwell forced society to stare into the mirror and he still does.

I have been reflecting on other artworks which have moved me most, and have recognised a pattern of sorts- most books, paintings, poems, films and music I love address the subject of humanity and compassion through their depiction of inhumanity and cruelty. Like a newsworthy story full of aggression and dispassion, these artworks force me to ask questions about warmth and kindness by its' notable absence. 1984 is so infused with a manipulative sense of control and coldness that the rare and merciful acts of human connection within it feel like a feast after a famine. It is easy to create art that simply depicts an external reality, a copy of a violent act, but good art will encourage me to question that violence and question my position within its circle of influence. 

This is why American Psycho is a truly magnificent novel because it not only satirises many aspects of that time period and his social position but it forces me to question my connections to it- is the protagonists' manipulative behaviour always wrong? What will I do to climb the social and professional ladder like the main character Patrick Bateman? How accurate is the story he relates and, if he is not being totally honest, does it matter? In clinical terms he is the perfect psychopath but also has obsessive traits which cast shadows of grey over the authors' initial black and white depiction of blame/ blameless actions. How real is Bateman's graphic violence and pornography? How important is fantasy to the material substance of a good story?

By helping me understand what is not, art helps me understand what is. What I am not without, I am within. This is why, every year until Ruby died, I read 1984 and If This is a Man- they connect me to an essence of humanness that no other art can. 

Over the last few days, thinking about Orwell and art, abstract or otherwise, a short list has evolved of artworks that have strongly helped create the person I am today through its depictions and analysis of violence, degradation and friction. Had I not experienced everything on this list I would have evolved a different personality (I hope it should go without saying that there are also many beautiful, elegant and gentle things that have made me who I am- Barbara Hepworth's "Three Forms, 1935" was the very first thing that sprung to mind here). 

I will never experience some of this again- I cannot be distant enough to read American Psycho again (I tried a few years ago but felt so nauseous I had to stop after the first murder), Mein Kampf is intensely tedious although rich with the "banality of evil" and Shoah is ten hours long- but I could cope daily with the apparent direct connection between my ears and tear ducts when I hear Gorecki. And just thinking about Guernica tightens my throat slightly. 

In no order:

The samurai films of Akira Kurosawa

Benjamin Zephaniah's poem "The Death of Joy Gardner"

Pablo Neruda's poem "I'm Explaining a Few Things"

Picasso's painting "Guernica"

Gorecki's  Symphony No.3 (The Symphony of Sorrowful Songs)

Primo Levi's autobiography "If This is a Man"

The Chapman brothers' sculpture "Hell"

The documentary "Shoah"

Hitlers' autobiography "Mein Kampf"

Yevgeny Zamyatin's novel "We"

Bret Easton Ellis' novel "American Psycho"

Heavy metal and gangster hip-hop

Wilfred Owe's poem "Dulce et Decorum est"

Before and After

Then:

My route through life was intransigent and generic- I would marry, have two to five children, ride motorbikes forever, manage a team in the NHS or be my own boss, I would live to be an old man and the only grief I would know would be when my parents die peacefully as content, old, insightless, wealthy donors. It was fatalistically dull and predictable. It was unconsidered. Plans were fantasised about and rarely equated action. The future was large, distant and full of potential. I used to feel as if I could do anything I want, in the future, and the only worthwhile limit was my inclinations. My happiness would depend on simple desires or easily achieved goals. I was satisfied with answers not questions. My life, love, personality and future would unfurl naturally before me and evolve in convergence with the stable and beautiful environment I would naturally find myself in. Time was on my side. The world would come to me and it had the responsibility of increasing my happiness. Almost everything was important and the few things that were unimportant were irrelevant. Provincialism matters. 

I was a husband, father, son and friend. I was not an orphan or widower. 

Now:

Life is unpredictable and I have to design my own map. Life is impermanent. There may not be much time and as there is no guarantee I will live to be old I need to ensure I reduce the risks as far as I can. It is essential to consider how to live- to put psychic effort into weighing advantages and disadvantages of effort, leisure, love and legacy. The future is brief and fast and not a minute should be wasted. Doing nothing is not a waste of time if I do nothing well. Wasting time is unforgivable. There is no later- plans must be agreed and acted upon now. Now. There is no later. There is no later. 

I can't do anything I want and I am limited by more than I thought but failure is less destructive than I had feared and can be coped with. My happiness is my responsibility and is less valuable and desirable than contentment. There is greater satisfaction in positing questions than in receiving answers. Life can be a revolution not just an evolution. 

I must go out into the world. My actions affect everything else to a greater or lesser extent so I must be careful and proactive. What world do I want to leave behind? If I do nothing I have made a choice to do nothing and as there is no passivity here my actions have meaning. 

Almost everything is unimportant. Greater value should be placed on the few relevant things in life. Provincialism should be dismissed in favour of universalism. 

I am a husband, father, son and friend. I am not an orphan or widower. As a man whose child has died I have no entitlement to a shared and easily identified denomination. I cannot let other people know I want no response or conversation by using "widow" or "orphan", words that carry weight without unnecessary detail. Instead I have to state the repugnant action of death every time- "my daughter died"- and it is now about what happened to her not about who I am, whether or not I wish to share it, and it is none of their damn business. I am forced to be complicit in their grief and I am forced to face mine again. 

"Life now has a permanently provisional feeling"- C. S. Lewis, on grief

"There is no shortcut to grief, you just have to put the hours in" - Alain de Botton

On the Shortness of Life- Seneca

It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it. Life is long enough, and a sufficiently generous amount has been given to us for the highest achievements if it were all well invested. But when it is wasted in heedless luxury and spent on no good activity, we are forced at last by death’s final constraint to realize that it has passed away before we knew it was passing. So it is: we are not given a short life but we make it short, and we are not ill-supplied but wasteful of it… Life is long if you know how to use it.

You are living as if destined to live for ever; your own frailty never occurs to you; you don’t notice how much time has already passed, but squander it as though you had a full and overflowing supply — though all the while that very day which you are devoting to somebody or something may be your last. You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire… How late it is to begin really to live just when life must end! How stupid to forget our mortality, and put off sensible plans to our fiftieth and sixtieth years, aiming to begin life from a point at which few have arrived!

Putting things off is the biggest waste of life: it snatches away each day as it comes, and denies us the present by promising the future. The greatest obstacle to living is expectancy, which hangs upon tomorrow and loses today. You are arranging what lies in Fortune’s control, and abandoning what lies in yours. What are you looking at? To what goal are you straining? The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately.

Treatment

I have been taking medication to treat my depression for three weeks and, although there have been some positive changes, it took a week or two for the worst side-effects to wear off. 

I was off work with few responsibilities and so was in a good position to get started in earnest and agreed to get cracking with a fully therapeutic dose (rather than a half-dose as is usual). Initially I was squashed for days and barely had enough energy to get out of bed. The first tablet I took caused me to fall asleep over a restaurant lunch and I daren't drive for days. I don't get thirsty or hungry. I am occasionally dizzy and nauseous. I experienced other side-effects but they were utterly insignificant due to the rapid reduction of the extraordinary and persistent sadness that had dogged me for months. 

Immediately I was less sad. By the second evening I was startled by the realisation that I had dry eyes all day, the first time this had happened for months. By day four I laughed freely and unconsciously with Claire, the first time in months. I was aware how wonderful she is, the first time in months. I was falling in love again. 

It had taken months to realise I was depressed and many more weeks to constructively address it. My reluctance was partly due to my anxiety that medication would depersonalise my outlook and connections to others, that I may become cold and distant. The irony is that I had been disassociated for so long that I was insightless and the medication has actually helped increase my emotional bonds and empathy by clearing some of the fog of sadness. I am warmer, more human. 

It is early days. It will take many more weeks to know for sure if I am on right medication at the right dose. For now, I am content that I have cried with relief because I laughed and I can cry with grief again because I don't constantly cry with sadness. This is enough.