My grief at Christmas

I work as a psychiatric nurse with homeless people who have long-term mental health issues, physical disabilities and drug and alcohol problems. My patients are not suddenly removed from my thoughts when a season of enforced fun (surely the most woeful type of adult pleasure) envelops me like a leaden duvet. How can I allow myself to enjoy Christmas? 

I am told by social media and politicians to think about lonely people this Christmas (it is literally my job to think about the lonely. And if I didn't I am unlikely to be the kind of person whose behaviour will be positively changed by their message). I am told by capitalists to spend money because it will make me happy (and I know, from the enamel on my teeth down to the nails on my toe that this is bullshit of flabbergasting obviousness). I am bellowed at by advertisers with the nuance of a prison shank, their infantilising, saccharine, constant pre-watershed, radio-friendly drone eats away at the last warmth in me aimed at Christmas until, when the day itself arrives seemingly years after I am reminded that it is only round the corner, I have so little festive cheer left that I want nothing to do with anything other than my wife and my son and my own physical space. And I am told, as a vegetarian, that I need to eat lots of meat because nothing says compassion at Christmas time more than piles of pointlessly dead animals. I have become increasingly angry over the last few weeks at the disgusting consumerism that pervades Christmas, people buying shit they don't need and can't afford and getting poorer and poorer. It is rotten and ugly. 

It certainly isn't Christian anymore (a blessing in disguise, I guess. Spiritual connections to Christmas were eroded a long time ago not that they ever mattered to atheists like me). 

I think about Ruby every hour of my waking life and I hope, every single night when I go to sleep, that I will dream about her. Some nights I go to sleep and don't want to wake up and I want to be dreaming about her forever or, at least, not ever wake up to be reminded every hour that she isn't there. Christmas is a persistent reminder that my immediate family is missing someone and there is a constant gnawing of my resolve in the entire run up. I am told this is a family time but a quarter of my family doesn't exist anymore. 

Our Christmas cards don't have Ruby's name on them. We didn't buy her any presents this year. There is no stocking under the tree with her name on. Her brother Tom gets innappropriately expensive presents we can't afford to compensate for our "well, life is too short" explanations for being in debt. I spent the day with my in laws and they drink all evening and sing. Ruby is dead and they sing. On this "family" day. I made excuses that a recent back injury means I have to move around the house and keep mobile just so I can avoid their company to stop myself from crying every time a new song starts. I have found this Christmas to be alienating and lonely because I still get bewildered and squashed under the encumbrance of loss at times like these. There is no psychic weight like that of a gravitational mass beyond my control for which there is no pill, no treatment other than time (if that, even), to control its descent. 

My mum died a few months ago. My sister nearly died a few months ago and spent many weeks in a coma in intensive care. She barely survived. There were many aspects of my professional life that also contributed to 2017 being one of the worst years of my life and I'm glad to see the end of it. My Christmas was symbolic of the ugly mess and the chaos of the last year. 

Fortunately I have a genetic predisposition to optimism and, by lucky chance, I have an astute bullshit detector so I am staring intently at 2018 as it sidles over the horizon. It had better deliver. 

The Long Run

I hadn't decided on a plan to run. Instead, I just consider the possibility of running and, inevitably before I've had the opportunity to reflect, I find myself pulling on the shorts and T-shirt and course through the mental check list- is my phone charged, the rucksack dry, the drinks bladder clean, have I got the electrolyte tablets, will I take a banana or treat myself to chocolate this time? 

After the commitment to the long run and its preparation comes the silent, reflective minutes, the hesitation, readying and steadying myself, reading my body and assessing my desires for a medium run, a medium/long run, a "proper" long run, maybe even a "long" long run (by this point there is no question that this is not one of my two short runs per week but is, unequivocally, "the long run"). Do I ache anywhere, recovering from any bugs, any blisters or sore areas on my feet from the last run?

Fluids and fuel in the bag (it is never "water and food" to us runners), GPS on, last thing before leaving the house is to slip on my minimal sandals- never trainers on the long run, only occasionally on a short run if it is dark or wet- which are as good as barefoot and provide the thinnest of protective layers against sharp stones and glass. The strongest reason for me to run near-barefoot today is that I will need to retain my energy levels for as long as possible which means running as naturally as possible. And that means relying on the depth of hominid history to help me use the tendons and sinew and muscle just as they have evolved to be used. 

I stare at the sky through the open front door trying to second guess cloud formations, wind direction, humidity.  I have no real idea what I am looking for but it always seems the right thing to do. Then I'm off, running immediately from the door. I don't practice any warm up exercises, I just go dead slow until my rusty hinges free themselves and my thigh muscles have eased their initial fear. It takes five kilometres before I am fully warmed up and they are the most difficult I will encounter today. 

By now I have left the local town behind and there will be no more right-turns or traffic lights until I am home again.

A few more kilometres and I am halfway through. My joints are free and loose, my blood is the colour of the Japanese flag, vitality floods my muscles, litres of energy fizzes through channels in my calves and thighs. I am in perpetual motion. I am "in" the run and will stop only when I die. I am fuelled, hydrated, in charge, in total control. 

Cars rarely use this road- there is an alternative and straighter short-cut from A to B, the beginning and end of this 10 kilometre section only 500 metres away- and the footpath is narrow and undulating at this mid section. It gently snakes left and right, respectfully leaving A-road pretensions well behind, providing just enough variable stimuli to maintain interest without feeling like an overbearing training session. The pavement is relatively new and in perfect condition, barely used. There are no walkers walking, no pushchair pushers, no-one popping out on foot. 

This is the long middle section (totalling three quarters of today's run) of expansive lawns, modest farmhouses and their fields of sheep, forest corners, nursing homes, edges of a golf course. My run is edged with thick hedges of blackberry- I imagine them to be teeming with tiny lives, insects and rodents racing through these animal motorways- and deciduous skeletons spiking the anthrocene sky. 

Running is essentially an introspective and lonely experience for me and these hours alone, in the flow, are some of my most valuable. My thoughts can drift and undulate with the path because my goal and my abilities are assured and because concentration is unnecessary. I think about the intrinsic versus the instrumental value of running, I wonder about homemade pizza and beer for dinner, I think about how my dad and sister are back in London, I wonder about Christmas presents, I wonder about that sore spot developing on my heel. Mostly I have no great depth or detail of thought which is a fundamentally intrinsic value of the run- any contemplation is shallow, dream-like and brief. I am free from intensity.

But every now and then, maybe one run in ten, a thought grows and develops and can begin to overwhelm me in its intensity. Today there started a flicker of an idea about Ruby and that last diabolical day of her life and her last few hours, not with me or Claire or anyone who loves her. Today these thoughts stole my breath like I'd jumped through broken ice into a wintry lake and I couldn't breathe or concentrate or escape and the only thing I could was stop and lean on a wall as if I was tired and cry and cry. Then, as is the way with seasoned grief, I stopped crying after only a minute, wiped the tears and sweat from my eyes, straightened my spine and shuffled on towards my goal. 

By now, in the last quarter of my run, I am cruising home, slow "marathon pace". The final two miles are downhill and I welcome the site of the beginning of the descent as I round the last gentle bend prior to a sharp right-angle at the first traffic lights for miles and on through the final straight-lined, red-bricked town and then my front door of the last house at the end of the cul-de-sac where I live. 

I don't stop running until I touch the front door. 

The shower after a long run is a shower like no other. 

And if my plan is successful I'll be celebrating with a guilt-free homemade pizza and a beer or two tonight. 

Rest day tomorrow, no exercise allowed, and then back to a short run the day after. 

Left-libertarianism, corporate psychopathy and why women's corporeal autonomy is the answer to the world problems

Left-libertarianism is concerned with fair distribution of land and its (occasional) ownership, one’s relationship with that space and an emphasis on equal use of resources (hence the strong value placed on social welfare as a useful tool to assist in apportioning those resources). It works under the premise of equal, shared, mutual use of the world's content and places emphasis on humanist qualities as being the only ones able to do this. The state- capitalist and generally psychopathic- has little or no place in libertarian society and, if agreed that it must exist at all, does so purely to facilitate actions in the best interest of all living things (such as rare interventions to regulate financial markets, social welfare, etc).

Left-libertarians believe in self-ownership, autonomy as independence from authority and in socialist ethics. They reject capitalist teachings as being strongly competitive-based and authoritarian: a traditional ethos of the Right. Generally they are advocates of a free-market economy.
It is a common mistake of those with a capitalist stake to think that "anti-capitalists" simply believe in the opposite of capitalism (which has more than one opposite- anarchism, socialism, statism and so on). As with religious people believing that atheists are defined by what they are not ("a-theist") the truth is very different- anti-capitalism (and atheism) is the default starting point for normal human actions. Babies are anticapitalist, babies are atheist- the foundational human position is to experience an absence of economic greed and of religious belief and so one can become enlightened to all that one wishes to be, thereafter. 

A tenet of left-libertarianism must therefore be a general rejection of organised government and an active avoidance of as much of the states’ influence on the lives of individuals. 
For humans to flourish and to live a life rich in beneficence they need to be to be free of external negative influence (money, ownership, the state, authoritarianism, etc) so they can focus, unencumbered, on qualities most helpful for living things- empathy, decentralisation of power, worker-ownership, equal distribution of resources, fairness, working collectively with our individual identities. 

As an organisation grows, it distances its' relationship with the individual and it is this coldness, at first an inevitability of growth and thereafter a state being sought due to the corruptive abilities of power, that is self-perpetuating- the dehumanising nature of corporate power is directly proportional to its growth. As it grows, it finds its nature is to push away from the unconcious responsibilities of collective altruism as this is ineffective for competitive growth. Therein exists a remorseless grandiosity which it deems necessary to be able to sell itself over competitors. The larger a corporation becomes the greater its degree of guiltlessness due, in part, to its degradation of empathy. 

The financial addiction to gain capital transforms into a craving for stimulation and of change, of fluidity. Thereafter comes distrust, and eventual rejection, of reflective criticism as there is no time to stop and think. An inevitable consequence of this is the eventual loss of control over corporate behaviour, often paraded as an increase in creative impulsivity but, more accurately, as long-term irresponsibility. 

And there lies the crux of the matter- an entity without compassion or empathy, that exists entirely for its personal gain. It feels it necessary to have a massively inflated idea of self, is bereft of guilt and shows no remorse even after terrible life-changing abuses. 
Any human with these traits would be called a psychopath. This is the engine that fuels capitalism. 

So what then? If capitalism utterly fails to address any true sense of human proliferation of value, what counts? 

What is necessary, therefore, is to focus directly on human relationships as being the most relevant for human flourishing. 

Women do most of the worlds' work and earn less money than men while they do it. Women are less represented than men in most institutions, in politics, religions, educational establishments and other areas of power and influence. Women are not even allowed full control over their own bodies in many parts of the world including my home country of Ireland and this patriarchal oppression is the primary method of control over women. Contraception is sometimes difficult to get and abortions are not legal or safe (of course abortions go on all the time and, in countries where they are illegal, abortions have always occurred and continue daily). But I often think about the potential for the fair distribution of wealth, fair distribution therefore of food, of resources, of education, even of love and equality if there existed an absolute freedom of corporeal autonomy for all women, worldwide. It follows therefore that to have complete control over ones contraception is to likely have complete and international equality.

It makes sense to me that if all women had bodily liberty the worlds' population would be under control, food, resources and wealth would be distributed equally, international political influence would be relevant to individuals as well as countries and that life, on planet Earth, could be a type of bliss. 

My amazing wife, Claire. 

The death of another young man

There was a funeral today for a young man. Seventeen people attended, fourteen were professional support workers. He died from a heroin overdose but the naked truth is that he was close to dying from liver failure too. And he was close to dying by his own hand. And he was close to dying by being murdered by someone else. And he was close to dying from a blood clot caused by his reckless injecting technique. 

Even in the womb he was at a disadvantage- he came from a murky gene pool and had a high likelihood of inheriting many serious and life-threatening diseases. His young childhood was empty of parental love and, later on, empty of any parents at all. His teenage years were spent angry at the persistent rejection from everyone around him. He became addicted to alcohol at eight, cannabis, cocaine and other drugs by twelve, heroin by seventeen. There was still no love in his life except for that of nihilism. His life, all life, had no value. 

Then he developed bipolar disorder and spent many months deluded, paranoid, utterly secure in the knowledge that not only drug-dealers and the police but everyone else too wanted him dead. Through his twenties he dealt and abused legal and illegal drugs, he spent more time in prison, more time in hospital. His life was one of almost persistent detention. 

He never had the chance to develop a personality disorder or a psychopathic carapace to protect himself. He was always open. 

He never had a home of his own, never had the security of stability in any form. He lived wildly and was barely tamed by the institutions that surrounded him- he became institutionalised to the streets, trusting no-one, caring about no-one. He wore a sneer, on his face and in his heart. 

We all liked him. Everyone liked him. He was uncomfortably honest and upsettingly open about his life and his mind and his character. But he knew he had no chance and so did all the rest of us. We knew where he was from and how he lived. We all guessed correctly where he was going. 

Hundreds of professionals had contact with him over the years, me included, and we delude ourselves into believing we made minor differences here and there- I helped get a temporary roof over his head (until he attacked someone and had to leave), I gave him a few hours of my time as a listening ear (until he became abusive and rejected me). 

He died off the streets in a bed of his own. He hadn't taken his medication for weeks and had replaced it with vodka. He was twenty eight. 

What chances did he have? In 2017, in Nothern Europe, in a rich, major world city he had hundreds of chances. Some he took voluntarily, some were enforced, most he rejected. But the foundations were never set, his character waned and faltered and he slowly crumbled to death. 

We didn't save him we just cushioned his descent, the death of another young man. 

I wouldn't invite me to a party

Some months are extraordinarily difficult. It is September 2017 and am having one of the toughest periods since Ruby died. 

My mum, who died a few months ago, should have celebrating her birthday a fortnight ago. I am grieving her and her sister who died two weeks later. Ruby should have been celebrating her sixteenth birthday a few days ago. My sister nearly died recently from pneumonia and sepsis and she remains, five weeks later, in intensive care in a poor state (hundreds of miles away). My dad, in his seventies, has to cope with this too. I stopped my antidepressant medication two months ago and although the experience has been mostly positive I am always one intonation or one curt word away from tears. Always. 

Like many men I have a small number of friends and, like many men, I don't really know how close they are. Of course we discuss personal matters, how we feel, all those subjects thankfully now not out of bounds as they were only one generation before us. But other people's personal friends remember dates, seem concerned about their friend's relatives, know when their friends need loving most. I am not the best friend to have- I am terrible at keeping in touch, I go on about being a loner and about not needing other people- but I have been through some very difficult times and, although I am not demanding, need genuine support to keep myself well. 

I consider myself an optimist. Or as my Yorkshire mum would say, I am a "do-er", I get on with things, I try not to dwell. I consider myself a reflective person, looking into my grief, my depression, my life, embracing the potential for growth and for learning. But sometimes, thankfully very rarely, I just feel a bit shit and a bit lonely and I feel that other people around me can be a bit shit too. I know that my friends, professionals, even strangers will "be there" if asked but there are times when I don't want to ask and don't feel as if I should need to ask. 

I rarely wallow, I rarely feel sorry for myself. My job as a mental health nurse supporting homeless people with complex needs means that I meet and support the most vulnerable, most marginalised people in the country so I am therefore sensitively aware of my fortune and privilege. Although I have experienced most parents' vision of hell I have met hundreds of people who have been through much worse and continue to cope, to live, even to thrive. 

But today I am being selfish and indulgent and fragile and I am feeling sorry for myself. And I am thinking- what about me? What the fuck about me? Where's my random text? Where's my gift? Where's my invite? Where's my sympathy card? 

Sometimes I don't want someone to ask if I'm OK, sometimes I just want someone to say "I know you're feeling shit and that's normal". And then give me pizza and chocolate. 

Update: it's now the following day, I've given myself a kick up the arse and I'm feeling a little more grounded. I had been thinking of deleting this entire entry but decided not to for the simple reason that is it an honest and genuine expression of how I feel. Maybe it will ring true to someone and prove that even irrational nonsense, like feeling sorry for yourself, is perfectly normal once in a while. 

Using Every Means

There is no final destination for recovery from grief because the journey lasts forever. Tweaks and adjustments happen daily for many years as frequently as memories about why these adjustments were necessary in the first place.

I had a bad day recently- broken sleep, too much coffee the next morning, news of a friends' illness. Then to work for a busy day but I lasted only two hours until I found a quiet corner (my historical crying cupboard- we should all have one) and bawled until the worst was over. I was acutely sad and couldn't think of anything other than Ruby. I was acutely anxious too as if I had been suddenly shocked into a sharp inhalation. But I couldn't exhale, my body wouldn't let me. I couldn't stay at work- I'd be no use to anyone there- and so I came home.

I did what I know works. I threw on my running gear, took my shoes off and ran and ran for thirteen miles around the hills. I pushed myself so hard that I was hobbling for days after because of the bruises to the soles of my feet. At home I showered, ate well and then sat with one of the cats on my lap in the warm sun doing absolutely nothing. I lounged there for an hour, letting my eyes become heavy, feeling the waves of warmth on my legs, just being, expecting nothing from myself. It calmed and grounded me absolutely. 

This sense of "just being" was new to me. I guess it is a type of meditation but felt very powerful to have discovered this out of necessity, by myself. 

My journey of managing grief and depression had thrown up another surprising coping mechanism- just being- and it's one I will remember and use again and again. 

This recent weekend I performed all sorts of minor tricks that I know contribute to keeping me well- I baked a big chocolate cake and iced it with Tom, I baked two delicious sourdough bread loaves, I made lots of meals- Rogan Josh curry, naan bread, spicy Mexican baked beans. We went foraging and I made eight jars of blueberry and blackberry jam. I made a new Lego set with Tom. I ran twice, totalling 34km. I bought new carpentry tools, watched a number of instructional videos online and planned my next projects (jewellery boxes, shelving, storage containers). I made my own wood treatment from beeswax and mineral oil. I tidied the garage. I drank good gin with my wife, and best friend, Claire. I considered my good fortune.

Mostly these things help. But it can take hard effort to keep positive because these are hard times- my sister is acutely unwell but recovering having spent the last two weeks in hospital in intensive care with pneumonia and sepsis, I think a lot about my mum who died a few months ago and whose birthday is next week and, of course, I think of Ruby every day. It is her 16th birthday in two weeks. I finished my antidepressant medication recently after two and a half years and the psychic effort that I need to exercise to keep me moving in the right direction means some activities and some people are excluded from my life for a while. 

Sometimes these things don't help and this is why it is so necessary to keep moving, to keep trying new activities. It is important to be acutely sensitive and observant for any slight advantage I can gain over the unhealing wound that is grief. Baking a cake, going for a run, tidying the garage, drinking with Claire. There is nothing superflous about this- it is about creating, about play, about regaining control, about allowing myself simple joy. This is active recovery, using every available means and process to help me cope and push forward. As has been noted elsewhere the best way out is always through. 

It is about getting better. 

Today's misty, stormy run took me over Divis and Blacks' Mountain at the edge of Belfast

This was my workstation on a recent smithing course. It all helps. 

Stopping The Tablets

I have stopped taking my anti-depressant medication. 

I started taking it two and a half years ago when I began to feel so sad and bleak through my grief for Ruby that I felt I was a burden, a weight too much for Claire and Tom and for whom life, after their initial raw pain of losing me, would surely be more pleasant if I wasn't in it. 

The medication literally saved my life. After a ropey fortnight getting used to it (the tablets tired me out so much that on the first day I took one I fell asleep at the lunch table in a restaurant) it worked exactly as originally designed- the humid fug lifted, my limbs were lighter, colour returned to my perception. I felt less sad, more able to cope, less irritable, insightful. I stopped having near-obsessive repetitive thoughts- a line in a song, a fissure in a rock, a right-angled desk corner. I could exhale fully having previously kept my lungs quarter full of air for what? Running away? To fight?

On anti-depressant medication I experienced rational sadness, rational tears and a rational breadth of emotion. Everything was manageable- difficult decisions, tensions, my patients, my mum's death in February this year, even my grief for Ruby. I could relax and I could laugh and I was normal. 

I had decided that 2017 was to be a pivotal year. I made resolutions to which I have remained faithful, in the main. I decided to run Belfast Marathon in May and put in four months of near-daily hard graft to achieve this. My mum died, suddenly, in February (I doubt I will ever write about it in this blog. Anathema to my profession as a mental health nurse some things are best left unspoken). The fourth anniversary of Ruby's death was in May, one week after the marathon, and it was more difficult than I had anticipated compounded my Mum's death and post-marathon blues. 

But throughout these physically and mentally demanding months I planned to stop my medication. I was confident in my coping mechanisms, confident that I was "better" and "back to normal" so, with guidance from my GP I very gradually reduced my doses until I swallowed, with no fanfare of note, my 

final tablet ( I was originally taking 20mg of citalopram so I alternated between 20mg and 10mg per day for a week or so then reduced it to 10mg per day for for nearly two weeks then 10mg every other day for a week or so then I just stopped). 

It is more important than most people realise to be measured and patient in a reduction regime. I knew I would be sensitive to negative stimulus and that I would be delicate so I have tried to maintain a sense of self-reflection and I have kept my environment warm and supportive. 

For the first week or two off the tablets I was pretty wobbly. I was very irritable, I lost my temper easily, I became impatient. This was a huge change from the last two and a half years but Claire reminded me that was the old me returning and that I could be a pretty grumpy bugger at times prior to starting the tablets.

Now, three weeks down the line, I have calmed a little and have placated myself. I have kept myself distracted and creative, two activities that I know work well for me. I look to the simple things for meaning- my sunny cycling commute into town, the rain and the trees when I run, my son's hugs, my wife's tenderness.

It is liberating that I have no worries about remembering tablets every morning. But it is constrictive that the ease of coping with stress has dissappeared and that a greater psychic effort has to be employed to get by, day to day.

In other words, normal life. 

Simplicity

I've had some serendipitous conversations in the last week that have made me realise I must be subconsciously considering the simple things in life. 

Jazzy John, a friend, practises kendo, the sword-fighting martial art of the samurai and is passionate about Japanese culture. He told me recently about the importance of simplifying my life, as he has with his. He expressed the virtues of letting go, of reducing the quantity of possessions and working toward defining what is essential in life. He wears the same clothes every day and has the same simple routine every day because his mind is therefore less cluttered and able to make the most rational and accurate decisions when it really counts. When he moved into a small flat with his partner he had to reduce his possessions so he held each one in turn and asked himself "do I have use for this or do I have a connection to it?" If the answer was no, he threw it out and he has, so far, regretted none of those decisions (my personal mantra when it comes to possessions is "is it useful or beautiful?" and if it is neither then it goes to the bin/ recycling/ charity shop/ given away. By "useful" I also mean psychologically or emotionally useful, ie. something that makes me happy or content such as my records or photographs). 

When Jazzy John fights at kendo he has one major rule- relax. When he tenses up his teacher spots it immediately and screams at him- "RELAX". No progress can be made otherwise. 

I spoke to another friend recently, Mark, about a martial art he attends, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, which involves wrestling and grappling. There is a persistent quality of the loser in any bout- they don't relax. The winner is the one who detects the almost imperceptible muscle tension of their opponent and knows when to squeeze, to grip or twist. The winner keeps it simple, they unclutter their mind, realease the tension in their muscles. 

A work colleague has recently completed her final exams to become a personal trainer. She wants a tattoo relating to her new profession and asked for ideas. The answer was immediate to me- samurai, blossoms, koi carp, crocuses. She should turn to the Japanese art of bushido and its seven tenets- justice, courage, mercy, respect, honesty, honour and loyalty- to help express her drive, her empathy and her wish to empower others. 

A friend, Andy, and I were discussing the nature of early philosophy which was germinated in questions about how to live. In many schools of philosophy the key is one of simplicity- question everything, put humans at the centre of your world, do no harm, have courage, be flexible and so on. We echoed the conversation I'd had with Jazzy John about Japanese culture and about the beauty found in the deceptive simplicity of Japanese paintings and poetry. Some paintings may have taken weeks or months of planning and may have been painted as a series but there would be one final piece that is representative of the idea. And that final piece might be made of only two or three lines with only two or three colours but could be understood easily and have a great depth worthy of reflection. Similarly there is often a great deal of preparation in creating a haiku, a Japanese poem, but it ends up 17 syllables long. 

The most poignant haikus can be understood immediately but can then be used as a model, a framework, to extrapolate thoughts and to explore ones own ideas. 

The most poignant and simple schools of philosophy, humanism for example, can be used as a framework to understand so much in life. 

The simplest ideas can be used to live well (ask yourself if your actions do any harm and whether they directly or indirectly add to the total sum of human flourishing). 

Consider and reduce. Consider, reduce.

After Ruby died four years ago I shattered and broke into the tiny constituent parts of what makes me me. Then I had to rebuild myself from this complicated mess into what I wanted to become (bearing in mind restrictions that I had little control over such as genes, gender, body shape, fitness levels, finances, etc). What am I reduced to, what counts in my simplified life, what is left after distillation? 

For me, this is what is left: simply it is love, tenderness, subjective beauty, taking no bullshit, being utterly unafraid, learning, advocating for and empowering others, awareness of my privilege as a white, able-bodied, middle-aged, straight, cis-gender male, self-reliance, being silly and doing no harm. 

Reflections on a marathon

I ran Belfast's marathon three weeks ago. 

I had never run one before and had been training for four months after running purely for pleasure for four years. I had never run with anyone, not even a 5km training run. I ran the marathon to raise money for a local cardiac charity (Northen Ireland Chest, Heart and Stroke) and to challenge myself to such a distance. I knew those 26.2 miles would be tough but certainly no tougher than any aspect of trying to deal with serious cardiac problems such as the ones Mum and Ruby had to deal with.

I started training hard in January. I investigated the right training programme for me, joined a gym and got stuck in. I completed training runs twice each week, never for fun, always hill repeats or speed-work, did one long run each week, gradually increasing my distance mile by mile, and attended the gym twice each week to focus on core strength and flexibility. 

In February Mum died suddenly from a heart attack. I kept training. I was distracted. 

Shortly after the funeral my aunt, Mums sister, died. I kept training.

The fourth anniversary of Ruby's death was approaching. I kept training. 

The marathon was one week before Ruby's anniversary. It was only three weeks ago but every day since then has given me new insights and new reflections to consider about my health and my life, about Mum, about mortality, about self-determination, about autonomy and about many other things. It has been an unusual and confusing time. 

I have only run three times since then- my interest has massively waned- once was a wonderful trail run over the beautiful and much loved Blacks Mountain, the second was a boring, ugly pavement run that was so disheartening I nearly stopped to call a taxi home, the third was a joyful run/hike around the Belfast hills yesterday with a backpack full of camping equipment, just to test myself. I have found new interest in other activities I am investigating, namely hiking, trail running and wild camping. I am a little worried about losing my love of running as I have heard of many similar accounts of post-marathon passion loss but I greatly hope it is temporary. I've never been very good at anything apart from running. 

I now have time to grieve about Mum and my aunt. I don't know if I am grieving. I don't know how much conscious focus I need to apply to work through it. I don't really know if, while seemingly distracted with training, I have already worked through things. I don't even really know how sad I am. I know I'm not right and I know I feel that depression, or something like it, is following me ready for me to slip up. There are shadows near me where there should be none. My efforts are only just enough to keep the balance. 

After the marathon I recovered surprising well, testament to my gym attendance I have been told. My recovery was relatively short even though I was physically wrecked- my legs were weak and very sore all over, I had many unexplained bruises that needled me for days and, worse of all, the soles of my feet were badly bruised and damaged so I could barely walk. I had large blisters that became infected and which still hurt now, three weeks later (I ran wearing the thinnest of running sandals- Mexican huaraches- instead of shoes in a style known as "barefoot running" which was totally unsuitable for Belfast's potholed, sharp-edged tarmac). 

It is only now, three weeks later, than I am beginning to appreciate the psychological damage that may have been done during than race. If it can exhaust and injure my body in the way it did then it makes sense I should be affected in other ways. But the mental impairment, like the blisters, heals with time. 

I can't guess other changes that will happen as I continue to reflect on my experiences but there is one thing I am absolutely certain of- I need to keep moving. Hill running, hiking, camping, cycling, strolling, ambling.

This is key, movement. In uncertain times such as these the only certainty is that movement always helps. I may never run a marathon again, life is different now after such an extraordinary experience, but I will do other things with my time as long as I keep moving. 

Cave Hill, Belfast, yesterday

1463 days without Ruby

Ruby died four years ago today. That's 1463 days since I last saw her- four years including a leap year plus two days away on that school trip in Scotland. 1463 separate days to think about her. 

Some of those thoughts lasted 24 hours to the absolute exclusion of everything's else- food, water, air (so it felt). On busier days some of those thoughts were only minutes long- I appreciated being distracted enough to continue normal daily life, at times, and at other times I wept with the guilt at only thinking about Ruby once, briefly, that entire day. 

Sometimes Ruby has stomped into my mind without an offer and my legs were unable to remain straight, I dropped to the floor paralysed with the pain of immensity (being overwhelmed is an extraordinary experience- knowing an absolute absence of self-control because of disabling grief is humbling and potentially dehumanising. In time though, ironically, grief became a humanising force that galvanised my closeness to others and made me me feel somehow more human than I was). At other times, thoughts of Ruby have been barely perceptible but I have been content knowing she is always at the corner of my mind, linked to the grief that colours me, never too far away. 

Sometimes I have wanted to join her. At other times I cry with the joy and good fortune that I am in love with my wife and son so much that I can live and cope and carry on. 

Sometimes I feel like the sun is dying. At other times my heart aches with love remembering the times I discussed photosynthesis with Ruby, the importance of bees or how to navigate using the stars. 

1463 days is a long time to not see your child. I remain without her. 

Distraction or avoidance?

As the marathon I have been training for creeps closer, now only a few days away, I have become increasingly stressed. I know why this is. It is due to a combination of the death of Mum in February, the four year anniversary of Ruby's death on May 8th and the sudden death of my aunt (Mum's sister) only a few weeks ago. My marathon training over the last three months has been trying and tiring and has been such an immense distraction that few other things have been allowed space to affect me. My stress levels have increased as this potentially immense sporting achievement looms over me as I simultaneously attempt to compartmentalise my sadness. 

I think I have been fooling myself into thinking that my training has been a distraction in the way that a social activity might be a distraction if I'm sad. But this isn't sadness, this is grief. And when it comes to grief you have to put the hours in.

Grief won't process itself behind the scenes of a jolly diversion (as sadness can) but will linger and lurk, seeping through any facade that is created to cover it up until you are forced into confrontation. If left untackled grief creates an unstable and crumbling foundation for any future emotional resilience. Future stresses need not be too great to create tremors in our minds, fissures in our psyches. Seeing this written down has made me realise that my diversion tactics- the distractions of marathon training- have not been entirely successful and that my reactions to recent events are yet to affect me. It's in the post. I have a lot of mental work ahead of me. There are specific issues that need to be addressed when my run is over- I need to consider how I am coping with Ruby's anniversary, I need to consider how I feel about my aunt's recent death, I need to consider my Mum's recent death.  

Post-marathon I will need to put in place a plan of active consideration and recovery, I will need to do what works. For me this means being entirely honest and open about how I feel, arranging to see close friends for non-alcoholic evenings, good food, good coffee, putting no self-imposed restrictions on crying or expressing fragility, exercising for fun (not as training) and about creating time aside to reminisce Mum, my aunt and Ruby. The essence of my coping plans are rooted in the appreciation of the basics- friendship, love, food, play, the luck I possess and the achievements I have realised. As a good friend accurately opined when I told him I felt like my mind had been shattered after Ruby died, maybe these are the basic building blocks for my mind, for my life, with which I was to rebuild myself. 

I have not been through a period of distraction recently but one of avoidance. And post-marathon is the time to turn headlong into the wind. I can handle it, I've seen worse. 

Marathon running and why my body is amazing

Five years ago or so, shortly before Ruby died, I started to seriously consider my health and age for the first time. Not long after this I became vegetarian and have also kept an eye on my ingested food and gin calories (I had stopped smoking a few years before then- I went from a heavy 30 roll-ups-a-day to zero in one day, cold turkey). I was motivated by a colleague from work, George, who had started running not long before and was not only reaping obvious physical and mental health benefits but wouldn't shut up about it. So I bought the cheapest kit I could, downloaded the NHS "Couch to 5k" podcast, joined the local gym and jumped on a treadmill for the first time in my life. 

I loved it. I found the training quite an endeavour but it was manageable and, most importantly, achievable. As the nine week programme of walk/run/walk/run/walk intensified I was running 20 minutes non-stop by the end of week six and this was when I left the treadmill, waved the gym a happy goodbye and started to run outside. 

This was a life-changing event for me, my rebirth as "a runner". I have run without any major injury for nearly every week since then. I have run on my birthdays, on Christmas Day, at midnight, with a hangover, with a cold, through snow, on holiday, up hills, on roads, barefoot. I ran within a month of Ruby dying and within a week of Mum dying- I had to, I was compelled- I run to stave off depression and to maintain a consistent plateau of wellness. 

In January this year I started training for the Belfast marathon. I had been running two short runs and one long run of around 10-15 miles each week but it was time to crank up the energy and really push myself. So I then caught two nasty bugs and was out of action for a month.

But a month ago I joined the gym again, learnt how to use free weights and machines and set up an intense training programme. I attend the gym twice a week for strength and stability training plus once more for hill running (the treadmill again but the runs are short and very intense) and I have one long run outside at the weekend. The long run has been deliberately extended by 2 km each week so even though I was running a regular 18-22 km until last month, I ran 32 km (20 miles) a few days ago, the longest I have ever run, which is the typical maximum training distance that a first time marathon runner would aim for. 

So I am at my training goal, 20 miles. I hope to complete this distance two of three more times and then have an easy week or two before the marathon. I will continue to harbour fantasies of completing ultra-marathons (races over 26 miles, typically 50 to a hundred miles or more) but, for now, the marathon is in my sights. 

My training path has been, as far as I am aware, typical but has also been surprising in some ways- my gym membership, anathema as it always had been to the old me, has proven its cost. Certainly I get out what I put in and I have seen and felt obvious changes within only a few weeks, my stamina increasing and flexibility improving. Most startling of all is the ease with which I have increased the distance on my long run, 2 km week after week, although the muscles and tendons in my feet have struggled to keep up- my soles are bruised for days after each run and I have to hobble and stretch to recover. 

Rest days are considered "active rest" days. I perform a series of gentle stretching exercises for all major muscle groups, use a foam roller to help muscle recovery and carry out a set of lower leg strengthening excersises, useful for barefoot running. I don't actually run in bare feet very often but it is the term denoting a style or form of running signified by a forefoot strike as the foot reaches the ground instead of heel-striking, typical of most runners. Forefoot striking is the oldest and most natural way of running and, when not totally barefoot, I run in huaraches, Mexican running sandals which are, essentially, a thin layer of hard rubber held onto the foot by a strap. They do away with the sharpest of stones and broken glass but let me feel underfoot as if I wear nothing  at all. Traditionally they were made from cut up car tyres. 

Having never been a fan of my body I am now much more respectful as to what I never thought it could achieve. I have had no serious injuries during the entire time I have been running (only one twisted knee and one sore foot putting me off for a few weeks each) and, after an MOT by my GP recently and a thorough medical assessment at hospital prior to elective surgery (that in the end wasn't necessary) I know that, although my BMI would suggest I am "obese" I am in very good health and can outrun almost everyone I know. I am extremely appreciative of my good health and the physiology that will allow me to run a marathon, something only 1% of people have done. My joints can hold up my obese body for mile after mile, in comfort and in fact for fun. My bare feet will cover the distance that my hunter-gatherer ancestors have filled their days with for two million years. My obese, wobbly, middle-aged, greying, balding flabby body is amazing. It is aesthetically embarrassing but anatomically awe-inspiring and for those particular reasons, in those ways, I love it.

Baring injury I might just make those 26.2 miles on 1st May. 

Sisyphus

Sisyphus was a Greek mortal whose wiliness angered the gods so much that when he died and had to be forcibly taken to the underworld his particularly fiendish punishment entailed rolling a boulder up a mountain to its summit. It may have taken only a few days, months or maybe even years but, however long it took, however great the toil, when the rock reached the summit it would roll down to the bottom again. Sisyphus begin again, rolling the boulder back up the hill only for the same thing to happen. This would continue for eternity.

His condemnation does not lie in his upset and depression at his task (he does not, after all, refuse the activity and we can assume he is actually compelled to complete it) nor the sheer physical labour he exerts. His punishment is not that he has been given a task to build something at the top of the hill and sees his goal thwarted. 

His torment is eternal, his damnation complete, because of the sheer futility of his task. The boulder goes nowhere up the hill, it goes nowhere down the hill, it has no purpose, no reason (it is easy to imagine why treadmills were originally designed as such a hideous form of punishment in Victorian times. All that energy going to waste, the futility of the activity). Here is the hellish oblivion he must endure- to put effort into nothing, forever, for no reason. 

If purposelessness like that of Sisyphus' is a definition of eternal hell then surely the opposite- purpose and direction- is one meaning of a reason for living, for heaven on Earth, for happiness. Maybe there is no real value for immediate satisfaction or gratuitous sensory pleasure in our lives but, instead, we should demarcate who we are and our reason for being based on our role and objectives. 

If my happiness is based on my productivity, what should I produce and what is my role? According to the Greek gods my existence has meaning insofar as it has utility. How, therefore, am I best utilised in the brief time I have here in Earth? 

Ruby is always there

It has been many weeks since I last wrote. My mum died six weeks ago and I haven't felt motivated to write or do many other things. I was off work for a few weeks and spent some of it back in London visiting my dad and sister. 

I thought I was ready to return to work but my reality was that it took a few weeks for Mums death to begin to affect me. This blog is supposed to be about grief and mental health but right now, I can't, or don't want to, put my thoughts and experiences here. The most obvious thought I will share is that grief remains predictably unpredictable. 

Of course, Ruby hasn't been far from my mind. 

It was Shrove Tuesday recently. Pancakes were my and Ruby's favourite food and I have been unable to cook pancakes (crepes) since she died almost four years ago. The last few years I made drop-scones/ Scottish pancakes which was an obvious second best. But this year I just got on with making a big pile of proper crepes for breakfast and even managed to use the frying pan I bought Ruby for her own foodie experiments which has been at the back of the cupboard for years. She used it for a chicken-and-spice experiment- we cut a chicken fillet into bite-sized chunks and she marinaded each piece in a combination of different ground spices which were then labelled carefully and fried. Her favourite was a smoked paprika, coriander, cumin and turmeric mix which ever since had been known as Ruby Spice in our house. Even Tom has liked it from a young age and we keep a pre-mixed jar in the cupboard, just in case. Ruby was, of course, not far from my mind. 

I remain a jogger, preparing for the Belfast Marathon in May. I have recently started strength and stability training at my local gym, practice a hill run each week and a long run at weekends (I have just got in from my longest ever run- 28km- so my recent gym membership appears to be worth it). It takes a great deal of psychic effort to attend the gym or to spend hours away from Claire and Tom at the weekends but I keep the greater goal in mind of crossing the finish line and of raising money for a heart charity. And, of course, Ruby is not far from my mind. 

Adding to my recent feelings of loss was International Women's Day last week, always an emotional day for me. Although I feel a little uncomfortable as a man calling myself a feminist, I undoubtedly am one. There is no reason to not be a feminist. I lost my daughter four years ago and my mum six weeks ago. I am a nurse, of whom many more are women than men, and I have been one of very few men in any team I have worked in and rarely with a man as a manager. I generally prefer the company of women, professionally and personally, I prefer female comics, filmmakers, journalists, photographers and makers of art I admire. International Women's Day isn't just another day to me, it is a chance to openly consider and discuss ideas, interests, joys, admiration, and respects of great interest to me. I spent the lunchtime at Belfast City Hall supporting a pro-choice rally (abortion is still totally illegal here in Northern Ireland. But it's 2017) and then watched an amazing writer and academic speak at City Hall- Angela Davis, an American activist who focuses on ideas of poverty and lack of choice as being the most restrictive type of abuse women receive around the world. It chimed strongly with me as I so strongly believe Christopher Hitchen's maxim that almost all the worlds problems could disappear in one generation if all women were given absolute birth control. 

I wished Ruby was with me. She was never far from my thoughts. 

The Long Run

I attended to my weekly ritual of the long run yesterday, 24km by the sea. It was barely a few degrees above freezing, the sky was cloudless, pale and iridescent, the sun was blinding. I passed cows and sheep on one side with a view to Belfast Lough on the other- I breathed deep country smells mingled with an occasional waft of the salty sea. I can hear sheep braying, their calls echoing off the steep rocky hills nearby, and I can hear seagulls too. The pavement is flat, soft and narrow. The road is straight and barely undulating, quiet as a country lane, with perfect views down towards the Lough. Opposite, up on steep Knockagh Hill, the war memorial obelisk acts as my fulcrum, pivoting me throughout my run. First sight is at 5km then passing it at 7km then behind me at my 12km turn point and then guiding me home on the return. It is my sentinel. For the last few kilometres before home I tire and slow down, as slow as I can without walking. My breathing is still strong, I can inhale well and I can exhale well, but my legs are weak and begin to stiffen. I have been drinking electrolytes steadily from the water bottle in my rucksack but I have burnt close to 3000 calories (it takes a lot of energy to move a weight like mine) and nibbling on one banana 10km ago just isn't enough. I am famished.

I have to slow down to a walk and give myself four minutes before running again. Eventually I stagger round the last bend, wobbling into the house and falling into the shower, 24.11km in around three hours, essential training for the marathon in May. I have run this distance only a handful of times and although I am proud of my achievement today I am so tired I can't help but become tearful and emotional. I am drained. 

I have persistent doubts about running Belfast's marathon because I feel undertrained. My intensive training was supposed to start in early January but I have had two nasty bugs and a further ten days off all exercise after pushing myself too hard on a long run (26km before I was ready). In fact I had abandoned my marathon plans last week and had researched other races to try instead- a "tough mudder" 10km, a few half-marathons here and there, a Mourne Mountain marathon later in the year- when a phone call from my marathon-running cousin reignited my interest (it would be impossible to not run after speaking to her- she has covered enough miles in her life as a cross-country and marathon runner to get her to Mars and back, mostly wearing her wedding dress, a strawberry costume or other outfits than can only encourage people to give generously to the charities she raises money for). 

So here I am running the long run, the most important run in marathon training, reconsidering my hill runs, my speed runs, my interval training, my high-intensity training, my core strength, my tapering and all the other distractions we runners fool ourselves into thinking that are important. They all count, of course, but don't really matter. What really matters is the long run. 

There are no real short cuts to an endeavour such as running a marathon, you just have to put the hours in. 

My mum died one week ago today. There are no shortcuts to grief, you just have to put the hours in. 

Photo by me

Photo by John Xavier

Trump

Personality disorders (PD) are characterised by intransigent and pervasive traits of the self that are damaging and unwanted. Someone could be violent, lacking in empathy, unable to cope with even the simplest stressors, obsessively self-centred or manipulative. A collection of different traits would culminate in a diagnosis of personality disorder just as a collection of different symptoms culminate in a diagnosis of, say, schizophrenia or diabetes. 

There is increasing evidence that some personality disorders have a genetic base but mostly they form after a childhood involving abuse and neglect. According to the ICD-10, the primary diagnostic tool and listings used by health professionals worldwide, there are around eight commonly identified personality disorders including the most often seen in my line of work- Emotionally Unstable PD (previously "Borderline PD") and Anti-Social PD (previously "Psychopathic PD"). Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is one of the rarer disorders but still develops from a childhood of inappropriate relationships with parents/careers characterised by unrealistic praise and unrealistic criticism, emotional abuse from unreliable carers (who may see the child as a trophy) and learnt manipulative behaviours. 

Treatment is usually not sought due to the insightlessnes of the typical patient but, when it is, psychotherapy is the preferred choice. It tends to focus on reducing harm to others by concentrating on increasing empathy in the patient, increasing their coping mechanisms and skills of reflection. 

Typical traits of NPD include:

-Exaggerated feelings of self-importance, a sense of grandiosity and extreme vanity

-An excessive need for admiration

-A lack of empathy

-A desire for power

-Manipulation of others

-A fragile sense of self-importance and bringing attention back to themselves when they don't have it, often by being unkind to others

-Distorted self-perception as being more talented, financially and professionally successful, intelligent, etc. than others

-A sense of entitlement and no awareness of their privilege

-Jealousy of others and expectations of jealousy from others

-Petty envy and obliviousness

I attended a rally in Belfast City Hall on Saturday 21st January, the day after Donald Trump's inauguration, in solidarity with women worldwide. It was genial, benevolent and extremely warm. There was love and respects at every turn and a sense of foundational solidarity infused the atmosphere. Womens' rights are human rights. It was a perfect antidote to the manipulative untruths that have been designed by Trump and perpetrated by him and his staff to facilitate the sowing of poisonous seeds. 

Speakers at the rally included Amnesty International, Black Lives Matter, Belfast's LGBT community, feminist groups and other fighters for the rights of marginalised and vulnerable groups and, of course, for women everywhere. 

I felt proud to be there with my wife and my son. Of course I missed Ruby too and wished she could be there. I could talk to her about Trump and about manipulative narcissists, about gender inequality and the amazing women who have laid the ground for her to get the independence she deserves. 

#womensmarch #womensrightsarehumanrights 

Christmas 2016

Christmas can be a quiet trudge for many bereaved people. Another public celebration without your loved one, another year away from them overtly marked beyond your control. But in other ways Christmas is no different from the rest of grief- just another day, time relentlessly out of our control. 

One of the many strange experiences related to grief is the close juxtaposition of alternating emotions and how comfortable these seem together- my Christmas day was no different. For a period in the morning, after the sugar rush of excitement, after Tom opened his presents, after spying an empty stocking with Ruby's name on it, I cried like the aftershock of new grief. It is now three and a half years down the line and too late for me to question why she isn't here anymore, I just know she isn't and it's as simple as that- she isn't here and I miss her, particularly at Christmas. But within hours of those tears and the cut of grief reopening I was chatting, laughing, feeling a part of a family again. 

Like any impending difficulty, survival and thriving involves considerate planning. I knew I had to be together with the people I love (as much as I could, some are in a different country), I had to sleep well, I had to go jogging as much as possible, I had to have no major plans and I had to relinquish control of my time and be somewhat of a slave to my environment (this is something I do more and more- I have found it increasingly comforting to identify those things over which I have little control, or temporarily don't want it, and to let myself flow with others or with the prevailing environment. In no way is it constructive and involves no real consideration of my direction but sometimes that's OK. Sometimes it is lovely to put the world slightly out of focus, to not work, to not make the effort and drift a little, to stare out the window and daydream for a while). 

My coping mechanisms mostly worked. There were sadnesses and laughs, no real stress, no arguements. Close friends came for New Year's Eve. I managed. In fact for someone as unsociable as me I felt proud I had interacted with other people every day and rarely felt overwhelmed (although by New Year's Eve the stimulus was getting to be a little too much. I wanted to hide away for the night but my friends are aware of my occasional social anxiety and are lovely enough to accept me, quiet or otherwise). 

I have been reading some great books, running through the unseasonably bright, dry, warm winter, playing children's games with my son. Simple pleasures. 

I have some plans for 2017:

Run the Belfast marathon in May (start training ASAP)

Maintain a consistent calorie deficit for weight loss

Keep moving

HIT training (boxing and spin bike)

More tenderness, kindness and patience

No alcohol during the working week

Read more

Sleep more

Learn to appreciate fine art

Try pottery and archery

Spend less time on Twitter

Be a better uncle

More jazz

Investigate starting a running/exercise/wellness group

Investigate how to make long-interview podcasts (about mental health, surviving adversity, etc)

Eat seasonally 

This is the view from my Christmas run over Cavehill, Belfast. I twisted my knee minutes after taking this photo but every time it twinges now I smile because, at the time, I was sprinting downhill, in new trainers through the squelchy mud, running with a smile on my face, free like a child. Good memories. And I truly appreciate my good health and ability to run unimpinged.