Decisions Decisions.

Decisions decisions. I'm not sure if saying it twice helps...I doubt it. I've opined before that one of the key difficulties that any sort of major life upheaval/trauma throws up beyond the immediate issue(s) is the affect it has on a persons decision making capabilities. When you are pushed into a corner (or feel that you are) everything intensifies...like a slow (ish) release fight or flight response that leaves you at times a bit caught between those two options. That's what it feels like anyway and one of the consequences is an increased tendency to find even quite small decisions problematic. Much in the same way I suppose that small, fairly insignificant things can become huge almost life and death issues. I remember some time back practically tearing the house apart looking for a particular hoody that I'd mislaid as if it was the holy grail itself...I was vaguely aware of how ridiculous my increasing state of anxiety over the whereabouts of this particular garment was (at least in the part of my brain that was still functioning rationally) but it did not lessen the rising panic over something that was really not that important. I had other hoodies. But I needed to find that one and I wasn't quitting till I did. Of course it had nothing to do with clothing...I knew that through the fog of irrational concern that was around me at the time. It's like when I (still) get really angry with the remote control of the TV and begin to converse with it as you would a mortal enemy...or the lawnmower cable when it keeps catching on that annoying rocky outcrop at the side of the house and breaks the connection (I actually shouted an expletive at it the other night and that I'm certain was audible to next doors occupant, while in my imagination  I visited all manner of horrors on the idiot who had put the rockery in such a stupid place). The rage generated has little or nothing to do with immediate events. It was the fact that the TV is in a house I don't really want to be in...as with the grass etc...my grass is somewhere else and I'd still be cutting it if life wasn't such a bitch and things had been different etc etc...and on it goes till you are in a frenzy of self-recrimination over allowing yourself to once again be dragged down that cul de sac of anger and rage. Then you are even angrier at being angry. And it's "her" fault (you can substitute what or who you want) for putting me in this situation where I'm cutting someone else's grass and watching TV in someone else's house. Let me repeat...THIS IS NOT ABOUT GRASS.  I don't care about grass one way or the other...in fact as a chronic hayfever sufferer I would happily live in a grass free world altogether. You get my drift. The problem is not grass or TVs or rockery placement...it is anger. The sort of anger that burns and broods and writhes, clawing at your innards till it bursts forth in a torrent and goes for the jugular of whoever or whatever is in the vicinity at that moment. It is a relentless, indiscriminate & unstoppable force that on the inside eats like acid and on the outside spews the debris in all directions. It is often followed by a feeling of guilt and an emptiness bordering on desolation...it is never sated...no matter how frequent or forceful its expression. For some it is a struggle with it in general terms...for others it's related to specific events and people. I'm in the latter camp. Of course you often start in the latter camp and cross over to the former. Such is the insidious nature of the beast. Counselling and "anger management" may of course mitigate it or even allow a certain amount of controlled release but in my limited experience it often only papers over the cracks. Anger runs deep and it runs long. It's resilience is hard to break down. I know this every time I cut the grass...or swear at the TV remote.  One small plus is that my own acquaintance with intense anger has made me a bit more sympathetic to angry people in general...well I hope it has anyway. Anger comes from pain. And some people are in a lot of pain. Even the annoying ones. But what about those decisions? I had not actually intended this to be about anger but as if to prove a point it's ended up pushing its way centre stage. Perhaps that merely indicates how close to the surface mine is. And to a degree how all-pervasive it is. The ability to make decisions is as much undermined by it as by other factors......anxiety, insecurity, instability ...all these things bleed uncomfortably into each other.  A very close friend recently said to me that it is generally better to do something than to do nothing. The context can affect that obviously but in my case they are right. I've more or less decided to move out of the rented accommodation I've been in for nearly four years and go back to live with my father. I moved out originally as I needed my own space ....that has not really changed but I can no longer realistically afford to stay there. Taking such a decision may not seem a big deal...I was told as much yesterday by a well meaning acquaintance...and in the grand cycle of the universe it's not. But it is to me. It's yet another choice I'm making that I don't want to make. As was the choice to live here in the first place. As was the "choice" to leave the marital home in the first place and go back to the house I grew up in. I wanted none of it. And for that reason anything associated with it is always, in its own way, going to be a big deal. And it will always be tainted in some way by that anger that won't go away, however much it may abate in intensity. 

Such is life. 

A swan, some ducks and David Gray

Not often I do one of these 2 days running but I felt the need tonight.   This blogging as therapy could end up being hard work. Was at a bit of a loose end this evening and having drawn a blank at my usual points of contact I headed out to the Corbet Lake...a small stretch of water just outside town frequented by the local fishing fraternity and a haunt for some very colorful water fowl. There's a small car park set in against the road in which you can sit and view across the lake as I'm doing now. As I write a couple of ducks have taken up residence near to the car...I have David Grays New Day at Midnight blaring away in here but the ducks seem unperturbed...I'm not sure if it's because they have good taste in music or if they have gotten used to the comings and goings here...probably the latter. A particularly stressful day at work has given way to a flat and non descript sort of evening. Just me, David Gray and some ducks...and a swan that I've just noted. Could be worse I suppose. I've only recently discovered Gray properly...I was aware of him obviously (Babylon and all that) but had never really paid much attention until someone sent me this album recently  (now that dates me) and it's been like the soundtrack to my life of late. Funny the way songs impact you ...in ways that I'm certain the writer never intended. I find Gray rarely disappoints in that regard. There's almost always something lyrically that tugs or resonates whatever the songs. Particularly if one is in a certain frame of mind. I've heard these 12 songs countless times but I always seem to get some new little nuance here and there...or maybe I'm just too susceptible to mood."Meet me on the Other Side" is just finishing...

 "That trick ain't worth the time it buys

I'm sick of hearing my own lies"

Yep...those nuances keep coming. 

Murlough.

One of the reasons I came back to writing this blog was following another one...http://writing2survive.blogspot.co.uk/search?updated-min=2013-12-31T16:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2014-12-31T16:00:00-08:00&max-results=8&m=1 

This person lives near me (though I don't know him personally) and I liked the idea of the title of the blog...well rather than liked as such I suppose it resonated with me and of course I found the content interesting and arresting at times. I chose the title of my own blog ...Breathing Underwater (if you remember that far back) with a similar kind of intent to the aforementioned albeit for different reasons at the time. The point of course bring that you can't do it...well not unaided. I could have called it "drowning but staying alive" but that would have been a tad cumbersome. Having said that it would have avoided confusion in the search engines between my little blog and purveyors of diving equipment but that's by the way. No harm done..as yet. I don't give out advice on hazardous oceanic activities and they (I assume) don't write strange blogs about nothing in particular. I liked the idea of writing stuff down to help me process it ...and of sharing this odd (and by definition impossible) journey with anyone on the Internet who was vaguely interested (or who had mistakenly logged in expecting a tutorial on scuba equipment). Several years on I'm not really certain of the efficacy of such an endeavour...or if it really helps to turn your feelings into words. Of course the general principle is sound enough...but I'm not sure about the practice in my case. But I will persist regardless, if for no other reason than it fills up time. As I write this it is a sunny day up here on the County Down coast and Newcastle is buzzing with people....not really how I like it but I can't have everything my own way. I used to come up here two maybe three times a week after the "big upheaval" of a few years back and walk the stretch of beach from the Sleive Donard hotel to where the large warning signs for Ballykinler rifle range adorn the sand...I would stop at various points along the way and gaze out at the sea from the waters edge. I would go there in all weathers...even the depths of winter...to the point where I should have been able to identified every grain of sand on that beach. Well I exaggerate...every other grain perhaps. But you get the point. Sometimes I'd have music from the iPhone blasting in my ears...sometimes just the wind and movement of the waves. Other times I just walked, locked into a state of "not thinking" at least as far as certain things were concerned...allowing the embrace of the sea air and the never really changing spectacle around to overwhelm the "spin cycle" of anxiety and anger and whatever else that was my constant mental narrative  at the time. Sometimes it actually did....at least intermittently. I remember particular snippets..one especially sunny day when the gleaming water actually gave me a flash of that sense of wellbeing that was completely alien to me at the time (if I ever had it)...so much so that I recall staying there a very long time and if not quite basking in it allowing it some ingress. Another day the wind was so strong it was blowing a sandstorm and I had to walk backwards into it eventually taking shelter at the rocks till it passed...the ghostly movement of sand is still etched on my mind. And then there was the day in winter (December I think) when it was bone numbingly cold...the exhilarating sort of cold that penetrates the very marrow and blocks out everything but it's own razor sharp chill. There were many other days (and evenings) of course but those ones for some reason stand out. On particularly grim days the thought of that beach and being on it later that evening or the following weekend ...or  just the view of it to be honest in my minds eye...kept me going. The thought of not getting up to Murlough for an extended period...I am talking a week or so...would fill me with what I can only describe as slow release panic. In those early days I was still a believer...so prayer ...both silent and verbalised...was part of the equation. As the further parts of the beach were  almost deserted I would head to particular spots (and usually to the waters edge...or if the tide was out to the furthest point where I could firmly stand) and I would talk to the God who I believed was still in control of the chaotic events of my life. Usually  I would mumble to myself but occasionally I would become more vocal...I do not recall crying to the heavens as such but I certainly cried on occasions and I'm certain as the intensity of feeling increased so did the level of my voice. Mostly though it was drowned out by the wind or the sea noise though I do recall thinking that if the occasional passerby saw me standing with my lips moving they would have thought me mad...not that I was that concerned. I can't now remember the specifics of what I prayed..though I do know there were specifics...I was a bit of a talker when communing with the deity. Looking back now and thinking about it the intensity of those encounters shocks me a little...it seems not only from a different lifetime but that it was a different person standing there. Much has changed in my head since then and yet much remains the same. Not least my complete about face on the God front ...but that's another story. 

And so to today and Murlough. It's been a couple of years at least since I did the beach walk outlined above...despite being up in Newcastle most weeks I've confined myself to the town and the coffee shop, viewing Murlough from a distance. Over a year ago when the winter storms caused severe damage along the coast I had heard that part of the beach had been swept away and had meant to check that out for myself but I never got round to it...seems it was an exaggeration. I walked incessantly after leaving the house (I no longer regard it as home...I will always have a problem with that word) but not so much this last eighteen months or so...I have a problem with my hip (which walking exacerbates) but that is perhaps too handy an excuse. Last evening a friend of mine asked me if I had what she described as "a thinking spot", somewhere specific I would go to clear my head and weigh up decisions etc...the question carried a lot of resonance and I immediately thought of Murlough...and that particular spot on the beach almost midway across where I did a lot of thinking and praying. She suggested I should go back there again and I said that if I was up there today I would...and that is exactly what I did. It took that little push and I am grateful for it. It is always much easier not to do things than to do them...I am an expert in the former. It was sunny & breezy this afternoon and by the time I made my way round to the beach the tide was well out, which I always prefer at Murlough...you get these islands of smooth sand on the far side of the stones, the latter well pooled with water and requiring a bit of dexterity to negotiate. I headed to the first expanse of sand I came across and stood facing out to sea...there was no one about despite the lovely day it was and the sea was restfully foaming in that way that it does with just enough breeze coming off it to lightly chill through my cotton tee shirt...but not enough to make you shiver. I recalled the last time I was there...or thereabouts...I still believed in God and would have felt it perfectly natural to talk to him out loud. I felt no such inclination today but it did feel slightly odd just standing there...old habits die hard perhaps. I didn't do much thinking...it was good just to be there again in that familiar place that had been such a constant backdrop to my life for so long ...and despite the changed dynamic to my thinking it felt like I'd never been away. I resolved to get back into a routine of coming here again...albeit in a new dispensation so to speak. I thought about my friend and wondered if she had gone to her own "thinking spot" as she had said she would. I stood for a few more minutes looking out at the horizon then turned and began the walk back to the car park steps. 

It felt like I'd accomplished something, even though I knew I hadn't. 

Easter musings.

Easter. Not sure why but I felt it appropriate to mark it with a blog post. Since I embarked on the journey away from Christian belief the various religious festivals have left me somewhat cold. Not that they ever provided much warmth. Like most things these days they tend to bleed into the background of things as I drift on by. FB is of course awash with the usual references...friends statuses in particular now whiz by on the timeline and I find myself almost automatically "liking" certain posts then suddenly remember that they are no longer relevant to me. It leads me to wonder at times if I am the same person that I was only a couple of years back when I would have been in hearty agreement with the sentiments expressed ...and perhaps there's the rub. Perhaps I am not that person...or never was that person...or only thought I was. And perhaps the moon is made of cream cheese. In any case I react now to much of the spiritual content I come across with a mixture of indifference and , depending on my mood, barely disguised contempt. I am almost certainly, it occurs to me, a more judgemental person now than I was as a believer as I find myself constantly berating the smugness and tweeness of some of the contributions. Then I have to remind myself that I also believed those things and was just as smug (though hopefully not just as twee) in my way. So perhaps little has really changed. Now I may just be deploying my smugness in service to a different master...or to the beat of a different drum...or whatever. Or maybe I am just inherently smug...perish the thought. Not that my change of direction faith-wise has lead to me embracing the atheist cause with anything approaching enthusiasm. I have become more sympathetic to certain atheistic perceptions of religion in general and christianity in particular for sure...but on the whole I find more "active" and vocal atheists an intolerant bunch, at least as arrogant and self aggrandising as the "religious" types they castigate for the same thing. Of course this is not news...human nature knows no sieve fine enough to strain out its narcissistic fondness for the sound of its own voice or the propensity to look down on others when it suits. Especially on social media but that's another story. I include myself in this assessment of course...I may lack the outward beauty of narcissus but whatever stares back from that puddle still holds sway, whatever the cost. Perhaps that's as it should be. Perhaps a certain narcissistic urge is necessary for survival. Or perhaps that's how we justify it to ourselves. 

From the high point of the Christian calendar to narcissus....I clearly have too much time on my hands. Ah well. 

On the personal front things meander on in the way that they do. Decisions continue to pile up and I continue to let them. Some will require action however in the near future. Others will depend on events. Even I cannot prevaricate indefinitely. Though I can make a bloody good go of it. The thing about times like this...Easter I mean ...is that if you allow yourself to you can find yourself in reflective mood. And that can lead to too much thinking. And as we know too much thinking is bad for you. The various "holiday" periods no longer define the year for me as they used to...they used to be tied up with family stuff (good and bad) but now they are processed differently, of necessity. Now they are just another few days or weeks to be negotiated, a task always made more difficult by past associations that still claw and pick at the borders of memory. But the borders are better defended now than they were and each passing year brings a slight dilution of painful recollection. It is how we roll we humans. Time heals apparently. I prefer to say that time gives perspective and provides distance...a lessening of the intensity of it all. Nothing really heals. Perhaps that is as it should be. Some pain and hurt should remain...as a reminder of our humanity if nothing else. And to keep us alive. 

Happy Easter.