From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace

Went to see it this evening, with Jacob (Number 1 son).

It was good, both the film and the experience of father and son going together.

Also it was good to have the capacity to enjoy both.

My experience of depression
includes the experience of losing the ability to enjoy anything. So, when I find that something has been enjoyable, I get double satisfaction, at least.

Before the film, I went into Dunnes in Douglas. Jammed to the gills. Hardly a single parking space left. Queues at every till. People spending their money as if there was a spending competition on. It looked as if spending money was the latest fashion and that it would be terrible to be seen to be frugal.

For me to go into such a crowded place, where I could so easily feel impoverished, and know that I could not easily escape quickly - this was a recipe for disaster.

I was calm going there. I held my calm while I drove through several parts of the car park. Another time I would have rushed away, back to the “safety” of my house (with its curtained windows). But I talked to myself about how well I was doing and how different this was from many other times.

Another “random act of kindness” from a stranger helped me.

I bought a few bottles and a few bits of fruit and veg - not enough to fill a hand basket. There were two tills at which there were signs saying: “Only drink may be paid for at this till.” The young man at the till let me pay for apples, broccoli, smoked mackerel… I’m sure he had no idea what a difference he made to me.

I live now in a community where I feel awkward and out of place much of the time.
But I’ve been helped by people who have done me favours. I love them for it. Such favours make me feel a more worthy person.

When I was most depressed I didn’t dare put myself in a position where anyone could do me a favour.

I wrote about 1000 words, all about the mind and how I’ve thinking about the mind…

I wanted to hyperlink a book title to Wikipedia, clicked on my favourites, reached the relevant entry, copied the address and then tried to go back to my blog in progess.

It was gone. I should have saved it but it didn’t think that necessary…

So I have had the benefit of writing with all those reflective moments but there is nothing to share.

I used to know how to link without mishap…

I guess I’ll just have to put aside more time to return to that theme.

I’ve driven from the centre of Cork through Wilton to Rochestown. Struggled all the way…

The journey from the car park began with an incident I won’t forget easily. I paid 8 Euro and pushed Grace and several bags of shopping to the car. She was asleep. It wasn’t difficult to load her into the car seat. When I got to the exit, I couldn’t find the ticket in my wallet. Nor in my 11 pockets. There were two cars jammed up behind.

I was already feeling anxious, fearful and tense. You can imagine how my discomfort intensified. But out came a young man who said: ” You paid already? I’ll lift the barrier for you.” That was absolutely great news. How did he know I’d paid? Was there some desperate look on my face, throughout my whole frame, or in the voice that could barely speak?

As I was getting back into the car, I couldn’t find my wallet. Somehow, while I was pushing hands into pockets over and over again, the vital container of a little money, some plastic and loads of receipts was gone. I had to drive out of the exit. I was holding up so many people. Parked on the nearest double yellow lines, I rushed back in. A man stuck out his head from a car window and said “I’ve handed it in to the office.”

I couldn’t find words to thank him, or time to utter gratitude. I was so panicy. But when the wallet and I were restored to each other, I noticed how much tension there was in my body. My mind felt under siege, surrounded by pressing anxiety.

It would have been wonderful to have been able to celebrate these two bits of good fortune that came from the community in which I now live. All I wanted to do was to write the anxiety out of my body. I drove home thinking how urgent it was to blog.

Even Grace’s sleeping cheeks and relaxed eyelids didn’t bring me relief.

I wonder about writing about how I am.
I don’t yet read the newspapers, listen to the radio but I have stopped watching TV. (The significance of this breaking the link with TV is huge. I now have much more I can do, and want to do.)

It will take me too long to get better. I mean that, no matter how many days or weeks it takes for me to recover confidence and good humour, no matter how long it takes before I enjoy days without special medication, I will probably always feel that it’s taking too long. I’ll always have a sense of urgency and dissatisfaction. Is that such a bad thing? And, so what if it is a bad thing: it is the way I am, and it is enough for me to know that.

I can hear Grace grumbling in her cot.
Will she resume rest or stand up demanding light and attention?

I could do with her company. I am calmer now.

The drama of my inner world both tires and inspires me. In time I will love this combination a little more.

I’ve been thinking of the freezing fog over England.

How good it is not to be in Heathrow.

How fortunate I am to have been able to put a few coins in a collection box yesterday, to wear the yellow sticker, to have the cries within hearing.

To have possession of a mind that feels mine, and shared…

To have a room with a chair the feels as if it belongs to me, and from which I can reach…

To have a son who felt like coming over to see me for a few days…

To have moments for thinking and feeling these sort of things…

This is probably an untruth.

My spirit is probably fine, in great shape, but I am not sufficiently in touch with my spirit to know this.

As I move out of the deep deep depression, and, like a deep sea diver, have to pause carefully before resurfacing, I’ve been introduced to Oriah Mountain Dreamer.

An unexpected email from Cindy, kindly thinking of me and letting me know that she liked this writer - I’d never heard the name.

I went in search of “The Invitation” but that was out of stock, so I got “The Dance” and I am under its influence. It feels as if I am trying on a new overcoat, for size, comfort, texture and overall fit.

I think I have spent all my life trying on overcoats.
Oriah seems to say that the most important thing is to be the person you are. Not to invest in self-improvement, self-development - but in what I imagine Jung called self-realisation.

As I stretch out from the crysallis of depresssion, I don’t find it easy to know the person I am. I feel mainly confused, unsure of myself but delighted to be able to say this without apology.

I don’t feel a poor person for having a lot of difficulties. Nor do I feel rich. But I am wondering whether I am spiritually at sea, uncomfortably aware of how easy it would be for me to drown - if it wasn’t for the Universe.

Strong opinions, powerful passions, convinced convictions - these are strange to me now.

I need medication to get in touch with a sort of solid core and calm within my self. But I need a lot more than medication.

“An Irish Christmas surrounds me
threatens to take me
underneath its blanket.
It seems confident and rich
as if it has a rightful place.

I have strength to see it coming
and hope to slip through its clasp
without mishap.
Even when I stumble under
the weight of its history

I trust I will be lifted
home to the space
where I may rest
in mystery
and love again.”

I’ve wondered.

An easy answer is that I stopped because I suffered a return of depression which affected my motivation, energy, interest and creativity. I had to stop because I could not go on.

But that doesn’t feel like half adeqate. bordering on the tautological…

Let me think out loud, and try to look under the experience.

In Autumn 2005, I left UK after over 30 years there. I moved to Ireland in a mood which was very positive, enthusiastic for the change - and frivolously playful in formulations like “I’m going on an anthropological fieldtrip…”
Cliches like ” I’m returning to my roots…”

There was a big practical element/challenge: how to get Wiffe and baby Grace over here without putting them to much trouble. I got off on the desire to do a good job, to minimise the stress for all and relished the prospect of moving into a new era in my/our life.

In a nutshell, I minimised the loss.
Downplayed the huge change that I was facing into. I coped with the upheaval by denying that it was much of an upheaval: I saw it, and talked to myself, as if it was all good news. I felt I could take it in my stride.

And, in many ways, I did rise to the challenge and carved out a way of life that seemed to work for me. I made the move an object of interest, almost a research topic. At its most fantatical I imagined I was conducting a participant observation study of “re-migration”.

Last week I went back to Bath, to be there while the removers moved our belongings out of the house which was about to change hands.

Whereas I’d moved to Cork in autumn 2005 without any significant emotional downside, I found it “broke my heart” to close down the house in Bath. I almost howled. Almost wanted to shout “stop… I can’t bear it… go away… I want to go back to my house… want to walk these streets again… want to be back home…”

I only paint a snippet.

This is what I began to think:

After 30+ years in UK, where I’d grown up into adult responsibilities, experiences and relationships, I had lost more than I had ever imagined: I had lost my centre… and perhaps my spiritual core.

I’d moved to a new country where I felt confused, awkward, irritated, disappointed, lonely, lost, un-held, un-networked, un-linked, un-centred… (the list could go on). Few compensations realised so far. In other words, I was now a fish out of my water.

And worse, I was denying it to myself and misinterpreting, misrepresenting, misestimating my predicament.

I loved being a stay-at-home-dad, being the main carer for my wonderful little creature daughter, Grace. But… I faced a future riddled with change, without any confidence that I understood the systems, cultures, mores, fashions.

I didn’t yet have the support network that I needed.

The experience of several bouts of depression over 15 years has taught me that I am a vulnerable person, however strong and resilient I feel when I am well.

What did this type of thinking suggest to me?

How about this?

The depression that overwhelmed me in August was Nature’s way of reminding me (in a very tough manner) that I had lost so much, that I had better value what I was losing, and that it was unhealthy to minimise and imagine that I was impervious to such massive strain.

It would be many years before I would feel, and be, settled in Ireland. That was simply the way it had to be. Because I had found a centre in UK society, it would be a slow process of disentangling, and shedding confusion and anxiety. It would be some time before I could feel safe in Ireland. So far, my lack of safety was disguised by the excitement of the move and the vigour with which I got stuck into new habits.

I got turned on by blogging. It seemed to gratify many of my needs. But the reality included the fact that I had hardly anyone round me to talk to face to face and do things with… and (worst of all) that didn’t seem to disturb me enough.

I was too cocky for my own, and anyone else’s good.
Nature kindly struck me down into deep suffering. Nature took away my sense of integrity, wholeness and my sense of being bound together. In that place Nature introduced a fracture through which out leaked my confidence, togetherness, capacity to love, interests, and (cruelly) my memory.

In flooded doubt, indecision, massive and ever-present anxiety (about everything)…

I must stop now and go pick up the Wiffe and Grace.
Does this way of thinking make sense to you?

I’ll write more soon…

I’ve been thinking about it. Thinking about the role this blog has played in the process and experience of returning to Ireland.

I write this now as encouragement to myself to carry through this intention. I never meant to go silent and never meant to stay silent.

For several reasons, some of which have to do with the kindness shown to me by people who have read this blog.

I also go an outlet for some of my creativity.

And a way to pass the time while I was alone, waiting for Grace to wake up from her sleeps.

I have a couple of clear ideas about what I intend to write when I get properly started. Right now I don’t have enough time to open up those boxes. But thinking about what I would like to write has helped me think about why I stopped blogging in August 2006. Why I stopped reading other blogs. Why I disappeared (so to speak)…

I’m waiting for a phone call which will send to out to meet up with the Wiffe and Grace at her creche. I need a drive to the garage which is going to put a new water pump in my ancient Saab. The noise from the engine made me worried that I might have a knackered engine. So I’m relieved that it’s only a water pump. (I once changed a water pump myself, so it can’t be too hard to do. But it probably took me about 12 hours and a thousand readings of Haines’ Manual.

If there is anyone reading this, thank you for being there. I look forward to resuming the writing again soon.