Let's Push Things Forwards.

This photo is troubling me:

In case you didn’t realise, it’s of my husband, and a little girl.

He met her when we went camping in the Lake District. She was called Neve. Owen was sat on top of the rock near our tent just doing some reading and thinking. Then he heard a call; ‘hey smelly pants!’, and there was Neve, grinning up at him with a cheeky smile. She poked her tongue out and came and sat next to him.

She was quite a character, about four or five years old and the oldest of her brothers and sisters. Utterly bossy, compulsively cheeky and very playful.

Owen’s heart melted, I could see in his eyes he was won over completely. He played with her for hours, and they connected. They laughed and joked and climbed and ran and explored and giggled and jibed and jived and made each other happy.

And oh, my god. I felt so fucking broody it’s untrue.

I had never realised, up until then, just how much of a good dad Owen would be. I had always, because of the way he generally spoke about children and because of the relationship he has with his own father, assumed that he would be, in his parenting style, very awkward and detached and grumpy. I figured somehow that he would never quite enter into the spirit of a family fully. Then Thomas, my nephew came along and he started to prove me wrong. He is very good with him, reading books for hours and helping Sophie bathe him. That was nice, seeing that, but I’m not really a baby fan. They cry too much and I don’t understand why. I am so scared of breaking them. HHhhhhhHHowever, I do admit to being wholeheartedly a five-year-old fan especially when they’re children who are confident and funny and yes, quite cute. Seeing him react and interact like that with Neve was so intoxicating it was almost primal. I just wanted, for the two or three minutes when this photo was taken to drag him to the tent and make a baby. I wanted to ride him long and hard and have gruelling explosive sex. I wanted…well…sperm rather than cock. My oh my I have never felt anything quite like it.

Now every time I see this photo I get an echo of the same feeling. I want to delete it, but somehow can’t bring myself to.

This is doing my nut for three reasons.

1) I have always stated that I don’t want children

2) We can’t afford one child, let alone the two or three I would want if, hypothetically we did have children.

3) I am severely mentally ill and don’t know if I’m well enough to cope with a family.

Yet, after Neve came into our lives, albeit briefly, something has changed between the two of us. I never mentioned my feelings, but I knew Owen could tell. Also, I could tell that something in him was changing, like the way he was looking at pregnant women and young mothers in the supermarket. Last night it all erupted and we had a funny ‘hypothetical’ conversation that boiled down to discussing parenting styles and school preferences (as in types of rather than specific ones) and the best age for us to do it. It was all very strange, like totally new territory, peppered with phrases like ‘well we never said definitely never,’ and ‘I’m not saying we will, but if we do then what do you think about…’ The whole thing was just very strange and weird and oddly exciting. This is just stuff we have never ever discussed because it was never important to us. I don’t know what’s changed really.

However, we would be stupid if we refused to ever think about the possibility of a family of our own because we are so family orientated already, and I’m never going to be career driven, I’ve accepted that already. I want to categorically state that I don’t have a tick tock sense of time passing. Nevertheless, it would be sad if we didn’t even properly discuss the issue until we were thirty-five and then it was getting on to being too late. Also, for us getting pregnant is going to be a huge, long and dangerous process because it will involve me gradually coming off my medication and proving that I can live drug free- a massive step that could take years- before we could even think about going ahead and actually trying to make a baby.

Like I say, the whole thing is rather troubling. Not simply because it’s a 180 degree turn around from even a month ago, and not only the annoying fact that both of our families told us that exactly this would happen, but because it’s a part of a wider picture.

I am having to really accept that I have a future.

Ever since I had to leave my OT course because I wasn’t well enough to cope with it, and then the suicide attempt, where I gave up on life altogether, I have refused to face up to the fact that I could have some semblance of a future ahead of me. I have constantly frustrated my Doctors, nurses and shrink by remaining bleak about my prognosis. ‘Ten percent of us die from this fucking illness’ I said, again and again. My death wish is so strong at times I just knew I would be one of them. Despite the fact that I am happier now than I have been for years, and genuinely healthy and loving life, there is so much of me that thinks each day that passes like that is a fluke. Sure, today was fun, and I enjoyed it, you could even say I’m doing well but how long until the next breakdown, the next relapse? For months after my hospitalisation I refused to even think about my options, and every time my CPN, Nick, would gently prod me about my future, I would laugh in his face. ‘I have no future.’ I would say. ‘Haven’t you read my diagnosis, haven’t you read my notes? I’m totally fucked. I’m doomed to go round and round in this eternal mood swing cycle of elation and depression. I will deteriorate further and further. The illness will destroy my functioning and relationships until one day I will crack and it kills me. That is my future. I am resigned to that. Now just leave me to my fate and go and spend valuable NHS resource on someone who actually has a chance of getting better. Someone you can actually help.’

They would sigh. And disagree, in the strongest terms. But I wouldn’t listen.

Now, something is shifting within me. I still have bleak moments, and I am still resigned to the fact that I have bipolar disorder and my life is never going to be the easiest.

BUT,

It doesn’t have to kill me. I don’t have to be one of the 10% who wind up swinging or jumping or slashing themselves into an early grave.

It doesn’t mean I have to be housebound, or dependent on my husband for everything.

It doesn’t mean I can never work.

It doesn’t mean I can’t be happy on a long term basis.

It doesn’t mean my marriage is doomed because he will get sick of me eventually.

And, I suppose:

It doesn’t mean that I would inevitably be an awful mother.

That’s the scary thing about seeing Owen with Neve. That’s why it has been playing on my mind so much. Because in a way, it’s all about me facing up to my potential and doing the brave thing with my life. I don’t mean whether or not we have children. The point is I have to face the fact that unless I get hit by a bus or develop a malignant tumour etc. then I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I have to accept that deep down. I can’t afford a repeat of last October, and I know that now. It’s about realising that, yes, I love life and also about realising I am worth something. Not just to other people but to myself.

Neve was a symbol more than anything else. In some senses a symbol of hope, yes. That I have come a long way and have a future, a life ahead of me that can bring me a lot of fulfilment and happiness, in whatever form I choose. But she was also a symbol of the fact that I am now tied to this earth and along with all the happiness comes a shitload of pain. I will lose people close to me, I will have relapses and crises, and other illnesses and heartache. Neve is a symbol of the fact that now I can’t deal with that pain by drowning it in booze night after night or jumping off a bridge. Not anymore, that time is passed forever. I’ve moved into another phase, one with much more happiness but also much more risk. I have to process the pain, I have to feel it, I have to let it go.

Also, with this idea of a future comes the responsibility to make the best of what I’ve been given with the talents I have. I can no longer use my illness as an excuse. I have to face up to the fact that I am a talented, loving human being with a lot to say who can really contribute to society be it through writing, teaching, working, campaigning, or… you know… raising three kids in a radical way. Or a combination of the above. I have to face up to the fact that I do have some control over my moods, they do not just come out of nowhere. My lifestyle, attitude, honesty and compassion for myself are key to my happiness rather than just pink pills and ‘the luck of the draw’. It’s all about taking control and my responsibility seriously.

I didn’t expect to be alive today. Now I’m thinking about in ten, twenty, fifty years time.

We are talking about the future again. Houses, kids, countries, jobs, ideologies, dreams, golden wedding anniversaries and book ideas. That’s simply something we didn’t dare to do for a long time. It’s a testament to Owens faith in me that we have got to this stage, but also to my own determination and hard work that I’ve got this far so quickly.

I’m half excited, half terrified.

Thank you, little Neve. You’ve opened my eyes to what could be and helped me and Owen more than your five-year-old brain could ever possibly comprehend.

No Ripple

I have grown to like being still.

I have taken to sitting in silence, especially in the daytime when Owen is away. Sometimes I play a record on softly in the background, usually an old favourite: Nick Drake or Leonard Cohen. Often even that is overwhelming. I dislike too much noise. I sit, with my thoughts on mute; sitting, breathing, just being.

I can do that for a long time, sometimes hours. I can’t explain why, or how but I find such beauty, such depth in silence. I feel a stripping away of the layers, a crumbling of the barriers until all you’re left with is a pure and calm stillness. Sometimes, my body rebels. It gets bored and restless, it longs for the shiny, for the new. I persevere. Still I sit, still I breathe, in and out, in and out. The boredom, too, eventually melts away.

I focus on the breath. I count to ten like I’ve been taught. One to ten and back again. Just me and the breath. Everything else disappears. I count to ten. I breathe in and out. Until the thoughts are still and all is quiet within.

Sometimes, when I am feeling this calm, I take out pad and pen and let myself write. This is a true joy. I write spontaneously. I have never done this before. I don’t know where the words come from, but I don’t think them first like I usually do. I do not edit, I do not delete. They sometimes make sense, they sometimes don’t. I don’t care what happens to them. They are not my words, they do not belong to me. They are pure: free from ego and competition and paralysis. I like writing this way, although it feels more like channeling than writing. When I read the words back though, I can tell they came from somewhere inside me. I am no medium, except of my own subconscious. It is so different when you let the words form on the page without worrying about them. You learn that they usually take care of themselves. It’s like a mother finally having the courage to let go of her child’s hand as they cross the road. It’s all in the act of letting go that things become pleasurable, really pleasurable and that you become free. The stress disappears, the knots unravel. The words on the page do not belong to me, nothing belongs to me, hell, there is no me! It’s just all good. Really good. And it makes me smile.

But that’s the writing. I do that because I can’t not write. I’ve never been able to live a life where I don’t write. But the day is long and mostly I just sit. I sit on my stool or I sit on the sofa. I sit on the park bench, I sit by the river. The water flows like time passing. You never put your foot in the same stream twice.

Home again: I stare at the white wall. I see so much peace and beauty there. I walk into the garden. I smell a flower. For a moment, that flower is the universe. I watch the bees and wasps fly around the garden. I wish them well. I breathe, I breathe, I breathe. I go inside. I brew a cup of tea in my old china cup. It is white with a golden rim, and a chip in the top. I pour the water slowly, watch the leaves diffuse. I blow. I sip. I swallow. The tea becomes part of me. Water becomes blood. Hydrogen and Oxygen along with everything else. I wash the cup, the soapy bubbles pop on my arm. I rinse. I dry. I place the cup back in the cupboard. I am aware of every movement in my hands, the feel of the rough tea towel against my moist knuckles. I walk back to the sofa. I sit. I stare at the white wall. I see such beauty there.

Later: I smile. It is colder now. I pull my blanket round me. I don’t know the time. I don’t want to know the time. He is not here, but will be back. Until then, I sit. I make Nick sing some more. I don’t listen to the words, just the melody, the sound of his instruments; his guitar and his voice. That’s how it’s always been with Nick and I. The sun sets, I watch it on the horizon through my window. I do not ignore the building site opposite. I try to see the beauty in the cranes and the scaffolding. It is not difficult, although it was at seven o’ clock this morning. I yawn and stretch my arms into the space above me. I sit, I light a candle. I stare into the flame, I don’t know how long for. Soon, I don’t hear noises, not even Nick. I stare at the candle, I stare at the flame and its many different colours. My eyes softly, gently close.

There is a smell of smoke. I open my eyes. The candle has blown out. Its plumage spirals towards the overhead light. I lick my fingers and pinch the wick. It fizzles but does not burn.

I stand, fully awake. Nick has long stopped, the disk ejected. Outside there is darkness. I shut the curtains, turn on the light. The stillness remains within me, unshakable. My stomach rumbles. I walk into the kitchen, open the cupboards, ponder quietly what to create for us today. Whilst I am thinking, I hear the front door slam. He is home. I smile: another day over and not a ripple in the pond. What joy I have known today, what more could I want for? The door opens, he is wet with drizzle and his nose is red. He kisses me, throws his arms around me, says; ‘It’s good to see you, it’s great to be home.’ Here, you see, I have everything I need. Here, you see, I want for nothing. After all, this is my home. Not this town, not this house, not this man, not even this body. Home is the stillness, the rich beautiful stillness that lies here: deep down inside me.

Week of the Living Dead

At the moment I am working a short term (three weeks) contract as a temp in my Dad’s office. It’s sort of a mutual back scratching arrangement as his usual temp couldn’t do the busy summer rush and I needed the money, experience and reference so I put myself forward. On the whole it’s not a bad job although I’m not denying the fact that I definitely get special treatment being the bosses’ daughter. Most of the people working there have literally known me since I was born and spoil me rotten with cups of tea and long breaks and jacket potatoes with chicken tikka masala from the café upstairs. I’m not denying the nepotism of the situation or the cushiness of the job- I have had a lot of shitty ones in the past from being a care home assistant to factory worker and toilet cleaner to realise that right now I have it pretty good.

The work itself is easy although I had forgotten how exhausted the constant interaction with people can make me. It’s probably the same for everyone and I guess you adjust as time goes on, but I am shattered. I have been getting up at six o’ clock and not getting home till six at night and being on the go for all that time is quite an achievement for me. I’ve been getting home and just collapsing on the sofa bed in the newly decorated guest room in my parent’s house. Then curling up and sleeping and sleeping. I have found the tiredness so horrendously oppressive. I can’t think straight. I can’t order my thoughts. The idea of writing is laughable, or phoning someone other than Owen or doing anything for this blog even. The tiredness seeps through every crevice. I have christened the last five days ‘the week of the living dead’ because that’s how I felt. It was like I was looking at the world through a mist, a fog, not the kind that wafts lightly over dew soaked grass on summer mornings or hangs spectacularly over mountain tops in Nepal. No, if you’ll excuse the melodrama and run with this metaphor a little longer, this was a kind of fog that seeps through the bubbles of a sulphuric swamp, oozing from the ground: clammy and stifling leaving me just desperate for fresh air and a clear head.

I haven’t had a job for the last two years, and I often worry about not having one, that it doesn’t make me a ‘complete’ person or a fully functioning adult. I tell you, this was a wake up call. It is actually much easier to be a fully functioning adult when your days are spent in your four room apartment doing the washing up, listening to the new LCD sound system album and musing to yourself about what blog entry to do next than when you are in a non air-conditioned cramped office with four ringing phones, people shouting and complaining and all the time this awful awful tiredness. You find yourself just going to the toilet to get some space and sitting there with the door bolted looking at the peeling yellow painted door and trying to do Zazen in a desperate attempt to get some quiet.

It’s not that the job is bad- not compared to about 10,000 other jobs I could think of. It’s just that working in itself totally sucks ass.

Well, maybe I should rephrase that.

Working in a pointless futile job totally sucks ass.

I look at so many of my friends, and with the exception of one or two of them most are trapped, doing jobs they find unfulfilling and tiring in order to pay the rent and bills and feed and clothe themselves. Their salaries range from minimum wage to 35k a year, yet among them all there is this sense of oppression, resentment and the resounding feeling that they have been duped. We grow up in a world where at school career advisors tell you that ‘anything is possible; the sky’s the limit’ when in reality for most people living the dream is always elusive. It’s not for lack of ability; amongst my many writing, singing, acting, dancing musician friends some of them have more talent than you can shake a stick at, it’s just that these dreams are overpopulated, and unfairly weighted and dominated by capitalist market forces. There are not that many little girls who grow up wanting to be receptionists or bar tenders. There are not many little boys who dream of being a street sweeper or a shopkeeper. Yet, if we’re talking ratios I need hardly point out that for each Britney there are tens of thousands of these regular everyday worker bees keeping the dream machine ticking over. Some go to dancing classes in the day to keep their hopes alive. Some send poems of to crooked competitions that take their money for leather-bound volumes that never materialise. Most won’t make it and the few Britney’s that do often complain that when you get there it’s nothing like they tell you it’s going to be. A few years down the line they end up in rehab, or hospital, or shaving all their hair off and smashing cars up to the amusement of the press.

We are all so fucking dissatisfied with our lives because we all been conned by this dream machine. We have all been told ‘you can do anything’ when we quite clearly can’t, at least not all of us. Maybe one or two of my friends will get that lucky break, especially the ones that are working hard to make it a reality. But I see so many of them, if they keep on heading the way they are heading, ending up with a breakdown rather than the record deal or law degree they so desperately want. It makes me worried for them, worried for myself. People are profiteering off our dreams left right and centre and the more we listen to them the more swamped in the lies we become. So, it begs the question: should we just stop this silly dreaming and settle down to just clocking in and out each day? Like we are told our grandparents did, pleased to work in a flour mill for fifty hours a week, pleased just to have enough money to survive after the long hard war years, pleased that they were free to have a quiet job and not having to shoot at people or be shot at themselves. Should we just, like them, just learn to be quiet and settle down to the working week, accepting our lot in life graciously however shit it might be?

No, everything in me says this is not the way. My friends have too much talent, too much to say and contribute to just let them rot in offices and in shops and pubs and libraries. I have witnessed their art and it is brilliant. I have read their articles and poems, seen their dances, laughed at their self deprecating jokes. I have sensed within them great vision and the possibility of sowing seeds of change in this corrupt society. I don’t want to see them, bitter, twisted and burntout, at the age of 35, feeling like all they have achieved is insignificant. I have only spent a few days in an office to realise that every day you spend there is a soul sucking shift away from the vision you had for how your life would be. Every day spent in the working world corrupts you and your dreams. I don’t want my soul sucked away, I certainly don’t want my friends, my beautiful inspirational friends to be corrupted and trampled on by the system.

So what is the answer?

Well, that is the million dollar question.

I don’t know. Like I said last time, we all have to feed ourselves. Maybe those of us with visions should just stop complaining, grow some balls and go and do something radical- join a commune, go to protests, give it all up and go and live in Venezuela. Maybe all this trying to work within the system is draining us slowly. Maybe we need to step outside. To sell our house, give away our possessions and just throw ourselves in the lap of the gods and see where it leads us. To chase freedom rather than security. To love our art and our politics more than our money.

I don’t know, I’m thinking out loud. All I know is that this week I have had a taste of the working world that I’ve been alienated from for at least two years. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it left a bitter residue in my mouth that is hard to get rid of. I have a husband and friends who to their credit manage to accomplish great things alongside a full time job. I just don’t know how they do it, or if I could ever be like them. This week has deepened my respect for all of those people in my life who juggle their dreams and their finances and don’t let it drag them under. I just don’t know if I am as strong as them, or if I even want to be. Now the cogs are in motion, my brain is ticking round. More than anything I don’t want to end up like my Dad, who this week took a big sigh and said ‘I’ve done this job for 37 years. I hate it, I’m so tired, but the moneys pretty good.’ I do not want to be another casualty of the dream machine. There just has to be a better way.

Back Seat Driver

I had the good fortune yesterday to see two inspiring speakers at a public lecture at Leeds university: George Monbiot (who for a long time has been one of my inspirations) and Ngugi Wa Thiong'o who is a professor of Literature at the university of California as well as being an ex political prisoner, author and long term educator.

The lecture was about activism and social change, and both speakers know intimately about that subject. They had both endured hard times for their beliefs and shot from the hip, yet were encouraging, realistic and mindblowing at the same time.

The lecture made me both angry at the state of the world and happy that there were people who would stand up and rally against the causes of the problem. Yet, somehow I’m tired of standing on the sidelines. Of reading Guardian articles and saying the same things over and over again to my close circle of middle class friends. In short, it made me want to do more. You know, actually help the cause, rather than just getting kicks from feeling like a part of this revolutionary movement but never doing anything to contribute. I have been a passenger for too long.

I come to a point in my life where I’m at a crossroads. A genuine decision has to be made about the kind of life I will lead. I am not in a career nor am I aiming for one. I am not about to start a family. I do not feel tied to England. I feel like my life could go in many directions. I’m not saying it’s final or can never be reversed but over the next year or so, I will shape myself in ways which are at the moment undetermined. From the decisions I make I may never recover or I may blossom. I have to push myself in new ways. I may well enter the world of work, but do I really need to? If I do what kind should it be?

I find myself being softly seduced by the capitalist dream. Owen and I have been so poor for so long and after a while it starts to take its toll. Now I am in a more powerful position where my health has returned and the possibility of generating capital is at last within me. I find myself absentmindedly looking through the paper and saying things like ‘If I worked for twenty five hours a week, instead of just twelve or sixteen we could put the money aside and afford that holiday to Athens that we have always wanted. We could save and buy a car. I could go to more gigs. I could get that T shirt I have lusted after every time I walk past the shop.’

These are things that I have been saying to myself for the past few weeks. I feel the lure of the dollar, the seduction of the slavery. I always say to myself that this is not mindless capitalism, after all, going to see the historical birthplace of democracy and philosophy is not just your bog standard package holiday. The car would open up a world of possibilities; I could attend the local Buddhist centre I can’t get to on the bus, I could see inspirational friends more often. The T shirt, you mark my words, has a political slogan and the bands I would pay to see would be firmly anti establishment. Yet it boils down to this: I am here, voluntarily thinking to myself that I should chain myself to a desk and sign my valuable life and time away in the name of a foreign holiday? Have I learnt nothing over the years? Is this what my anti capitalism boils down to? My eyes glazed over under the neon shop window lights?

Yesterday was a wake up call, a slap around the face from one of Britain’s most important thinkers. I hope I will be eternally grateful.

I am no genius or great leader. I do however possess numerous talents that could help a worthy cause. Do I want to give these talents to the corporations or even established ‘charities’ when I know there are grassroots campaigners out there fighting for things that I passionately believe in who are desperate for people to help them out? What if Owen and I made a resolution to make do with less rather than more and we sacrificed our own personal ambitions for some kind of greater good? Isn’t that something that, when it’s all over, you could really sit back and be proud of?

Yes, you always have to live and cover your living costs. If you make yourself destitute you are, unless you are an exceptional person, not going to be any help to anyone. These are the chains that capitalism binds us with. Owen has his career path, rent and bills to pay, responsibilities galore: all those lovely adult words and concepts that prevent me going off and living in a tree house somewhere. Owen has done more than his fair share of the labour in this relationship for some time now and the balance has to shift now my health is improved, it’s only fair. What a tragedy would it be, though, if I were to find myself a year from now having been rendered useless by the corporate dragons, unable to do anything except work and sleep? My brain is now this lovely fertile ground where radical concepts and ideologies are taking form. I would hate to see it in twelve months time raped and pillaged and stripped bare, leaving only a shell of a woman who struggles to stay awake and who’s thoughts are preoccupied with questions such as ‘what kind of fruit salad shall I buy from M+S’ or ‘what interesting body part can I photocopy today?’ .

I have to work, I know, I know. But there has to be some kind of middle ground, right?

At the moment I am in a powerful position in that Owen and I are fully adapted to spending very little money, less than £10,000 a year, we could hardly survive on much less. In it’s own way, my getting a job is a dangerous proposition in that it will give us freedom to consume in ways we are not used to and once we have that money, it will become easy to become dependent on it. I see money sort of like rooms in a house. When Owen and I lived in a one roomed bed-sit, we were very happy and space was rarely an issue. Then, when we moved to York we took up residence in a house with six rooms and we soon ‘filled’ the space, both mentally and physically. Then, when we decided that we wanted to downsize because it was a ridiculous concept that we were paying for six rooms when we needed much less, the transition back was much harder. In a nutshell, it is always easier to upgrade than downsize. Yet, to upgrade there is always a cost, even if the acquisition seems reasonable or even free, maintenance of the new goods are often pricy. You always pay for more expensive things with your work, your time and your energy (the housework on the six roomed house was depressing in its infinity). Therefore, maybe it’s just better for Owen and I to struggle on with a small amount of money, to make do with as little as possible and have our freedom rather than getting used to having lots of cash.

For me and Owen the problem is that the work is unequally divided, rather than that we don’t have enough money. We might not be able to jet to Greece every few minutes, but we can eat and pay the bills and pay for Owens PhD. Maybe the equation we need to be looking at is how we can both do as little work as possible to maintain our living costs and then utilise our freedom for the greater good. The last thing the world needs is another back seat driver, enjoying the benefits of the ride but full of criticism for the guy in control. It needs people who will step out of the back seat and take charge, contribute, put their own necks on the line and their own foot on the accelerator. It needs activists and campaigners, people of integrity. Folks who will not be bought or sold, who can stand up and help stop the injustices that are perpetuating the suffering we see all around. It needs you. It needs me. The world needs us to give it everything we’ve got. Today, I’m standing at a crossroads. I’m not sure what direction to head in, all I know is that I have to travel against the flow.

If You're Happy and You Know It.....

On Friday, my CPN commented that, right now, I seemed happier and healthier than he had ever known me to be. I thought about it and realised he was right. A smile spread across my face and we sat there for a couple of minutes beaming at each other. He asked me why I thought that was, what had changed? I said that I sort of had the feeling that everything was beginning to make sense, when for a lot of my life it hadn’t. He asked me what I meant by that. I said I just knew how to be happy. How to really be happy. Was it, he suggested, (the CPN in him shining through) because I had learnt through all the intense work we had done since I left hospital how to manage my illness better? I said, yes I am managing my illness a lot better these days for sure and that is helping immensely but that’s not it. It's about a lot of different threads of my life coming together and creating a coherent picture.

I’ve had all these sets of beliefs, often conflicting and not very well thought out that were random and disjointed. These days they’re all fusing and I’m starting to have an actual worldview. It’s been very influenced by my Buddhism, of course, but there’s more to it than that. I have done a lot of thinking in the last few years and I now have, or am starting to have a framework to hang my life on like a clothes horse on laundry day. This is creating this feeling of immense balance and stability. It’s giving me a sense of contentment and freedom and for the first time in my life a realistic picture of who I am and what I stand for. Sure, I’ve always had the general gist that I am left wing, and a feminist etc. But there were so many gaps and holes in my thinking. Now I feel like a complete picture, even if it is a rather surrealist one.

As a teenager and an early adult, there was one word that could describe me and that is ‘confused’. I didn’t know who I was or what I thought about this or that. I didn’t know how the universe fitted together or how my mind worked or how to control my emotions. I didn’t know jack shit, basically, but rather than be one of these self assured people who were convinced they had the answers, when they really knew nothing, I could see with a stark clarity how little I knew. It went on like this for a long time, through some very bleak years. But now I have the sense of it all coming together. That I know who I am, where I belong, what my role is, what the meaning of all this is.

I’m not saying there are no grey areas anymore. There certainly are. But part of my new acceptance of myself is to love and accept my own ambiguities. That grey is the new black, so to speak: to accept fully that I am never, ever going back to that clear cut time of fundamentalist Christianity and nor would I want to. This ever present questioning is part of me, part of my identity. The fact that I can see things from a multitude of angles should no longer be viewed with absolute negativity but as a very beneficial thing. I see my doubt and scepticism as something that pushes boundaries and helps me examine the world, rather than a negative hindrance to ever fitting in or finding peace.

I say this at the risk of sounding smug but I think I am learning how to be happy. This is something that many people take for granted, but for me it’s something I’ve really had to work at hard. And now I am starting to have a sense of payoff. As one of our exercises this week, my CPN has asked me to write down in concrete terms, for a bit of fun, a sort of practical guide to my new found happiness. So I could know in future, if the sky were ever to cloud over again, where the path to sunnier climes lays.

So here you are, in all its glory is the document I have cobbled together for next weeks meeting: I did it like I was a guru or something because I thought it would be fun. I actually am not suggesting anyone do the same as me. Think of this as a kind of self help manual, literally written for myself. This for my purposes only- though if it helps you, I do individual sessions of life coaching for $300 an hour! Email me for details.

Jen’s Practical Guide to happiness.


1. Body: All the common sense advice they say is true. Sleep well. About 7-8 hours a night, no more, not much less. Keep bedtime regular. Eat healthy meals, not junk food. Exercise, preferably out in nature. Drink a lot of liquid, not so much beer and coffee. Go to the doctors and dentist regularly.

2. Mind: Read a paper every day, but not the same one. Keep connected with the world from a variety of viewpoints. Think about what you’ve read, process the information, form opinions. Read books, watch films, listen to music and interact with culture. Challenge yourself in your choices. Never stop learning. Express yourself creatively through whatever medium suits you. Stretch yourself. Try new things. Meditate daily or whatever helps you wind down. Keep a journal or blog and reflect on your life.

3. Friendship: Be close to the friends that matter to you. Ditch the ones who don’t. A few good close friends are better than many fake ones. With those who you keep, make an effort to maintain contact. Rebuild burnt bridges. Surround yourself with people who love and understand you for who you are and appreciate your talents. Reach out to them when you are struggling. Be honest. Be a good friend in return. Listen to others problems. Be happy for your friends when they are successful, rejoice in their achievements. Phone them even when you’re feeling antisocial. Be generous with time, money and hospitality. Let them know how much you love and value them. Try not to compare yourself with them- everyone has their own suffering. Don’t try and solve other peoples problems for them or encourage other people to become dependent on you, help your friends help themselves.

4. If you have a partner: put their needs above your own in everything you do. Give them the biggest plate of food, the largest glass of wine, fulfill their fantasies in the bedroom, dress in clothes you know they like. Try in everything you do to make them feel like the most special person on the planet. They deserve it for putting up with you! Apologize first, make peace, don't hold grudges. Realise, above all else that (like all your friends and family) they are just another person passing through on this great cosmic journey and whilst you love them with all your heart you really can’t make them the centre of everything. Avoid dependency. That whole thing about letting things go and they come back to you is pretty much the truth. Just love everything about them, farts and all, and remember it is not your job to change them! Only they can do that!

5. Attitude: Learn to let go of the past and the future. Try to live in the present. Be peaceful. Treat everyone equally. Be kind to people, especially if they are suffering or rude to you. Try not to attach to things: to people or possessions or feelings. Develop contentment and learn to love where you are now, not where you want to be. Try to see things as they really are: avoid lying, avoid delusions. Try to contemplate and come to terms with death by looking it straight in the face, but without seeing it as a solution to your problems. Remember the path to enlightenment as a better solution. Be mindful in your actions, try to not ever behave thoughtlessly. Walk the line between doing your best and being a perfectionist. Don’t ever let your fears stand in the way of your dreams.

6. Don’t compare yourself to other people. Don’t judge others. You never know why or how until you’ve been there yourself.

7. Laugh. A lot. It really is the best medicine. Take risks with laughter, never sit on a joke, share it! Even if nobody laughs you’ll most likely get a groan.

8. Time: If possible, strive to get a job that is also your passion. Fill the time you have free with what you really want to do. Never kill time even if you are tired. It only makes you feel bad afterwards. If you have to rest, take quality rest : meditate a while or sleep. Don’t watch Junk TV.

9. Cut yourself some slack: Don’t make the standards too high. Be kind to yourself. Love yourself. Don’t overwork.

10. Find balance and harmony in everything you do. An excess of anything nearly always leads to bad things. Take space. Build in quiet time. Take delight in peace and stillness, even if only for half an hour a day. Don’t dwell on negative thoughts, just let them go. Equally, delusions of grandeur should be abandoned for a more realistic worldview.

11. Finally: Sing in the shower, every day, at the top of your voice. It lifts the spirits, whatever the weather.

Pitter Patter

My best friend in the whole world found out recently that she is pregnant. I am genuinely happy for her; this is what she has always planned to happen and now it has it is amazing. She is so happy and her husband is thrilled. She showed me a picture of the scan she had confirming everything and it was incredible. It was a 12 week one and I could make out it’s head, vertebrae, eyes, and elbows. I cannot believe that my friend Marie, the girl I spent a lot of my childhood with, who I used to have sweet eating competitions with at sleepovers, dance drunkenly to silly pop songs and fantasize about dishy English teachers together is now creating a child herself. Inside that woman there is a growing baby that in only a few months time will emerge from her womb and take its first breath in the world. It is truly mindblowing in its wonder and implications.

Before this happened to me I had felt myself to be of the age group who generally viewed pregnancy as a disaster, or at least a setback. Now, it is something to be rejoiced in and that feels strange. I knew she was planning it beforehand so I didn’t have that terrible- not quite sure how to react- ‘oh is that a good/bad thing?’ However it struck me afterwards that this ambiguity would never have occurred; because now we are firmly at the age where society deems you are supposed to say congratulations, and mean it, especially when the people involved have been married for three years. As opposed, of course, to just saying it and secretly thinking, (rightly or wrongly) ‘well that’s your life fucked then’ like you did to the girls in your form room who’s 17 year old boy racer boyfriend didn’t like the feel of condoms.

Marie is always pointing out to me that although in terms of our society she is on the youngish end of the spectrum, at 26 she is historically quite old to be having her first child. Regardless, we are now, both biologically and socially at an age where we are supposed to reproduce, or at least be turning our thoughts towards the pitter patter of those cute and tiny feet (especially those of us who are coupled up).

That is a scary scary thought.

At the moment Owen and I don’t get too much pressure, but since we’ve been married it has built steadily, a comment here and a joke there and I think as we get richer and richer – with Owen’s first contract at a decent salary or when I’m well enough to work, the pressure will really mount. Everyone just knows that we would be great parents, and firmly imply that as soon as my ‘biological clock’ kicks in I will feverishly rip out my beloved coil and become a sperm hungry demon who is consumed only by reading Mothercare catalogues and viewing houses in catchment areas for one of York’s top five schools.

And when I tell them, ‘Sorry to disappoint you but that ain’t ever gonna happen’,

they laugh. They say; ‘You’ll see. Wait and see, I bet in ten years time you’ve got two or three of the little dears. ‘

They shake their heads knowingly and change the conversation, leaving me fuming, I want to stab them in the head with a fork. Instead I cut up my pork chop, jut my jaw out sulkily and think to myself, ‘No, you’ll see, we’ll see who’ll be doing the seeing around here.' Humph.

I have never really wanted to be a mother.

Ok that’s a total lie.

I have wanted to be a mother precisely once:

About six months into our relationship, we went out for a meal and Owen decided to drunkenly announce that he didn’t really want kids. I then concluded (having consumed about two full bottles of wine) that despite previously having had zero maternal urges that I wanted a huge brood and that our relationship was forever doomed.

It was a fun meal. I think I even cried at one point and used the words ‘star crossed lovers’.

That occasion, over six years ago, was the last time we ever ate in that Chinese. It was also the last time I categorically felt like I wanted children. Given that at the time I was seeing three of Owen, fell over twice on the way home and laughed about my ridiculousness the next morning, I don’t think this sentiment would stand up in a court of law, if used as evidence in the ‘Why Jen and Owen will reproduce’ case.

I love other peoples kids, when my nephew Thomas was born I was overjoyed and I relish spending time with him. I just know I will be a great ‘auntie jen’ to Marie’s lovely baby. As more and more of my friends fall pregnant, I do not feel at all like they are throwing their life away, but I also do not feel any stirrings of desire to go out and do the same thing. I have my plan of action and I’m sticking to it. The coil is staying firmly attached. I religiously check it is in place, and have it ‘ ‘MOT’d’ at the doctors annually. If the coil fails, then I am not going to throw my arms in the air and say hey nevermind lets go shopping for prams, I am going to check the next day in to the hospital and have the fetus aborted. That might shock some people but that is my plan and I have always said that is what I would do. I am arguably not well enough to look after a baby, but more importantly, I don’t want to. I believe abortion is a woman’s right and whilst I do appreciate the miracle of birth if we’re talking about categorical feelings here the one thing I have always felt is that I am not going to experience it until I’m damn well ready. I think the most special thing about birth is not the biological growing of cells to physically form a baby but is the almost spiritual loving bond between the parents and child even when it’s unborn. If you don’t have that, but only resentment and fear and regret then I don’t think its much of a miracle at all, in fact, I think its possibly one of the worst things that could happen to anyone. I’m certainly not going to sit by and wreck my life because society thinks I’m of an age where it suddenly becomes a bit more morally dubious to abort. Everyone can understand a sixteen year old doing it because she feels like she’d rather do her A levels without having to do nightly feeds, but a married woman who doesn’t even work? Doesn’t even have a career to sacrifice? With a husband who will soon be in very well paid employment and has great prospects. Why does she need an abortion anyway?

And the truth is, I wouldn’t need one. Me and Owen could afford a child, just about, maybe with a bit of financial help from my parents and the state. I am healthier now than I have been in a long time and really in societies eyes as I don’t have a job I wouldn’t be sacrificing much. Except, I think I would be sacrificing everything. I might not have a job at the moment but one day I would really like one. I want to travel all over the world. I want to read Dostoevsky’s complete works. I want to write a novel, start a band, achieve enlightenment. I want to start going on retreats two or three times a year. I have a hundred and one goals that having a child would majorly impinge on if not totally prevent. I know I am not going to achieve all of these goals, but I am not ready to let them go and replace them with PTA meetings and flute lessons and football practice and bum wiping. I honestly don’t know if I ever will be, either. Despite what people say about my biological clock I am secretly hopeful that it

a) doesn’t exist

or

b) doesn’t have any batteries.

Put it this way, I am not going to feel like my life has been wasted if there is never a Jen junior walking the earth. I don’t feel like my purpose as a human is to reproduce and have a family. I don’t believe that just because I am a kind caring person it automatically means I would enjoy being a mother. So I am counting down the days to Marie’s due date in November with great excitement for two reasons. One, because I am overjoyed for my best friend fulfilling her dream but also because as far as motherhood is concerned, this is the closest I might ever get.