Fructose Intolerant

Why is it I can look into somebody’s eyes and tell if they’ve been there?

To the place where the air is too heavy to breathe, time sticks to your shoes like treacle and the pain burns brighter than the sun in the midday sky.

I read people like a book, I decode their suffering like a secret language. I can tell its depth, its duration, it’s lasting damage. From looking into their eyes I can see the scars in their history, how far they have fallen and how fast. They could be telling a joke, they could be giving me a hug or dancing on five pills. If its in their eyes, I know. There’s no escaping, no need to hide. I read it in an instant, it transcends body language or clothes or the silly words we all say. If it is there, it’s all in the eyes and I will see it. Don’t ask me how but I can just tell if they’ve ever sailed that ship. I can tell if they haven’t come back yet; if the air in their lungs still feels like steam in a pressure cooker. Sometimes I think I can see that they will never return, but predicting the future is the only thing I wouldn’t swear to. Everyone can change, after all.

Sure, you say. You recognise intense suffering. Big deal. Who in their life has not known that? You could see it in everyone if you tried. It is true, there is a lot of pain in a lot of people’s lives. But there are some people who remain untouched, more than you think. Call it water off a ducks back, call it numbness or ignorance or luck. Whatever your label; I meet them in the street, they are in my family and amongst my acquaintances and I can’t relate to them. Not the happy people, the ones who know true joy. I don’t mean them, I spend a lot of time being in a very good place with a lot of very happy people. I mean the people who even when bad things happen, they have never engaged with their pain, who have never wrestled with their dark side, who shrug off depression as easily as tossing the damned black dog a stick when it is their turn to walk him in the park. I don’t wish them harm, it’s a wavelength thing; I just don’t understand how you can exist in this world without having a relationship with pain, with this darkness.

When I look into someone’s eyes and the pain’s not there I feel a moment of panic. It’s like a woman who falls in love with the guy in a cubicle opposite her at the office and then one day on her way to the coffee machine she glances downwards and sees a ring on his finger. The future comes crashing down there and then. If I’m talking with someone and then I look into their eyes and it’s like looking at a blank slate, if I’m getting serious vibes that this person ‘hasn’t been there,’ I tend to make my excuses and leave. It’s not that I want my friends to be a big bunch of depressives to hang out with and all slit our wrists together in one morbid jamboree. I just need people around me who understand, who have had a taste of the darkness, no matter how big or small. This black dog plagues me, I need people around me who are experienced animal handlers and it’s very rare you get an dog trainer who hasn’t got a dog himself at home.

Of course, having suffered yourself doesn’t automatically make you an empathetic person, that’s where other clues come in; conversation, history, body language etc. But having been there yourself: it’s definitely a starting point. Life is a journey. I need people in my life who, with empathy and understanding, can help me wrestle my demons and find inner freedom. I promise all my friends I will do the same for them in return, as best I can. But if, as a friend, your reaction to seeing your first Jen demon is being so shocked you hide under the bed or run away then what use are you to me? And believe me I have known people like that. I haven’t always been so adept at reading suffering. There have been people who in the past when I let them into the big bag of crazy that is my inner world, they can’t handle it. It short circuits their wiring, it scares them, they don’t know what to do. The black dog can be a scary beast with all its teeth bared. To this day, there is only one man who knows everything about me. It took a long time for me to be honest with him and sometimes I think even he is frightened by it all. He is a brave man, trust me. To befriend someone who is shackled to a beast is true courage. To marry her, well that’s just plain dumb.

The hidden code was something I had to quickly master. I learnt to know, without asking, who to trust and who would understand. There’s nothing worse than giving someone a big slice of your home baked crazy pie only to find out they are fructose intolerant. Why then, give it to anyone? It’s a valid question. My answer is simple. Call it selfish, call it needy, call it whatever you want, but I always believe that a problem shared is a problem halved. I try not to burden people unnecessarily but when it hurts too bad sometimes you don’t have a choice. You say something, you reach out, or you die. It’s that simple.

Sometimes in the throws of the darkness the very worst of you surfaces; the real nasty, twisted, horrible, ugly parts. When, (not if), you find there are people; friends, good friends, who can’t cope with this side of you and run for the hills it’s important that you don’t hold a grudge. You must understand; people have their own shit, sometimes a big black dog barking in the room is too much for them to deal with. These are not fair weather friends, give them some credit; the kind of problems that fair weather friends abandon you for are things like a lack of money or drugs, a change of musical taste or a bad haircut. Then there’s the shit I put my friends through: visiting me for the second time on a locked ward, having to spend a whole night talking me out of cutting my arms to ribbons in the toilet with a carving knife during the fresher’s Christmas ball, or spending hours on a mobile stopping me jumping in front of the next train. It’s just a different league. I mean, if people don’t want to be a part of that, you mustn’t hold it against them, you mustn’t think them fickle or callous. Think about it, they just have their own shit, really they’re just being sensible. You wish them well, you smile when you see them awkwardly coming down the high street towards you, you send them a Christmas card at the end of the year, but ultimately you move on.

Why is it, then, that I can look into somebody’s eyes and tell, right away, if they’ve been there? To the place where the air is too heavy to breathe, time sticks to your shoes like treacle and the pain burns brighter than the sun in the midday sky. Why is it, that if they haven’t, I give them a fake phone number and walk away?

Because I’ve lost too many friends who just didn’t understand. Each time it happens, it hurts like a bastard.

And I don’t want it to happen again.

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.

In Praise of Omelette Makers

The feminist movement has a slogan, I don’t know who coined it or anything but it’s on a hell of a lot of the T shirts and posters that are out there. It reads: “Well behaved women rarely make history.”

This is one of the truest things I have read and these are words I hold close to my heart. Partly because I believe they are true and partly because I think they hold a great challenge for me in my life.

An incident that happened yesterday can illustrate the point nicely:

There is a woman who I work with (I call it work but it’s really volunteering, and most of that seems to be taken with tea breaks) who is fairly obviously a committed feminist. I’ve never really spoken to her about her beliefs in great detail as the opportunity has never arisen, but all the signals are there. Anyway, I really like her, she’s a good 30 years older than me and whether she’d technically call herself a feminist or not she’s a really good example of a woman who is self reliant, opinionated and totally committed to both her family (she has 6 kids!) and her career. She’s caring and clever and genuinely assertive; not in an insecure loud way but in a solid, self assured kind of manner. All in all, I have come to view her as a bit of a role model. Her independence shines through in everything she does, she’s not afraid to take the lead, crack a bad joke, organise the team, and speak her mind. The funny thing is though, when I first met her she really got my back up. I think she gets other people’s backs up too, it is quite challenging having such a strong woman in our midst. The guys in the group are flummoxed. They hold the door open for her, she waves them in first. They offer her a chair, she firmly refuses it. She won’t laugh at their jokes when she doesn’t think they’re funny, she tells them when she thinks they’re wrong.

Yesterday, one of the guys got quite upset by something she said, which wasn’t anything mean, but was just a forceful disagreement with something he had asserted. As bad feeling settled around the room and she looked blissfully unbothered, it triggered me to look at myself, almost like I was in a mirror. Yes, she’s a lot older than me and has the confidence that age and experience often brings but the differences between us are quite resounding. Whereas I have admired her as a forceful character, which she certainly is, I am more “well behaved” in many of my social circles. Going with the work example, I am well liked within the group. Partly because I am gentle and kind and ask a lot of questions about other peoples lives and then respond with lots of sympathy. Also, I think they appreciate me for giggling like a school girl at many of the bad jokes that the men proudly banter around (the group is 90% male). I often just nod my head and smile even when they are saying ridiculous things. I am afraid to take the lead, to organise, to boss. Very few of them know what I am really like; speaking my mind is usually the opposite of what I am doing. I do not really assert my will onto the group, even when I have an idea that could make it run better. Often, I am too cowardly to even mildly dissent.

Yes, I know there are different personality types. I’ve read Jung, I’ve taken the Myers- Briggs test (I am an INFJ) I also know I we all have different strengths and weaknesses and you can run yourself ragged or even make yourself ill comparing yourself to other people. I am not beating myself up for this, per say. I know my diplomatic nature has often helped further the feminist cause in many other areas, and my empathy and tolerance are qualities that I quite like about myself. But there is a distinct difference between being diplomatic and a doormat. There is something to be said for standing up for your beliefs at whatever cost. I believe it is important to face conflict and say what you really think, even if it offends the other person or could lose you something. I think in some of my social circles I am simply too well behaved, too fucking polite, too scared of the consequences. It’s not just about whether or not I’ll make history, it’s not my legacy I care about. It’s thinking about those terribly cliched but still resoundingly true phrases like ‘all it takes for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing’. It’s about nodding to these, then realising that in a lot of your life you could be doing good work; challenging ignorant opinions, changing minds, really living what you believe when in reality you are simply going with the status quo for fear of rocking the boat.

So, you see, if I were to get a tattoo right now, it would probably read “well behaved women rarely make history”. The message for me is clear and it throws down the gauntlet in a lot of ways. It means stand and be counted, put your money where your mouth is! If you want to change the world, like you so often wish for, you have to resist resist resist and that’s not going to happen by simply writing long rants in personal diaries or publishing a little read internet blog. You have to act in the real world, with real people. You should be taking risks, raising eyebrows, generating anger and if it comes to it, losing real friends. You know the thing about the necessity of breaking eggs to make an omelette, well that’s the truth. At the moment I am carefully carrying my half- dozen free range eggs around with me (each wrapped individually in cotton wool) too scared to commit them to the hot sizzling oil of the frying pan. The problem is that when you don’t break eggs, they eventually rot inside their delicate shells and then what good are they to anyone?

I don’t like conflict but I am so at odds with this society. That in itself is a strange position to be in. There is so much I think is wrong going on right under our noses. I am sure there are many of us who feel the same. Above all, we must learn to speak out against the injustices we see. Being well behaved, whether you be a man or a woman, is the path that they, (the people who are most profiting from all this misery) want you to take. Toeing the line and simply doing as we’re told is paving the way to a fear filled world full of oppression, control, and paralysing terror. We must strive to cultivate a questioning, free mind and learn to say the important word that is ‘no’.

Here’s to all the brave omelette makers of the world who are standing up and putting their necks on the line for what they think is right. I’d like to think that one day, even I might add my eggs into the mix.