“Who’s gonna drive you home, tonight?” – Drive, The Cars.
Advance warning. The following contains language that some readers may find offensive.
Fuck. It’s Thursday 22nd November 2018 and today came out of nowhere. There is no explanation for it, no real understanding why it happens but when it does, it’s like the waves crashing in onto the rocks upon the seafront where I live. I’ve been so careful in crafting these posts to try to articulate walking with pain in a way that it’s not too much about a ‘looking out a rainy window’ scene from Friends, whilst listening to With Or Without You by U2, but sometimes the carefully placed game of Jenga in your mind collapses and out of the blue, everything feels incredibly tough. It’s shit.
As I’ve carefully manouvered this year of new, of change and of self reflection and retraining, there have been moments, where for one reason or another, and sometimes no reason at all I’m sat balling my eyes out at work, or on the beach, or sometimes in my room. It’s something that I’m comfortable with sharing, and actually in doing so feel like I can shed my own stigma about the whole process. Understanding where it comes from is a completely different conversation and one that may come out one day or it may not, though I’d be inclined to think it will. Today, though, that happened. The icy air took my breath away as I paced the pavement on a short walk up the road to the local school that I was working at. Moving with a spring in my step, and an almost ‘I wish it could be Christmas everyday’ jaunt, I had a podcast in my ears. I was laughing. Audibly. In public. Not the easiest thing to process for the bewildered onlookers, exercising their dogs in the park. There was colour. There was joy. And then there was not. I stopped for two minutes to send a quick text and before I knew it, I felt alone, I felt scared and I was hurting.
I really relish time with Elias. He’s fast approaching 18 months now and when we can, we get out to the park. He loves it. He runs, he plays and he (said quietly) tries to help himself to other park users’ snacks. He’s a modern day Dodger. But one thing I really notice about him is that he is fearless. To him, almost every experience is a new one and he’s yet to know whether it’s a good or a bad one. Quite often a park visit will include at least one fall or maybe a little bump. In those moments, the fearless nature receeds and he clings, cries and calls out for help. It lasts a mere minute or so where the world has come crashing down and it’s bloody tough for him. It’s the way it is for all children, but what fascinates me is the resillience within to Chumbawumba their way through. To get knocked down but get up again. Their brains are still expanding and whether consciously or not, they’re learning how to manage the experience. Where it may be natural to apply the reins, I’m really keen for him to take these risks and to experience it and then feel it too, the good and the band. I love him so much, and it hurts to see him hurt but together we’re learning as father and son.
I had to use that knowledge today and remind myself that it’s okay to feel. I say it enough, gosh, I write it almost everytime; it’s okay to feel it. This week I spoke to someone about life, of my process, being like the tide. The sea goes out, it’s still, it’s serene. The sea comes in, it’s wavy, but you get up on that board and ride those waves unknowingly going to a new part of the beach (stones). The sea also storms. It crashes in, spitting shingle onto the promenade. It can be unpredictable, but that’s okay because although it gets crazy out there, the tide turns and it’ll be alright again soon.
It’s Joel, actually. 