Plod On

Where to begin, I find this the hardest part. What opening line to use? What’s the attention grabber? Invariably I use the word ‘So’, as if you've been waiting in anticipation of the next thrilling installment and now you can expel the baited breath you’ve been holding for the last four months.

I thought of using an overused quote, something pithy like “the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated” but then those who see my life played out in pictorial form on instagram would see the quote as pointless.

I think my favourite quote would be “I told you I was ill”. It pretty much applies to my whole life and attitude, as my nearest and dearest will attest to. If I were to have a headstone that would certainly be on it but, as I don’t see the point of being buried, it can be written on a post-it note and stuck to the beer bottle placed upon the fireplace in which my ashes will sit. A reminder to the family of the grumpy old bastard who used to inhabit the chair by the fire.

Wow not even two hundred words in and I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil, cheery as ever, Levine! Obviously the phrase ‘mortal coil’ would suggest there is another coil that we shuffle on to. I'll clear this up for you, there isn’t. However, we won’t get into my or indeed your existential crisis now.

My ability to witter on really does astound me at times.

So *massive expulsion of breath around the world* what’s been happening in the last few months and why the sudden impetus to update you all?

I’m no longer a dinner lady, rocking the tabard look has gone; I’m now assistant manager at the bar I was doing a few shifts at. I’d like to say that my meteoric rise from having never pulled a pint before September to a management position was down to some innate ability, a genetic disposition to the hop and not just drinking it. The truth is less inspiring, everyone pretty much left and I didn’t. Last man standing and all that.

I was signed off from the doctor and therapy, no longer a mentalist...and then I was signed back on again, a mentalist once more. A temporary blip people say, the increase in my medication a preventative measure they assure me. Internally it’s a failure and a realization that I’ll never be ‘better’ or ‘normal’. Don’t get me wrong, I have no yearning to be normal. It’s not me. And, as I’ve discussed before, I have no idea what ‘better’ means. I’d just like the waves of uncontrollable sadness and emptiness to fuck off.

What I struggle with most is that things are pretty good at the moment. I really love working at the bar, although I find having to ‘act’ constantly upbeat tiring. I’ve never been upbeat about anything. I’m naturally dour and morose.

Home life is good again. It goes without saying that we all do each others heads in, argue, fight, make up but what family doesn’t? You try living with my lot for 24 hours!

The main canon of my therapy was that it’s ok to feel sad, low, and miserable. We all do - events happen and you will have emotion. It’s your reaction to that emotion that can lead to problems. You feel low so you shut yourself away and spiral. We all have our own patterns of behaviour. I do shut myself away - as I’m writing this I’m meant to be at a brewery I was invited to. I made my excuses but the truth is I can’t face people today.

What’s happened then? What’s the X that’s led to me feeling Y and behaving like Z? The answer is nothing, I can’t explain my current state and it’s pissing me off.

It all leads to the question of why can’t I be happy? What’s wrong with being content with what you’ve got right now?

*No Spoiler alert* The next part will give you absolutely no insight or answers to the above questions.

Happiness – a mental or emotional state of well-being, characterised by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy.

Sounds just like me.

Have I ever been happy?

I’ve certainly felt warm and fuzzy inside, albeit fleetingly, but I do think that part of me is missing at times. When I’m on form I’m really on form, I find myself a rather witty and charming character, fun to be around.

These times are just infrequent, highs of being out with family and friends to massive lows within the space of days. I made a throw away comment to the doctor that I’m probably bipolar, she agreed!! And put up my dose. Well, at least it filled some time for me, researching the symptoms of being bipolar and also the side effects of the medication.

There are things that I enjoy and derive pleasure from but these are tinged with a massive fear of failure. It's not that I have to be the best at something - above average will do fine - I just don’t want to be shit.

I’m the same in whatever I do, whether it’s sport, baking or my new addiction to painting.

I don’t like getting things wrong; some of you will remember the time I decided I was going to make macaroons. I couldn’t be satisfied with a good attempt or those that tasted good but looked shite. Nope. I made the fiddly little bastards for five days solid until they were to an acceptable standard. The house was full of them and Mrs. L hasn’t eaten one since.

It’s like the painting now. I’ve never painted before but I expected to be able to do it. The first day I sat in front of a blank sheet and couldn’t bring myself to put pencil to paper for 30 minutes, the fear of producing something utterly appalling was crippling. I eventually produced something and although it sounds pretentious, which I am, I do enjoy painting. It lets me switch my brain off and get lost in it for hours.

Maybe it's age, the illness or the medication but the list of things I enjoy are diminishing. Currently I have to abdicate my title as king of ‘self abuse’, as the pills leave me chemically neutered. Now that was something I did enjoy. If knocking one out had ever become an Olympic sport I'd have been captain of that team. My record is seven in a day; I was 15 and had taken the day off school sick. Why seven? That’s like asking someone why they climbed Everest? The answer - because it was there. Though I have to admit the climax (see what I’ve done there) to the seventh was more a puff of exhaustion rather than the spurt of triumphalism that the feat truly deserved.

Anyway, away from such base things. As I said I have no answers and part of my problem I know is the constant search for the answers.

I'll just have to accept that I feel a bit shit at the moment and plod on. I’m sure it's what most people do.

One Year On...

Well I’m still here. I actually had the idea to start off with the line “I’m still standing!” but ever since a friend’s Dad once commented that he thought I looked like Elton John it’s soured my relationship with the Pinball Wizard. To be honest I’m not sure who should be more offended Elton or me?!

Anyway it’s almost a year since I was diagnosed with depression, which progressed into a major depressive episode. I suppose the diagnosis was just a way of dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. It does however put a date on it for my own documenting purposes.

Being still here may not sound much but it makes me happy and please believe me there were times when I didn’t want to be here and never thought I’d be happy again.

A year, it’s a long bloody time but if someone was to ask me what I’ve done this year I wouldn’t be able to say. I know there’s been a lot of rumination and self-loathing. There’s been a fair amount of drinking, although if my doctor asks it’s in moderation. Plus miles of dog walking and more than enough crying for a lifetime.  I’d not worked until recently so on a day-to-day basis the time would drift away into nothingness, it wasn’t laziness more a stagnation.

A constant throughout the year has been the love and support from family and friends. I’ve not always accepted it but it has been very much appreciated.

So I’m back working, Vino’s Kitchen is on hold, it’s been more a case of getting back into a routine and ‘functioning’ (urghh, horrid fucking word) again in society. And No this isn’t part of some ‘Care in the Community’ scheme before any of you ask.

My work history has been chequered to say the least. Let’s just say work and me haven’t always seen eye to eye. The main problem being actually having to do it.

I’m not lazy, though certain ex bosses may argue to the contrary. It’s more a case of not seeing the point of working, especially not everyday anyway.

I always remember at the end of the school year some kids would receive a certificate for 100% attendance, I really couldn’t see the point. I mean going everyday? What for? Why the fuck would you?

I think the problem lies in the fact I always found school and exams easy, whether it was GCSEs, A-Levels or even my degree at University, it was all relatively straight forward. I wrote my final dissertation the night before it was due in and got a 2.1. Not that I’m proud of this, it’s just the way it was and in no way prepared me for the reality of work life.

So actually having to go to work on a daily basis coupled with hating pretty much every job I’ve ever had hasn’t really helped things. It’s not that I’ve grown to hate the jobs I’ve had, I’ve hated them before starting.

I’ve loathed my bosses and in the main the people that I’ve worked with.  Although if you’re reading this and you’re a current or previous colleague I don’t mean you, you’re alright. I’d like to say that it’s not arrogance or an air of superiority over my bosses but it really is. I struggled not to look at them and think they weren’t complete fucktards, most were.

I guess it all harks back to not knowing what I want to do, I still don’t but I know what I won’t do again.  

If you’re interested in knowing what I am actually doing read on.

I work in a school kitchen a couple of hours a day over dinnertime. I’m a kitchen porter so there’s minimal cooking, lots of washing up and I get to serve the kids. It’s the school where N and M go, this in itself has had a varied response from them. M is pleased to see me everyday and N refuses to acknowledge my existence. Thus M gets a large pudding and N gets extra vegetables. Not that I’m childish you understand.

I enjoy working at the school, it feels like I’m doing something quite worthwhile.  The current school cook has been there for 20 years and is looking to retire so I’ve made it clear that I’d like to take over. Plus the cook feeds me a school dinner and does my washing for me. If she wasn’t in her sixties I’d contemplate a little dalliance, she looks after me better than the current Mrs.L (joke!!).

Of course there are a couple of issues, the main being the uniform. I have to wear chef whites, I want to wear a tabard. I reckon I could totally rock a tabard. And contrary to what my friends say, I don’t need to wear a beard net, I think it’s character building for a 5 year old to find a grey curly beard hair in their custard.

Although there is a girl who without fail bursts into tears every time she sees me armed with a jug of gravy. I haven’t worked out if it’s me or the gravy that scares her the most?

I’m also working in a real ale bar in the evenings, I’m the oldest barman in town. This point was proved to me when I was chatting to a colleague.

Now I like to think I’m down with the kids as they say, I know a bit about popular culture, YOLO and all that shite. However after instigating a conversation about music I was left feeling like a proper old fart, I didn’t know a single band she named. Obviously I’m putting it down to her poor taste rather than my advanced years.

To some these jobs may not seem a lot and I’ve been guilty of doing the me thing, thinking I should be doing more but you know what it’s a starting point and I’m ok with that.

The thing is I’m probably the happiest I’ve been for a long time and that’s ok, I’m not worried about being happy I don’t think there’s some payoff to come because things are good at the moment.

So thanks to all those who’ve supported me over this year, whether it’s a text, a call, an email, just reading this old rubbish. It means a lot.

I’m going to finish by doing something I’ve not done in a while and that’s a recipe, it’s where the writing first started and feels appropriate to do it again.

Sticky Toffee Pudding

Until this weekend I’d never made this classic pudding before, I’d eaten plenty but never had a go myself and I have to say it’s really easy. The recipe comes from The Guardian, it’s one of their ‘perfect’ recipes where they test variations and amalgamate to find the best version. Their recipe contains walnuts, mine doesn’t, and I don’t see the point.

Ingredients

Pudding

175g dates, stoned and roughly chopped


1 tsp. bicarbonate of soda


300ml boiling water


50g unsalted butter, softened


80g golden caster sugar


80g dark muscovado sugar


2 eggs, beaten
175g flour

1 tsp. baking powder


Pinch of ground cloves


Sauce

115g unsalted butter


75g golden caster sugar


40g dark muscovado sugar


140ml double cream

1. Pre-heat the oven to 180C. Butter a baking dish approximately 24cm x 24cm.

2. Make the sauce by putting all the ingredients into a pan with a pinch of salt and heating slowly until the butter has melted, then turn up the heat and bring to the boil. Boil for about 4 minutes, until the sauce has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon. (I stirred it constantly, not wanting to ruin another pan by burning it.)

3. Pour half the sauce into the base of the dish and then put it in the freezer while you make the rest of the pudding.

4. Put the dates and bicarbonate of soda in a heatproof dish and cover with the boiling water. Leave to soften while you make the rest of the pudding.

5. Beat together the butter and sugar until fluffy, and then beat in the eggs, a little at a time. Stir in the flour, baking powder, cloves and a pinch of salt until well combined, and then add the dates and their soaking water and mix well.

6. Take the dish out of the freezer and pour the batter on top of the toffee sauce. Put into the oven for 30 minutes, until firm on top.

6. Heat the grill to medium, and poke a few small holes evenly over the surface with a skewer or fork, and then pour over the rest of the sauce. Put briefly under the grill, this almost gives a crunch to the top. It’s personal preference to do this or not, I wouldn’t. Take your eye off it for a minute to see what the screaming from the other room is about and you’ve fucked up a perfectly good pudding by burning it to a crisp. Best thing to do is pour the sauce over and stick it back in the oven.

Serve with cream, ice-cream, custard or whatever floats your boat, I’d stay away from yoghurt or crème fraiche, I mean if you’re making a sticky toffee pudding you’ve already surrendered to the calorific content, in for a penny and all that.

Enjoy

Ax

And on it goes....

I thought it was time to write an update, not because there has been a clamber for more of my writing more to help me get a grasp on what’s actually going on.

The last installment saw the hero of our story searching for an identity, waiting for a counseling appointment, trying a different type of anti depressant and generally being unsociable.  (I’m doing the writing so if I want to call myself a hero I bloody well will, you lot can come up with your own names in private.)

Well the counseling appointment hasn’t materialised I’m still in the queue. I’m on to the third type of anti depressant, the first were too numbing, the second made me too emotional, hopefully these will be just right. I’m like a depressed Goldilocks hoping that the bears don’t come home and kill me for nicking their prescription drugs.

I’m still zealously unsociable although I do use Instagram, bizarrely you’ll find pictures of cakes, shoes, jeans and beards. 

Maybe I should start some kind of fetish website www.beardedmeneatingcakeinshoes.com think the name needs work www.kinkycakemunchingbeardiebuggersinbrogues.com better but not great.

I still have no identity to speak of. Though I am sporting a beard myself, unfortunately the two grey streaks make me look not dissimilar to Dave Lee Travis, fuck knows why it couldn’t have been George Clooney but I suppose I’ve got a ready made fancy dress costume.

I have accepted I have an illness, it’s tough though as you’ve no idea when you’re going to get better. I had a brain MRI, my mood swings had become so acute that the doctor was concerned there may have been some underlying cause.

For the two week period of waiting for the appointment, having the scan and then waiting for the results I’d convinced myself I had an inoperable tumor the size of a grapefruit. I started composing my own obituary and getting ready to say goodbye to people. I was quite impressed with the life I’d concocted for myself, war hero, philanthropist and all round good egg, I don’t think anyone would challenge its’ validity at the funeral.

The results were all clear so it turns out I’m just a bit of a mentalist. Before anyone jumps on the political correctness bandwagon it can’t be an offensive term if I’m talking about myself.

As I said if it was a physically ailment it would have almost been easier, instead I was once again left not knowing when and if I would be ‘better’. I use the word better in its loosest form, I don’t really think I’ll ever be 100% again but anything would be an improvement over this.

I think this constant uncertainty of when and if things would improve coupled with a change in medication had a really negative impact on me.

I couldn’t see any future, my anxiety, paranoia and the bad thoughts were overwhelming. I spent a week crying, every negative thought became the truth in my mind no matter how irrational it was. I wouldn’t bother actually engaging in a conversation with the people I was having the thoughts about, I didn’t need to, the thoughts were the truth and that was that. At one point I was convinced friends had ditched me and was waiting for my family to do the same.

It’s also so tiring, having a constant conversation with yourself, your brain continually shouting at you. I try so hard not to be this way, which leads to hours if not days of self-loathing for failing.

Things got so bad that my GP referred me to see the duty psychiatrist at the hospital. There’s actually something quite sobering about people thinking you’re a danger to yourself. I knew how I felt but was this really how I was portraying myself to the outside world?

I remember sitting in the hospital worried that they would keep me in, telling myself not to look too nuts. The problem is the harder you try not to do something the more likely you are to do the thing you’re trying to avoid. It’s like being told off when you’re a child, you try so hard not to laugh but stand there sniggering away. So I sat waiting for an hour my face pulling all sorts of contortions in a vain attempt to look normal. To be honest I’d have looked more normal with a pair of undies on my head, a flag stuck up my arse whilst singing “Happy” by Pharrell.

I was assessed and thankfully allowed to go home. The thing they wanted to know was if I was going to commit suicide? Would I really tell anyone that I knew could stop me if I was intent on doing it? I really don’t know the answer to that, I know I didn’t want to exist in my current state but wouldn’t do anything about it.

What I have recognised about my depression is that it’s very selfish and self-indulgent. Reading back through these pieces it’s always about me, how I feel, what I think, what I can or can’t or will or won’t do.

It’s been really hard on my family I don’t really mention them when I write. In my rational moments it’s hard to face what I’m doing to them. I’m a stranger living in their house rather than the husband or dad they knew and I know that’s not fair on them.

I’ve started private psychotherapy sessions to try and help. They’re not easy going it’s hard to look back at the past events of your life that have led you to this point and this illness. The sessions are only an hour long, with all my neuroses I must be a psychiatrists’ wet dream, I could sit there all week and barely scratch the surface. I get on well with the therapist which I think helps, she’s not simpering and challenges my irrational thinking. At one point I said I felt guilty about my Mum being on her own, her response was why, did you kill your Dad? For the record I didn’t, I’m not writing this with my cellmate Trevor looking over my shoulder getting ready to spoon at lights out.

I am trying to be more rational about things and trying to function, a word I over use and struggle to achieve.

I do want to be a good dad, husband and friend again. Maybe the combination of new medication and therapy sessions are a step in the right direction but I’ve thought that before. So I’ll just see what the next day brings and then the day after that.

A