Does anyone have a clue what it's really all about?

I left twitter, hardly in a blaze of glory more like a damp squib.

The reasons seemed clear in my head at the time, I was living vicariously through others and not living my own life not leaving my chair. I was too reliant on others for my mood, my own happiness. In my mind though I wasn’t giving anything back, constant tweets of misery were annoying me if no one else.

So what did I expect to happen when I deactivated my account along with my FB account? Was a burden to be lifted? Would I wake up the next day magically ‘cured’?

I know it’s hard to believe but none of those things happened. I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t spring out of bed throw on my clothes and whistle a merry tune as I left for work.

Nope I got up, got dressed and sat in my house. The only thing that had changed was I’d lost pretty much my only contact with the outside world.

This was fine it was my choice I had wanted to run away. You see you can’t feel you’re annoying people if you don’t speak to them. There was a slight flaw to my plan, I say slight flaw, my plan was actually as ill conceived as the Charge of the Light Brigade. What about the people who had my phone number?? Yeah well as I say I hadn’t really thought this one through.

Now don’t get me wrong there weren’t hoards of people knocking down my door demanding to know where and how I was, Royal Mail didn’t have to lay on extra staff to deal with the sackfulls of post.

There were and are however a few kind souls who showed their concern. At one point I did consider turning my phone off to avoid contact with everyone apart from those unfortunate to live with me. I didn’t and am glad of this.

So with all this extra time on my hands what have I learned? Well I know social media isn’t the thing stopping me from functioning. I know Prozac hasn’t helped me and so it’s on to another type of Anti Depressant to try to help. I know I’m amazed at the kindness that family, friends and what were initially complete strangers have shown. I also know I can still knock up a mean cake when I want to, it seems there are some things you never lose through it all.

I have tried to rationalise everything out but have come up empty handed, raising more questions than answers. It seems a year spent studying philosophy wasn’t a complete waste of time.

I decided I believed in Determinism but then I again I would wouldn’t I (there’s one for the philosophers amongst you.)

Apart from that I’m still struggling. I think essentially I’m looking for an identity. I don’t know who or what I am.

Yes I’m a dad, a husband, a son, a friend, and a sometime baker. These though are governed by the relationship to other people or other things. Who and what am I?

I have no tribe to belong to I’m not religious. They say football is a religion and I used to believe I was a fanatic but not so much anymore.

I don’t have a ‘look’ I don’t dress or style my hair in a tell tale way. I don’t have tattoos or piercings that would place in an exclusive club.

I read, when I can concentrate, different genres. The same can be said for films and TV programmes. And with music, anything and everything goes. The word for me is eclectic, I like a shitload of different things (I’m not sure that’s the correct collective noun but it seems to fit.)

The question is do I really want to fit in to a type, a club? Isn’t individuality enough, shouldn’t we be non-conformist. The answer is I really don’t know (see as I said – no answers.)

At University I wrote my dissertation on why people join right wing movements. Don’t worry I’m not goose-stepping round the house, although my comb over and dodgy tache do look vaguely familiar.

The conclusion I came to in its simplest form being ‘mans’ fear of freedom, the necessity to belong to something, anything. We just need to be told what to do, to have some kind of direction.

I don't think I've ever had that I've never known what I’m going to be when I grow up.

I think the problem, much to my dismay is that at 40 I suppose I am grown up but I’m still as clueless as the boy who never had a burning desire to be a pilot or a train driver.

So I’m giving up philosophising about things it’s getting me nowhere. Instead I’m trying to function again, doing little things each day that are deemed normal by my peers.

Todays ‘thing’ is writing this nonsense.

Oh I still have my fixations, currently it’s on having a slick back haircut, I’ve even ordered Pomade from a shop online. Maybe I am slowly trying to join a club and declared to my long-suffering wife that this new ‘look’ was going to be me now until death.

So I may return to twitter, I’m already back on Instagram posting dull photos of food.

I do feel however I’m slightly more suited to some form of Unsocial media though.

Decisions

I struggle with emotion always have, I don’t’ know how to be emotional. I’m not a great crier, I didn’t when the girls were born and held it together when Dad died. I cried after and went through a period of shedding a few tears each day with little things setting me off.

However public shows of emotion and affection are and have always been a big no no. I don’t hold hands with Mrs.L in public and there’s certainly no kissing and I just couldn’t be a dogger.

I’m a little of dead inside really and the Prozac has finished me off, the emotions are felt but there’s no way they’re going to appear.

I don’t ‘do’ inspirational quotes I’m just not built that way. The sorts of things people post on Facebook drive me insane, not a long journey there these days, I know.

On Twitter I mute or unfollow those who persist in tweeting or retweeting this kind of crap - “a true relationship is two imperfect people that refuse to give up on each other. The world needs more of that” I know some of you will be ‘moved’ by that but I’m not, my world really doesn’t need that.

Maybe I just don’t have a soul, it has been said by someone close to me. Maybe it’s because I’m not religious or spiritual, I can’t tell you why this doesn’t emote me but it doesn’t.

So it’s always been slightly hypocritical in my mind when I tweet #KeepOnKeepingOn

I stole the phrase (obviously) from one of my favourite Bob Dylan songs, Tangled Up In Blue. The line goes “the only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keepin’ on like a bird that flew”

To me it sums up life, it’s just what we all have to do. What ever happens you face it, deal with it and move on to the next.  Our autopilot takes over.

My problem is along the way I’ve forgotten how to, my autopilot is malfunctioning; I still love the sentiment but can’t follow it through.

At the moment I’m scared of the future probably because of mistakes in the past, making me unable to function in the present – there’s inspiration for you, it came to me after a bottle of red.

To me Twitter is about having fun, playing out my miserable persona to the fullest, ‘meeting’ like-minded people, being informed and also the much maligned and overused word – banter.

I’ve shared a joke and a tear with some really great people. The kindness people have shown amazes me, those who’ve messaged me whilst I’m at my lowest point will always be special.

And I can’t put into words how astonished I was that people from twitter would actually make a journey to visit my business, purely because we’d tweeted occasionally.

So it may seem odd that I’m contemplating saying goodbye again and yes I know I’ve disappeared in the past and come back with my tail between my legs and who knows I might in the future.

I find giving up things easy, I’ve done it hundreds of times, whether it’s booze, carbs or gambling (types while eating a bacon sandwich with a pint next to me keeping one eye on the results from Southwell)

The problem for me is that I’m using twitter to hide from real life, in my strange little mind it excuses the reality that I’ve not really left the house in January.

I get to socialise without actually having to. I can have a night ‘out’ from my armchair, discussing sport, film, TV, music, food, and literature. There’s generally nothing too highbrow, let’s not get silly about things. I pour myself a drink and settle in for the night.

It’s been great, I don’t have to face up to any problems, people don’t judge me and I’m safe and the feelings of self loathing and failure are numbed.

The big BUT to this is that it’s not going to help me in the long run I know this. My fake life isn’t going to help me get better and certainly isn’t going to pay the bills.

I worry that in some ways it actually makes me worse. I can’t keep on relying on other people for my happiness. I’m also finding that my ‘shouty’ brain has me misconstruing the 140 characters people type.

The reality is I’ve probably got more out of twitter than I’ve put in but I do worry you all won’t survive not reading that I’ve walked the dog, loved my fish finger sandwich and the wine is open #DullAsFuck

Deep down I realise by leaving I’m probably clutching at straws, trying to force myself to function in society again. No doubt I’ll replace it with something useful like obsessive macaron making, or drinking.

Anyway I’m undecided, I’m not going to put it to the public vote you buggers will pack my metaphorical bags for me.

But if I do go, then in the words of Jerry Springer – Till next time look after yourself and each other.

If I don’t leave disregard the last line, I’ve just always liked it.

A Confession for the New Year

To steal a favourite quote "sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes, well, he eats you."

Earlier in the year I had a brief episode, flirtation, whatever you’d call it with General Anxiety Disorder. Working in a sales environment that you don't believe you're suited to had taken its toll. A panic attack in the park at 6:30am whilst walking the dog and thinking about the working week pretty much signaled the death knell for my sales career.

Don’t get me wrong this had been on the cards from day one the only surprise to me and was that it had taken 5 years for it to go completely tits up.

At that time I decided against any medication, I thought pills were a step too far for me. I registered with the Primary Care Mental Health Trust and pretty quickly had a telephone assessment. You have to fill out a questionnaire about how you’ve felt over the past 2 weeks. It’s multiple choices and designed to categorise you – Depression, Anxiety, Phobia and how these are impacting on your life.

I fell into the general anxiety category and was offered Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I was to be reprogrammed, well when they had an appointment that was. In the mean time I was to stay away from the medicine cabinet and sharp objects.

If I’m being truthful the CBT was a waste of time for me, I knew the problem and by the time I’d had my first session I’d pretty much resolved to leave my job and start my own business.

Slightly knee jerk, masking deeper issues maybe? Hindsight is a fucking wonderful thing unfortunately foresight may have been more useful.

The rest of the year has been pretty well documented already in another blog.

Business due to open, Dad dies that week, fall apart for a bit, pick self up, open business, get Scarlet Fever, get laughed at for disease, reopen business.

From that point it’s a bit of a blur really, I can only liken it to sliding gradually into a pit that you can’t get out of and you don’t know why you’re in it in the first place.

I can look at the year and think yes that was mightily shit but other people have it tougher and don’t fall apart. 

Am I predisposed to mental illness? Was it an inevitable outcome?

I have no answers all I know is the so called Black Dog has bitten me.

http://www.upworthy.com/what-is-depression-let-this-animation-with-a-dog-shed-light-on-it

My slide was gradual initially but really gathered pace October onwards. 40 was looming over me, along with Christmas and the New Year. Being self-employed although really enjoyable brings its own stresses.

Ever since I quit my job there was always the nagging doubt that I’d let everybody down and that my decisions were all wrong. How could they be anything but wrong when you can't trust the brain that keeps you awake all night telling you that everything is shit and the next day something bad is going to happen. 

I call it my sense of impending doom – the worst superhero power ever. Spiderman gets ‘spidey-sense’ to warn him of the danger he’s about to face. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that keeps me awake.

As I slid down I found myself withdrawing, everything was an effort, I had no motivation or inclination to do anything. The smallest things became huge. The thought of having to go to the supermarket before work would send me into apoplexy. For fucks sake it was only the supermarket and it didn’t matter what time I got to work. Yes my boss is a major tool but I can deal with him.

Deep down I knew what was wrong I just wouldn’t or couldn't admit it. 

I continued not to sleep, I drank more and as my wife put it 'found no joy' in anything. No matter how ‘good’ the day had been the inevitable doom feelings would appear, just like Groundhog Day without Bill Murray and the cute furry animal.

Now don't get me wrong I’ve always liked to think of myself as miserable; Woody Allen and Larry David are my heroes or anti heroes as it were. I can relate to their neurosis and grumpiness, I actively embraced them. I've never done cheery and don't really understand those that do, cheeriness is masking something if you ask me.

But as a close friend put it, 'if you’re not even enjoying being miserable anymore' then you know something’s wrong.

This was very true. So I made ‘that‘ doctors appointment.

And there I sat, one doctor’s appointment later, head against the steering wheel, tears streaming down my face and a prescription for Prozac in my hand.

40 years old and diagnosed with depression. 

To be honest I felt ashamed. In my head I was one of ‘those’ people, the pathetic type who couldn’t cope with everyday life. I hated myself, thoughts that I’d let everyone down were overwhelming.

I’d failed.

I'll be honest I didn’t know if I was going to take the Prozac, was it an easy fix? Almost a coward’s way out? Being reliant on Anti-Depressants really didn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

A lot of the issue was that I really didn’t know what to expect from the pills, the thought of waking one day with the urge to skip down the street humming a merry little ditty was enough to make me want to stay depressed. It would be blindingly bleeding obvious to anyone who had ever met me, even fleetingly, that I was on the happy pills. And I didn’t want that.

Throughout all of this I wasn’t looking for a magic wand to make everything better, I just wanted to feel like me again.

The advice sheet that comes with the Fluoxetine (Prozac) is extensive. It doesn’t make great reading either for those suffering from anxiety or depression. Mainly that it was likely to make you worse before better and if you were feeling suicidal it would heighten this.

As a side note I’m lucky that I’ve never had those feelings, yes I’ve wanted to do a Reggie Perrin and escape but never to harm myself.

So back to the extensive list of side effects, the ones that mainly caught my eye were:- Priapism - a prolonged and painful erection known to last for up to four hours 

Loss of libido 

Just a perfect fucking combo, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Well that was something to look forward to.

I did take some advice, it was a big step but I spoke to my in-laws who are retired GPs and have been really supportive.

I had it in my head that they were of the generation to tell me to pull myself together and stop being so pathetic, after all it was what I was telling myself over and over again.

Anyway the long and short of it is that I did take the Prozac and I’m about 5 weeks in.

There have been side effects but thankfully nothing in the trouser department. My main one was yawning in the initial weeks I couldn’t stop yawning for neither love nor money.

Plus increased insomnia, I get 4 hours broken sleep occasionally but it's worked out really well what with The Ashes being in Australia I've been able to watch or listen to most of play (and I wonder why my mental health is shot!) The impending doom has waned a little but creeps up occasionally.

I haven’t skipped nor felt the urge to, which is good.

I can’t tell you if I feel better I really don’t know. I’m numb to things almost devoid of emotion, which I've been told is a result of the Prozac.

I did survive turning 40, Christmas and New Year – just. It wasn’t great but it’s done.

The thought of the year ahead scares me, I don’t subscribe to the idea of things can only get better. I’ll need a hell of a lot of convincing on that one.

I do think I’ve fucked things up to some degree but that’s ok isn’t it? If I feel I’ve hit the bottom of my pit then I can start to climb back out of it.

I'm not asking for sympathy, not even a kind word. I haven't written this because I'm proud, I'm not wearing mental illness as a badge of honour but I'm learning not to be ashamed of it either.

So that’s my 2013, you’ll forgive me if I don’t make any resolutions or plans. At the moment as cheesy and clichéd as it is I take it one day at a time.

Ax

Not Quite Four Weddings & A Funeral

So it’s been a while since I last rambled, moaned, whined, ranted or whatever you want to call it. Most of you were probably glad to see the back of the ‘here’s this week's blog – read it if you want’ tweets. Well sorry to disappoint.

I was the never the most prolific blogger, ten posts and bang I was gone. To be honest prolific has never been a word associated with me, thinking back there was that one season for Wigton Moor Under 9’s where I scored about 30 goals. But as they say even a blind squirrel finds a nut occasionally.

Why the hiatus then? Three months and no expletives fired in the direction of TV chefs or councils? It’s not like there hasn’t been plenty of ammunition. Listening to my favourite baking lothario make yummy noises in the direction of a dough-eyed philosophy student can surely only be one more muffin tasting away from landing him in trouble of the Yewtree kind. (See what I did with dough, clever hey?!)

No not even that, which in the past would have given me weeks worth of material, could stir me from my inactivity.

Here goes then.

My last attempt at this blogging lark saw me waiting for the council to make a decision as to whether or not I deserved a place in their market. Well after about four months of little or no contact they finally told me I’d been successful. Not quite the 4-6 week timescale but then did we really believe local government would work to a deadline?

By this time I’d decided to look elsewhere for premises not actually thinking I’d get the place in the market.

The paperwork was signed and my tenure as premier pie maker in Leeds was to begin on 26^th July 2013. Here’s where things took a slight turn for the worse.

This next part of the story isn’t a 'woe is me' cry for attention nor is it some macabre marketing ploy.

Slight turn for the worse may be an understatement, as my Dad died on July 23^rd 2013.

There we have it 3 days before I was due to open the business and on Mrs.L and my 13^th Wedding Anniversary.

Not that these events have any bearing on anything, I mean stating the bleeding obvious but there’s really never a good time to lose a parent.

Though the timing of the wedding anniversary did lead me to wonder if it was the final comment on me marrying a non Jewish girl, I’m joking of course. My parents have always liked Mrs.L far more than they like their miserable grumpy son.

At the point of his death and until very recently everything pretty much stopped, for the first time in a very long time I ran out of words. Nothing seemed very funny anymore.

I don’t do emotion, I’m not very good at it but this did kick me right in the nuts.

It led to a period of reflection and I guess made me question my own mortality.

Leading to two answers :-

Firstly I am getting old, something which has been reiterated to me today when my barber suggested he ‘tidy up’ my eyebrows, a service I thought reserved for the more senior patrons.

Secondly I don’t believe in God, not that I’m getting into this one it’s a personal (non) belief and I don’t hold anything against anyone that does. That’s not strictly true but calling all believers fools seems a bit harsh and I wouldn’t want to offend. I would but won’t.

I did find that it’s probably harder not to believe than it is to believe especially at a time like that.

As I said this isn’t a "My Dad Died So Buy A Pie" marketing ploy, no that comes later.

A month later I managed to open. 

Feedback has been good, if you discount the guy who tweeted to say his pie contained dog excrement and onion. I resisted the urge to say it was the special of the week. I try to keep a modicum of professionalism on my business twitter feed.

Things were going well until the Scarlet Fever hit, sounds like something out of a 19^th Century novel doesn’t it? Sadly not. I actually managed to contract Scarlet Fever, fuck knows how or where from. Head to toe in a rash and laid up with a course of Penicillin for 10 days. I felt sorry for myself, while many people asked whether Rickets, TB or Small Pox would be next?

So there you have it the story of my blogging absence, apologies that this isn’t funny, although many may argue that there’s no change there then.

I’m back open now, the adage what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger seems to hold some truth. Death and disease haven’t stopped me and fingers crossed there won’t be any famine.

Here comes the gratuitous plug in the form of our catchphrase, “Eat Pie So My Kids Don’t Have To!” The poor buggers get the leftovers each week it’s got to the stage where they’d rather go hungry than see another Chicken, Ham & Leek.

A recipe for this blog has been a tough call, should it be pie related or something for my old man? Obviously the latter won. (Pie related doesn’t sound quite right, what could possibly be pie related apart from pie? – good to see I still know how to waffle.)

In fact bollocks to it, there’s no recipe this week. 

Go and buy Fish and Chips from your favourite Chippy, cover them in salt, vinegar and ketchup. Serve with white bread and butter and drink a cup of tea. Afterwards go and smoke a cigarette. 

It’s what my dad would have done and it never did him any harm. Oh, on second thoughts, don’t smoke and eat fish and chips in moderation.

A

x

Me & Dad the late 70's