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Day 28 of 28

Well, here I am then. 28 days beer free. Another 28 days. This is my firth 28 day period in the last 20 years or so. The longest period of total abstinence in my counting approach has been 116 days. That was 21 years ago, I know this with accuracy only because it was just before the birth of my only child and his age remains the permanent marker to that tea total period. Since then, I have never drunk every single day for excessive amounts of consecutive days (excessive? well, my excessive), there comes a point when some inner voice counsels enough, some hidden mechanism screams whoaaa! The first day without is/has always been difficult. I struggle to sleep and I cannot abide lying there inert, immobile, static for hours on end without the advent of repose. It takes an enormous amount of will to withstand the urge, need, desire to have a beer that first day. That first day can on occasion take weeks to complete. Once completed however, the status takes on its own momentum; for a few days, a week, even two, it is pretty easy. Like this time.

I know of drinkers who have a drink every day. EVERY day! I don’t mean heavy drinkers, not problem imbibers. You know the type, a few beers every night, or wine, or both but not so much it presents issues, allegedly, not so much there is cause to stop, but a drink every day nonetheless. Me? Why do I bother stopping at all? Well because I know when I arrive at the apex of my self-indulgent period, the point which always pre-curses a non drinking phase, I know I am drinking too much too often. I may not be a bottle of spirits drinker, or one who needs to drink on waking. I don’t hide booze,  I don’t surreptitiously down a fast vodka to prop me up for a meeting, or a speech, I don’t surreptitiously do it all (tho’ this could be a grey area as the reason perhaps I don’t do that is because one wouldn’t suffice). I don’t become aggressive following a drink, I don’t black out or fall all over the show. It is nothing like this. I stop because of that inner voice above but also because I believe drinking stops me living a full life. When I am in a beering phase, I can and do still work as much of my work involves dialogue and human interaction, phone is usually adequate, and what I say and what I implement is what I would say and what I would implement if I’d not had a beer. It’s everything else around it. 

These then, these two reasons are the pilots which guide me back to shore when my little vessel starts drifting out to deeper waters that could overwhelm and sink its fragile constitution. These are the reasons for this latest effort. However, as indicated previously, this time I have approached the endeavour differently, not that I knew this at the outset. I have not been counting down the days, I have not had my days assailed by cravings and desires to pop a cap once more. I have had no real urge at all. It could be my age. I am on the north side of 58, the days available to me are shrinking with ever increasing velocity, my sun is going down a little too fast for my preferred tastes. I see how beer accelerates this process, how it prevents the time I have being filled with more valuable, desirable content. I am disinclined to experience more ‘first day’ syndrome, see above, when I re-start this process again once I have re-beered up for a while once more. I don’t want to lose one more second in recovery mode, time misspent but irreplaceable regardless of its filling. There is SO much I detest about beer. So much.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KA43cinH_5g

The first reason volunteered above for stopping periodically, well, this is self-evident and needs no consideration. The second, the anxiety, agoraphobia, etc..,  this is under my constant assessment and this time my approach has differed from previous similar exercises. I have really tried to filter the issue this time, really tried to analyse this wretched thing  that has resided with me for over 3 decades. Again, I suspect my time of life is more desperate to remedy the problem, to excise its presence in order to allow me to fulfil activities, ambitions, things I want to do while time remains.  It would be easy to suggest a longstanding correlation between my beer habit and the affliction, perhaps it is just a form of hangover, the two entities have shared the same passage of time after all. But I am honestly not convinced. Nor am I sure that this is the brain booze trying to deceive me, tho’ I suppose I would say that, wouldn’t I? But the logic, the evidence, they just don’t lead to this conclusion. Some honest and uncensored self-questioning isn’t without merit.

Q: Have things improved since you stopped drinking 4 weeks ago?

A: Yes, some things.

Q: What things?

A: OK. Well, driving is easier. I have been on fast roads and driven without fear, without palm sweat, without the need for an emergency kit back. And whilst I have not attempted my worst in this period, i.e. motorways, I believe I would be fine. A 3 lane A road is pretty much the same as a motorway, right? Also, restaurants, hairdressers, squash courts, swimming pools, these too are undeniably more do-able tea total. But most of these things would improve after 3 or 4 days of abstinence, not require an entire month!! 3 or 4 days might be the longevity of ANYONE’S normal hangover, no?

Q: That’s a lot of things. What hasn’t improved? Anything stand out?

A: Yes. The most basic, the most rudimentary function is just as bad although I suppose at least I can now ATTEMPT it whereas when beering I don’t bother trying it without beer en route at staging posts. 

Q: Specifically, what is this function?

A: Walking along the road, walking across an open space, this is still unpleasant, more than unpleasant. Very difficult. This dispirits me enormously. In fact, wherever I am walking is a problem, or standing, standing in a queue, although the queue example is not so bad beerlessI  I haven’t actually tried a huge supermarket or airport, after all, it is only 4 weeks. But a small Waitrose wasn’t good, so its large cousin, well...

Q: Is it possible, just asking before you bite my head off, is it possible that there may be some link to this problem with mobility, walking pace mobility, not running or fast moving which you absolutely maintain is not a problem, with your father’s crippled, wheelchair status? Is it possible.

A: (long, LONG, pause) I just don’t see it, really I don’t. I would LOVE  an answer, an easy and obviously identifiable cause but I just don’t see it. Besides, I have often thought this but I believe if I were being pushed in a wheelchair along the road or in an airport terminal, the even slower than normal pace would make me go insane! I believe I would push my pusher away and take the wheels myself and thrust myself top speed forwards. I think me in a wheelchair in a street would be a nightmare of unheralded proportions. (another long pause). It is as though I want to race past people, not giving them a chance to assess me. I don’t fucking know....

Q: Anything else discernibly better? What about work?

A: Absolutely, no question. No difference with the client. I am fine with the client no matter what status (tho’ obviously I could not easily meet them in one of the statuses, no prize for guessing which). But the paperwork? Infinitely more efficient. Really so much better. All those small matters that were of a concern? They dissolve into irrelevance and ease of completion. 

Q: Overall then, better beerless or the opposite?

A: Better beerless without a doubt, although I would love a balance but that seems unrealistic. I have more time, more quality, more optimism, albeit tempered by a melancholy realisation the time left is dwindling too quickly. My outlook is so, so much better, life is better. However, the walking issue, that is a major theme, a major concern. I don’t know what to do about that.

Q: Should you not give it some more time?

A: That sounds like a subdued suggestion that beer may yet prove to be causal.

Q: But surely if you are that keen to cure yourself, how could a few more weeks hurt? Remember your own analogy to matchstick man.

A: Perhaps I see I am in no-man’s land, perhaps I know now this could be a moment of massive choice, being as it is, as far to go back as it is to go forward.

Q: So what are you going to do....?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ouYKeeTz7Yw

A: I don’t know...

My young friend. This has now become her longest period of abstinence since her drinking career proper began. She is doing so well, she is so young, plenty of time to remove the hook of alcohol’s power if she so chooses. But will she choose this path or the previous? There seems to me no alternative to the two on offer. If she maintains her current bearings, her life I suspect will change to an unrecognisable level. The ‘choices’ we make under the influence (not just at the moment of drinking itself, the period wherein the drinking bears influence) often result in outcomes that do not last under new mental management. We will see.

So that’s that then; I have no idea how many people have read and followed these posts, nor how these posts have been interpreted or received. I don’t think it much matters. Nor do I have any idea how common or rare are my set of issues, nor how self-indulgent and egocentric I emerge from the last month’s commentary. Not sure if that matters either. Has progress been made? Boh. I am relaxed as I sit here though, coming to the end of words. Do I fancy a beer? Not really, I suppose I could drink one but pretty indifferent. Do I fancy the aftermath? More less ambiguous an answer, ABSOLUTELY NOT. 

We could any of us be dead at any second, any moment. Everything we have done, all we have and are planning, everybody we know could be distant and inaccessible to us at any second. Does anything actually matter? If re-incarnation is such a thing, I think I would like to be a samurai, to reborn as one already dead, But at the end of the day, aren’t we all, when it comes down to it, already dead? And is there not a sense of nobility in that, an enabling potency too? Does such a view not permit a softening of the heart and a feeling of love to all those close to us and mankind at large? Apparently my mother used to advise never letting the sun go down on your anger which apparently means since this is not possible since the sun never actually goes down everywhere in the world at the same time, better never to be angry at all. Personally, I’m not sure how they got that from that but the sentiment is not too shabby. Being at peace and on terms with those you love or those who are close seems a worthwhile policy, it cannot, after all, do any harm, can it? Cheerio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTvRUSluCRo

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Day 25 of 28

Wow. So effortless seems life just now! Basic issues like crossing streets, high building, long queues blah blah blah notwithstanding. I mean the stuff that’s supposed to count. Work, that kind of stuff. I have more time. I have more energy. Guess what? With more time and more energy but no outlet to expend either, that desire declares its arrival immediately. I have used the additional time and energy so wisely before. That’s sarcasm, right? This was thus last night, around 8. I HATE saying I’m bored! HATE it. But I was. I wanted a scotch. Neither craved nor needed it, just wanted it as I could think of nothing else to do. I watched US Office bloopers and directed my step bedward. I could use this energy, this time, to make money. To get fitter. There are so many things I could do. Drinking is like curtains. The more of it you ingest, the more you pull shut the curtains, until just a chink of light, if any at all,  manages to shine through. The longer you don’t drink, or indulge other external gear, the more you draw open the curtains. Until eventually they are wide open, revealing the full expanse of the panorama outside, the incredible, almost limitless tapestry of opportunity and variation that awaits. Who wants to live in the dark? It’s like Plato’s cave. Ish.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E0DUAnFwz8Y

My curtains are open, I am not sure how much more they will stretch back. Is there a limit? A point when they draw no more? Does not matter, what they reveal is enough. IF you want it.

I went to Waitrose, spontaneous, a quick in and out. So much the intention. Enough said about that. I used to work in Sainsburys, Saturday job when I was a kid. In Islington. It’s not there anymore. Much of my kid hood was spent in Islington. I was young, tasting life, wanting to taste everything in life, smoking, drinking, girls. Wow! Was that how I understood everything? How I defined it? Beer, smokes and sex?? I remember a girl, saw her every weekend in the pub 10 yards from my door. I didn’t find her attractive. Not one bit. But she was so, well, convenient. I didn’t have to venture far to utilise my burgeoning levels of testosterone. Colebroke Row, down a slope behind the garages. I had no idea what I was doing, she probably had no idea what I was doing either. But she also  had no idea what she was doing. We were both fumbling around in the dark. Literally dark fumbling. She became slowly more adventurous, launching a public arm of discovery about my waist as I played the pub’s fruit machine. I used the old nudges feature of the game to duck and weave and manipulate her arm away, the shame to be seen with her more appropriately aimed at me than its intended path. She dumped me for another. Oh my, I was forlorn. The world was ending, I knew I would never recover. I recovered within 2 minutes of arriving at Uni. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ODSG_wu-Zo

Do you think, is it likely, that the emotional platform from childhood is that which dictates the levels of emotional stability in later life? The more sturdy the framework, the sturdier the emotional resilience down the line? Is this not too obvious? And what if this is the case? Can the dais be rebuilt somehow? With ourselves its architect? Or is it a construction that cannot be dismantled? This period of reflection has found me covering ground I have covered before. There is a difference this time however. Normally I am craving beer, keen to re-admit it through the door to my existence. Not this time, it has not greatly figured on my mind at all. Its lack of monopoly on, or presence in my thoughts has freed my mind of the space it usual takes. I am coming to more definitive conclusions now that my mental focus has been so focused, so untrammelled by distracted thinking. I can stare this thing full in the face without diversion. I believe the inner child perspective has real merit. I believe emotional stunting early on has enormous influence and power over inner child development. I believe many if not ALL of my symptoms are easily more associated with a child’s behaviour than that of an adult. My fears are fears you would expect of a scared child, not a grown adult. The adult components, work problems, grown up crises, disagreements with peers, these create for me not a single iota of concern or fear. But the more basic, rudimentary, physical elements, they exact unspeakable horror and difficulty in my life. This is how a child, a very young child, might feel, react, not a rational adult. This is all so much clearer with a mind replete with clarity and clear thinking.

Does this, if it does indeed have validity, if there is some credence , does this hypothesis help? I think it does. I think I can take care of that inner child. With practice. However, it is not the only conclusion which I am reaching. I have, in this period of intensive, alcohol free, mind numbing self-analysis, also narrowed down, funnelled and distilled the symptoms of my ailment, which may also have resonance abroad. My condition can be isolated, ring fenced to small movements in big spaces. I have no problem if I can move at speed or frenetically. Impractical a permanent solution. I have no problem in small rooms or alone in my home. My problem seems to be most prominent when moving slowly, in concert with everyone else at pedestrian pace, conscious as I am of every single twinge or twang of my body, in big spaces. It is weird, I know, but this is the most repetitive and recurrent example of my thing. It needs refinement. True. I need to refine it before I return to the grain. I might be wasting my time but I don’t think so. A funny post script to this, no-one would know talking to me on the phone or in a meeting that I was possessed of such issues. 

High speed trains. Arriving middle of the night in a foreign city. A smoke (smoke optional) with an espresso, a pastis on the side, A hard squash match. A game of pool. Sitting under a foreign sun in trunks by a pool in an almost empty hotel. Morocco. Skipping. Gordon Ramsay restaurants. High class cuisine. A book that subjugates all other activities to its dominion. Frozen banana chunks. Going to bed and falling asleep with ease. A splendid bodily evacuation. Uninvolved sex. Decent coffee. Going for a run. Train sets. Certain memories... Movies. The Office. Snow. Making people money. Christmas.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IagRZBvLtw

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Day 24 of 28

Drink is everywhere. It is available in so many places, places not immediately associated with the substance. It is sold in my local post office. In fact, in that establishment more shelves are busy housing beer and wine than any other product. I mean, wtf? Why? Coffee shops, good old artisan coffee shops throw off their veil of nobility come the appropriate hour, an earlier hour deemed more appropriate with the advent of a fine, warming sun, and transform their blood, I mean coffee,  into wine, And the price, 3 quid for a bottle of wine??? What the fuck is in that? But that’s a whole other debate, the ‘bouquet’ of a fine wine, aka, dead, rotted vegetable/fruit. Oh do let’s pay the earth for a splendid year’s vintage, and quaff it as if we have any idea of its provenance, its content or practically anything about it at all. Mr Carr was correct when he said after the first glass or so, no-one would know the difference. Even a questionable tasting episode, how do you know its off? Of course its off, its dead fruit!! Besides, you’ll get used to it, trust me. But if you don’t get used to it, if you really can’t endure something that sips not to your tastes, have you got the ‘bottle’ to challenge the sommelier? To call him/her out?? I dare ya!! Sniff sniff...

It’s all nonsense and yet a billion pound industry, global industry, has been ‘cultivated’ and grown up around the whole ethos. What a diabolical liberty!! 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ytY9_xy7qgY

White wine should be served chilled, you know why? Dry drinking it warm! IT IS DISGUSTING! It’s the equivalent of a menthol cigarette!! This is all so crazeeeeeey!!! Cigarettes by the way, are the same. It is not easy to become a smoker you know. Smokers have stamina, staying power persistence. You think those first puffs are pleasant??? No no, a smoker has the heart and soul of a lion! You have to REALLY (scuse split infinitive) work at becoming a smoker, that is, getting hooked. I know people who have never drunk, who have been drinkers and have stopped completely, who drink now and then and those who drink to excess when they do it, like me. Why does it hook one but not the other? Does the why matter? If I didn’t have issues of agoraphobia which I believe are exacerbated by beer, I would not even contemplate giving it up. If anything, my anxiety issue has probably kept me alive as it has enforced periods of cessation to allow a period unsullied by all the attendant unpleasantness. Anxiety has probably allowed me the life span I have had to date! I LOVE my anxiety! I owe it so much! I owe it life!! Hurrah!! If I had a beer now, I can tell you, it would taste HORRIBLE, but I’d deal with that in double quick time, don’t you worry about that business! The fact is the whole myth about drinking, red wine benefits (bollocks!), Guinness iron content, relaxing, reward for some achievement or hard work, beer and reduced heart disease, socially acceptable accompaniment (you seen an urban weekend night/early morning recently? more like a war zone), it is all absolute BOLLOCKS! And this is me, a confirmed drinker speaking thus! 

The only reason I consider these issues so much more intensely when I don’t have beer, is because when I do have it, then I find myself numbed by it and under the illusion that I am able to carry out those things that without it I cannot. More bollocks. The beer just deadens me, my sensitivity, my synaptic responders. Beer doesn’t fix it, it hides it. I know this. It’s obvious. And as for the idea of my eliminating a whole raft of items on my menu of life, eg coffee, sugar, cake, etc, etc, I say tongue in cheek. I am however, minded that script, two dimensional writing does not always convey a sense of sarcasm. This was pointed out to me, not in so many words, but adequately to realise that perhaps my words suggest I would give all up in pursuit of an anxiety free life. I wouldn’t. The obvious progression of my life of without would run thus: people first, beer next, sugar next, coffee next, certain foods next, and so on until you come to the only one left on the list. Life. Ultimately I would have to give up life itself which indeed would bring an end to earthly woes but frankly, I’m really not up for that!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stcztYRJj28

You know, I think I’m just pissed off that I am afflicted thus. If I had an amputated limb without the availability of a modern prosthetic (tho’ I’d probably be pissed off even then), I’d be pissed off. If I had MS I would be pissed off. If I had Crohn’s I’d be pissed off. I’d be pissed off with whatever I had but I’d get on with it and not examine the origins (maybe a little...) or essence of it to these lengths. Acceptance again. Acceptance. Btw, if there were a pill that could remove all anxiety without one side effect AT ALL, would I take it? Erm, you know, I’m not so sure I would....

My young friend and I played squash again. She has definitely got potential. She also dressed for the part today, professional looking for a squash court. Is this a gradual return to self-esteem levels? Or am I reading too much into that? I don’t think I am. But so what? It will out how it will out. She had a moment in the coffee room after the game. I say a moment, she had to leave. I tried to prevail upon her to stay, to confront the panic, but she was having it none of it. I understood this. We went elsewhere for the post match flat white. She is adamant it is the people, their presence, their number that wreak the damage. She is changing. She cannot see it. She will outlive me on this drinking expedition, good for her. I hope she does. We will not have this level of closeness in 2 months time. We, like European swallowtail butterfly larvae will shed our outgrown skin on a fennel plant and go seek out alternative conduits of support and solace, not that either of us would need such in 2 months time if both still on the unblighted path of restraint, by then we will soar like liberated butterflies unshackled by any restrictive force of chains.....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGMt_VxXYm0

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Day 23 of 28

Much, much better sleep. The real benefits of my odyssey may be just revealing themselves. But I knew on waking that this meant little. There was a time, a  recent time, when this would have filled me with confidence. But then came last Sunday and with it an enormous challenge to my belief system. I thought I’d pour it on this morning, picking myself up off the canvas of despondency. and ready to go. No Yorkshire tea, my absolute customary and daily introduction to the day, no coffee, no artificial or processed sugar,  No bread, nothing man made, all done before. Green tea with a squeeze of lemon, quite pleasant actually. Ffs I’ve done this so many times before, why do I think it will make any difference this time? Beer gone, sugar gone, tea gone, coffee gone, what will be next? 

I intend to go to the library, write a bit but it’s also a good reason to exit home and gauge my levels of sensitivity/anxiousness. I have nowhere to be today, I could work from home all day, see no-one but I don’t like to pass entire days thus, in a domicile sarcophagus. Even when drinking beer, I will endeavour to go out at least once in the day, if only to the pub... The last time I was housebound for more than a day was the first, most prominent and most successful recovery period from the unremitting panic that had come to live with me at that time. That was very different mind you, that was when the best therapist in the world had squared up to my Socratic casuistry and had told me, yes, TOLD ME, (therapists aren’t supposed to tell their clients what to do, bad form don’t you know...?) what to do. How dare he defy me?! How dare he stand up to my indomitable logic and incisive prose?! Thank god he did.... 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qY0-51hrBc

Before I leave, I decide to take my blood pressure. Again, little interest do I have in the reading, the beautiful, the serene experience of the process is my motivator. It doesn’t let me down, it is the dispenser of calm. As always, a distant curiosity prevents my departure without checking the reading, as always its low nature a constant source of wonder for me. Just HOW can this be??? I truly don’t understand. As I make for the door I sense a slight tremor of concern in spite of the steps taken in advance. I dismiss the feeling with genuine contempt and step out. As I walk i consider Groundhog Day, the film, the film I have frequently considered before. Maybe, maybe like Bill Murray, I must learn that life is not all about hedonism and self interest,  maybe I must learn this and give up my old ways, re-directing the energy and time spent in the pursuit of facile outcomes towards self improvement. Maybe it is not until then that I can escape this recurrent discomfort. Well, I have had no beer etc.. for a while, but the clock is still saying the same...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DymEcvMptUU

Why do people have one beer? Or one glass of wine? I don’t understand that. If they are infrequent drinkers, then the first taste will not be pleasant. Au contraire, If it is for the effect, well why stop at one? They don’t even have the excuse of addiction or habit. Or do they? Even one of something taken weekly say, can still be interpreted or labelled as a habit, can it not? But I can’t see the point nevertheless. Now it is possible that this is my problem, the very fact that one is simply pointless in my eyes. But what possible benefit or result would one have? I suppose I can understand the appeal of something like Southern Comfort with its luxuriating richness and sweet constitution to those sweet of tooth, but why not drink something similar without the alcohol? I am absolutely not judging anyone, I have no right nor interest in doing so, I am just trying to understand. You certainly wouldn’t want one pint of bitter. I mean, if unused to it, it is exactly what it says it is, bitter. Only a prolonged exposure and period of acclimatisation  to bitter makes it potable and bearable. Imagine how lovely it is after 40 years of such exposure. I still don’t need nor want a pint  but this odyssey is drawing ever closer to its end. I will be swimming without a lifebelt, how long before I drown?

I am a bully. At least I think I am. It’s funny that, isn’t it? And yet so credible. Impaired so greatly, panicked for the most absurd reasons, lacking influence and power. Such limited horizons do I see, and yet like some typical despotic powerless prat, I rule my incredibly miniature world  composed of such modest dimensions like some tyrant. Shame on me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_RldXCWRQ_Q

My young friend. You remember transactional analysis, adult, child, parent? I spoke to my young friend today. She sounded, yes sounded, as if she were in adult mode. You actually can create, DO create unknowingly, the physical behaviour and attributes of whichever state you are in, this is one of the most effective methods of establishing which state has supremacy at any given time. She sounded adult today. She is easy going as a rule, compliant, a push over in fact. She didn’t sound compliant today. Her period of abstinence is good for her on so many levels. It is befitting her professional role. It will befit her human role. Adult mode is the state ideal for the majority of time, though this does not mean lose the other states, especially not child! NEVER child, just rein them in. Adult mode tends not to admit panic, panic cannot find a way to penetrate adult.

I wish I had a ‘be someone else for half hour’ machine. I would like to invent one. What an insight that would provide!!! I’ll get my best people on it tomorrow. On the way to the library I had to cross a road, the same road I always have to cross. I am completely clear of mental fog currently, I am able to assess situations without the cloud of unwellness from over indulgence of London Pride occluding my examination. I held my rucksack straps tight as I crossed. You know, I just don’t/cannot cross a road normally anymore, any road, ever, no matter what state. That’s when I interrupted my journey and stopped to have a coffee....

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Day 22 of 28

Monday. I slept better than I have been sleeping. I was tired nonetheless on waking. Yesterday. Yesterday disheartened me. I am used to disappointment. I have developed over the years an extremely resilient outlook towards life and its uncertain nature. I suspect this is not exclusive to me, it’s just a form of stoicism that experience and age unite to create. I tend not to expect or anticipate what may be the outcome of any event, it seems a practical and realistic  perspective to construct. And yet, a more honest and scrutinising eye might suggest that this sanguine outlook is more as a consequence of and underpinned by a constant anticipation of anxiety, that awareness of the existence of this bane that refuses to die refuses access to any excited sentiment that might normally be associated with an activity like a holiday, or a trip to the zoo or cinema, or a restaurant, or shopping, or anything at all. Perhaps this is part of the issue, the expectation, the assumption that anxiety will never be far away and that no matter how well you might feel in yourself, you just cannot be sure that around the corner might lurk Mr P ready to undermine all those plans you would so dearly like to complete, and obviously, any excitement that would be so pleasant an association is a victim to the greater sense of apprehension. However, following such unpleasant episodes like yesterday, who wouldn’t be shaky and on the lookout for another? Imagine multiplying that one episode by hundreds and hundreds? Over years and years? Who wouldn’t be on constant high alert? It makes it so incredibly hard to plan anything with any feeling of confidence. I am lucky it’s just me really, although I might have unknowingly engineered my solitary status as a result of my relationship with anxiety rather than this status being a product of some fortuitous coincidence. I mean, how unthinkable and destructive this condition would be if part of a family. How awful to imagine a family trip or holiday booked only to be devastated by the sudden appearance of that malevolent force that scuppers plans prepared perhaps months before? Worry worry worry about panic panic panic. And then if through gargantuan, Herculean effort, you manage to get whither you are going, worry worry worry about panic panic panic for the return leg of your fun filled holiday... How disheartening that spontaneity falls prey to the necessity for sanitisation, familiarising oneself as much as one can in advance of what likely lies in store. It would be easy to allow eventually entry to depression through the door to your existence.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIuejWBdh6w

One of the reasons I have conducted yet another foray into abstinence is to try to establish yet again if beer is instrumental in my particular condition. It was  a similar scenario which facilitated my cessation, permanent cessation, of smoking. Days like yesterday convince me otherwise. Today i have eliminated sugar from my diet -I REFUSE to eliminate fruit-, I have tried this before too. I am not convinced that this will mollify much the issue either, but no-one can deny my right to declare myself a trier. But this time, fact is I’m tired of it. Whilst we are out here everyday fighting whatever fight t iis we are fighting, life is carrying us along on its temporal conveyor belt. Time is running out. Why bother giving up all these things if their rejection contributes not one jot of benefit? Is this the booze brain talking? Is this the cake brain talking? Is this whatever brain is talking a direct and immediate opponent of the health talking brain? I have absolutely no idea. Yesterday the only device that worked was attention to sugar levels and/or their imbalance. That seemed to work. You only need one to work. But even if it is a physical thing, is the mind the unseen force wielding the power? Never have I felt more Godfather like, the speed with which my chewing gum provided succour emulating a similar velocity of effect as the ‘dolce’ utilised below....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ku6nOcWXdKU

I remain nonetheless, disheartened. But I feel not depression, I feel resignation. This however, is not a bad thing. This is GENUINE acceptance and I have felt this before. This is not dissimilar to the Samurai ethos which periodically punctuates my narrative whereby the Samurai fears not death as the Samurai considers himself dead already. Well I am resigned to my lot, and at this moment I accept it. It has won. But in its moment of triumph, I am liberated. We panic afflicted fraternity cling on so tightly, clenched teeth, taut muscles, shallow breathing, strung nerves, heightened senses, if we could only let go. Just let go. Resignation makes you let go, when truly resigned you are in an automatic state of let go-ness, you just don’t care. You just don’t care. This is panic’s greatest antagonist, its greatest foe and threat, indifference. I am indifferent to it today and I shall right now put it to the test. I will walk to Waitrose, most of the time an establishment off limits to me, I shall walk there and purchase what I want and then I shall walk back and describe the experience. I am in a state of let go-ness, let’s see how far that gets me. In the meantime, I’ll be back soon....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6K9J4G6pgM

...so how was that for you then? The earth move? Oh my god. The walk to Waitrose, far enough to provide plenty of thought time. Indifference was clearly not firmly fixed in place. I am definitely on edge today but this time I was alone and in quiet roads, if a major outbreak had occurred then I would simply have resorted to old measures and beat a top speed retreat to my doorstep. However, once in the interior, I wasn’t too bad. A couple of blips, the man who kept peering at me every time I peered at  him as I searched for the milk I wanted, that man unnerved me, until I realised it was a mirror and that man was me. Well I gave him a dirty look in no uncertain terms once I realised, don’t you worry about that business! Then in the queue, inevitably the queue. I hunched over my trolley and feigned total calm. All in all though, it wasn’t awful; besides, I am being impatient, greedy. Two weeks ago I would have failed to cross even the threshold, let alone shop in each aisle, especially those most distant from the exit and simultaneous escape hatch. Look at a matchstick man. Look at him 12 weeks after he has become gym man. He is transformed, but his transformation wasn’t instant. I have only just started again, I am hungry for results, I cannot be bothered with the step by step approach, it seems so insignificant with the larger picture. The 10 minutes of meditation, am I doing that consistently? Have a guess. Did I drink my beer with more consistency? Guess again. The breathing exercises, practising them in a period of calm, not midst a raging torrent of panic, am I practising them? Do you need to guess? Did I drink beer consistently? Was it an effort drinking the beer? Years and years of effortless something has created this issue, 2 minutes of modification of habit is going to make diddly squat difference. Hardly rocket stuff, is it? 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpfdZVgzFk0

Anyway, on my recent walk to Waitrose, I realised as I have realised before, the amount of time I think about Mr P. I understand that constant appearances of the chap make his nature, his agenda, his essence a fairly regular subject for consideration, but he is always close by in some form or another, be it the panic itself or thoughts other side of an episode. It is almost CONSTANT.  There is NOTHING  else that demands the attention and consideration that does he. Now this prompted in me today, and before, three feelings. Firstly, how fucking boring. Second, anger (anger is another good counter measure), how dare he monopolise my time thus, to the exclusion of so very many other more interesting topics. And thirdly, Samurai systems. Too much thinking! Yes yes yes yes! Too much thinking! Think less, and enter the activity without so much mind interference. Too many minds!!! Damn busy bodies!! Too many minds ruin it, they betray us, they are so very naughty! Get rid of the thinking and flow.....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzZ7skXTs-E

I sound desperate. I may be desperate. I so want an answer, a cure, salvation. Trying too hard? Perhaps. I wasn’t trying yesterday however, when it sneaked up on me. Bastard.  If I were not close to conclusion of this exercise, I would have a beer. I would have a beer. I’m still not craving, I’m not desperate for one, I am just, as sometimes happens on these treks, forgetting why I stopped even though I remember precisely why I stopped. I’m not sure there is anything wrong with staying at home and never going out again. Imagine the relief. Oh the relief. I am bruised and bloodied today. But I know I will bounce back again tomorrow. You know, as I come to an end of this entry, I think maybe that I’m not entirely sure resignation isn’t related to depression. Not clinical depression, not medical terminology depression. The only thing that you can think about in the midst of a panic attack, is the panic attack. It stems and shuts down all consideration of all other things. I wonder if Mr P thinks he is a friend, a protector from thoughts he thinks best left unthought.  Wait a minute, I thought i said I don’t believe in some subliminal, suppressed issue to be the culprit? I give up. I haven’t a clue! On the canvas today, we’ll beat the count tomorrow....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_hfmThW4fs

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 21 of 28

I didn’t intend to post an entry today. To be honest, the weekend is a welcome interlude between journal entries, the writing of which, the mechanics I mean, the actual act of the physical writing, I find often tedious. The content is fine, for me I speak, as too are the ideas, the introspection, the attempt to find common ground with other sufferers of anxiety and its kin, but the actual physical writing? Well, I’ve confessed frequently my indolence, and writing is no exception. When I do write an entry, I don’t ruminate and consider what I will say, there is no such laudable groundwork, or preparation, no drafts before final submission, I just sit when I have time and bang it out. Today however, I was thinking about tomorrow’s entry, and indeed, the final log end of the coming week. Tomorrow I was, am still, intending to speak of yet another splendid weekend, alcohol free now for 3 weeks and counting, the blessings that come in the wake of this crusade, all of that. I was/am going to mention my invitation to a barbecue on Saturday, an invitation annually extended but more often than not declined given the 40 mile distance between my abode and location of said gathering. I was going to purr at the revelation that I was able, given my most recent return to the better side, that I was able to traverse the distance by car, me the pilot, at speeds associated with a far distant point in my past when I had no need of avoiding highways, no need to trundle at pedestrian speeds along circuitous routes that would double the distance. No, I was all complete for a while, everything in order and looking better and better, this was to be the cornerstone of tomorrow’s entry penned by a perky and positive me.

Then today happened. It didn’t start badly, if anything, the contrary. Emotionally uplifted following yesterday’s success, tired by the inevitable boisterous me playing to a willing audience, I slept for longer than has been recently customary, rising refreshed and preparing a satisfying first meal of the day. A friend of mine, gender female, told me she was going to town, wondering if I were minded to do likewise. I was indeed minded, not one shred of doubt or hesitation in the vicinity of my agreement. The ambush was laid.

It was the precinct where it began. I had suggested coffee to kick start the shopping expedition -coffee seems to play a recurring role in this play, I am beginning to question coffee’s motivation-, but even as I sipped my beverage  I was conscious of a familiar disquiet. The explosion came on exit, I was paralysed, rendered immobile within metres of the exit of the coffee bar. 

‘I need your arm.’ It wasn’t a request, not even a plea. Through the mist of discomfort, through the noisy chaos of horror,  I could clearly hear my words, their slurred nature was unmissable. My body was in turmoil. I just couldn’t understand what had/was causing this, an episode of this magnitude was almost always within reach of a recent period of beer exposure, an episode of these dimensions would almost always be resolved with beer But I would know, I DO normally know when I am vulnerable, there are signs, warnings. There was no indication today, not a one.... I typically made for the flank of shops, inevitably pulling my friend with me, determined to walk it off, to press on and ignore it. praying that my brain was having a fogged moment and temporarily forgotten we were clear of all things causal and that there was no need of these nerve sponsored responses. 

‘Let’s go in there.’ I was thinking as best I could, perhaps a change of environment would bring with it a change of perception. No, this didn’t work. I was squeezing her arm far too tightly, she didn’t flinch. Thank you  I was thinking. Back out into the sun filled day, still hugging the facades of the shops, still no sign of any letting up. We reached a road, such a narrow road, god, it may as well have been as wide as the universe. A return to type, fast acceleration across, her still allowing my traction, me bumping indifferently into any poor soul happening to be in between me and a return to shop window safety.  Another shop interior. Trying to focus of the items for sale, mistakenly engaging a member of staff. Big mistakenly. Please go away,  I wanted to say, but not rude or brave enough to do so. I was doing everything as this was all playing out, breathing, demanding evidence for the anxiety, seeking a mental image at which to laugh, I was using as many tricks as I could recall. To no success, Not one of them. 

And then in the midst of all this crisis, a crisis evident to only two of the copious numbers of Sunday shoppers, I had a brainstorming thought.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘I am a absolutely fine in my head. I am not actually anxious. This is physical, I am reacting physically.’ 

Now I understand when the mind suffers, the body cries out but I, we, know when we are susceptible or shaky. We just know it. I just wasn’t. This just wasn’t one of those. 

‘Have you anything sweet to eat?’ I asked.

‘Only chewing gum, but it’s sugar free.’

I know/knew sugar free doesn’t mean without ‘sugar’, and I took one, chewing on it hard and fast, wondering if this would help, if this might yet perhaps be some issue of imbalance of sugar reserves, blood sugar levels, something, anything, like this. Then to my delighted surprise, I began to quieten, I began to calm. I let slip my friend’s arm, I was breathing naturally, the anxiety was passing!! 

I don’t drink fizzy drinks like coke or fanta or others of this genre. Yesterday I drank 3 cans, ate ice cream and chocolate desert, then biscuits when home returned. The coffee connection. I had 3 coffees this morning, before the episode. I almost drank beer today, for all the wrong reasons. It would have been a terribly disappointing and premature end to my endeavour. I almost gave in to despair today. I have long since had suspicions that my anxiety, general anxiety, for all of us isn’t necessarily about some deep buried emotion or incident in life. I have written similarly before. Diet is pivotal. I know this is a well trod path, but today, more than any other day, provided me with more than just conjecture. I will remove sugar from my plate for the next 7 days of my odyssey. I doubt it will be enough time, but this is about sugar levels, I am convinced. I have never given it enough experimental time. But even if it isn’t and yet my mind can be convinced it is, today it was convinced, had you been there to bear witness, you would have seen, then like all the best placebos, good job!! 

I was lucky to have a friend there today. I would have survived alone, I always do, but without, I would not have had occasion nor time to have perhaps, re-opened a channel to permanence, not another temporary run away fix....  

Happy Sundays....

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 19 of 28

I wake up at 4am again, I’ve lost count of the consecutive days that this has been the hour of my daily renaissance. Today, however, I slip back into darkness, re-emerging 3 hours later. I am less tired. I make tea and then enter my lounge, a room  which for some time has provoked in me a disdainful sensation, but today I like it. I sit on the sofa bed which has  been billeted in here since I cleared a bedroom, and I consider the blood pressure machine which is within reach. I like this apparatus; despite its purpose, ironically its application I find surprisingly soothing, almost certainly because its proper use involves many of the elements generally recognised and advocated as counter measures for anxiety. I fasten the strap around my upper left arm, the arm closest to my heart, and tighten it probably more than necessary. The familiar and soothing sound of its whirring motor plays the chorus to increasing arm strangulation by the harness pumped to capacity as it restricts the normal, regular flow of blood. The slight tingling is pronounced enough to alert me to its not unpleasant presence, and I wonder when the band will be satisfied with its glut. The noise abates suddenly, the pressure on my arm at its height, and I breathe out slowly, the very act of relaxation impacting the reading of the device that has caused it. I feel the influx of calm, the muscles forcibly tensed slowly unfurling and stretching out. My breathing is measured, I am totally conscious of its rhythm, I am distracted by nothing as the strap deflates, the numbers on the read out on the display dancing like ballerinas on fragile terrain. The procedure lasts no more than a minute, maximum, but that time is sufficient to bring me to a serene state of tranquility, completely at ease and rueful as ever that I cannot carry this mechanism with me throughout my daily activity. It is a wonderful device for instant calm delivery. My eyes glance at the reading, a curiosity secondary to the event itself, I know it will be low, it always is, much to my constant surprise. 105 over 66. How is this possible? Years of nicotine, years of even more beer and of course, years of anxiety demanding a different outcome. I am convinced the explanation is the procedure itself, I find it SO relaxing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tds7Onwz2-U

I continue to sit. It is still early despite the relatively late onset of my day. It is gloriously quite. I need nothing, I am content, satisfied, aware of everything, breath, air, noise, smell. I need neither food, nor drink, certainly not beer, nor people. I have all I need. Death would bring relief to all ailments but what good death if denied the ability to feel the relief? This is a sentient form of death, much better. I could stay like this forever, an eternal moment of existence without. I begrudgingly draw myself to my feet, I am reluctant to lose the moment, but I don’t want to exhaust it.

I would not call it stealing, after all, it is on offer. I think it must be an overhang from the days when I was seriously penurious. I always exit a cafe bar or restaurant well stocked in paper napkins/serviettes. Furthermore, I will always have such an item about my person. Always. I will not leave home without one. Sometimes the plunder is soft and plush and thick and quality full. I love those moments of discovery... I am not well off now, but I am not currently penurious, not that I am so complacent or arrogant to think that I could never be penurious again. When I look back I do wonder how I have managed to survive various junctures of my life. After all, if you can’t walk further than 10 metres away from your door you may have a bit of a problem functioning, especially before the current levels and potency of the internet swamped the conventional mores and customs of business and the like. Now exists virtual and remote access to individuals, conference call ups with visual real time presence and other facilities now available in abundance, a recurrence of and return to the historic levels of my or anybody’s disability would be more easily circumnavigated. But not then. I can recall once (more than once) sitting in a small rented office, my only company a phalanx of empty beer cans (I seem to have had the money for those) as I watched dusk slowly lower its mantle over the landscape as I lamented yet another passing of an entirely wasted day. I recall thinking what might be different come the morning. I remember thinking nothing would be different. I remember wondering how many more beers would be required to aid my subsidence into sleep much later that night. I remember the growing anxiety despite the beers already consumed at the prospect of having to enter a shop where I would at once be susceptible to an ambush of anxiety. I remember thinking how what I had was not life, it was barely existence. How on earth did I make any money? I don’t like recalling these days all that much. Not because of the discomfort of the period itself, no, that bothers me not as it could easily have been an isolated or at least a temporary state. What bothers me is that on occasion I find myself in a similar setting so many years later. What bothers me is my seeming refusal, my absolute inability to change. Do I prefer my current status as a non-drinker with ALL the benefits that accompany said status or do I prefer the other version, the drinking status, the one wherein my life sprints by, the one where I sit not calmly, not samurai like revelling in whatever task no matter how menial in which I am currently engaged? How, HOW, can I not prefer the former? Choice? Habit? Stupidity? Lack of imagination? 

Number 9 and 15 of the link is why I share the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p818CSLg87Q

Therapist : Do you think your anxiety is a consequence of your mother’s early death when you were at such a young vulnerable age?

Me: Absolutely not. 

T: Did you  ever? 

M: Yes I did

T: What changed your mind?

M: When I realised that the only thing my mother’s death caused, unintentionally, was a paralysis of my emotional development. I never really matured after age 7. That’s why I act in such a child like manner. That’s why I cannot identify with emotion or intimacy. That’s why I can’t take things seriously. That’s why I have never had a long term partner. I’m too childish for that. 

T: But you don’t think this was the cause of your anxiety.

M: I told you already, no. Ask as many times as you like, the answer will always be no now. I use it. i wield it like a weapon. It’s handy and she wouldn’t mind I’m sure. I can still play a wonderful victim even moving close to 60. I can still play the orphan card like you wouldn’t believe. I am a master at it. Enough practice mind you.

T; You’re using humour again. Is it possible that you are using humour to deflect from this very sad and influential moment in your life?

M: Don’t you ever change the record? Do you think this kind of book learnt existential amateur psychology is going to cure me of my flaws and my chinks? Am I going to be an upstanding citizen when I exit left? No more sexual liaisons, no more beer, no more emotional stupidity? Do you think your words, your suggestions are going to wipe my slate clean? 

T: Don’t you want to be free of anxiety?

M: Do you think purifying me of my sins will free me of it? Do you think my decision to walk a righteous path will expiate all the sins of the past? Do you think me giving myself up to some noble cause will wash away my fear of high ceilings?

T: I think it might clear up some of the clutter in your mind.

M: Is that it? Is that the best you’ve got? Really??

T: Why are you getting angry?

M: Oh my god!! I wonder! Why don’t you see what’s 6 inches in front of your face?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_b7bgtu2O4E

T: Why don’t you tell me what I’m not seeing.

M: Will you pay me the same hourly rate?

T: (chuckle)

M: Let me help you so we can put an end to this nonsense.

T: Please do.

M: My mum dying didn’t lead to my anxiety disorder. Nor my dad. What happened as a by product was a breakdown of familial structure. There were no rules. I could smoke at 13 because it was a competition between my crippled dad and my aunt as to who had potency over me. My dad said I could smoke, she said I couldn’t, so I did. It was great. I won the victory of their war. And then I learnt to drink because no-one suggested it was not a good idea. Besides my best role model was drinking and smoking himself to death. All boys like to be like their dad, right?  I am sooo like my dad! Textbook stuff, isn’t it? The stuff you guys trot out like sweeties. And all the time there was no structure, I could drink and smoke all I wanted. I was very lucky. I didn’t get anxiety from my folks dying,I got anxiety from limitless freedom and no restraint at all, the kind of restraint I understand most children hate and long to be free. I got anxiety because I drank too much as there was no structure, no home, no reason not to. There, happy now?

T: Do you believe all that?

M: I will if you will....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCY-D3ib59c

My young friend, We played squash today. She played pretty well for her second outing. She has a solid flair for the game, strikes the ball well and much fitter than last week. She wasn’t overly receptive to lack of alcohol being responsible for this greater level of stamina. It is that. She’s not sure whether she prefers being sober to the opposite. Despite the inarguable evidence and benefits of a more efficient, healthier, satisfying life, she’s not sure she prefers it. I understand it. But she is so young. She thinks she can afford to waste another 10, 15 years of her life. She looks healthier, has put on a little weight -me too-, but so what? Big deal! To be expected given the uncountable liquid calories being replaced. This will be easy to deal with later on. She won’t send me her blog, nor her business plan. I read her blog yesterday though, she let me see it. It was/is very good. It’s raw, honest, disarming. She should publish it. It’s funny how she doesn’t want to air her truth to the world in case people she knows see it. Hahahahaha!! This is the girl who drinks to excess at work functions and who is known by most of her circle, work and social, for her relationship with alcohol. Everybody already knows!!! She KNOWS they know too!!! We are both moving inexorably towards a moment of choice, and make no mistake, it will be choice when the moment comes. 6 more blogs. Thereafter, a return to form?....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCkmIyC6v00

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 18 of 28

Fatigue lessened today. Still very tired upon waking, but I gather this is natural human condition. You wake, gradually discard the shackles of slumber and glide into the day restored of energy and ready to meet the vanguard of time, or so I’m told. Hm. Natural human condition. Do I want a beer? Would having a drink add anything beneficial or fun or useful to my life? Did it ever? Can I say that my anxiety issue is resolved now that I am firmly detached from alcoholic indulgence? Do I think that more time is required for the divorce to establish itself as permanent before I can make such a judgement? I have gone longer before, much longer, denying that substance ingress into my orbit, and still remained vulnerable and open to anxiety attack. I do know this, anxiety creates a state of such heightened awareness in its victims, a staggering sensitivity to all and any bodily sensations with any slight, minimal, modification or change at once prompting massive internal scrutiny, that anything that distracts from this mental self examination could be easily welcomed with a ready embrace, if only to provide some brief period of respite. I have realised before but perhaps ever increasing age is spelling it out as clearly as it can once and for all, drink does not remove the issue, it suppresses it, but so truly ineffectively that there is absolutely no point using it as a self medicating device. Does it actually cause the anxiety though? This is a difficult question to answer. To establish the conclusive truth or lie of this would require a permanent cessation and I am not sure I am prepared to embark upon an experiment that demands a life long application. Last night I wanted a single malt whisky. I wasn’t on edge, I wasn’t in the midst of an episode. I just wanted one. It won’t yield lightly...

Walk with a lame man, you could end up with a limp. But could not the lame man be cured of his distorted gait? I walked with my young friend today. I told her we would venture into a building, to inspect the interior of the products on display. She was reluctant, she was concerned people would be in abundance. i was concerned about the physical dimensions of the establishment. In the end there were neither people nor unpalatable spaces to disconcert either of us. We were two limping individuals crossing a road with the other as a crutch. We laughed. We laughed because it was funny. There was no need for pretence for a change. We could derobe ourselves of the trappings and accoutrements of life and society, we could unmask ourselves and be honest and open and flawed together. We could laugh at the preposterous absurdity of it all. There is nothing wrong with treating life frivolously, only panic attacks should be taken seriously. I laugh as I pen that. That is ridiculous too. What should be taken seriously? Planning for the future, the important dinner party on the weekend, the trip to Europe, panic attacks, the christening, the grand opening, Christmas, buying a house, a better paid job? Airs and graces, preening like peacocks, pretension, first class travel, measuring the worth of person by their bank balance, by their title, by their qualifications? Good clothes, ties and shirts, elegant shoes, carefully groomed hair, expensive bags, streamlined cars? The ephemeral nature of life?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuEa2G71Pvw

We crossed the road like infants, children out on their own, learning to walk with baby steps, too small for the world but dressed in the bodies of adults. We limped together but our respective salvation does not lie in the hands of the other. I speak like an adult, an educated, mature man, master and custodian of arcane knowledge and mystical secrets. She speaks knowledgeably  on her subject, commanding the attention of her audience, effortlessly demanding its subservience. Our masks are back on, auto pilot re-engaged, no visible limp, no laughter, we are taking it all seriously. We are being taken seriously. I want to laugh. I smile instead. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69SZ1Kutr6E

Wearing a mask is a tiring business. Relief resides in its permanent removal. Today. Do people retire to bed satisfied with the content of the day? Their activity, was it all genuine, was it fulfilling, was their labour conducted under a guise of falsity? At any point, did they during the day abandon their true identity, did they adopt the role of someone they are not, an accent affected, an opinion not theirs stolen, a display of cordiality not real? Dare lose the mask and be accused, be labelled, be exiled to the further reaches of societal communion. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93bAdEf0pzc

We can be adult whilst retaining our child like qualities, why would we want to lose the joy that children find so readily? Jumping in a puddle, wading through the mud, jumping up and down for jumping up and down sake. Laughter, laughter, laughter. Why can’t they put laughter in pill form? Or liquid? I just don’t panic when I laugh. I laughed today. I think it’s time to re-calibrate my ‘seriousness’ priority list. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzNvuvgbBnU

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 17 of 28

Wasn’t so tired last night. Went to bed at 11. Big mistake. Got up only just in time to deposit bin liners to the exterior of my home following another fitful, interrupted attempt at unbroken nightly repose. Bin liners. That’s a funny thing, don’t you think? We have certainly evolved a long way from our ancestors. I mean, waste every week. EVERY week. Can you recall any week passing without an accumulation of some measure of rubbish? It’s mostly packaging isn’t it?  Tins, cans, bags, polythene, plastic, etc.... I have a Vitamix blender. Unbelievable machine. 2 horse power engine. I might become an agent for the company, that’s the level of faith with which I endow said mechanism. You chuck everything in, tomatoes with their stalks and cores, apples too, seeds, stalks, everything. There’s no waste. None. Cavemen didn’t have blenders though. Their stuff pretty much all biodegradable. I wonder if cavemen suffered from anxiety? I don’t mean the legitimate variety, you know, the sheer terror emerging upon sight of a charging sabre toothed animal when that adrenaline flow would be spent well in pumping those leggy pistons just as hard as they could be pumped.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sap-lHLrMC0

No, I mean the anxiety that permeates much of modern day life, when the surfeit of adrenaline isn’t exhausted in justified flight, when the cause of the anxiety is unseen and without immediate cause. That kind. I wonder if cavemen were too occupied by day to day survival, too active, too engrossed in the moment to allow space for an invasive assault of the modern kind of anxiety. Is it a modern day society curse? A by product of evolution? After all, we have not only evolved in the obvious senses, we have evolved in less stated areas too. We have evolved away from most risk, at least in first world countries. There isn’t much risk in life really, is there?  We have sanitised so much of it. Yes, you could get caught up in some violent act, terrorism or street crime, you could have a car crash or air plane equivalent. But without looking at statistics which I am sure will illustrate the ridiculous odds of being party to such episodes, the risk is minimal. And yet those of us afflicted and assailed by anxiety, well we see risk in practically everything. High ceilings, enclosed spaces, wide open areas, closed open areas, trains, motorways, restaurants, cinemas, hairdressers, any chair in the middle of any room, tunnels, bridges, valleys, mountains, boats, swimming pools, clothes and on and on and on. Oh and of course, people, crowds or otherwise. It’s extraordinary really, the amount and types of things of which we are so scared. I mean, it’s life, isn’t it? I am describing life. We are scared of life! But fear not, we are scared of death too... It’s funny too though, I can’t help laughing at myself, since it is as funny as it is egregiously irritating. I mean there I am sometimes, walking along a road, rare these days but on occasion with a child or another adult. Suddenly, I’m off! Vroooom! No hanging round for me, I’m not risking whatever it is that��s threatening, no matter how invisible. My age? So fast! See, that’s funny! I don’t even mind people laughing, I laugh too!! 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJJW7EF5aVk

Humour actually helps. Laughter being the best medicine and all that, well, there seems to be some truth in that. I don’t laugh out loud to much. The Full Monty? No idea why people were laughing, other examples of unfunny funny films abound in my archives but so what? Humour is in the eye of the beholder. The Office, UK and US, both make me laugh, the bloopers even more so.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjuc3vqudwg

I suspect the therapeutic benefits emanate just not from the humour per se, but also as a consequence of the physical mechanics of laughter, I do mean laugh out loud laughter, which tends to dictate a particular manner of breathing. You cannot laugh out loud and panic at the same time, try it and see. The laughter is too strong, the emotion the greater of the two but it needs to be authentic I don’t know about you but I much prefer laughing to panicking. Most of us anxiety sufferers are pretty serious people when confronted with one of our perilous situations. Constantly alert, on edge, looking round wondering whence the attack might emerge, prepared at all times for its appearance. This is an amusing image. There is no threat and yet our eyes develop as incisive, bulbous vision as a cat ready to sprint away from real danger. It’s amusing. I find myself, now and then, laughing as I consider how I present as I cross a road, how absurd is this fear that places me firmly on tenterhooks. It is healthy to laugh at the image created. Laughing at the nonsense, this is one my preferred techniques. There is irony here for me. Losing parents at a very young age impacts your outlook on life in different ways I suppose. For me, well, I find it hard to take stuff seriously. You know, the same aspirations, ambitions, plans that many people incorporate into their existence, I cannot do that stuff, I struggle even to understand it. My view might be nihilistic, and limiting too, but I have yet to find someone who can justify the opposing view with adequate persuasion and sufficient cogency to tempt me to adopt it. It’s just all so funny, all of it; and yet there I am, in the midst of one of my ‘turns’ taking a road or a high ceiling or a railway station concourse more seriously than anyone probably takes life. So much for my lighthearted and devil may go approach to life....

I have no doubt most people have been indoctrinated into the relaxing merits of breathing, especially the deep version.  It is hard to breathe deeply in the middle of an attack mind you, in the midst of a phoney ‘crisis’, the shallowness of the activity absolutely pivotal and galvanising participant in whatever drama might be unfolding, high ceiling, tube train, etc... Just being told to calm down and breathe as you are struggling for ‘survival’ is like pouring a thimble of water over a raging forest conflagration hoping that you will douse the flames thus. Good luck with that.  Of course, the idea is to practice when in a relaxed state and safe environment but despite the certain long term benefits of this, it is hard to maintain as a discipline. It just seems so insubstantial in contrast to the frenetic horror of an anxiety outbreak. I am guilty of lack of persistence in this area, as well as with meditation which equally holds merit in its role as a potential all round calmer whose benefits linger long after the period of meditation has passed... Lazy? No. Just not fully convinced after so many years exposure to its contrary of manic and terror filled moments of awfulness. It seems, well, it seems so tiny a likely tool in my emergency kit bag but how dare I say this, not having allocated enough time to its harvest and cultivation. Do I want to end this blight or not? Hmmm...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xQJ2O4b5TM

My young friend is in big trouble. She is saying things that are preparing her, and me, for a premature return to her habit. I am convinced she would have caved by now, had she been alone in her enterprise. I am using against her one of the components which speak direct to her issue. She hates to disappoint people, she will do (pretty much) anything for anyone to please them, and so I have told her, and she will read this, that she will disappoint me if she breaks our (what has now become) 28 day contract. It is unfair to employ one of her own foibles against her and if she were quick and manipulative she could say she is better and will no longer exhibit such behaviour, immediately resorting to drink to prove she no longer cares about disappointing people. It would be a booze brain ruse to bring her back into the fold. I have faith she won’t fall for it, but, but she is weak at the moment. She is looking  for reasons to drink. Her mindset is tangled up, she is forgetting the benefits, she has still not given abstinence a chance to shine and prove its worth. 

PS Bin liner day provokes a very different reaction in me during my non drinking periods. I don’t have to worry about clinks and clanks and early morning betrayals of my questionable habit. I don’t have to pray for an early morning collection to sweep away all evidence before prying neighbourly eyes devour the content. I can walk out of my front door with head held high, proud and haughty and without shame.  That’s assuming I use pink transparent bags, the apex of my ‘behaviour’ states that only the black variety will do....Clink clink.

https://pixabay.com/photos/drink-amber-beer-cans-trash-red-442578/

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 16 of 28

I say there are no side effects of what seems to me a relatively straightforward procedure, but what is this lack of sleep business if not a side effect? I am exhausted by 9pm, I find myself craving the couch, a couch in a room normally subjugated to passing fancy by the kitchen that entertains me until bedtime, onto which I drop heavily as the oppressive yoke of fatigue holds me fast in its stranglehold. There I remain, 20, 25 minutes until no longer can I resist the call of a more permanent nocturnal abode, forcing myself to my feet to make the arduous 10 yards to my cot. Sleep comes easily, but so too does reveille, not more than 5 hours later. I try to re-enter the unconscious world, but the door is locked to me, I have been thrust out, exiled to another day of yearning for another night. It is extraordinary. Can it be lack of beer? Surely the attendant lack of sugar must also play some part, but I have not excluded sugar entirely. Not at all. 

I am craving blueberry muffin. It is a sugar craving. No doubt. Lack of sleep allying itself with lack of beer to deliver with emphatic force the need. I leave home early in search of one fresh, not packaged, oh no, some standards must stand inviolable. All I find at the first shop is failure and disappointment. A different flavour perhaps? No thanks very much! A croissant maybe? Not a chance! I am wasting time, I will phone first. No luck second attempt. Nor third. My God, why is it so hard to get a blueberry muffin in this town? Plebs. I am about to give up. Do you sell blueberry muffins? Yes? Great! You have no idea how many places don’t. I have given up beer for 2 weeks you see, I am craving a blueberry muffin for some reason.  Through my smiling eyes I see I have shared more information than necessary. They don’t care, why would or should they? I sound like an old idiot. But they need to be careful with that poorly disguised sneer, I am being polite, but I still have teeth. I walk homewards, my prize safely deposited and ready for my total attention. I will pass my regular coffee haunt, I will stop I decide. I feel so placid, so calm. My delight at crossing the road with hands nowhere near my chest is subdued by this aura of tranquillity that has appeared from no-where.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hlaqkqf2DPw

It is still early, the place is populated by only a pair of souls. I sit outside, drink in the fresh air and watch the man walking towards me. He holds a cigarette, more than half smoked, tailor made not roll up, and I wonder if he will pull hard once more before discarding the dying butt. He sees not my observation, as ever sun shielded spectacles wonderful concealment for nomadic eyes. The man is early 40′s perhaps, I am a poor judge, balding asymmetrically. His face is ashen and wan and pallid, and this I have no doubt, is a consequence of his habit. His habit is killing him. He is wearing a suit minus the jacket, and as often the case for those who dress out of uniform compulsion rather than free will or free spirited design, his shoes are poorly maintained, unpolished and scuffed. Each to his own I think, as though my judgement matters. He walks past as my coffee arrives and I imagine a roll up in my own hand, like days long since gone, coffee and smokes and Roman mornings. I suddenly want a roll up, I visualise myself. It fits. Oh my, I really  want one. It is association, nothing more. I settle on blueberry muffin microwaved for 40 seconds and smothered with cream. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCxFY1wyDTE

My young friend has been confused recently, but today I am confused.We are not confused about the same things however, I am very clear why I have embarked on this voyage of abstinence. No, my confusion is embedded in some farrago of tangled up stuff. See, my anxiety is never far away when out and about when I am in drinking mode. All the drinking does is allow me to hop from staging post to staging post (watering hole to watering hole may be more apt)  to facilitate any outdoor expedition undertaken. However, I am still anxious, it’s just suppressed. That said, I am anxious when I exit if not in drinking mode but at least go out without the anaesthetic alluded to above. And then the fatigue, the lack of sleep of course adds to the melting pot since even the most well adjusted individual may feel a little shaky with a prolonged exposure to sleep deprivation. So here’s the confusion. I don’t really want to experiment with the normal mechanisms I have employed in the past until I am sure that the cause of the anxiety is not a temporary reason, eg sleep deprivation. Nor do I want to experiment until I am sure I am clear of all beer influence. I am sure you can see why. The last two would mislead me and distort the results of my experiment since they should pass on their own without the need for recourse to my emergency kit bag. If the anxiety remains once they are dispelled, which it has to date, then I can be sure this is the anxiety, whatever its unknown origin, that is the true culprit and thereby validate the results of my experiment. See what I mean? 

However, I’ve been dodging school for a few days, so perhaps I should anticipate the passing of the two lesser potential suspects, and introduce one mechanism which continues to intrigue me and which I believe does offer some remedy to this wretched ailment. Transactional analysis. Eric Berne. I have mentioned this before, I know, but it refuses to recuse itself. You know how it works I’m sure, adult mode, child and parent modes too, states repeating themselves from childhood and family dynamics, the ideal state to seek the adult? Well, this can be extended a little, in my opinion of course, and can be combined with Gestalt approaches to inner child. See, whenever I undergo an ‘episode’, be it in an airport terminal, a big supermarket, walking along the road, despite the unpleasantness of the episode itself, it always reminds me of a child, a frightened child or perhaps a child throwing a tantrum. I recall the first time I took my son on an overground chuffa train. Oh my god! I swear if his wobbly wasn’t identical to a panic attack!!! In the midst of my concern for him, I couldn’t help but notice this, intellectually you understand, since it so resonated with my adult condition. But this was a child! A 2 year old or maybe 3 if memory serves me. He wasn’t throwing some sulky fit, he wasn’t possessed of some agenda, we were having a lovely day up until that moment. Suddenly, he was scared, innocent fear displayed by the very young when presented with the unknown and potential lurking danger, authentic, instinctive, subliminal reasons for anxiety. Well naturally, I didn’t hesitate in acting, consoling and re-assuring him, explaining in soft tones the normality of the event and its risk free, harmless nature. Once assured, he calmed down, and whilst remaining temporarily apprehensive, his fears were dispelled without time to inseminate some seed of phobia which might one day blossom into residing and terror inducing anxiety for an older version of his young self. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFGZgbta764

This was an illuminating and highly instructive episode indeed, and made me consider my own position then and now. It is clearly not me, the rational adult that is panicked by a high ceiling, or an open space or an everyday street, since I can clearly see there is no danger, no reason to go into high charged, adrenaline fuelled mode.  Why could it not be then, some other force inside me, an irrational object, a scared entity, a child like thing? This to me makes a great deal of sense, and I have on occasion, entered Berne’s adult state right in the midst of an event and challenged my inner child, asked it to show me the danger, provide me with proof, and then I have consoled it and re-assured it, and mentally clasped its hand and told it I would look after it. Sounds mad, doesn’t it? Even as I read what I write, sounds mad and yet, and yet, there is also a sense of welling melancholy, sadness, this is the Gestalt element, loving the inner child. You know, it has worked previously. Not always but I don’t try so often that I can speak with definitive knowledge whether the results would be longer lasting and consistently successful. But it has worked, I have felt the ‘child’s’ fear diminish, I have felt a wave of relief with my gentle and soothing words directed to this scared inner being. It is so plausible. Explains so much. Perhaps I am so desperate to find a solution that I don’t want to put it to the test with too much frequency unless this postulation proves to be entirely vacuous and without credence. I think I am going to give Berne and Gestalt another try. Is it too flimsy, too sucrose plated a position, too liberal and welcome to the new world bohemian yukkiness, to be credible? Draw your own conclusions....

Ps Do you think it’s my inner child that likes to drink beer or do you think my inner child is rejoicing with the current state of affairs? Hmm, I wonder...

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 15 of 28

Another weekend passed without incident or recourse to beer with which my weekends have been so frequently, so VERY frequently, associated. You know that thing about choice? Well, this is now about choice. I understand that anyone can say and often does, not least those well meaning self help gurus who parade their soundbites like some stale perfume that’s done the rounds of more than one outing, that choice features in most things. Yes it does, but that’s a blanket of far too expansive a size being used to cover all and every context. It’s not always that easy. Besides, obviously the word ‘choice’ can be trotted out WHENEVER there is more than one course of action available, and what junction in life is not without one or more possible courses of action?? All of them. In fact, to suggest there is always choice is not actually very helpful. It’s like last year’s Xmas cracker pow (pearl of wisdom) regurgitated for this year. And next. And next. You can see where this is going I am sure. It’s a cliche. There might be choice, but it might be choice between appalling options. Look at Sophie’s Choice. I mean, really? What kind of a choice was/is that? If you intend to watch the film, and it is a really good film, then don’t watch the link since the scene cited is the denouement of the film and will ruin it for you, but if you have no interest in a full viewing, have a look and consider her choice. Unthinkable.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RaPBzhEsCL0

The fact is, as soon as you are born, there is an immediate diminution of choices available. Colour, nationality, language (ish), all and each of these elements limit choice IMMEDIATELY. That’s an enormous narrowing of options right there, at the very beginning, and that girdling of your existence, race, colour, etc..., that is like a great big dome outside of which choice is not available (by and large), only within the interior does choice then exist (broadly speaking). Gradually, hereinafter, the range of choice diminishes further still, choice remains, but its range less and less. Once kids arrive, need to support them, housing, etc... further dilution of choice. And so on. And so on. Choice isn’t illusion but is massively tempered and moderated by circumstance. Alas.

But there are occasions when choice is meaningful within the sanitised and limited parameters above. For example, me, now, today, tomorrow, in relation to beer. I have no compelling (literally as in compulsion) reason to have a beer. I have no cravings, I am not suffering unduly from my 15 days of abstinence, there is nothing dictating a necessity for alcohol. I am convinced my anxiety exists in spite of my usual beer intake, and I absolutely know said anxiety will not be mitigated by a re-immersion in London Pride. There is nothing that needs to be done with such urgency or desperation that a nullification of sensibility through alcohol is required. Nothing. So, if I have a beer, it is, I believe, exclusively down to choice. I suppose it could be suggested that habit is influencing the outcome of the choice, but is it though? Is it really? Or is that some excuse on the part of the booze brain to ensure ongoing participation in aforementioned habit? You know that stage of quitting the baccy -it  took me 5 attempts to stop finally and for good- when you have just about surpassed the point when habit is calling you back at which point you realise there really is no need to smoke again? That point there, when you know it has no more hold on you, when you know you have outlived the bastard, then, when in a quiet moment of final reflection, you suddenly decide you don’t WANT to be free, that you WANT a reason to smoke and that if you aren’t quick, the only reason, the only valid reason you have, addiction, habit, will be gone forever and there will be no more reason nor justification for smoking EVER again. Then when as quick as you can, before your brain has a chance to act, the cigarette is in between your lips, you light, inhale deeply and voluntarily return to the banner and flag and flank of the nicotine monster. You exhale with consummate satisfaction the deed done, knowing now you have an excuse once again not to stop. That is where I am. I have no interest in beer. I know if I drank but one the desire for another would be on me at once. I would be enslaved again, I would be possessed of reason to continue my servitude. Will I drink a beer today? Absolutely not. Tomorrow? No chance. Never? I don’t like words like never. Too definitive. Like saying or using everybody in a sentence. Everybody is a big number. Just stop. You can’t speak for everybody and no, it is not a figure of speech, it is a misleading statement that attempts to enlist collective consensus for whatever point or conclusion you are positing. I am facing choice down the barrel of free will. Wow.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUwmA3Q0_OE

My young friend. She is confused again today. But this time she explained her confusion.

Her: I can’t remember why we are doing this.

Textbook. She has not done this a lot. That’s a standard question. Easy to forget how awful you were feeling before you did ‘this’. Easy to overlook how incapable you were in an emergency before doing ‘this’. Easy to lose sight of how desperate you were to do ‘this’ on arrival at the nadir of the abyss. Easy to deny that the current feeling of wellness owes its existence to doing ‘this’. Just a few of the available ‘easy to’s’.

I clearly played truant from school today, as I wanted to share my experience of various devices I have employed down the years in my eternal battle against anxiety but have not got round to doing it. Well, there are yet more blogs to follow, so there is yet time. No longer 56 days mind you, but who’s counting?

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 12 of 28

Oh my. Oh my. I had to nap, NAP!!, at 11am this morning. I never nap. I can’t as a rule, too hyperactive or some such. Today I had no choice, literally no choice. I had to shut down all systems -electronic I mean, though my body had clearly the same idea- to go to my couch and sleep. I mean, it’’s all so confusing. This is SO not just about deprivation of beer. I am not for one minute suggesting that I don’t drink far too much when I do drink, I’m simply saying that when I think with a cold lucidity about my beer habit, when I consider the intervals in between, the amounts when I am ingesting, when I think about my general diet, when I think about all these things, I am convinced the side effects that emerge following a period of abstinence like this, almost 2 weeks, are not generated entirely by the withdrawal from the hop. I have written a couple of blogs before about these matters, and whilst it has been a while since the previous, I recall coming to a similar conclusion. Sugar. SUGAR. Obviously the beer is implicated because it is the medium -for me- whereby the substance is delivered. This is worthy of further consideration.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sx14RYPqYvo

My diet is broadly speaking pure. Apart from the obvious white elephant in this affirmation -the presence of beer for those who can’t guess- I rarely eat processed food, I try to eat foods that are one and wholly of themselves. If the item on the shopping list comprises more than one component, then it is processed. For example, an apple is only of itself, that kind of thing. The more ingredients in that one item, the more and more processed it has become. It’s quite straightforward really. And although of course this is not doctrine for me, I am a fairly zealous adherent to my comestible regimen. I would be horrified mind you, to convey the impression, false as it would be, that I decided upon a such a dietary programme out of some love of self and belief in digestive purity for the sake of it. No no, far from it, my conversion to such a culinary menu was constructed as so many elements of my life as another resource in my arsenal of weaponry for the never ending battle against anxiety which I have been waging for so many years. And I have to say, this particular weapon is a fairly useful addition. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmLIJAc5kyg

I concluded yesterday with a suggestion that re-education isn’t the worst avenue to consider in an effort to rid the world of this damn anxiety business. I am convinced that a re-wiring of the brain would work if it were possible to find the right tools for the job. Of course, it is hard, impossible,  to achieve at the conscious level of thought as this re-editing of the mind needs to work on a subconscious level, and that level is deep underground, not so easy to access. That is not the only problem with the subconscious. Bless its cottons, the subconscious is on our side, so it thinks, trying to keep us safe and ensure our ongoing survival, but noble being that it is, it is none too bright. You see, this is where all our instinctive propensity resides, it is there, right there. The subconscious doesn’t sleep, the subconscious is permanently alert, and the subconscious has no understanding of temporal context. For example, an event no matter how trivial in adult eyes that may have taken place years ago will be remembered by the subconscious as ongoing and perennial. Something that might have appeared as a threat to a 6 year old who was using 6 year old interpretation at the time,  can linger forever within the subconscious and if not rationalised close to the occurrence of the event, can become buried beneath the next event and the next and the next etc..until eventually it is so far underground that reaching it is an effort of enormous magnitude fraught with alarming difficulty and so continues to influence and effect he existence of the child now grown up. The event may be something so inconsequential, so nondescript, so totally trivial that of itself it would never cause an issue with anyone at anytime. But a child’s perception is a child’s perception, and this minor, irrelevant event can be magnified to dimensions of universal proportions in a child’s mind. However, if the event itself cannot be identified, if the cause of the phobia be not readily evident or easy to uncover, then circuitous steps can be taken to limit and lessen at least the impact that this concealed event wields.

I have in my own battle, tried many devices and mechanisms to alleviate my own issues of anxiety and agoraphobia, some more effective than others but undeniably, self-evidently, obviously, thus far not finding one that has brought any permanent solution. However, this may also be a consequence of my lack of persistence, lack of belief or lack of (here it is again) genuine desire. Choice. Returning then to the issue of diet, specifically sugar and beer. I have at times considered the apparition of my condition to be a consequence of physical cause, maybe not of the mind. To this end then, I have on occasion removed sugar, obviously always in a period of abstinence given the presence and excitation of sugar concomitant with beer/booze consumption, At the moment I am not sugar free, I find myself eating stuff I simply do not normally eat, biscuits, cake, bread etc... but I forgive myself whilst I am at the initial phase of beer exclusion. This does not however, contradict my belief as outlined above that my tiredness and anxiety level could be the consequence of a dearth of sugar since I am sure that whatever sugary content stuff I am eating now rivals not even minimally the amount of sugar I was chucking down my throat in my most recent hedonistic jamboree comprising me and London Pride.  Hyperglycemia. Alcohol can have a confusing effect on blood sugar levels because it prevents the liver from producing glucose. One consequence of this is that hyperglycemia can occur after a night of drinking, and after a sustained period, even more possible an appearance. However, alcohol is the not the only cause of hyperglycemia, diet in general can also produce the condition. What interests me greatly about this ailment is the similarities that exist twixt its symptoms and the symptoms of panic attacks. Strikingly similar. And equally as curious, is how hyperglycemia is not too distant in symptomatic manifestation from its cousin,  hypoglycemia. This is all most intriguing. I don’t know about fellow anxiety sufferers, but I would prefer to deal with a dietary issue as the cause which can have a tangible remedy than some unknown subconscious monster that refuses to identify itself and lives permanently under my subconscious bed....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHakEH93dDM

Try eating lots of sugar in one go, do it for days on end (yuk! who would want to? oh no wait, it’s ok, is it? to do it day in day out if it’s called beer? oops...), tell me you don’t develop symptoms that rival, emulate, reproduce the identical symptoms of Mr P. Is it not worth exploring diet then? To experiment to see if perhaps, just perhaps, diet is the primary cause of the condition and even if not the only cause, at least to test some dietary re-calibration to see whether that might alleviate the symptoms? Could my problem be as simple as an allergy to sugar? What joy that would bring, what delight...but wait, this would not be good for me, would it? This would be the end to my beer days, forever. Hold on, am I telling myself that a strict observance of a non processed diet for 3 months might cure an affliction that has haunted and plagued me for 35 years and yet, I am hinting, intimating, that I might choose, CHOOSE, not to rid myself of that loathsome friend forever because I refuse to give up coloured, sugary alcoholic liquid? Damn this booze(sugar)/panic correlation again. Damn my freedom of choice. Damn damn damn. So am I really saying I prefer beer (sugar), BEER (SUGAR), to total mental well being??!! So beer (sugar) may not cause the condition, but its removal may, after a sustained but patient period of anticipation, hand in hand with a diet of purity, remove the ailment forever? Should I not at least try  for 3 months? Choice. Choice, Choice. I wonder if you, the reader, would try diet for a 3 month period if for no other reason than to eliminate it as a potential cause of an ailment such as that under consideration? Hm.

Oh my, look at the time! I have barely started on the devices and tricks I have used on occasion to good effect in the face of anxiety and agoraphobia etc... So much for re-education, this has been a lesson dedicated to sugar and/or its lack! Well, school’s out for the weekend, homework? Think diet! Analyse what you eat,  how much of it is processed, how much sugar is consumed. Drinks too, Fructose...don’t get me started on fructose. More school Monday. I’m off, oops, momentarily forgot I’m not beering up. Uhuh, was that my first craving? Next week represents danger I suspect.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2B1j4Z25i7k

 Ps I forgot to mention my lunch. My banana and egg and peanut and coconut butter and flax seed pancake. Diet’s gone weird, Body making strange demands. Mid morning naps,  Diet and choice. Increasingly recurrent themes. Is this, could this be, progress? I’m not holding my breath....

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 11 of 56

Exhaustion. I don’t recall it attaining this level before. So tired was I on retirement last night that even before I could instruct Alexa to deny further life to Radio 5, I was atop the gentle wave of a slumber filled sea. Intermittent and throughout the night, virtual and remote voices puncture the structure of my tiny vessel, I try to rouse myself and man the bilges but I have no strength, I am powerless against the current that carries me away from the source of the disturbance. Helplessly I drift back off into a dark laden emptiness, the pattern repeating the night long until finally the sea that has held me captive unfetters its chains and sets me free once more. It is late, the dawn chorus so effective as my natural and normal call to arms has been unable to rally my company to its side. I swing my legs out over the side of my bed. I don't feel rested at all and yet, the elation of total sobriety lingers on, albeit subdued in some measure by the fatigue that invades and occupies every pore of my being. I yawn in a gaping motion, drinking in oxygen and soaking up energy. I am so tired. I never experience this kind of tiredness in drinking mode, the poison sees to that. It is 8 o'clock. This is a lie in for me.

 I am aware that I am meeting my young friend at 9.30. I have agreed to show her the fundamentals of squash, introduce her to what will hopefully become an invaluable friend, exercise. As true a friend as a friend can be, the panacea for all things unwholesome, a honey coated remedy for all things distasteful. Squash was one of my few true loves, an unforced hobby, not manufactured for hobby sake, but one that genuinely provided me with enormous pleasure for many years. Then my affliction seized dominion and paralysed me with an immovable yoke about my neck. I abandoned my love, I had no choice, and for more than 15 years, I was a stranger to the white backed court which I once strode with confidence and delight with a not indecent dollop of skill on top. In recent years, with an ever increasing comprehension of my condition and a moderation of the things that aggravated it whilst purporting to offer a beneficial and curative contribution, I have renewed the affair to some degree. Like a typical spurned lover however, squash has never truly forgiven me, and now and then she will remind me of my abandonment with a stab to my Achilles or a sharp and sudden reminder in the elbow. Squash has not truly forgiven me.

The environment of a squash court lends not itself easily to my affliction. Its open space, bright and shiny, visibility from above, such things the least conducive imaginable for a soul ravaged by the elements under discussion. But it is bearable once more, only because I now realise, I now know that the environment also offers the opportunity, ideal in fact, for frenetic movement, high intensity activity, the very things that dispel and dilute said condition. What a paradox! Friend and foe housed within a single entity. However, despite that dual faced existence, if my state is very bad I simply don’t even attempt to present myself at such an establishment. But day 11 and my state is improving, even though I am only existing currently within a 200 metre radius and not risking a more  challenging range of movement, a more hostile terrain to test the strength of my recovery. No point in tempting situations that might lead to collapse of resolution at this stage.

So we played. She is a complete beginner, never played before ever. It wasn’t a match, it was  a coaching session but I did indeed, as was my intent, show her just how big a squash court can be. By the time we concluded the skipping (courtesy of a telephone cord, we work out to work out, not promote some aesthetic appeal),  her cheeks were afire with a candescent ruby flame. Squash is a great outlet for a younger self-version of you, you can release your inner child on a court and watch it run and run and run, in no time so absorbed by the action that all and any trappings and attachment to man made adult themes like work and prestige and image are discarded, forgotten and trampled under foot with the contempt such artificial contrivances deserve. She had fun. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rWdxb2U88U

Of course, our respective demons were waiting for us on the outside. Well of course they were, like limpets they won’t let go lightly. The coffee house on site was where they re-appeared.

‘I can’t carry the drinks,’ say I.

‘I can,’ says she. 

‘I have to have a hand free in case my chest twitches,’ say I.

‘I just need to be away from these people as fast as possible,’ says she.

This raises an interesting area of anxiety and public discomfort. For me, it is the physical environment. I know this because I have on occasion put it to the test early morning or late evening when humanity is absent from the locale. My twitchiness is still in evidence, however, I am free to act aberrantly to combat its presence without the additional burden of extraneous observation. So for me, it is the physical composition. For her, it is the human presence not the location. Hence her ability to enter shops, to drive on motorways, to do essentially, most of the things that I cannot. But in a queue we have parity, her because a queue by definition involves people, for me because it delays my exit from the environment.

This made me think further, about the probability of the numbers suffering similar issues, about the manifestation of said issues in such varying formats, about many things. And then it made me reconsider the Daleks. The dalek comprises two composite components, a brain, and a metallic casing which executes at the bidding of the brain the functionality of a body without the organic infrastructure.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8URr3uhh3I

Essentially, a dalek is a brain, a brain which controls its inanimate housing. My young friend has a feeling of discomfort amongst people, I have it in certain physical environments, some people have it in enclosed areas, others in wide open spaces etc... but regardless of the location or environment, regardless of the manifestation of the ailment, the source is identical, the provenance the same. The issue emanates, emerges and originates from that small mechanism, that small but omnipotent mechanism we call the brain. It doesn’t matter how or where the condition declares itself, it doesn’t matter how fast we attempt to outrun it, none of any of this matters since the overriding communality is the point of the origin. Our brains.It is the brain where the problem arises, it is the brain where the problem can be resolved. It is the only place where it can be solved.  Imagine a dalek proceeding along the road. Imagine the brain within afflicted from an anxiety condition without any visible or tangible cause. Imagine its progress along the street. Quiet road, no people, no tall buildings, nothing threatening or anxiety inducing at first, that brain can trundle along on its metallic wheels in a state of blissful indifference. Then imagine it merging onto the main road. People, wide pavements, tall buildings, shiny floors. Imagine this brain suddenly assaulted by its affliction for no obvious or visible reason, at once anxious and panicky and sending out orders to its metallic container to start acting irrationally, to thresh about its metal limbs, to act like some mad man on the rampage.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipfcH1fxCg4

Then imagine the ‘danger’ spot passed, next phase of our dalek’s trek without threat, perceived or otherwise. The machine desists from further frenetic behaviour and calmly moves forward. Then the next phase, no rhyme nor reason the anxiety re-emerges, more of the same thrashing and threshing about, all the while the brain in complete control of the metallic responses. We are no different. I know we are organic, I understand the holistic mind and body argument, yes, yes I get that. But there is a hierarchy of importance, there is an undeniable hierarchy. The body can do without an arm. But without a brain? Have a go and get back to me on that. It is our brains. We have to re-wire our brains, reconfigure them. Imagine yourself as a brain in a machine. Do you think my panic attacks would be less if I were in a wheel chair being pushed along the same road that can excite such anxious responses from me? Do you think I could enter St Paul’s Cathedral and look up at the dome with any less discomfort if I were pushed in on wheels? It is the mind that has betrayed or misled those who are assailed and assaulted by these kind of afflictions. We have educated our minds, our minds have been educated by others too, we need to go back to school and re-educate them...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsIb5L0_pGY

Let’s begin school tomorrow....

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 10 of 56

So, what about today? Exhausted upon waking again but I am fairly confident of the explanation for this. In the meantime, the rain was still present. How lovely to wake to discover a friend is close at hand, even if of the non-human variety. I was up early, typically in these embryonic days of abstention, my delight at embracing a new day only marginally tempered by the fatigue that managed to withstand the cleansing assault of sleep. I worked almost at once, aware that the day was light of load and that there were no potholes foreseeable that might trip me up and impose a stressful burden upon shoulders that had no interest in fighting today. There was no real need to exit my walls at all this day, free will the only piston that might impel some outdoor activity. That said, at the hour of opening for my local coffee shop, I decided to exploit my friend’s ongoing benevolence and mask my excursion under the same mantle as that employed yesterday. Off I went, at speed of course, the rain ideal for the purpose, and by 8 am I was safely ensconced within the welcoming interior. There is something about the aroma that issues from the earth following a fine spray of rain, something familiar and nostalgic and fresh, another of those minor details, a bagatelle which can have such pleasant impact when accompanied by clarity of thinking. 

Returning to the bosom of my domicile, unladen of that work load already complete, I paused to reflect on this anxiety, this agoraphobia, this all of it that has for so many years and still plagued me so, as I have many times over the years but always with a divergent approach when free of alcohol’s influence. I once more tried to recall the early years, my age now advancing to a point wherein I cannot be entirely convicted of an accurate recollection of events now half a century and more old. I tried remembering the first conspicuous appearance of anxiety, and as always, the only immediate and earliest example that ever comes to mind is the playground episode when I was trying to steal Ladybird books to save my mother from her unavoidable death ( https://www.amazon.co.uk/LOSS-MOTHER-TRUE-STORY-ebook/dp/B00LERZ63Y ).  I don’t believe that I really believe that this is an example of the type of anxiety that really came to visit and take up residence many years later. I don’t believe so.

Which leads me, as always, to the relationship between alcohol and my ‘condition’. I suspect, text book psychology notwithstanding, that exposure to constant rows, a cold and barren home and role models for whom alcohol was as ubiquitous as oxygen are factors that are going to mould a child in a certain way, subject to that child’s interpretation,  sensitivity and other modifying elements. It is no surprise then, that the product of such an upbringing might later on present as an on edge individual, anxious and highly strung as a consequence of nurture thus applied. In the early years of adolescence, when my father still resided above ground albeit assiduously sowing the seeds of his own destruction at what with retrospect was an alarming pace ( https://www.amazon.co.uk/Loss-Father-Daniel-OLeary-ebook/dp/B00PUQ68V4 ), I do definitely recall my own personality, prepared to attempt anything to avoid the outbreak of a mini war at  home, placid and easy to please by disposition. I recall no anxiety, no problem going out and all in all, accepted my lot with a stoical perspective. Even the day of my father’s funeral, when the keys to my home were so savagely reclaimed by the aunt who would continue in residence for many years thereafter, exiling me to survive entirely on my own wits alone, I drove back to university in a borrowed car at high speed with not even a suggestion of inner discomfort.

Now it is true, that by this point, drinking was in the proverbial frame, but I could still have just a pint or two, always real ale, and desist and press on with other things. There was no suggestion at all, anywhere, at any time of a bubbling cauldron of anxiety or agoraphobia. University done, I went abroad, Italy, as a rep for a travel company. I glided through airports (oh happy days indeed...) without a care in the world, supermarkets? Big deal! Driving on motorways? In my sleep. But the drinking was at this point quietly escalating, however, it prevented me not one jot from functioning fully and fulfilling all the tasks that fell within my remit. I was the life and soul, care free, carousing, smoking, womanising, fun loving young man who was soaking up every morsel that life offered. I was no more hampered by panic than a tank could be hampered by a twig. Yes, I was a tank, bulldozing my way through life....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hjl-CDpDP9g

The change was slow at first, only over time becoming increasingly noticeable. I digress, enough of the chronological progression for now. Fast forwarding through the years, in the time I spent being therapised, in the time I spent therapising, I recognised only one consistently present communality amongst those souls so egregiously afflicted by anxiety and paralysing agoraphobia, and whilst this is not definitive nor even necessarily helpful, it is of some interest to me. Intelligence was not the link, stupidity neither, gender nope, age not a bit, the thread seemingly shared was sensitivity. Heightened sensitivity. Now it could be postulated that this feature is a consequence of the condition not a cause, but regardless of which way round it appears, diluting this sensitivity must de rigueur dilute the impact and severity of the condition itself.

Consider my state yesterday, my entire physiological system on red alert, not an uncommon event, just hard to predict, this inability to predict ultimately resulting in a permanent state of high tension, coiled spring, ready to go. At any point yesterday as I walked towards the library, I was ready at the drop of a hat to  roar into a sprint, to run away (run away from what?? I can’t outrun me!!), to move at electric pace fuelled by the constant accumulation of adrenaline. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVWqfoPQUcI

You just have to look at the common and oft cited symptoms of anxiety to recognise this scenario, the body working overtime, the perspiration, the elevated heart rate, the need to evacuate the bowel. Eyes darting, every sound magnified a thousandfold, modest illumination suddenly assuming the intensity of a flare in your face, these are just basic features of an episode. Constant tension. Horrible. Coffee of course, does not help but I still refuse to forego one of my few pleasures. I have discovered over the years, that the most effective, head and shoulders above the rest, the inarguably best result achieving device and antidote is exercise. Walking is fine, running is better, high intensity for me the best. This burns off the excess adrenaline, do enough exercise and the resultant fatigue just won’t allow entry to Mr P (Mr Panic), although to achieve a total bar of that nature requires a LOT of exercise. Get rid of the sensitivity, get rid of the condition, or at least contain it. No matter how hard you try to resist, not that presumably you would, exercise will create the chemicals, will burn the adrenaline, will automatically deal with the condition, like it or not. Better than brandy, better than Valium, better than anything. 

But what of the alcohol? How is it, how was it then that it could contrive, that I could allow it, a way into the interior of my dominion? How has it managed to construct a position of almost permanent residence? See, these elements are all independent, and yet conflate to create a seemingly unbreakable coalescent alliance. There are a myriad of factors at play here, but they can be unravelled and disentangled. One by one. But let us not forget one of the primary and pivotal ingredients. Choice. More about choice another time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_HEnohs6yYw

My young friend sounded in fine mettle today. Her tone was an unmistakable indicator of her mood. Calm, collected, peaceful. I could hear it, she could hear it. I was calm too. I went out later in the day earlier to buy provisions. Whilst the heightened senses were still heightened, they are pretty much always heightened to some extent, they were much less today than yesterday. Who knows their complexion come the morrow? I was at all times ready to run away today (it so DOES amuse to re-read that, run away! Run away from what!!!???), but didn’t need too. My young friend and I have never had a conversation like the version of today. She is creative, more than I knew, although I am prepared to gamble that we have covered the same material previously but not ever before on a platform of mutual sobriety. Tomorrow we will meet, first meeting since our contract began, to consider our intentions, the levels of allegiance to our goal, the purpose of our enterprise. There is no obstacle on the path immediately in front of either of us, no event waiting to ambush us. We have a clear road ahead, a full tank of petrol and at least one of us is wearing sunglasses. The only danger on the horizon is boredom. This is a major threat. This is one of those threats that seem easy to defuse. This is really not easy to defuse. Danger close..... Day 10? DONE!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvKs2VLmVnY

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 9 of 56

It begins before I exit the house. I am already notified of its potential presence by some instinctive reticence to go out, years and years of exposure to this funny thing embedding in me an almost 6th sense as to its proximity or distance, not to say that the speed that it can cover any ground could not overturn this basic awareness of its position in a blink of an eye. I know that the culprit is not booze today, nor is this knowledge garlanded in self-denial. I know myself, I know this condition, it and me? We are old friends. I would admit freely the identity of the culprit if I were possessed of the information, I don't know the identity, I just know what it is not. Aware of the interval twixt my last Bacchanalian revelry and now, knowing that I am free of that influence today, I fortify my resolve and insist that I exit. I want to have coffee, not for coffee's sake but for the opportunity to participate in the local milieu, an environment I oft times deny myself when housebound by you know what. To prove I can do it. It is after all, only coffee, me, alone, no need even to entertain or engage with anyone, just simple coffee. I want to extend my range beyond that today and go to the library for a brief respite from my cocooned environment, my home, which is the primary backdrop to the lion share of my day, of every day. I see no reason why I cannot accomplish this ambition, heaven knows, it is a most modest ambition. I am irritated that I am struggling. I was able to execute the same task yesterday with fluid facility, and that was closer to the temporal fallout zone following cessation of my vice than is today.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmpOc94s1a8

As I am walking up my road, rucksack in place, straps positioned in such a way to allow a tight tug as I walk to tense my arms and then release them, practical yoga on the go, the subtle relaxation technique concealed and hidden from any observer by the seeming authenticity of the natural purpose of pulling straps tighter on a backpack, I am aware that I may fool them, but I am not fooling me. It is definitely bad today. Damn. I will not turn back. The feeling is building and gathering momentum. But this is not the House of Commons, this is not an airport terminal, this is doable. Do I really care if people spot me struggling to walk in a straight line? Do I care if they look askance at my self-tactile behaviour as a sudden, abrupt sensation tickles my chest demanding the immediate attention of an arm to check that all is in order? Yes I care. I care very much. I am not yet ready to start jerking my head back and forth publicly, I am not yet prepared to consign myself to maniacal gestures or lend myself to hysterical vocal outbursts in public. I am sure I am not insane. Surely not. Did Aksenty Poprishchin know he had gone mad? I order my coffee, overwhelming relief that the establishment is half empty so that any unexpected and unintentional strange display as I order will be limited to the minimum number of observers, myself and the girl at the till. I go at once outside, isolated table as always, measuring my anxiety before the next phase of my expedition. Coffee. I really should avoid coffee. It is certainly not going to alleviate this sensation. But no, I think, why should I? I have tried giving up so many things, beer, sugar, companionship, I REFUSE to give up my one cup of coffee a day. Fuck that. I REFUSE to give up life in its entirety. A recurrent thought doffs its hat at me. Yes yes, maybe this does prove re-incarnation I say by way of acknowledgement, I am being punished to expiate the sins of some previous life, or lives perhaps. I smile in spite of myself. Silly sod! Drink your coffee and get on with it. I do that very thing. But as I walk towards the library, I am aware that my old friend is walking with me all the way, nice of it to take time out to keep me company. Dear friend. I stop in the Co-op. I'd rather not, but there is absolutely no reason for me not to be able to, the booze is historically distant. It cannot be that! What on earth is causing this? I collate my items, present myself at another till, another gargantuan effort, feigning all calm but fighting to suppress the screaming torrent inside. This is why I have never really put on too much weight. Such a funny thought to occur to me. Oh well, every cloud and all that.. I have bought some spicy thingamabobs, perhaps sugar levels are low, I didn't sleep well again, sugar spike or sugar degradation, I can't remember. I stopped all that research a while ago now. Eventually, the searching for a cause, an explanation, becomes too tiring, too frustrating, too disheartening and even when you think you've hit the mother load, suddenly the condition, playfully in abeyance for a while, teasing and taunting and dangling false hope, BOOOM, re-appears, wagging its finger as it whispers no, no! Not even warm, mate! Maybe being a mad Irishman would not be so bad, less effort...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DotsQoAQPoo

I eat my treats in the park adjacent to the library. I need a piss but that means crossing the bloody road. Oh ffs, more theatre, more stress but I'm not going to ask for the key to the library latrine (how alliterative is that, library latrine?). They might take pleasure in saying no today. I have no confidence in good things this Tuesday. The treats have worked, I feel better! It was a temporary sugar drop! Hurrah! I leave the park, prepare to cross the road. The treats haven't worked. Where are those damned straps? My sunglasses, they are a permanent fixture on my face, they absolutely attract attention, constantly worn all seasons as they are. Absolutely don't care about that, they stay, non negotiable. Without them I would be blinded by the unforgiving light of life. Deep breath, off I go. Misjudged. I look like a numpty as I'm suddenly running across a car-less road. Who cares? I don't care any more, nothing seems to work. Beer doesn't work either. I don't actually want a beer. No cravings at all. It's sugar. I am still quietly minded that sugar is a key issue. I make a detour to the shop to buy some Mikado chocolate sticks. After all, sugar probably isn't the issue at all. I want Mikado sticks. End of. Good price. Fifty five pence. What a palaver buying those.

I'm in the library. I'm writing this. I'm not fully focused as I am also contemplating the return leg of my fun filled jaunt. I want to go to the greengrocers. I want an avocado and eggs. Maybe I should give up all the things I eat and try a completely new diet. Oh yes, why not go to extremes again? Such resounding success resides in extremes after all. Yeah right. I wonder if I'll succeed in effecting my purchases or if I will be compelled to walk straight by, frustrated in my attempt. My old friend didn't come into the library with me. I am fairly sure it will be waiting for me at the door though. It is a good friend, it wouldn't desert me so readily. Loyal, faithful, proper pal. I am so tired. I could sleep but daytime sleeping you may as well kiss goodnight to a full night's repose. God knows I can't afford to lose any more sleep! I was fine indoors. I'm fine here, in this indoors, this library. It's the life in between that's the problem. I am beginning to think this condition is here for life. I'm not sure such thinking is helpful but after 35 years, well, perhaps I should wake up and smell the coffee. I wonder if smelling coffee is acceptable to my mate? I'll try it and see…..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bkwc0RSihRI

Oh, my young friend called this morning, before I left. She's still with me, but...her use of language is a concern, she's making noises I've heard and made before. Her booze brain is working hard on her. It's trying to convince her that it wasn't booze that made her feel so awful that she wanted to stop. It's telling her that something else was/is responsible. It is conveniently not telling her that the reason why she is more in control, more able to cope, is precisely because she desisted from chucking down her throat the very thing that it is suggesting, gently at the moment, that she should try again now. It is being gentle with its argument thus far, but it won't be long before it begins to shout, to scream, to DEMAND that she obeys. It is a spoilt child, it is a monster fighting for survival itself, it will not cede lightly, it will fight, it will fight hard. Is she strong enough to resist? Am I?

PS I am about to leave the library and guess what? It has begun to rain, it is pouring down! Me in shorts and summer attire, a flimsy hooded fleece my only protection against the precipitation. Everyone in the vicinity in their summer garb. Good news at last!!! The streets will be emptying, people will be taking shelter under shop canopies, the rain is my best canopy, it is my escape hatch! I will be able to run, act aberrantly under the guise of normality in the face of these unsavoury conditions! I will make it to the greengrocer now, I am in no doubt. I will be able to run across car-less streets with reason, I will be able to hide beneath a fabricated hood of pretence, I can dance in the rain if I want, no-one will mind. I LOVE the rain. Today is not the first time the rain has been my best friend. The other friend, the nasty friend, that friend won’t be able to keep pace with me on the way home. Not now. Not now the rain is here. This could be the beginning of the best day EVER!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1ZYhVpdXbQ

Pps I can't wait to get home, this time I don't think I will ever go out again.

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 8 of 56

I had no problem over the weekend. The more and more intervals I place between the beer loving me and the tea totality version the easier it gets. There are several themes however, recurrent and not entirely devoid of concern that are apparent. For example, the periods of beer avoidance, like the candle being brightest at its death knell, tend to place into increasing isolated intensity those periods of beer embrace. My God, for a wee fellow my levels of imbibing are truly impressive! I say that not as some badge of honour, not valorous merit, absolutely not that kind of impressive at all, rather profound surprise. And now when I re-visit the hop, this level inflates, as though the booze brain is aware its opportunity will be increasingly short lived and insists on avaricious indulgence whilst the woo (window of opportunity) exists. There is inherent peril in this, it is clear to see. I like to interpret it as optimistic progress however, like a puddle diminishing from the outside until it shrinks to nothingness.

Then there is the issue of refreshing and deep sleep. This is a struggle. I understand alcohol is not facilitating a decent nocturnal slumber, I realise it is more like a sedation of the cerebral cortex, but without it, I struggle nonetheless. I’ve never much liked going to bed as I know slumber will not visit easily, perhaps not enough physical daytime activity, perhaps an unsatisfied mind, perhaps a fear of dying while unconscious is the cause(s). As I distance myself from the last beer, now 8 days, I do tend to struggle less, but I still wake up monstrously early, an aspect in the early days of restraint I don’t mind so much since i ADORE the mornings, the earlier the better. It is only this early morning delight, bordering on euphoria I would say, that offsets the antipathy for, the difficulty in retirement to bed the night before. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_og0nGizTE

Then there is the guilt; whenever I stop it is not long before the guilt comes rushing in, the guilt that whispers in my ear, look at all the time, all the life you’ve wasted with the the beer drinking, the feeling ragged, look at all the things you could have done, should have done, had you not allowed alcohol to subsume you to such levels and often to the subordination of all else....  This is a dangerous side effect. The preceding  issues, well, they are manageable, but this guilt one, I believe it is apparatus contrived by the booze brain to ensnare you once more. Along the lines of,  You have wasted so much time, so much life, so much opportunity, what’s the point of changing now? May as well have a beer, at least that will assuage the guilt. So I rationalise this. Imagine doing nothing for one hour. The time will pass, no matter with what the hour is filled. You read a book, the hour will pass. You exercise, the hour will pass. You drink beer, the hour will pass. Does it actually matter how you spend the hour? Are there things that should be done? What do people do? What do people do on a Sunday afternoon? What do they do in the evening? I hate to admit I get bored. I whisper it lest there is some unseen force just awaiting the opportunity to unleash nemesis to come visit, bringing in its wake some terminal illness the diagnosis of which will at once  make me long for periods of boredom rather than face the prospect of death. How I would long for periods of boredom then I bet. But in those periods of boredom, periods when I have no desire to take up knitting, learn a language, write a book, in those periods it is easy to have a beer. Not because the beer is influencing the hour, the hour will pass, but because it will provide me with the illusion that I am no longer bored. Even if I am doing nothing other than I would be without the beer, other than drinking beer. If anything, it accelerates the passing of time, it propels my life along like a high speed train without allowing me time to watch the wondrous sights I may be passing. Tea totality periods  like this? I try to hold back the passing of time, I want to suck the kernel out of every second, every moment I have, recognising their value, their irreplaceable preciousness. But it’s like holding shifting sand in your fingers, it just slips through. The hour will pass no matter how you spend it, no matter what state of mind possesses you, bored, happy, sad etc...Alcohol intensifies the rate of passage of time, the speed at which your life passes. When I am this distant from alcohol, I could sit for an hour, an hour doing nothing. Just appreciating my existence, recognising I don’t need to fill the hour with anything for its own sake. The experience of just being. Just at peace. I am not sure anything competes with an hour passed thus...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7T1TFe9NQtQ

My young friend; she wasn’t answering my calls. My suspicions began, then heightened, had she had  a drink over the weekend? She finally called. She is still on board. She is doing so exceptionally well. Her progress marks my own. I have made her promise to call if she teeters, wobbles, is about to fall off. To call before she takes a sip. But I know booze, I know how it cheats, lies, defends its existence to the detriment and sacrifice of all else....

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 5 of 56

So, first weekend of latest foray into abstinence upon me. 5 days in, usual suspects, I mean symptoms in evidence. Wait, wait, they aren’t symptoms at all, they are not even by products, they are the beneficial effects of expunging alcohol! They are welcome.  Once again I find myself up by 5 am, witnessing the wondrous birth of a new day over and over again. The euphonic choral accompaniment to to the onset of a new dawn of potential, of energy, of peace, received so differently according to which period is in ascendancy, tea totality or its opposite. In these phases of liberation, I embrace this chorus with good cheer and a ready welcome, my winged friends and I sharing those early moments in concert and harmony. When the contrary phases achieve dominion, the mellifluous song morphs into an unbearable cacophony, cleaving my soul and shattering my slumber forcing me to wake to to endure yet another cursed aftermath of the morning after the night before. What an extreme contrast between which I oscillate.  The blackbird, the robin, the chaffinch and warbler too, just a few of my early morning companions who bless or haunt me with their inevitable vocal presence and my inevitable one of two states. Extremes. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6_LYIdYxz4

Absence of alcohol, all of it, it just entirely re-defines and re-shapes in such an indescribably beneficial manner my outlook, my sentiment, my sense of well being, my health, my everything. Why oh why do I not remain on this path in perpetuity? Why do I re-visit the very thing that with the flick of a finger re-edits all of the above? Why oh why for the sake of a few hours of indulgence in some coloured, sugar infused liquid, do I sacrifice the unsullied delight in the simplest of things like a bird’s song? Is it worth it? After  nearly 6 decades on the planet you think I’d know the answer. 

The young lady I am assisting, she has made her first 5 days alcohol free for longer than she will admit. We both know it’s longer than she has pretended it to be. I am not her father, not her mentor, not her guide nor her conscience. But I am proud that she has managed to achieve a milestone. I thought she would falter last night. She had warned me the night before that she believed she would stumble barely out of the blocks. She was almost apologising in advance of the transgression. It was a meeting you see, a large gathering which was hers to conduct and oversee. To speak even, to a large audience, a frighteningly large audience. Public speaking. Standing there as a throng of anonymous faces direct their unbroken gaze on you, piercing, probing, collective eyes boring into your soul and penetrating your essence. Oh my. I didn’t know she would be speaking. I had sent her a text early morning however, just to fortify her resolve. In the text exchange that follows, I shall refer to her simply as her. As always, no clues as to her identity are contained within that which ensues and if appropriate, I have excised anything that would compromise her. I have told her I think she too should blog, illuminate her situation, declare to the world proudly and boldly. She won’t do that. Yet. She thinks such a path would make it too real. Think about that. She thinks it would make it too real....

So, just to repeat the context. She had advised me on day 3 that she would be hosting a large event on day 4 late afternoon and that she had little faith in the likelihood of surviving sober something that is not an infrequent activity within her working remit but which to date has been underpinned with excessive ingestion of booze. Hard booze. My first text went out 8.21 am yesterday.

me: Are you going to have to have a drink every time you have an event like today? For the rest of your life? Four weeks time sober you could have an event like this everyday without a second thought. Don’t sacrifice all the benefit you are engineering for yourself for the sake of one meeting. Don’t go if there is even MINIMAL risk. 

I received no response and just got on with my day, bearing in mind I have my own position to consider and cultivate.  Understand please do, lest you level accusations of hypocrisy my way, that it was and is in my interests also that she doesn’t fall. I will not drink while she doesn’t, of this I am certain.  At 10.35 I tried again.

me: So? How’s the day looking for you?

her 10.48: I don’t feel well. Am in (city). Dressing the part. Acting the part. All while eyeing up the cast and extras with deep suspicion. Everything feels wrong.

(Gotta admire her euphemistic use of language. I wish I could feign ownership of that metaphor, but alas, all her work)

me 10.50: Don’t catastrophize. Look for evidence that everything is wrong. You won’t find any. Don’t let your mind betray you.

me 11.55: Don’t look for excuses TO drink.

Then our exchange ceased. I returned to my quotidian activity, thinking before expelling further consideration to the subject that she would not survive. It wasn’t until 7.07 pm that the crisis erupted and texts assumed complexion of ferocious ping pong exchanges.

her 19.07: I think one is ok.

her 19.08: We can agree that one. (She’s seeking a collective alliance, share the liability, dilute individual responsibility. She’s seeking endorsement)

me 19.08: No we can’t.

me 19.08: We have already agreed something else.

her 19.08: Please.

her 19.08: Just one.

her 19.09: Say yes.

me 19.09: I can’t stop you. You can stop you. You haven’t even given it a chance. If not now, when? There is no when. There is only now.

By now I am thinking she has already had one, by now I am trying to call her but the phone moves straight to voicemail. By now I believe she doesn’t want me to talk to her, she doesn’t want me to try talking her out of a step that would bring to a highly premature conclusion this enterprise. Finally, she answers the phone. I have no idea at this point that she has already completed the most arduous element of the event, the public speaking element. But indeed she has completed it. She had completed it unaided by chemical or pharmaceutical or alcoholic participation. The conversation was protracted, she told me how the hall was awash with available alcohol. I had to remind her England, and the rest of the western world and much of that beyond is awash with alcohol, there is always temptation, accessibility. The call ended. She told me normally at these things she would drink until the early hours, leave only when she would otherwise be the only one left. I was sure she would succumb, it was only 4 days into her own odyssey, she had exposed herself too soon, she had placed too much pressure on her fragile shoulders. She shouldn’t have gone....

her 22.07: Done. Heading home.

me 22.08: Drink free?

her 22.09: 100%

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxAKFlpdcfc

me 22.11:Truly well done. You haven’t sacrificed tomorrow for a couple of hours tonight. Thought you’d crack today.

her 22.12: So did I, with your help (that was nice of her, no need, I’m doing it for me as much as her) and a colleague at the event steering me away from the bar anytime I got near, it was a success. Don’t feel great for it yet but hoping I will.

me 22.12: You absolutely will.

I mean really, how great is that? How well do that girl do? Outfuckingstanding. So, so impressed with her resolve, especially given the additional ingredient of what would be a nerve challenging ordeal of public speaking for anyone! 

me 07.53 this morning: How do you feel gliding soberly into a weekend free of roughness probably for first time in years?

her 08.12: Odd, I woke waiting for the usual to hit me and then remembered, I’m fine (how lovely is that feeling!!!). For the first time in forever I don’t feel like a failure, I don’t feel pathetic, I don’t feel useless. There is hope. I am ok! Feel a bit embarrassed about the evident desperation which must have been observed last night (who cares? she succeeded, who cares what anyone else thinks?) but I think I might be able to actually do this. (she had better not split an infinitive again lol)

me 08.15: Careful with what you think! Positive is good but gentle! That breeds complacency. Day by day. Aren’t you pleased you didn’t drink yesterday? You wait til you pass weekend. 

me 08.17: Carry a Mars bar with you at all times (she doesn’t know I am a major shareholder in Mars Ltd, ssshhhh). That pack that comes in two small ones. it’s your emergency measure!

her 08.17: Extremely pleased. I’ll go to the shop in a bit.

End of transmission. 

How good is that? I am so, so pleased for her. I admire her strength. But eh, wait a minute. Why can’t anyone talk to me like I spoke to her? Why can’t  I talk to me like that?? How come then, that given my quarter of a century seniority on her, I have not yet conquered this in entirety? Are we back to choice? Is it because I had no-one with similar exposure talking to me when I was her age? Well, I have some thoughts on that, well of course I do! But I think for now, this blog will take refuge in weekend respite.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qy9_lfjQopU