T.L. Wright's Blog

Before I get into Mr Connolly’s latest Charlie Parker offering I must confess that I’m no literary graduate, so I probably lack the academic skills to do justice to how I feel about this latest instalment in the series, and the series as a whole, but as with most of life, I’ll wing it and see how I go.

Somehow despite the length of the Parker series it never loses its intensity or appeal.  I know I’m biased as I’ve been hooked ever since Every Dead Thing and like Thomas Harris’ The Tooth Fairy, remain an avid fan, but what struck me from the outset of The Children of Eve, is the old wedding adage of something old something new.  The ‘old’ being the characters themselves and the ‘new’ being the latest direction Parker’s quarry takes us, this time to Mexico and the illegal antiquities trade.

Another feat The Children of Eve accomplishes is the addition of two new nemeses in the form of La Senora and Eugene Seeley, to be added to a long list of incredible counterparts.  Maybe it’s some corrupt aspect of my soul but I particularly enjoy a really well thought out foe, one who isn’t completely damned to allow you to root for them a little.  Not Mr Pudd, he was and always will be cannon fodder in my eyes, but what I really love is the ones like Seeley, The Collector and even Quayle, who all have a unique code that makes them interesting enough to secretly hope they stick around for a little while, if just to agitate Parker and annoy Louis.

I won’t give away any spoilers as I detest the internet for that but it’s safe to say you won’t be disappointed as it’s rare to find any book, let alone a series, that combine action, suspense, and a supernatural element all whilst underpinned by a rare poignancy that sits with you long after the last page is turned.

Hopefully it won’t come as too much of a shock to divulge that one of my recently acquired anxiety silencers is going through favourite books and noting out quotes and lines that resonate – I find it particularly soothing and as you may have guessed, I’ve started with John Connolly.  One of my favourites from The Children of Eve is:

In the marshes, in the moonlight, Jennifer Parker listened.  The children were calling out again, the same words repeated like an incantation or a summoning, howling like animals desperate to be found.

No, not that alone, she thought.

Desperate to be reunited.

Some others that I have picked from the series I’ll share below and leave it to Parker fans to correctly ascribe them:

At my feet, a trapdoor stood open.  It was made of heavy oak bound with iron, and below it a flight of stone steps led into a patch of bright yellow light.  I had found the entrance to the honeycomb world.

All was coming apart around me, and I did not know what to do, so I sat instead among snow and ice on a rotted tree trunk, and willed clocks to stop.

And so we fell like stars, and at the moment of impact I wrapped the tattered remnants of charred black wings around me, and the fires went out at last.

He rises, removes his cap, and offers a prayer, because he cannot think of what else to do for her.  For this young woman in an old land, waiting to be found.

Not quite as demanding as a cryptic crossword in The Times which Mr Quayle would attest to, but sufficiently satisfying nonetheless.

I find it fascinating how many times a day we perform certain tasks without consciously realising it.  I’m not sure it’s wise to admit the amount of times I’ve pulled up somewhere in the car and can’t remember the journey, or been diligently working away and noticed the washing machine with no recollection of braving my daughter’s bedroom to hunt for dirty clothes.

Fourteen years after losing my dad, I find grief has become a semi-conscious task I manage without realising. 

Grief is akin to the ultimate silent business partner, happily it will linger in the shadows and then when you’re least expecting it, it’ll turn up unannounced demanding to see the books!

Unfortunately, there are no guidebooks for grief, I know, I’ve looked!  Sure, there are self-help books but nothing that truly sums up how instinctively picking up a multi pack of walnut whips at Christmas (because for a split second you forget their gone) will leave you crying in the middle of Asda.

One universal platitude is true though, it does get easier with time. 

Now I take comfort from the blanket of memories stored within my skin and the wealth of joy that recollection brings.  If I stroke the mole on my left forearm I remember the one he had on his outer right arm that used to have dangly hairy ‘legs’ that I called spidey from being little and if I look long enough at my reflection I catch a glimpse of his looking back.

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal” – Richard Puz

Remember, whilst grief might not be a tangible asset our memories are, they are weighted in decorative frames or are captured in favoured cardigans sewn into cushions, they are a bountiful river pulsing through our veins.

So if those storm clouds roll in, let that river wash over you and carry you home.

You never forget your first crush, for me it was Anthony Edwards’ Goose in Top Gun.  While the majority of the population swooned over Maverick I was #CampGoose

Imagine my horror when he was brutally ejected head first into the canopy!  For years I held Tom Cruise accountable – I genuinely boycotted all his movies with the exception of Interview with a Vampire and Collateral (I vehemently deny Jerry Maguire is a ‘Cruise’ vehicle; the stars were Cuba Gooding Jnr and that cute little kid who was in Stuart Little).  However, after decades of stalwart resentment, I accepted perhaps it was time to seek closure and so I watched Top Gun 2 and found Tom Cruise whispering talk to me Gooseto be an unexpected reminder of just how profound an impact voicing your worries can be.

Growing up in the 80s kids were expected to be seen not heard; and when it came to my inner demons I took that literally and bound myself in silence until eventually it became suffocating.

Heavy hearts like heavy clouds in the sky, are best relieved by the letting of a little water – Christopher Horley

Eventually I reached a point where my mental health became too much to bear and while medication enabled me to better function, talking to a counsellor was truly a healing prescription which allowed me to breathe again.

While it’s been over a decade since I first nervously sat in my then therapist’s waiting room, the impact of talking therapy has never left me and has become a ritual of sorts.  After all, the one constant companion with us in this journey is ourselves, so a healthy internal dialogue is crucial:

Self-talk is the most powerful form of communication because it either empowers you or it defeats you – Emma Gee

The one thing I’ve found is that it’s far easier to make regular spaces for reflection now than to have to rebuild yourself later.  So why not make the time when you can, it doesn’t matter whether it’s a gap between school runs, or five minutes in the car sat on the drive, our lives are threaded with routine from the moment we wake up and brush our teeth, and while positive self-talk may not keep plaque at bay but it may well keep anxiety away.

Journaling has also become an outlet of sorts, both for positive affirmations and also for letting go and remembering only to hold onto the things that matter.  When I’m in the grips of imposter syndrome I like to speed write my negative thoughts, returning to themlater in the day when normal service has resumed and I can challenge them with rationale and reason.

However you move forward do it with more compassion for yourself than you had before and be your own wingman.

If anyone asks me what my favourite Disney film is my instant reply is Aladdin – who can resist the musical scores and the incomparable Robin Williams at his ad-libbing big energy best.  However, a close runner up to would be Dumbo, which earned its place in my heart for entirely different reasons.

Before I knew the words to articulate what was troubling my mind from a very young age, I looked at that shy creature who felt awkward in his own body, ostracised by his peers and found a kindred spirit.

Already my heart rate has risen just addressing the elephant in the room but hopefully if I type quick enough it’ll be over and done with painlessly; I live with depression.  What I’d really like to say is I’ve battled depression and ‘won’, but in truth I never emerge the victor, I just hold on, which I suppose is all any of us can do in this life when faced with the worst it has to throw at us.

The few times I’ve confessed my issues outside of family I’ve been met with either surprise or derision; which is why many times in the past when my health has declined I’ve subconsciously withdrawn from my friends and career. 

I refer to my breakdown as my ‘gap year’ because it’s easier than saying I woke up one morning and everything was as it always was, the walls around me were familiar, I had the same porridge for breakfast and waved at the neighbours, replying “aye, not bad” when they casually asked if I was okay.  Yet within seven hours my mental health took such a turn I ended up in A&E and my life nearly ended, but truthfully that’s where it began and to coin the phrase of Gavin and Stacey’s Bryn, “I’ll tell you for why”…I finally told the ugly truth. 

Don’t get me wrong, in the fragile state I was in I wasn’t able to belt out This is Me in true Greatest Showman fashion, but I managed to muster what little courage I had left and admit everything to numerous strangers and most daunting of all, to my husband who miraculously didn’t run a mile. 

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds” – Laurell K. Hamilton. 

I was prescribed medication, which I still take, I attended numerous counselling sessions and workshops and slowly I started to feel like ‘me’ again, the darkness began to recede and light started to filter through, showing me a way back.  I know I’ll never be rid of it, which is a frightening thought, but you can’t outrun an illness, nor can you function when denying its presence…it’s just a part of who I am, it’s not the whole jigsaw, just one little puzzle piece. 

Depression and anxiety stimulate a whole spectrum of physical symptoms for me, which usually involve palpitations, panic attacks, shaking, nausea, nightmares, insomnia but the worst part is how I feel locked in my own head with a channel of self-loathing playing non-stop that I can’t turn off.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned between that night and now is expanding what I refer to as my magic circle – that is the immediate network of people I trust to talk to when I have a ‘wobble’ or fall off the metaphysical wagon and my newly acquired work family has been a huge part of my ongoing recovery. 

Most of us probably spend more time with our colleagues than our spouses so it makes sense to articulate all pertinent health needs, particularly the ones invisible to the eye, to enable the best version of yourself to shine through.  If you had a physical limitation you wouldn’t hesitate to request the necessary adjustments to your workspace, whether this resulted in a different chair, or an ergonomic keyboard, so why be reluctant when it comes to a simple conversation around your mental wellness?  I honestly believe with the right adjustments and understanding we are all capable of reaching our best.

The biggest step toward recovery is talking, having someone to listen without an agenda and making it a priority to keep talking, and reaching out, so that when you really need to, that network is already in place.

Above all else remember the wise words of Timothy Mouse “The very things that hold you down are going to lift you up”.

After years of hiding out in Document Production I’m soon to embark on a new role as Client Care Associate and as usual imposter syndrome has reared its ugly head. For me it’s the first time I’ll really flex my legal skills since being a residential conveyancer pre-kids/marriage/breakdown (for the sake of clarification the breakdown actually came before the kids and marital status; surprising I know).

How strange it is that the moment we achieve something we immediately are suspicious of our worthiness of it? I think Sylvia Plath put it best when she wisely advised “The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt”.

I don’t talk much about my breakdown, mainly because at the time I was barely functioning let alone speaking, and because it’s easier not to. It’s much easier when people ask what I did in that empty window to refer to it as my ‘gap’ year and reference some obscure place than to admit I barely left the sofa, cried at the most stupid things and developed an unhealthy obsession with that guy who presents Homes Under The Hammer.

Can you imagine what we could only achieve if we didn’t live in fear; of not being a good enough parent/sibling/child/colleague. Social media has a subconscious hand in our self-worth, but truthfully the transparent glass ceiling is constructed of our own hand.

We’ve all felt that debilitating heart stopping punch of fear that stops us in our tracks either personally or professionally. It could be that moment when the adjudicator starts the academic clock on your final paper, or a lover that makes you feel anything but – heart hammering, ears pounding, mouth dry…fear has us in its paralysing grip.

But what if it didn’t have to be that way?

The one common factor that fear exudes regardless of circumstance is how it isolates us. Causing us to internally retreat from those around us, promoting partition from our immediate environment.
What if that same fear that conspires to divide us, toys with our emotions and seeks to undermine our ambition wasn’t as forbidding as it would have us believe? What if we could fail safely? What if we never truly failed…only learned.

“Some of the best lessons we ever learn are learned from past mistakes. The error of the past is the wisdom and success of the future”: Dale Turner.

Maybe it’s time to turn that tables on failure. Perhaps it’s time we saw it for what it is, a lesson on growth and a reminder to have the courage to succeed.

Because while the noise of the 21st century might be tinnitus inducing at times and fear can seem crippling when it strikes, it is only temporary, whereas our resolve and courage to press forward we carry with us all the time. Courage streams through our veins. It is present in the constant steady hum of our heartbeat to the way we rise each day ready to great the world anew and if it falters remember the people and resources around you.

My dad used to say that if you enjoy your job then it’s not work and he was, as always, on the money. I think the two most important things when it comes to your career are finding the right team and learning to let go of the fear of failure and while it’s never easy mustering up the courage to take those shackles off, if your struggling then look to the person sat next to you, or you’re go-to buddy on Teams – use your colleagues as your parachute and trust that they will catch you because whilst you might fall, you’ll never fail.

Have you ever had an affair?  Personally, my nerves couldn’t take it, all the clandestine meetings and coded texts.  Plus, I feel like a ‘proper’ adulteress would own tights and wear matching underwear rather than cartoon socks and sports bras.  Also, I’m a creature of habit, I like the same skin to covet, a lover’s knowledge gleaned from lazy weekends in bed and (many) nights when I just can’t sleep, tracing a constellation of moles and scars like a well-thumbed map.

However, that said, this week…I’ve cheated. 

There I said it, turns out my old priest was right; confession truly is good for the soul.  I just had a weird flashback of my 10 year old self stuck in that stuffy vertical coffin trying to come up with something to purge from my conscience and silent prayers on unforgiving pews.

Now before you brand me with the scarlet letter I would like to clarify that I have not done the dirty on my husband, you see my lurid act of passion was with a book.

We’ve all been there surely, we read something so beautiful, so captivating that resonates with our psyche in ways our loved ones could only hope to reach, that we suffer the eternal dilemma; what to read next?  What could possibly follow after something so heartstoppingly poignant?

So, I decided to be reckless, I couldn’t possibly read something of the same genre because it would be like comparing children (although admit it we say we don’t but we all have a secret favourite).  Instead, I went rogue and plumped for something completely different and whilst it was fun at first tearing off the jacket in the first throes of passion, stroking the pages and sniffing the long-dried ink, I must say, the encounter left me feeling somewhat unsatisfied and if I’m totally honest, I was thinking of Fyneshade the whole time.

There we have it, the Governess of my dark little heart – Marta, ever since reading Fyneshade I can’t get the story of Marta out of my mind, but that is no bad thing, when you love something you always want more.  Such is the joy of books, they transport us, and they stay with us long after the spine has contracted.

Ever since being little I’ve been interested in folklore and wicca.  Like most girls I fell in love with Salem of Sabrina the Teenage Witch fame but unlike most my thirst for magic and ritual could not be sated and failed to wane. 

Whilst I started with Roald Dahl’s The Witches and went on to name my mice William and Mary in homage, I later discovered Alice Hoffman’s Practical Magic and realised my obsession was rooted far deeper than parchment.  I was besotted by the antiquity of ritual, the familial cultivation of grimoires and the comforting cloak of moonlight.

I devoured works like Witchlight, The Daylight Gate, Cunning Folk and the Discovery of Witches trilogy like a fun size Mars bar and tried levitating my friend after downing too much cheap vodka and watching The Craft on repeat.

I love stories that steer away from the kitsch imagery that Halloween casts and instead focus on the extraordinariness of the everyday blessings nature leaves at our doorstep.  Subtle works by Sarah Addison Allison that enchant by the page.

But just as time casts day and night, magic teaches us light and shade.

Marta is the perfect antiheroine, all polished poise on the surface and calculated rage beneath; slowly drowning in the hysteria and sexism of the time.

Fyneshade perfectly captures the bias of knowledge and how it has always been wielded in man’s favour and how little that grip has yielded in the eras since spent. 

After all a spell is no more than a well tuned recipe, a cure for an ailment, and yet women were ridiculed for their wisdom, accused of heresy, cast out, tortured and drowned by hands they had previously shook.

There is something cloying between the pages of Fyneshade, something cold and bitter that seeps through the skin and leaves its mark just as Marta left hers in chalk on centuries old passageways that refused to give up their ghosts.

This book is a tale of woe.  A reminder to open the shutter that surrounds our hearts and let the shadows unfurl, and what may manifest in the encroaching dark when we fail to do so. 

I have to say I’m not the luckiest of folk; I’m the wrong side of 40 with bilateral kidney stones, osteoarthritis, a chequered history when it comes to mental health and my Dances with Wolves name is ‘Drinks for Comfort’,. However…two exceptional things have happened in the past decade; first, I was lucky enough to win a proof copy of @mariankeyes’ The Break AND a matching tote bag which I still take on little ‘jaunts’ here and there, I don’t sully her with shopping, I just strap her in the passenger seat and confess all my sins as I window shop bags I’ll never afford and clothes I’ll never fit in. This, I thought, was the height of my success. But then along came a spider (cheeky Mr Pudd reference) in the human form of @Bookish_Becky who very kindly provided me after much groveling with a proof copy of @jconnollybooks’ The Land of Lost Things.

Let me tell you when the coveted bookmail arrived I must have sounded like Ursula the sea witch I laughed so manically, greedily clutching it to my chest like Golum #KeepItSecretKeepItSafe and then, cautiously and with much reverence, like these fancy wine types do with a bottle of merlot, I gently skimmed the pages and had a good old nose of it before giddily opening the cover.

Now, I won’t give away spoilers as I despise of people ruining surprises but I will divulge one major plot twist I DID NOT see coming; I didn’t consume it in my usual 24 hours when it comes to all things Connolly/Parker, and in the words of Bryn of Gavin and Stacey fame adopts dubious Welsh accent “I’ll tell you for why”; it upset me. Not in the #airfanyourtearswithyourhand way the stars do, by upset I mean it made me bawl unashamedly ugly ass tears that I didn’t know I was still holding back – but I assure you this is by no means a criticism of the book, if anything, I had to take a wee emotional break due to the poignancy of the writing and the way it transported me back 13 years to the side of my dad’s ICU bed.

Before you question my devotion to all things Connolly let me tell you I am THAT kind of fan I had my dad’s old paperback of Every Dead Thing dedicated to him by the great author himself and whenever some upheaval happens in life it’s the first thing stowed in my bag and in the house it’s never usually further than arm’s reach from me. That old battered book has become a literary totem representing equally my love of books and my dad – it anoints all new arrivals to my TBR pile as one would swear by the Bible in a Court of law and whenever the absence of my father is too painful I run my fingers gently over the creased spine as tenderly as I applied cream to his cracked feet as he went through chemo, pick any page and immediately float somewhere between this world and the next.

Now back to the Land of Lost Things; and what a befitting title. As I’ve come to expect from Mr Connolly, the novel is a story within a story, its deliciously gothic lore subconsciously heightening your senses whilst quietly but firmly dragging you into his honeycomb world.

Most of my life I can pretty much pin point through books, and I remember all too well as Taylor Swift would quip my dad messaging me with smugness that he’d got a copy of The Book of Lost Things when it first came out and our joint race to finish it so we could bask in the glory and enjoy picking over the literary spoils for days – in fact I could practically hear him chuckling in my ear all these years later as I sat with the curtains drawn and The Land of Lost Things in my lap as the crooked man emerged from print.

While TLOLT stands up as a sequel it stands out all in its own and for me I took it to my heart even more so than the first. It shook me to the core at first in how true Ceres and Phoebe’s plight is – the reality of caring for someone who is in that place between; neither here nor there…

Yet when I resumed reading what really resonated with me was its message of hope – the hope that keeps not just Ceres going but all of us fighting for those we love, the limitless depths of love and what it can endure.

I remembered the weeks going back and forth to hospital while 8+ months pregnant and sitting beside all the machines he was shrouded by and their soft lights and mechanical groans…I swear Greenwich Mean Time does not apply in those places, yet I had hope – because love endures.

As always, Mr Connolly delivers on the macabre delivering plenty of unnerving moments to raise the hairs at the back of your neck. It has that beautiful balance of being delightfully dark whilst interspersed with shards of light just when you need them.

Finally, whilst I won’t give anything away and ruin your experience, I have to give a shout out to Olivier; from the moment I discovered him I instantly thought of Jon Coffey of the Green Mile and smiled. He reminded me of one of the nurses who dabbed a damp sponge on my father’s lips when they were cracked weeks after the tracheotomy. Because the loved ones who can’t speak for themselves still deserve our time and our care and most of all, for us to remember they’re still here.

So I implore you to forgo your compass and go in search of the Land of Lost Things and lose yourself.

Okay…so it’s been a while; dear god I think I’ve just written my future Tinder bio!  At least I wouldn’t be one of those irritating Jesus pushers who manage to cram red flag phrases like ‘trustworthy’ and ‘god fearing’ into their character limit.  Although thanks to an emergency tooth extraction giving the impression I consult the same dental practice as Joe Exotic’s ex-husband, I’d definitely have to use a fake profile pic. 

Speaking of fake, I never did obtain the elusive Blue Peter badge.  I’ve never owned double sided sticky tape either (who even sells that) – I did buy one off Ebay but the print wore off and the ship didn’t look like it was watertight.

On the topic of honesty I have to say I am not at all pleased with Elon Musk (if that even is their real name *narrows eyes*) and his stripping of the blue tick to help him amass an even greater fortune; it reminds me of Ross complaining about having to choose between Julie and Rachel and Chandler’s scathing response: “my wallet’s too small for my fifties and my diamond shoes are too tight”.  But what can we expect of someone from Trumpland where everything must be Yuge and white bigots teach men to grab what they want.

I’m sorry if I seem a bit OTT, normally owing to a constant steady IV drip of rum I’m quite a chilled out person but it’s really riled me up.  I feel like Jerry Maguire typing up his mission statement (which is the only film I can tolerate Tom Cruise in and that’s only because Cuba Gooding Jnr and that little boy steal every scene – the rest of his back catalogue can burn in hell along with his polo necks, hummus and Maverick’s leather jacket #JusticeForGoose).  He’s turning Twitter into his little personal piggy bank and picking who he wants to ‘gift’ a blue tick too like some narcissistic PE teacher picking favourites at rounders!

Don’t get me wrong I’m not precious about most so-called celebrities and bit coin peddlers losing their pin badges, but don’t remove them from authors: I have a jam jar prescription and the blue tick makes the ones I follow easier to spot…I swear I’m developing a twitch already from having to squint so much at my screen in order to find them. 

This might seem small fry to a big fish like Musk, but for us bookies, writers are the glue that keeps us going.  Take one of my all-time favourite human beings @MarianKeyes for example; she of THE fringe, the ailments and the words…many times she has wrapped me up in a literary blanket as I’ve gingerly lifted my head back up after a bout of depression, always there sparkling wit, profound wisdom and of course, legendary abbreviations such as TPB = The Poor Bastard!  My relationship to Marian is unrequited of course, but alas the heart wants what it wants, it was that classic case of girls discovers author, girl buys author’s entire back catalogue including paperback/hardback editions of every book and extra copies where a special cover has been revealed.  My husband didn’t realise how bad my obsession became until we’ve come to move house and he stupidly went to move what he thought were empty suitcases only to discover the first of many literary stashes!

And if you scoff, call me a fossil and angrily shout books are dead I will roar unashamedly “What is dead cannot die” and I would bet Theon Greyjoy pops in your head or as Ramsey knew him better; Reek *waves Richmond sausage in honour* because as with lots of amazing films/TV shows, they have the benefit of being adapted from a gem of a novel(s) and effortlessly become part of mainstream pop culture.

You see already I’m losing steam because I’ve been thinking about George RR Martin’s epic bountiful Song of Ice and Fire and just thinking about the weight of those pages makes my soul take a happy deep intake of breath.  And I have tried to do better, I did allow a Kindle in the house (for my husband) but it’s not just about the story, it’s the physicality of collecting books too.  That’s what some people don’t get and what my husband to his horror, is only just discovering now we’re moving…it’s the smell, the texture and…dare I say it, okay I will, this is a safe space: the taste!  Yes I said it…I have, on occasion, licked a book, just a little tickle, tip of the tongue I promise! 

And like the true bibliophile I am, it’s not just my collections that make me happy, it’s seeing others too!  That’s why I love Twitter so much, I see fellow bookies popping up their TBR piles and bask in their glow.  Following bookstores like @gutterbookshop and seeing their gorgeous displays makes me feel more whole than a warm bowl of porridge on an autumn morning.

But now I’ve hit a snag, you see now the husband’s emptied the loft and now he’s taking his ridiculous OCD to the rest of the rooms and I don’t think either of us are ready for what he’s going to find.  You see there’s the books he knows about, the books he’s found, the books on display…then there are the others!  The ones I’ve intercepted and snuck into the house in a variety of disguises including my kids lunch bags (I’m not proud; well maybe a tiny bit), the ones I’ve hid wrapped in cling film behind the bath panel, the four that are perilously tied to the bottom of the bed slats with leftover bunting and that’s just naming a few hot spots.

I was honest when we first got together.  He always knew I loved books, in fact in the beginning he openly encouraged it – he bought me Under the Dome by Stephen King when I was pregnant and I devoured it, thus creating a new obsession and I became a Constant Fan.  It was just that when he asked how many books I owned I did the equivalent of what we all do when asked how many sexual partners we’ve had…I fudged the numbers!

But Mr Musk (just typing that name reminds me of my Nan’s obsession with Yardley) Twitter isn’t about numbers, it’s about people.  It’s about community and bringing together all the things we love one Tweet at a time and threading them into an eclectic global quilt, something we can all grab a corner of and pull over us when pay day is three weeks away and already the fuel meter is making demands, when your sister in law says you look better when you make an effort and a colleague in the Teams chat asks if you need to up your meds. 

It’s a refuge to visit at 3am in the morning to find a stranger kind enough to distract you from a panic attack.

It’s one bit beautiful scrapbook in the sky held together by millions of souls and it shouldn’t be about fame and fortune.

It’s about good people coming together to elevate each other.

And most importantly, it’s about books, lots of books!

Drag your mind from the gutter will you.  I confess after I’ve drank enough rum to fell a small elephant I’ve been known to flick through the channels and linger voyeuristically over Naked Attraction for longer than I’d care to admit (it’s actually quite liberating as a woman seeing all those Fu-Fus and realising you’re lady purse isn’t all that bad) but I didn’t sneak upstairs with the laptop to talk about ejaculant!  Although when it comes to cum, I follow Al Pacino’s advice from The Devil’s Advocate:

Look but don’t touch

Touch but don’t taste

Taste…but don’t swallow

And god only knows 2020 has been a bitter pill to swallow, particularly as its parting gift has been 2020 +1: The Deluxe Edition.

And on top of the never-ending lockdowns and the make-up stained face masks which I can only wear with contacts as they fog up my glasses more effectively than opening the oven door (honestly I look like I’m stepping onto a heavily smoked 80s rock video) Mr Grey decided to pay me a visit when no one else could.

I say Mr Grey, what I mean is depression – but the former is easier to reference in public and less likely to attract scorn – much in the same way as I refer to my break down as my ‘gap year’; minus the crippling student debt.

Don’t get me wrong it wasn’t a complete surprise, after countless counselling sessions I understand myself enough to recognise certain behaviours which act as a warning flag.  Impulse buying is definitely a giveaway, forget toilet roll the only thing I started panic buying was books…lots of books and rum!  But then it took a turn for the random, with me ordering furniture we didn’t need and that I hadn’t even measured for. 

I started hacking at my hair.  You’d think I would have learned something from my abysmal attempt at the hubby’s thatch when he when he was left looking more Travis Barker than Tommy Shelby, but alas eagerly I chopped away at my barnet with the kitchen scissors until all my ill-perceived dead ends were gone, along with half the length.  I looked like Lloyd Christmas.  The timing could have been better – I had a Teams call the following day and all I could think as I stuck my head under the bathroom tap to flatten it was Phoebe addressing Ross after Monica’s disastrous do in Friends: “I’ve put a clip on one side to stop the curling”. 

My skin became a buffet!  Not the all you can eat open sandwich affair type, but when my anxiety hits overdrive I start to pick at my skin.  Well, less pick, more gouge, and like a tube of BBQ pringles, once I start, it’s hard to stop.  Already I’m trying to conjure ways I can disguise all the purple scars on my calves when it’s gets to summer without looking like the Tango man! 

There were many other signs too.  The worst for me are the constant intrusive thoughts that gnaw away.

What sucks balls is the shame that comes with every reemergence of it.  The failure I still associate with asking for help, so it took a while to seek it and I buried myself in work in a fever of denial until it became too great a burden to bear.  I remember my then boss saying: “I need that strong confident woman I saw at interview” and all I thought was me too, but all I’m getting is her voicemail and out of office.

What really did my box in was the fact that I was being a good girl and taking my antidepressants.  I was practicing my self-care and mindfulness and I so desperately wanted to make my new role in IT work so why did it have to rear up now.  But the truth is there is no magic prescription, there is no medicine for the mind – there are only balms and parlor tricks that temporarily grant us reprieve.

Before my ‘gap year’, when my head was a pressure cooker and my only coping strategy was self-harm

I worked for a managing partner of a large national law firm and would prepare bundles and pleadings while secretly cutting in the toilets after making a shank out of whatever I could forage in the stationery cupboard (I’d be amazing in Prison Break) and even though it’s been years since the last time, whenever that dark cloud manifests, those little whispers start.

After a few months my hair started to rapidly thin and my dermatitis flared up and I just hit the wall (not the show hosted by Danny Dyer) and my wonderful better half scooped me up and helped me find a way back.

Because there is always a way back, it may not be obvious, it might not shimmer like the yellow brick road glistening tantalizingly in front of you, it might be a hidden treacherous winding route, but you will find your path. 

My GP put me in touch with their mental health practitioner and my tablets got changed a few times, and while I surfed the chemical highway looking for the glass slipper of antidepressants, I discovered a few things whilst signed off. 

Firstly, I had consumed enough Lindt chocolate that my arse had gone up a knicker size and could now work the washing machine all on its own, it felt like a superpower until the mortifying moment in Tesco’s car park when a woman in a sporty Mazda looked at me in horror after my backside nearly took out her driver’s side wing mirror causing her to swiftly retract them (the flash git).

Also, whilst I can’t commit to reading (always a giveaway something’s a foot) re-reading a well-loved book is a soothing tonic; you can start anywhere in the wrappedinawarmhug comfort of knowing the outcome thus removing any anxiety over the welfare of the characters (what can I say, when I emotionally invest in something I’m all in).

Finally, I can’t stress the enough the importance of a support network, it doesn’t have to be a bustling entourage to rival Stormzy, just a handful of confidantes will suffice, so long as they can be counted on to answer your call as opposed to screening it.

Just remember while you’re swimming through the Upside Down and life seems a foreign landscape,  nothing lasts forever, even the pain you feel right now, at some point the clocks will stop, the wound will heel and the pieces will fit again.  I can tell you with the certainty of experience and because Friends Don’t Lie.

However you cling on, be assured that it is worth it, and there will be a moment where the dark clouds will recede and the sky will clear and you’ll be able to step outside (for an hour’s exercise) and greet the world again, albeit at a 2 metre distance.

Take care, nurse every inch.

Okay so it’s been a little while and I’ve got to admit, I’m not in the best of places.  In fact, right now its midday and I’m still in my dressing gown, wondering when the pharmaceuticals are going to kick in.  Below is a little blog I wrote for my work while everyone struggled to pick up Teams and I was (unbeknownst to me) sliding down the rabbit hole towards another bout of depression.  Sometimes the greatest strength is asking for help…

One enduring message I’ve learnt in life is that time really is our most precious commodity, which is the silver lining I take from this pandemic. 

Of course there is a measure of truth to the old adage ‘the devil makes work for idle hands’ and there have been moments over the past months were I have found myself de-crumbing the toaster at 2:00am, practicing my eye roll and, after a few large rum and cokes, shaving my husband’s head after my pop-up barbershop left him looking less Tommy Shelby and more Lloyd Christmas! 

Yet for every night twice the bright, and despite the lows, holding my children, whispering promises that today’s ‘forever’ is just a moment because as the sun will shine, every storm will pass; there have been moments to treasure!  Building dens in the living room, growing flowers from seed, attending a teddy bear’s picnic, playing noughts and crosses using last Christmas’ fake snow and clapping for the real life heroes underpinning our NHS. 

Because that’s what we do as a species, when faced with an unknowable threat, we hunker down and we adapt, using the resources we have to breakdown those Perspex shields, open the doors we cannot cross and travel the miles we can’t bridge to remind each other that we’re all but a hop, skip and a webcam away.  Even a fossil like me has learnt to master Teams, albeit in the beginning the tech was the teacher and I had to sit through many YouTube videos before I ‘got’ it.  Then there was no stopping me!  I even had one of those role reversal moments when I had to help my sister who’s a college lecturer, learn how to share her PowerPoints and present through it.  Normally I’m Chuckie to her Will Hunting but this time the roles reversed and she was the student #How’dYaLikeDemApples.  Okay I didn’t actually say that to her in the slightly aggressive Southie accent that Matt Damon projected in the film but it did give me an inner secret smug that made me feel slightly less of a dunce.

Just as there is no ‘i’ in team, you can share your screen with lots of lovely faces, it’s a virtual Celebrity Squares.  There’s even a digital whiteboard with built in pens (without the risk of any of them drying out) and a neat little eraser because hey, nobody’s perfect.  Speaking of perfection, I even managed to change my background to look like one of those ‘minimalist’ chic Insta worthy houses thus cunningly glossing over the ironing pile, pots and tea stained tiles of my kitchen-come-office.

The best thing is if like me, your memory is more Dory than Data inclined, it helpfully it retains chat history and even enables you to ‘react’ to statements through emojis and best of all – you can gif!!!!! 

Collectively we share the same sky and dreams, Teams is yet another reminder of how we truly are better together and that no task is insurmountable.