THE HONEY DEW CAFE CHRONICLES

Tag: mental-health

  • The Beginning

    The bombs went off all around him as he clung to the side of the hill not knowing whether this was the end.

    This was my father, 28 years old, 1943, a commander of men on the Greek island of Leros during  World War Two. He’d been in the war since day one having signed up to the Royal Navy reserves in 1938.

    Like so many, he saw what was coming.

    But he never really saw what was coming, at least not for him.

    Years of stress and trauma that would leave him shattered at the war’s end. Shattered, unsupported, abandoned by the establishment that lauded him, and left to suck it up. Unequipped to talk about it, not even daring to admit to himself there might be something wrong. No, he was a man, men did not do that, men took a deep breath and carried on, not uttering a word to anyone, never showing weakness.

    Stride forth great warrior, and achieve, achieve, achieve.

    He was a war hero. He received the DSC for incredible acts of bravery, saving the lives of so many at the risk of his own. Enrolled into the Greek Sacred Regiment, he was nicknamed as one of the ‘Vikings of the Aegean’ by the local Greek partisans.

    Then he came home…

    My father.

    A wild character.

    He married my mother in early 1949, and they had their first child, Geoff, born in December of that year, then came my sister Georgie in 1952, my brother Mike in 1953 and me, in 1959.

    But he was wild, off the rails.

    He was a business wizard, turning deals, making connections, partying, gambling, not paying his taxes; everyone’s friend, what a character, what a man.

    Good old Frank.

    Good old Frank. He made my mum’s life hell, oh the stories she told me… I had to ask her to stop.

    Those years of childhood are misty to me, relying more on the stories of others, photos, and grainy home movies, movies and photos that make everything look so normal, a normal, well-to-do happy family.

    I have little snapshots mind you: being bounced up and down on my father’s tummy, him smiling up at me; the feeling of my father’s rough, unshaven cheek when giving him a kiss;  him taking me to see his yacht, acquired through some complex gambling debt from his buddy Sir Max Aitkin, his war had moved him into a giddy other world; …and of my mother trying to strangle him with his necktie in the kitchen when I was about 5 years old…

    Without knowing why, I was lost and confused, and scared.

    The devil used to speak to me.

    That is why I cut up the expensive silk curtains mum.

    I confess, I became wild and reckless myself, yet when I look back, I don’t really remember, I only see the mask; the nice guy, the reliable, good old Dave the guy everybody likes.

    What did everybody else see?

    Who knows?

    When my father died when I was 6 years old my world ended. He had told me, me and my sister, who was 7 years older than me, that he was going to kill himself. I did not know what he meant, what on earth can that mean.?

    I remember sitting in his lap, him in the armchair by the front door, he was crying, crying with such depth and despair, and I could do nothing. I then see the front door open and him gone, and I never saw him again.

    Did this really happen? I don’t know, but it is in me as clear as if it did, so something happened.

    Many years later, more than thirty, I was sitting in a small cottage up the side of the mountain in a remote part of Co. Leitrim, Ireland where I was living and working,  reading ‘FAMILIES and how to SURVIVE Them’ by John Cleese and Dr Robin Skynner.  What I had just read I don’t remember, but what I do remember was that I was hit by a  realisation, as a bolt from the blue. The book fell from my hand to the floor, I was stunned as I said quietly, out loud, “Oh, my god, I killed my dad”.

    My father died by suicide when I was 6 and I disappeared inside of myself. I became a quiet, withdrawn boy. I struggled at school. I was no trouble but I was not anything else either. My mother tried to bring me out of myself by signing me up to a child modelling agency, it was torture, I hated every minute of it, but I did what was expected of me. Anything to keep me safe. Then it emerged I was not doing well in my school work. It was an independent school and my mother was not willing to keep struggling with paying the fees if it was not going to get anywhere and she let me know that unless things improved I would be sent to the local state school.

    This terrified me, so I turned things around and excelled.

    Anything to survive. I got through. I went onto a Public School.

    In the background were my brothers and sister, and as far as I was concerned I was one of them. I did not relate to boys of my own age, but more with them, it was them that I would like to hang around with.

    Mike 6 years older, the Golden boy and my personal tormentor, Georgie, 7 years older, bright and intriguing with her cool friends, and then there was Geoff. 10 years older and in a band.

    A band that was going places. On TV, on tour with Gilbert O’Sullivan and Led Zeppelin, it was a giddy world. I learned to drink young, 11, getting drunk for the first time at my brother Geoff’s 21st birthday party. I met TV celebrities, even getting drunk at a BBC after show celebration dinner at a Chinese restaurant. What was I, 12, 13 , 14 maybe? Everyone thought it was funny!

    I would go with my mother during the school holidays to Ibiza and have to hang out with her expat cronies, and they would find the drunk little teenager cute.

    Geoff, though he was the one. He was the glory child, he was going places. He was the one who would try to buck me up, get me to grasp the nettle of life, but I was so afraid, and I was in awe of him.

    And then everything fell apart. The band kicked him out, he tried to remake himself  but it all unravelled.

    It was the Easter school holidays 1975. Mum was off to Ibiza again but I refused to go. I was 15 I would stay at home with my brothers. Then the phone call came, which I answered. Geoff was dead, suicide.

    Again suicide.

    This is where it ends for me, where my memory became erased. Blank.

    I then spent years thinking I was okay.

    Years of dangerous behaviour starting with drinking under age. I somehow kept afloat training to be a computer programmer, going from job to job, but the nice guy was off the rails. Driving like a mad man fuelled on alcohol, relishing the screams of the girls in the car. Riding motorbikes fast, high on Dodos and wine. Taking speed, mushrooms, Ganja, heroin even, and more alcohol; always alcohol.

    I wove through this in one form or another for years and years, always being the lovely guy, always getting away with it, but I never saw myself. I never saw how I had come to hate my father, and then to hate his surrogate, Geoff, and how I was trying to kill them by trying every which way I could to kill them within me. To kill me.

    These stories, these poems, these whatever’s that will appear here are what I promise are the raw truth as best as I can tell. It.

    These are my stories. My stories of a boy trying to become a man, a good man, strong man.

    Sure, I was always reliable, sincere, honest and trust worthy, these were all masks to help hide the rage, the lost warrior within me, the hapless hero throwing himself against the enemies guns.

    I have started to wake up now, and that is another story in itself, which will appear here.

    I invite you to stay with me as this story unfolds, in all its imperfections, and in no particular order, and with no particular moral or point to make. Just my exploration, my stories; make of it what you will. I hope through this I will learn. Learn who I was, who I am now, and who I am becoming.

    So, let us begin.

  • My Self

    It descends like a weary fog,

    Sending doubt

    Scattering through thoughts,

    The body feeling slow,

    Heavy,

    Clumsy.


    From where it comes

    I do not know,

    How it turns clarity

    To dust,

    I do not know.

    What to trust?


    My self,

    That’s what.

    Turn to my self,

    Myself,

    Myself who loves me, I can trust myself.

  • Listen

    There,

    There in the shadows,

    Almost unseen,

    There it lies,

    Almost unseen,

    But felt.

    A soft unease speaks,

    About what

    You are not sure,

    Yet it speaks,

    It calls for your attention,

    It needs you to hear.

    So best be still,

    Lest it startles,

    Best be still,

    Yet quietly listen.

    As it speaks,

    Quietly listen.

  • Reaction

    What do I know?

    Where do I react from?

    I can feel slighted, picked upon, have my nose put out of joint. Is it based on anything, or is it just old muddy water being stirred up clouding my vision?

    A lot of the time I really don’t know. I hear something, feel something, first inside and then it grows and grows, until, unless I am very sharp and clear sighted, very grounded and in tune, it spills out into the world and the merry-go-round begins.

    It always feels, of course, their fault. They said this, they did that, but what of it? And anyway in that state, and that which follows how can I know anything? The amygdala has locked and loaded, the cortisol and adrenaline are up and running, and all now is a threat to be repelled.

    Or, unfortunately, as so often is the case, to poke and aggravate even more, at times turning the relatively benign into the hostile.

    I am human, and therefore I am a reactive being.

    I react.

    The reaction is often strong.

    I start to go further off the rails until it is hard to come back.

    Oh dear.

    How to deal with this?

    Well, it starts here. By noticing, and then by reacting a little less often, or at least by noticing the reaction and seeing if I can let it ride out. Time moves very first when the adrenaline is up so alertness is required, brakes must be applied toute sweet.

    And then a breath, and another breath, and then one more.

    Only then, as the reaction subsides, can I evaluate what I have heard, or seen, and then respond. Respond from a place of wisdom and understanding.

    I fail at this often, and the fall out lingers, fingers get pointed, blame gets laid.

    However, each time I fail I can learn.  Each time I notice I have failed, I can wrap myself in love and compassion, forgive myself, forgive my perceived tormentor and vow to try again.

    This way success will grow in the bright light of failure. It probably has already, yet the depth of feeling when feeling slighted is strong and it feels there is no hope.

    There is hope.

    Is begins now.

    Today.

    It grows in every failure seen.

    It grows in every success celebrated. This is my quest, and its reward will be mine and all those I know and love.

  • Emotional Presence

    I was taking part in an online session with a men’s group that I am part of, the Man Program led by Andy Nathan. We were on week 6 of ‘The Masks Men Wear’, and looking into what Andy had named as the mask of the ‘Uninitiated Man’.

    We went in pairs to breakout rooms to examine a few questions, the crux of which was “… are you effectively forcing your partner to be the ‘Man of the House’ emotionally, so you can stay the ‘Child’… If she started acting exactly like you tomorrow – be reactive, check-out – would your family survive?”.

    Well my first reaction was, well of course not. Dorothy and I are do regular dialogues and go deep into many a difficult topic, and always come to a better place for it. Then in the course of the discussion I  had with my breakout buddy I had a quick and sudden realisation: “oh shit, yes I do!”.

    Now, this is not to say I don’t ever take the initiative and bring things forward, difficult and challenging things at times, but on the whole it is Dorothy who brings the truly sticky stuff forward, subjects I often feel uncomfortable with and feel quite defensive and resentful about.

    I realised that I often scold myself for not bringing up this and that, or even find myself saying to myself “… what about…? And, … huh, why don’t I ever challenge her on this…”, and I realised it could often be a rather childish and petulant response. What an eye opener!

    I am a pretty emotionally mature and self-reflective man, yet I still have these behaviour patterns that go way back, default modes of behaviour I hardly even notice because they are so ingrained. I only notice the reactions, not the behaviour pattern.

    It all, of course goes back to childhood, not being taught how do to things any differently, and certainly in my case not having any fatherly guidance. I was totally abandoned by my father, and then my surrogate father, and my mother was often distant, dealing with her own struggles, so a lot of the time my family operated in a purely functional, though loving, way.

    No wonder this is how I largely operate within relationships. Doing, being practical, getting things done and so forth, whilst thinking I am wonderfully emotionally available when a lot of the time I am not, and Dorothy is usually the one who has to pull us back on track when we are beginning to lose connection and are in danger of drifting apart, whilst I quietly tiptoe along thinking that as long as I don’t make any waves, and get ‘the jobs done’ all will be grand.

    But no this is not good enough, and to answer the other question, “… what if she started acting exactly like you tomorrow?” , well we would slowly drift further and further apart, until our relationship became emptier and emptier and then died altogether.

    So, now I see it, now I realise it. It does not mean that things will suddenly be oh, so easy, no, but it does mean that I now know where the work is, the work that I need to do, and will keep on needing to do.

    This journey, working with others, to work on myself to become a better man, a man that my beloved can see and trust and rely upon, feel safe with, is profound and is always ongoing, and always requiring vigilance. It requires doing the work, and it is worth it.

    Yes, at times it will make me feel uncomfortable and resentful, tired and even angry, but I am able to always return to the core of this endeavour and see why it feels that way. It feels that because something deeply ingrained, that needs to be examined and challenged is being put in the spotlight and is resisting. Bring it on. I thank Dorothy for her persistence and vigilance in bringing important things to my attention, and I thank myself for engaging with it and feeling what I feel and reflecting on it and then doing the work. I have a come a long way, and the journey goes on, the journey to be man I want to be: there, visible, reliable, strong, vulnerable, honest, a man of integrity, and to be seen as such.