It kind of feels redundant to say, but I hate death. It rips me apart. I haven't
experienced the death of a loved one - yet - but having seen the impact of that
loss on others around me, those I love and respect, I definitely do not relish
Instead, I experience that loss vicariously. I see the emptiness in them, that
sudden void that once was filled with someone important to them opening up and
sucking in their happiness, their hopes, their safety. A black hole, yawning
and destroying them from the inside.
And that breaks me. As a Rescuer
I see their pain and I can't fix it. As an empath, the sudden darkness in
someone's eyes flashes through me and overwhelms me. There is absolutely
nothing I can do about it - no filling in the hole, no telling a joke to cheer
someone up, no promises about the future that don't feel vacuous in the moment.
So that pain transfers to me - and because of my own relationship with sadness
I reject it totally and bottle it up. Tears leak out, but ultimately I swallow
up that sadness and it eats away inside me. It feels like there's a big dam
inside, holding back a flood of sadness, and this just adds to it.
Having struggled at times over the past couple of years with considering my own
mortality, the one thing that kept me going was thinking about the horror of
such a loss being visited upon those who love and care for me - the fact that
there are such people is something I've had to drill into me due to my low self
esteem. And so I carry on.
Part of my work on self care is to try to cook for myself - from scratch - at
least one evening per week. I'm always really happy to cook for others, but I
find it hard to cook for myself - there's probably something in there about not
considering myself worth cooking for. So here is the first in a series of
recipes (I hope) that I use to treat myself.
I've recently been playing with risottos - I've got a couple of friends with
vegan or FODMAP dietary needs who I
like to cook for. Risottos are excellent in that they're really easy to prepare
and make tasty, and the rice provides a great base for all sorts of flavours.
Here's a recent recipe I've been using - like a lot of my cooking, it's formed
from an understanding of how something is prepared, not necessarily from a
formalized recipe from another source. I'm sure I do something wrong, or miss a
trick with it - but this one works for me!
Today marks two years since I wrote to a counsellor and said
"I'm not happy." Since then, I've seen Jo pretty much once a week for fifty
minutes at a time.
I'm not going to lie. It's not been easy. As someone who spent 33 years of his
life not talking about myself - not really anyway - I almost resented it. I
dodged some appointments, dreading it. I was combative with her; closed. I
wanted her to drive the conversation and ask all the questions - I had to plan
what I was going to say on the car drive over, panicking that I had nothing.
But the fact remained that on some level I knew I was hurting, that something
was pretty wrong - that for some unknown or specious reason, I was unhappy, and
had no way of identifying or fixing it on my own. I knew I'd be resistant to
the experience, so I set up an obligation. I'd go and see her, because
otherwise I'd disappoint her.
As time went by, this experience didn't change - I'd be stand-offish, double-
guessing every suggestion of hers, trying to out-silence her. No progress, no
openness, nothing. Sure, I shared some big news pieces with her, frustrations
etc. but it was all just something to get done and get over with.
I started this blog hoping to be a lot more profilic than I actually have
been. I have quite a few topics to cover. But my lack of motivation has
stymied that, although I take some slight comfort in this blog fulfilling
the fate of numerous others. My piece of writing On Hills
has been quite important to me, so here's another very personal piece.
I have had, for me, a rough couple of years. I've been through redundancy,
death, breakup and more. All have taken their toll on me enough that, at the
beginning of last year, I started counselling.
This was not easy for me. I am quite a closed person, emotionally; I rarely
share and I always concentrate on how the listener will receive my words rather
than on the expressing of them. As such, I hold things in. And they eat away at
I've recently been having a bit of a tough time with things in my life in general, and part of my efforts to become happier have led to
talking about it a bit more. I was trying to talk about how I've always coped (poorly) with responsibilities and events in my future, and
I came up with the following analogy.
From the valley, I look up at the hill that rises above me. I've agreed to meet someone - a friend; a colleague; a customer - on the
other side at a set time. I've got my walking boots, my jacket, a tent - all the gear that I know, through experience, I need. From here,
the hill doesn't look very high, and it wouldn't take me too long to climb over the top. I could, of course, just go over the side of it,
but the perfectionist in me only sees the summit.
I walk to the foot of the hill, but take my time about it - it won't take me long to climb, and I've never failed to meet someone before,
so why rush? Just behind it, I can see another hill I need to climb after to meet someone else; no big deal.
I finally get to a time when I could really just start the climb, and I look at the hill and... it's a bit taller than I thought; from
here, at the bottom, it looks like a tougher climb. I've made them before, but something stops me; I've still got time, I'll camp out and
tackle it tomorrow. I'll make the meet, no problem.
Tomorrow comes, and the hill is still there. As are the two hills behind that. All of them need summitting, but I've not even started the
first one. Still time, but I'm conscious of all the time I've wasted so far. I could have climbed all three already and relaxed on the
Why the hell couldn't I do that? Why didn't I? Now I've got less time to climb than I could have done if I'd started yesterday. I can
envisage me failing to make the climb, and disappointing the person I'm supposed to meet. Yet that fear of failure snowballs, rather than
spurs me on, and I sit in my tent, beating myself up over it. Instead of taking action to get in front, I start playing this horrible
game of brinksmanship with my responsibility. A cycle of angst.
It takes me incredible effort, but with just about enough time to do it, I pack up my tent and start climbing, hating myself on the way
up. And yet suddenly, without breaking a sweat, I'm at the top of the hill, looking down - of course I made it! Of course I could do
this! Why did I ever doubt myself? Why didn't I do this sooner? It was so easy!
I look back behind me and I see all of the hills I've climbed before. Thousands of times before. All of them just like this one; some a
little harder, some a little easier. Why did I beat myself up at the bottom? Why didn't I just take it on?
I look forward and I see all of the hills in front of me, and I know they're all easy too. Lets be more proactive next time, yeah?
I descend the hill, off to make my rendezvous, feeling so much better than I did on the other side, in my tent. Feel this Chris! This
could have been yours, none of that negative stuff - if only you'd done it when you got there!
I get to the bottom, and meet my friend. They have no idea what I've gone through to get there, but they're nice enough. They have no
idea how close I came to disappointing them; to failing them. I've gotten away with it yet again. Lets not do things so close to the
wire next time Chris.
I get a call - "Can you meet me on the other side of a hill in three days' time?" I've just crested a hill, I can do this! "Sure thing!"
I say - and another hill is added to the horizon. But it's alright, I can do it.
Just not now. There's plenty of time left. No need to rush.
One of the other pieces of this analogy makes me sad too - when something great is on the horizon, I know it's there, but all I can
see are the hills in the way, that I need to climb. And so excitement and anticipation are things that I find hard to come by.