Method and madness

Here again.


Facing that decision, the one that it is almost certain I will choose the one way but if I choose the other then there are no other decisions.


I've not been able to stop thinking about it for weeks, for months. And, while before the exit strategies were convoluted as a way to survive, now I can't help but focus on simpler means. And that frightens me.


It seems that the methods split into two categories. There are those which allow a second chance and those which don't. Pills and wrists allow time to reconsider, to call the emergency services and simply risk the humiliation of further failure, or potential brain damage. Nooses or heights are different. Once initiated there is no turning back, but who is to guess the eons of regret that I may suffer while I suffocate or drop toward unforgiving concrete? I suppose that cowardice is a life saver.


Thankfully (or regretfully) I live somewhere that forearms are not easily available; if I did, I am almost certain I would no longer be here to write these words, to wrestle with this problem, to experience this pain.

food glorious food

On Sundays I go to my dad's to cook for him and his partner, and sometimes my elder sister. My sister doesn't like pasta, which can be problematic as many of my favourite dishes are pasta based (we are actually related and have the noses to prove it). She can manage lasagna as the pasta is minimal, but I decided to try a pasta-free lasagna anyway. No pictures; I can’t quite bring myself to take pics of my food and, entirely coincidentally, I don’t really do presentation.


I made the main parts last night, for simplicity and because my dad’s cooker sucks. A kilo of lean mince went into the pan; even with lean mince there is more than enough fat to cook it and whatever veg you’re going to chuck in. Cooked until thoroughly browned, then crumbled in a beef Oxo stock cube to amp up the beefiness. Is that cheating? Meh, who cares? Enough fat has drained from the meat the cook this in, so stir it for a couple of minutes then add the magic. A good shake of Henderson’s Relish - or, if you are in some ore benighted part of the world, Worcestershire or soy sauce will do, I guess - and a teaspoon of Marmite or other yeast extract. I recently heard a chef opine (possibly on the Gastropod podcast?) that the more different sources of umami in this kind of meat dish the better.


I let this cook in for a little while. It helps if you let it begin to dry out and the meat to catch slightly on the bottom of the pan. Trust me. Oh, and a good grind of black pepper. No, a bit more than that. Mmm, smells good. I poured in a good slug of red wine. What, you want measurements? Isn’t ‘a good slug’ enough? Look, I would measure what was left but, well, I can’t. I won’t go into details. Maybe 150 ml or so. Turn the heat down a bit and cook that baby off. Pour a glass of wine. Nice.


Time for the garlic. I crushed and chopped four fat cloves and threw them in. No, one more big un. I’ve heard the expression “too much garlic” but, while I understand the individual words, that seems a nonsense sentiment, like “Trevor sounds purple” or “grant mongooses jurisprudence”. Gibberish.


Aaaaanyway. Stir that in for a couple of minutes then i add a large coarsely chopped brown onion, and stir that until it begins to become translucent (I really wanted to write “translucentalise” but I’m pretty certain that isn’t a word, although I really feel it should be. We should start a campaign). Good lord, can you smell how good this is? Time for the last umami - about 300g of chopped mushrooms. Keep cooking that in, stirring it now and then until the mushrooms are cooked, and I think you can tell when that is.


Time for the herbs and spices. A good healthy heap of oregano (you’re asking for measurements again, aren’t you? Erm, about a palm full) and a large pinch of basil, along with a good dollop of paprika. Now, I really, really like paprika, so shoved in about the same amount as the oregano, and I’m writing this recipe. You can stir this in now, or you can add a couple of tins of chopped tomatoes first, which I think makes the whole thing easier. Get it mixed up. Probably a bit runny now, so time to chuck some tomato puree in. What? Again with the measurements! idunno, about a third of a tube?  Stir it in, pop the lid on and cook for a while, making sure it doesn’t burn. Then turn it off and leave it. Another advantage to making it the day before is that, in my most humble opinion, any mince dish improves with being left to sit overnight. And, at this time of year, as there is no heating in my kitchen other than the stove, I can leave it covered and it’s as good as putting it in the fridge.


So, today at my dad’s I have the parts and it’s just a case of constructing the lasagna. I chuck the bolognese into a pan to heat through and slice three large courgettes in the mandolin (why does my non-cooking father own a mandolin and I don’t…?) Grind some salt on the slices and into a hot oven. Into a smaller pan goes the simple bechamel sauce I also made, to slowly heat through. Simple? Needs more. I dollop about half a tub of mascarpone to melt into it and maybe a third of the 200g of strong cheddar I grated. Screw it; all the mascarpone.


In about ten minutes the courgette is sufficiently cooked, so I whip it out and layer the bolognese, bechamel and courgette slices a couple of times each and scatter the remainder of the cheddar on top, and chuck it back in the oven. Did I mention my dad’s oven sucks? Maybe 15 minutes, maybe 20, maybe 30. I should keep an eye on it. Goddamn, it smells good,


OK, 20 minutes, that’s done. The courgette is slightly al dente but a little slippery so, despite my best (actually minimal) efforts the layers slop onto the plates (note my earlier comment about a lack of pictures), but I must say (with all humility) it tastes freaking divine. It’s a pretty big lasagna for four people but I went for a run earlier so eat twice as much as anyone else.

The differentials of compassion

To those saying that support for France demonstrates that we really don't care about the violence in other places, I say this. Of course we care. It is not nearly that simple. It is that our media focuses more on those things that are closer to us in places that are more familiar - and also where these events are more unusual and shocking. Understandably - but horribly - we become inured to awful things happening in far-away places. It also does not help that much of the reporting is biased and doesn't help to disentangle the political complexities. We do care, but we switch off from the pain and the violence to cope. Those of us with the luxury to do so should undoubtedly do more, and we should do more than updating out Facebook pictures, but it is so hard to know what to do. We want the world to be simple, and our media feed us simple narratives that we are eager to accept because it makes things simpler, allows us make sense of the world - even if that sense is inaccurate.

Again, again

Avoided the internet last night after a grueling week of work staring at a computer screen. Now it seems I'll be avoiding it because I can't read about what happened. Not again. Not Paris again, another atrocity on the list after London and Oslo and Bali and New York and the many, many, many more that happen almost daily in parts of the world we seem to care less about because they are less immediate, less familiar. There is so much to say about this and yet nothing to say. It feels like the millions of words that are being written on it are useless, and I can't read any more. But there are words that should be remembered.

Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite. Solidarite.

The Spiral

It has been said that depression is a selfish illness, and this is true. It is a condition that causes the sufferer to fold in on themself, to shun the outside world more and more, to be concerned only about their inner thoughts - as much as they are concerned with anything.


My own particular flavour (although not unique, of course) is an especially piquant blend of depression and anxiety. As I someone put it recently, “Depression is not being able to care about anything and anxiety is caring too much about everything; having both at the same time is hell.” (I wish I could find who wrote that as it deserves attribution). Those of us  so afflicted are buffeted by constant doubt about everything - double guessing every deed, every word - paralysed by both the appalling, deathly lethargy of depression and the terror of the consequences of our own actions. All compounded by the knowledge that we are (I am) utterly worthless, that we probably deserve to feel this way and suffer all that comes with it; part of the reason it is so easy to become isolated is that we know we aren’t fit for human company.


(Even writing that I have to fight the idea that anyone reading it will think how pathetic it is, this blatant attempt to garner pity - or, worse yet, actually pity me, or feel for me; it is made easier by the thought that nobody will probably read it. Welcome down the rabbit hole that almost every single thought leads. Imagine that, constantly, endlessly, not being able to escape that).


About that selfishness; much of it seems to be caused by an over-abundance of empathy. Not just the worry about how my words and actions will be interpreted, but how they will affect others. But it isn’t just  the big things; EVERYTHING has to be weighed for its consequences, on whether it is the right / best / optimal / moral thing to do. I am crushed beneath the paving stones of good intentions.


And the more we care about someone, they more important they are to us, the harder it is. The effects are magnified, the potential harm all the greater. The knowledge that I can only hurt them by my actions and, if they are around long enough, finally I will hurt them by my exit, on that day when I ask myself “why not?” and can’t come up with a good enough answer. And this is further exacerbated by the Groucho Effect: why would I want to belong to a club that would admit someone like me? So people who do insist on getting close to us become tarnished by the illness. I mean, what are they thinking? If their judgement is so poor that they want to be around me maybe they deserve it. Which is, of course, just an excuse to chase them away, something else to to beat myself up about. Another failure to cling to, to define myself by.

It's become a pattern

How do I do this? I keep falling in love - or think I've fallen in love. I make promises, overt or implied and, even though I say "don't get too close, I'm damaged, I can't do this, I'll hurt you", I let her get close and then I fuck it up and hurt her.


It's become a pattern. I need to stop, but how? I tell myself loneliness is easier, safer for everybody, but I am so afraid of being alone - and so afraid of being with someone. I was with someone for so long, for half my life, and when it ended it tore me apart. I don't know if I can survive that again, but why can't I just stay away from the risk? Stay safe. Stop hurting other people and opening my own wounds.

The closed door

I’m currently in a state where I think about suicide most days. There are many days wherein I actively consider it (and I know many of the people reading this will recognise the difference); days where I hold the concept of ending my life in my hand to view it, more or less dispassionately, considering how viable an option it is.


I am not afraid of death. While many things will happen after I die, I am pretty certain that none of them will involve me. There are, of course, downsides to this course of action; it negates the possibility of improvement. The worry of the transition - the pain of the razor biting into my wrists, the panic and evacuation as the cord tightens around my neck, perhaps the few seconds of acceleration from the high roof will be stretched to an eternity by adrenaline - but these would be fleeting. The main concern is the effect on those who care for me. My friends, my sister. My son. A man now, almost 24, what effect would it have on him? A child should bury their parents, that is the natural order of things, but it hurts so much - and how much more so should that loss be at their own hand? (My mother was taken by lung cancer and, while that was caused by her habituation to cigarettes, I never blamed her for it). My father; no parent should have to bury their child, though I know millions do.


In a way this is encouraging, the fact that these things are of concern to me; there have been times in the past when they have attenuated to the thinnest thread of connection, when that particular mix of pain and numbness has meant that I have considered that any pain of losing me would be outweighed by the pain my continued existence would cause. Times when I have held that concept of ending in my hand and nodded, have stood on the brink of accepting it, seeing it as a gift (fortunately I live in a country that disallows access to firearms, or the simplicity of placing that steel barrel in my mouth or under my chin, angling it upward toward the seat of my consciousness and having to only argue against or distract my survival instinct for that brief moment to allow me to squeeze the trigger; had I not, I doubt very much I would be here, now, writing these words).


So I will continue. The spectre will be kept at bay by distraction, by company and the solitude of reading, by the endorphin rush of running, by the distraction of TV, by the regularity of the day-to-day, of work and shopping and cleaning. And, hopefully, I will rise from this dip to a point where I can forget awhile that door that I know how to open, that I can step through and end all worry and speculation. Although I think that, once you are aware of that door, and have acknowledged that it is unlocked, its possibility, its promise, can never be forgotten.