Candid Candles May 19, 2008

I am not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination. I happily jump on the bandwagon along with fair-weather Jews, Hindus and Muslims alike at Christmas just as I embrace the extra holidays that the country’s assigned religions give us in the long and gloomy months however I would never consider myself to be God-Fearing.

Happily and lazily I languish in agnosticism without any fear of the afterlife or the consequences of my actions in relation to some pending judgement rather than the domino effect my actions have on my domestic or work life as with most people. Nevertheless, when it comes to death, I use religion as a tool.

I am not adept at offering sympathy, nor am I with dealing with grief or any emotion for that matter that I do not experience on a regular basis. I am a sensitive person, don’t get me wrong, but with emotions such as anger, grief and depression (as I am lucky enough to be a generally cheerful member of the human race), I rarely encounter them in my life.

And so, when you learn that the brother of a friend of yours has died very suddenly in a road traffic accident – the lack of words is wretched. Wretched! A life being snuffed out like a candle after only eighteen years of life in a tiny corner of England is a terrible thing. There is nothing that can fix a wound like that however the tiniest thought of hope or condolence may offer a smidgen of relief even if it is only a drop in the ocean. I do not like to think of a divine plan, a boy dying in a car crash is not part of ANY God’s plan as far as I am concerned nor do I believe that the unfathomable pain that his brother, my friend is experiencing, is some devised test. What I do believe in is the peace that religion has to offer around the notion of death and in loss. 

Making a “pilgrimage” to a place one associates with peace is subjective. It just so happens that in my instance, I seek out Cathedrals. As a child my parents dragged me around countless cathedrals but it is only now that I can truly appreciate them for being quiet and spiritual places that you can go to have a weep or to tentatively send a message of the heart through thoughts or dare I say it – prayers. When somebody is in pain or if somebody has slipped away from me, I make this pilgrimage and light a candle. It is easy to sound ostentatious when it comes to our lofty thoughts on greif and in the paraphenalia surrounding death but I resent any notion that my own “system” is in any way self-indulgent, nor do I believe that it makes anything “better”. It is a system to interperet as you like but it is a method I use to sooth the demons, to send an ephemeral message along the tin-can and string system that human beings have connecting minds to minds that neither religion nor science has yet to explain.

A candle has been lit, you aren’t alone.

This past weekend, I practised this exercise one more time and thought about my friend. I walked up the seemingly endless aisle towards a separate chapel of which there are numerous in this particular cathedral. Cathedrals always have such a fantastic smell of old Bibles, buffed floors, ancient wood and the misty perfume of generations of duffel coats and leather shoes come in for solace and solidarity alike. There is no way it can be bottled but there is no way it can be forgotten and the smell of a cathedral, just like the tapestries and windows and organ music, is what helps me to perform my little task without wasting any time or thought. It brings a tremendous calm upon you and yet a tremendous awakening onf conscience.

I deposited a little change in the tin and helped myself to a little blue-cased candle and lit is against one of its brothers. I watched the flame rise in earnest and as the crackle of parafin wax ignited and smoked I inhaled along with all the concentration my brain could summon for the person I had made my mission for. This ritual I have brings me out of my cynical shell and allows me to be elevated spiritually.

The guard comes down in a place such as a cathedral. This removes you from the office, from the restaurant waiting area, from the queue at Tescos. It cushions ever so slightly the awfulness of some things that life throws at you and allows you to connect to another, even if they don’t even realise it. I’m not saying it makes it better or dismisses you from the thought of it, I’m saying its better than nothing at all and that in itself is worth encouraging.

Hi my name is ****, and I am… hey nice shoes! April 26, 2008

There is a moment in an addict’s life where something either trivial or significant flicks the switch in the head transforming denial into realisation. This epiphany can come in so many forms, be it a smoker’s baby being diagnosed with asthma or even a compulsive Second Life player’s mother calling upset that they haven’t spoken in two years because the phone line is always engaged.

Today the previously unthinkable occured to me and I have had to admit, “My name is ***. I am an addict.”

I opened my monthly bank-statement this morning (a task I take great pains to avoid at all costs as I do not understand money and save all that I can knowing that if it is in a separate place which involves heavy administration to access, I am safe from myself). I earn enough for a girl of my current circumstances but although I am only a couple of hundred pounds into my overdraft, I have calculated that I have a worrying £250 a month habit.

ASOS.com.

Even as I type I am wearing the earrings that arrived in conjunction with my bank statement, in some bitter irony that in opening my bank statement before I open the neat little packet, the contents are tarnished with guilt.

It is the convenience of internet shopping that I blame. The fact that after your first purchase, all your delivery and debit card details are logged in so you never have to fish out your card again if you know the security code by heart as I do. It is that first purchase that sells your soul to the devil. That single click “Proceed”. Bish bash bosh! You are down £60.00 plus delivery and you didn’t even have to exchange sneers with a lofty shop assistant, queue for a changing room booth or even tackle the weight of bags, purse, reciept and change when the act of purchasing takes place. No I was sitting behind my desk at work using the clever foil of “doing my invoices” as a cunning ruse.

Bob’s your uncle, I am home on Thursday and Christmas has come early as I am welcomed back by little monochrome boxes and packets with all my purchases wrapped lovingly in tissue paper so I can ceremoniously unfold each layer with childish anticipation from the comfort of my own bedroom.

It is all of the seven deadly sins plus bonus sins for how sinful the whole cursed affair is.

Greed – I want those Mary Jane patent leather stilettos. I WANT them!
Lust – Oh I would look so hot in that silk cami, Narcissus eat your heart out, I would look GOOD!
Envy – I bet I’d look better in those skinny, distressted jeans than that tarty no-bottom model.
Sloth – I can’t be arsed to wait until my birthday to ask a nice relative for some nice jewellery. OH, those sterling silver hoops would look perfect with my patent stilettos and silk cami!
Gluttony – More £10 clearance wedges! More, more, MORE!
Wrath – CURSES! They only have the pink ballet pumps in sizes three and nine! Oh I hate the whole world!
Pride – I am so proud that I bought seven separate items and none of the cost more than £15 each.

Its a slippery slope and now I have admitted my addiction iit will be no easy feat fighting it. I must preserve my soul and go to confession i.e. open my bank statements and actually get an advice slip when I go for a cash withdrawal.

But with my addiction, unlike all others, if I do fall of the wagon and end up destitute with no home, no food and no money – at least I’ll look good!

Two near misses. February 3, 2008

Oh my goodness me! What a dramatic 16 hours I have had, and that includes sleeping for 8.

Well I watched the rugby yesterday. What a funny game? England, what were you doing? They must have started to celebrate early because when they came back out after half time it was like they had resolved not to try. In both senses of the word.

Anyway, a momentous victory for Wales and poor old England can’t even blame it on Johnny being absent as he was scoring the points for Anglaterre in the first half before Hook decided he was going to have some Powerade.

In the words of Yoda. A sports journalist, I am not.

So yes, then after a tasty meal and congratulating little brother numero 1 on getting yet another offer to university, it occurred to me that I’m on my Pill’s 7 day break and after three days in I haven’t bled.

I know this is gross so if it doesn’t appeal to you I apologise.

I am very good with being on the Pill. I have been on it for nearly 3 years and have never been silly and not double-up if I ever miss one (I believe including last weekend there have been 3 occasions and one was even reinforced with the morning-after pill and a pregnancy test just to check).

So yes, last weekend, I got wasted in Manchester with A and his mates and forgot to take it as I take it at bedtime. I took it in the morning. It is highly likely that before it was assimilated into my system I regurgitated it into the Gardens Hotel toilet along with a portion of chips and much assorted fluid. A (as per) got the hangover horn and proceeded to perform the Sunday Morning Mating Ritual. End of story.

Soooo. In the evening of yesterday, I checked my diary and knowing that I always bleed during my 7 day break on the noon of the Saturday I panicked. Baring in mind this is about 7 hours after I usually would have expected to start.

A calls that night, not before I have researched all of the dangers of abortion and all of the places in the locality I could go and rehearsing the “Mum, Dad, I have something to tell you both…” conversation in my 100mph brain. A then goes online and starts finding out places I could go even offering to pay the £450 private fee if I don’t qualify for an abortion on the NHS. Being happy, in a stable relationship, in my twenties and healthy as a horse seems to suggest I don’t make the grade for a state-funded termination somehow. But why should I even know about this kind of stuff???

Needless to day, we both work eachother into a froth and more or less plan to fake a holiday and get it done in a back street in Mexico somewhere. Poor A. Poor me but more poor A.

SO yes, I got no sleep last night, waking up every half hour willing my abdomen to ache in the usual way and feeling my knickers in the night. At 5:28am I managed to psychologically will myself to have a period and now I am doubled over with aches, sniping at my family but – in essence – at peace. It is the best early Valentines present I can give my boyfriend. I can’t wait to tell him the good news.

Its made me think though. I never would never consider an abortion if I was financially independant, living with A and firmly sorted career-wise. As it stands, I am applying for Journalism courses right at the start of my career, my boyfriend and I are still umming and ahing about living together and to be honest, I am no where near enough the age of being able to look after another human being responsibly yet. I can’t even drink alcohol responsibly. My mum was 32 when she had me and I was her first child. My Dad had his first child, my half-brother at my age, 21. I know who has the better relationship with their firstborn. I know which marriage lasted.

I have the ominous feeling in my gut (aches and pains aside) that this time I may have had a lucky escape. Maybe it nearly happened. Maybe it did happen. Maybe some doctor somewhere reads this and thinks “oh don’t be so stupid” but I know that I would have had to make the decision if it was even down to the wind blowing in the wrong direction or I had drunk one less vodka and coke that night.

The facts terrify me. I am not religious but I am not without morals and ethics when it comes to the abortion debate. Maybe it is because I am not religious, that I consider the fact that there may no afterlife, that I honestly believed that last night I would not go through with the phantom pregnancy. Maybe A has brainwashed me. Maybe I am just a coward, a selfish coward.

Its a horrid thing. I’m honestly relieved I am bleeding today and I feel guilty nonetheless.