People have talked of ‘staring into the abyss’ for aeons, and these last few weeks I have done more than stare. Sleep has eluded me and comforted me in equal measure, and sleep is good. The witching hour of 03:00 hrs, we are good friends now. Well, friends may be a little overstating it, but we are acquaintances for sure, on more than nodding terms for certain.
Sleep has caught me at the strangest times, my mind protecting me from thoughts that spiral and magnify any emotion I still feel. If a picture of my mind at these moments could be taken it would resemble the cheap kaleidoscopes we had as children, where nothing stays in focus for more than a split second, patterns form and dissipate with no chance to either recognise or forget what you saw in that briefest of moments. In sleep, I dream, vivid dreams, the kind that you cannot forget on waking though how I wish I could, for when I dream my subconscious subjects me to a death by a thousand cuts, offering up glimpses of what I had and what I want in abundance. I see the same faces; feel the same emotions and the same future I thought was real. It wasn’t and that is why sleep is both my closest ally and my worst enemy as I must wake from it and when I do, how I wish I hadn’t.
When my father was dying, I watched him sleep, he did little else in that last month and when he woke, his eyes showed me both heaven and hell. For that instant he awoke, he had forgotten that he was dying, that cancer had ripped his body apart. For that split second, he was young again and his eyes shone brightly, bluer than a Caribbean Sea, but only for that split second. They then turned grey, as the realisation crept in that this may be his last day, he was dying and with this the dreams that he had in that slumber became a cruel parody, the eagle that tore so harshly at Prometheus in Greek myth. The agony of knowing for sure that there was no happy ending, no more planning or even hope, just a slow traverse across a one-way street with a destination that offered no succour or comfort.
I know this feeling now, as the reality of the situations I face and have faced flood back into my psyche. Of course, I have read everything available, searched for coping techniques and read a trillion motivational quotes about letting go, moving on, finding strength, learn your lessons. They don’t provide anything more than a stab, the touching of a bruise as things are still too fresh, too raw and too painful to work through in a broken mind. There is a perverse irony that in the space of three months my body has been the opposite of my mind, it has hardened, defined and allowed me to conquer a decades old battle about my body image. I know it looks good again, intrinsically I know this no matter what my mind sees in the mirror, and this is perhaps the most surreal aspect of it all. Where for years I was ashamed of how I look, now the shame is borne from how I feel, who I am. A polar shift in my life that I could never have anticipated. I no longer recognise the face I see. I no longer believe that I am a good person, though I know I am not a bad person either. The reality is that I do not know who I am anymore, I simply don’t. Am I the warrior that I always believed with an unbreakable spirit, that could put things into a box in my mind, throw away the key and push on regardless? When my mother died, I held her hand and the last words she heard were me whispering ‘You are everything to me, you sleep now and know this’. Twenty minutes later I was on the phone to my boss and 36 hours later I was back in work. I was a rock, unbreakable and stoic. I am not that man anymore, I have been broken into too many pieces, and I do not blame the hammer that broke me this last time, I blame only myself, for now I am a coward, a keyboard warrior who can write with more eloquence than my mouth will allow me to speak with.
There is a song by Bruce Springsteen, Philadelphia, and the words are how I feel, an encapsulation of what I think I so often during the day and that Godforsaken witching hour. Just replace Philadelphia and use Cardiff instead. This is not a suicidal dirge, that I know, for I have too much left to live for. I do not want to die, and would never choose to, at least not for a long while yet but the rest, the faithless kiss, the clothes, the reflection in the window, they speak to me a with a truth that has been lacking recently.
I was bruised and battered
I couldn’t tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
Saw my reflection in a window
And didn’t know my own face
Oh brother are you gonna leave me wastin’ away
On the streets of Philadelphia?
I walked the avenue, ’til my legs felt like stone
I heard the voices of friends vanished and gone
At night I could hear the blood in my veins
Just as black and whispering as the rain
On the streets of Philadelphia
Ain’t no angel gonna greet me
It’s just you and I my friend
And my clothes don’t fit me no more
A thousand miles just to slip this skin
The night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake
I can feel myself fading away
So receive me brother with your faithless kiss
Or will we leave each other alone like this
On the streets of Philadelphia?
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Bruce Springsteen
Streets of Philadelphia lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
As I said, this piece is not a eulogy, it is not a farewell or written to antagonise others or to place blame at their feet. I blame nobody, other than myself and accountability lays only with me. Others may think that I should blame others but that is wrong, no man should be broken so easily as I have been, least of all a man who has faced the horrors of war, carried grief with such ease and fought more than he should have and always, always won. I made the choices, wrong ones, and therefore everyone else is just an extra in this story.
But back to the abyss, that is where this started. It is not what so many think it is. I don’t claim to be anything other than the most ordinary of men, at best, and others have written far more wisely than me on this subject. My own personal reflection pales into irrelevance when you look at how Nietzsche once described it…… “When you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” …… Oh, how this is true, it is not a dark place, a void, it is everything whilst being nothing. It is a reliquary of all my hopes, all my fears and yet I feel within it there is an unspoken destiny. I know that to dive into it would overwhelm me, that the infinitesimal possibilities would leave me like a starving man at a banquet knowing that whichever dish he chooses, his appetite would never be sated and therefore choosing to eat nothing.
It is not a precipice that will lead to an end, that I know and one day I may just find the strength to dive headfirst into it but I am too broken right now to see this as a realistic option. I do not have the strength to face it, but I am too scared to look backwards or too deeply within.
I read a comment this week that hurt, it hurt so deeply that I am struggling to write through the tears. Melodramatic, in some eyes of course, self-reflection would not allow them to see the damage in those few words, but it dug so deep at me, it is a phrase that I will never be able to erase. Essentially, the pain I have suffered and still do is ‘nothing major, just a small blip’. For me, opening up has always been hard, I mean really, really opening up. I may write a rant on Facebook with the tiniest hint of depth, but it is nothing of real value. When I open up to someone, and it has happened just twice in my life, and the rejection of who you truly are is given, that is not a blip, it is not a minor inconvenience. It is a statement that you are not enough, the viscera of your very being not deemed worthy at best, repulsive at worst. How can that not hurt? It is the hardest thing to face, and I know this as an absolute truth, there will never, ever be a third time. I will never run the risk of this pain again as the reward, no matter how amazing that may be, will not, could not come close to the pain of the rejection.
When I discuss a future, it is not a means to get someone into bed. It is the truth. I’ve slept with enough women I don’t need to add any to the list to make me feel valuable, loved or desired. When someone discusses holidays, meeting my children, tells me I have been discussed with their family and gained approval, and then kisses me in a manner I have never known, how can that rejection not hurt. I will be accused of overthinking, escapism, fantasy and no doubt many other isms but that is not fair, for I believed the things that were said. I believed I mattered, that there was an attraction because I was told there was. You made me feel alive in a way I had not known, in a way I never thought possible and then the reality kicked in that these words were empty. I was a toy, something to pass the time and relieve some boredom, a game to keep you occupied. Even as I write this, I know this was not a conscious decision, no devilish intent to ruin me, yet it has for now.
I told you how I felt and that was wrong both in words and in deed as they were not the words I wanted to say. I panicked in a moment and once said those words could not be taken back. I mistook amusement for affection, laughter for desire and it is my own folly. I built my castle on quicksand and that is down to me. The emojis that danced through our messages ending so abruptly. Messages left on read, and then a dear fucking John. I was not in love, of course I wasn’t, but I felt a lot, you really meant so much to me. The worst bit is that you always will, and I hate myself even more for this because I cannot bring myself to hate you, even dislike you. I still want you to have everything you deserve, and that is only good things.
On the 4th November I did something I had never done before in earnest. I prayed. I prayed to ANY God that I would not wake up the following day. I stared out of a fifth-floor hotel window and regretted that I was too weak and could only pray. I knew it could end there, in two seconds, but I could not do this. It would hurt others far more than it would hurt me. My children and grand children should not suffer for my inadequacies, my fragility and my own selfish need to ease my pain. And it is pain, real pain, whatever you may think. I was too much, too soon, too keen, too eager but I had been in the ‘relationship’ a lot longer than you had.
You had me at hello, you really did, and I hid those feelings so well. I had buried them and even though they were always at the forefront of my mind, I knew they would never be a reality but then, incredibly they were. You made that happen, and you didn’t need to, you chose to.
You said you thought we were on the same page with a shocked expression, and we were, we really, really were. I believed that totally. Now I doubt we were as the ‘minor blip’ shows that we weren’t. I was not in love with you, but I knew this was inevitable in the months ahead. Now, I do not know what the next minute will bring, deranged laughter or more tears and fuck me, have I cried. I did not cry at either of my parents’ funerals. I. Do. Not. Cry. Not. Ever! Yet, somehow, it is either what I do or what I try my hardest not to do from dawn to dusk. It isn’t an angst ridden plea for pity, nobody sees them but me. If nothing else, I hope to retain at least some dignity. Another line from another song, Poison – Every Rose Has It’s Thorn – sums it up oh so well……… and that I never meant that much to you, to hear that tears me up inside and to see you cuts me like a knife………
I have always been strong, far stronger than anyone realises. I have seen and done things in my life that others, most, would be unable to live with. I have through the nature of my job sent others to meet their maker, I have tortured and I have maimed. I have beaten people to a pulp, quite literally, I could live with it, I could rationalise it. It was never a front with me, a hard man act. My own children have often said that I had no soul and perhaps when these words were spoken, there was truth in them.
The last few weeks though, I know they were wrong, for the way I feel cannot be anything else than my soul being exposed to everything I once hid from it. The broken marriage, the lack of love between my father and I for most of our time together, the estrangement at times from all three of my children, the breakup with Haymaiden, the hurt I have caused to others, the pain I have wrought on others with no abandon. That is why I believe I deserve this, it is my fate, my destiny that I should receive back what I have put out into the universe. YOU were the straw, not the whole load that has broken me and I want more than anything for you to know this, as to offer you up as the villain of the piece is wrong, entirely wrong. I am.
For the first time in my life, I am living truly alone with nobody to turn to. There are people who are there, who would listen and support, but it is not my nature to speak my hurt, only write as that allows me a clarity I cannot find through conversation. I used to turn to food, it is why I had more curves than a F1 racetrack, but now the opposite holds true. I do not want to eat, I do not want to gorge to bring on feelings of self-loathing as I cannot feel worse about myself. I feel humiliated, ashamed and deeply embarrassed and nobody can take that away, only myself. I do not feel guilt, I have been foolish not mean. I have been gullible, not manipulative. There is indeed, as the adage goes, no fool like an old fool.
I punched above my weight, I played out of my league, and I was soundly beaten. For this, only I am to blame. I aimed for the stars and was found wanting. If it was a matter of will alone, of longing or desire I would have got there but you cannot force another to feel what they cannot feel. The talk of buttercups and all that came before, the chats and the way you touched your hair when we spoke into the early hours, I was entranced, bewitched and a fool. I overthought far too much, and underthought the things that mattered.
I do not know any longer what my future will hold. I know there will be one for whilst I stand on the brink of this abyss, with a lifetime of detritus and bullshit trying it is hardest to push me into it, I will only step when I am ready. Right now, I do not have either the strength or the will, but they will come back.
Tomorrow, I enter a gym for the first time in earnest since the early 90’s. I will hit that treadmill and the step machine with an energy and anger. I will go through the DOMs that stretching and tearing muscles will bring and I will smile rather than grimace. Endorphins replacing Dopamine. I am emotionally and intellectually adept to know I can and will overcome this ‘little blip’. Those words will fuel me for the rest of my life, I know this as I know my own mind.
I need to change so much in 2026, so much. What I had planned has no basis in reality anymore. I could run away to America, but what for? To punish my children who have done no wrong. I see the look in their eyes right now and that brings shame for I see elements of pity. Pity for their father, a man who they knew through experience would never bend to anyone’s will, never take a backward step and never quit. I did, I have and I am but I will get through this.
I have no rancour or bitterness towards the people in my life who have hurt me as I know this was never an intention, merely a byproduct. It would be a lot easier to be angry, to be harsh with my words and reflect the pain I feel but this would be the act of a pathetic, weak man, one who cannot take accountability for their own failings. I can.
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