That man’s father is my father’s son: A poem about parenting, and about changing generational roles, from the big ones (nearby) to the small (far away); about absent dads, where the Marmite goes in the middle…
That man’s father is my father’s son: A poem about parenting, and about changing generational roles, from the big ones (nearby) to the small (far away); about absent dads, where the Marmite goes in the middle…
THE WRITER’S LIFE
At a time of year when I see friends on Facebook posting their year in review and wishing a happy new year to all, I wanted to do the same, but I can’t. Even though I’m a writer with a public access blog, I find the exposure of Facebook too much, and besides, there are still people there who judge me on past deeds for which I’ve made amends. In any case, this is too long for the average attention span on Facebook. Nevertheless, I’m anxious.
I didn’t know where to start with this. With all I’m going through (dad unwell, my personal independence payment taken away, depression, anxiety…) it’s hard to know where it begins and ends. And that’s what’s been putting me off of writing lately. But even as I write this, I’m reminded that writing is my only coping mechanism for my mental health when I’m on my own. Rather than start from the very beginning, this is the middle of an episode.
I’m typing from notes I scribbled longhand in a pocket notebook my kids bought me, which compliments the time machine I wear on my wrist. But I was in danger of running out of space in that inner heart, so I’m transcribing my pencil (naturally, the Staedtler Norris 122).
I see my friends posting those year-end sentiments, and I envy them. They’re able to say what I can’t, for fear of judgement. What I have and they don’t, is a self-loathing for all the harm I did when I was drunk (five years ago now). I’ve rebuilt the bridges I burned, but others can’t find it in themselves to do that. I know I’m better off without that toxicity in my life, but it hurts to lose old friends who simply aren’t prepared to talk and learn. As the same species on this lone planet which we all share as a home (and which we’ve broken) humanity itself could fail by its own devices, unless we keep talking.
So to those still reading, to anyone who found their way over from Facebook, and my blog followers, thanks. Thanks for being you, and for being there, even if you didn’t know that’s where you were. You don’t see me when I wobble, but you’re there without knowing it before I fall down. You don’t grab your hands out for me, but my mind latches onto you. I wouldn’t expect you to know what I’m going through, nor my daily life, because we never talk, and because humans don’t do that any more. Writing is my way of talking, and I know you’re there, or you wouldn’t be reading this.
At the end of any day, week, or cliché, love and music make the world go round. There was a time when I though physics did that, but now I realise it’s biology. Because there’s no substitute for a hug with a fellow human, nor any of our cousins, the animals who were here first. While I may be alone, I still have this connection with the rest of the world.
I’m an introvert who finds conversation difficult with anyone besides friends. Even now as I bear my soul and write this, I don’t want to talk about it. When I publish, a part of me will want to take it down again, lest it attract offers of help.
When someone with depression, anxiety, or any other mental health issue tells you they’re having a hard time, and trusts you enough to tell you, they aren’t doing it because they want you to fix them. They’re telling you because they believe you’re important enough to them to know why they’re not feeling one hundred percent. Respect them for doing that, because they clearly respect you.
Happy New Year, peace and goodwill to all humanity and everyone else whose planet we’re squatters on. Personally, 2019 can’t be as bad as the annus horribilis just gone, much of which was consumed by my battle with the UK government’s social cleansing apparatus. Hopefully I’ll win my appeal tribunal, regain my independence and get my life back. In the UK and around the world, all we need to do is keep talking, even if it’s not in the conventional manner.
Never under-estimate your importance as a human to another conscious entity, no matter how selfish we are as a species. For as long as I have you readers, I’ll keep writing, lest old acquaintance be forgot.
After posting that, two of my friends – old grammar school friends in fact – got in touch, via Facebook funnily enough (via my author page)…
Whatever you’re doing tonight, I hope you enjoy it. 2018, like many years before it, has managed to suck and blow concurrently. In another rotation, we can review 2019 …
… but only briefly.
I was talking to my dog, Pigsy, about you earlier and he said that both of us need to follow Dog’s law. They make a whole lot more sense than the anagram equivalent.
Pigsy went for a walk this morning. I know he enjoyed it but it’s gone now. He’s not wasting time reflecting on whether it was better or worse than any other walk he’s had. Equally, he’s completely forgotten that he ran at the front door so hard & grabbed the mail that the poor fucking Postie had to change his shorts. No, he’s no recollection of the impact with the door, my shouting or the Postie’s pants.
I asked him about tomorrow. He didn’t know what a tomorrow was. I said it was the thing that comes after now. He looked at me with that tilted head that Jack Russell’s have perfected and said “the bit after now, is now … it’s always now, you prick. You still believe you’re the dominant species, right?”
He’s always been a smart arse has my Pigsy but he had a point.
Past events make good stories, but they’re not worth ruminating over. They’ve been. They’ve happened. They’re gone. Unless you’re at the centre of a black hole I suppose, but then everything is happening at once and it all gets horribly non-linear.
Tomorrow. Well, it’s a new year – or it’s a Tuesday. It’s up to us. But, it’s tomorrow and it’s not ‘now’ yet.
Pigsy knows he’ll be going for a walk tomorrow. I’m sure he does; but he’s not arsed in the slightest about it right now. Right ‘now’, he’s stretched across my bed and made it pretty much impossible for me to lie down comfortably. I can’t move him though – he’s making the very best of now you see.
I reckon we should give that a go.
Don’t forget the past & don’t abandon planning your future … but let’s not lose sight of what’s happening now. We’ll miss something new because we were troubling over something old.
I’m not sending this privately in Messenger because I’m happy to wish you a happy new year.
You are where you are because of how you were wired from before you exited the womb. What happens in the future is already decided; not by god or any higher power but by synaptic connections that started their mechanics nigh on half a century ago. Luckily (or currently), there are too many variables to track to predict where we will be next year – so we can still pretend it was a choice.
Even shorter version – I truly hope your hard wired program has an exit for the subroutine that you call to beat the shit out of yourself. It’s time to leave that behind.
The Earth spins, and travels around the sun. The Milky Way galaxy spins, so that in a day, we each travel around 50m km, every day. So we’re in a different place now, and we’ll be in another in just a moment. Like when the second one came in:
Didn’t want to reply to blog post publicly but hope things pick up for you soon but the main thing I wanted to say was whatever else you do (or don’t do) don’t stop writing… Put simply, writing got you through some awful times before (at least that’s how it looked for the outside). You not wanting to write now should be seen as your ‘inner demons’ trying to make a bad situation worse for you. They are opportunistic like that and worse still no matter how clever you are they are equally clever and you can’t hide anything from them! So grab a pad and your tried, tested & trusted Staedtler Norris 122 and spew it all out onto paper, you don’t have to let anyone else see it as, much of it you won’t want to share with others and that doesn’t matter because committing things to paper seems to be a cathartic act for you.
Names withheld, because at least one is as publicity-shy as me, but I know where they live.
To finish off, my next door neighbour did my laundry today, as my washing machine broke down and I can’t afford a new one. He also bought me a box of chocolates. It’s that connection again, almost as though humans are starting to develop telepathy, just as the animals have been communicating for millions of years. And as I’ve noted in the past, open a box of biscuits, take a dog for a walk, and he’s pretty much nailed the day (in Cyrus Song). But there was more: Someone bought a book, another bought me a coffee.
It’s not even next year yet, but things just got better already. I didn’t brick it and take the post down. In fact, I posted it on my Facebook personal timeline. I’m always keen to make new friends there as well as here, and new followers on my author page, where posts besides these blog entries are more suited to a shorter attention span.
Thanks again for getting all this way. You don’t have to meet someone in person to be a kindred spirit. All of this keeps me going and makes it all worthwhile. It’s time to move on, water under the rebuilt bridges, whether travelled or not. Happy New Year, for the sake of old times and new.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
Today would have been my auntie Margaret’s birthday, her 76th in fact. In life, we weren’t all that close, but I see now how we had so much in common. I think what a waste it was, to take her so early (she was 51), and selfishly, about how much she’d have enriched my life now. But then sometimes, just every now and then, I swear I can feel her around me.
I believe in ghosts, insofar as I feel a connection to a spirit world I believe exists, which fits in with my understanding of quantum science. Essentially, for every chosen action in life – from the personal down to the molecular level – there are countless alternatives which weren’t brought into reality (the universe we inhabit) by a catalyst, but which still exist in parallel. So when we die, we continue to exist in one universe, where we’re dead and people mourn (or celebrate), while passing into another, where we’re no longer able to do much of what we could before (like interact with people), but where we nonetheless continue to live in a different physical form. Sometimes I’m aware of my auntie’s presence, because odd coincidences occur, like little signs.
She was the more the radical of two sisters (the other being my mum), a spinster who lived with my nan. My parents would visit them every Sunday, and knowing that 14-year-old me would be bored, my auntie would rent out horror films on VHS for me to watch in an armchair in the corner.
Margaret was a keen royalist and passed long before the internet. She’d conduct her study and research by borrowing books from libraries and visiting historic houses. I was always indifferent to royalty, until I started watching documentaries on TV a couple of years ago, as though a guest had asked me to switch channels, then researching further history online (and doing nothing with it besides learning).
Still now, when I’m watching anything regal, I feel I’m not alone, sometimes when I’m watching horror films too. I can’t explain it, but I can assure you you’ll know when you’re in the presence of a ghost, sitting in the empty seat right next to you.
These last few months I’ve been wasted, not on drink or drugs, but unable to concentrate because of my ongoing battle with the Department for Work and Pensions. With what seemed like deliberate insensitivity, they were kind enough to write to me on Christmas Eve, telling me that after reconsidering my application to regain my independence, I still can’t have it. This despite me pointing out the many errors and untruths in the assessor’s report. So I now face the remainder of the dehumanising process at tribunal. In the interim, I’m poor and unable to leave the studio.
It’s affected my writing, I’ve written very few new stories, indefinitely postponed one planned book and not started any others.
Then someone pointed out to me that I might be somewhat cutting off my nose to spite my face, that if I wallow in my own misery, I’m just being a bit of a fascist to myself. They reminded me I’m a writer. As if to confirm this, my kids bought me the most beautiful pocket notebook for Christmas. Margaret would have doted on the kids, and they’d have worshipped her.
DWP don’t care if they’ve disabled me as a writer, in fact they’d probably be cock-a-hoop at their achievement. With that in mind, I started writing in the gift from my children.
Why sit and listen to no music, when there are so many albums on my shelves I could play? Why flick restlessly through TV channels, when I have stacks upon rows of films? Why stare blankly at a screen behind a writer’s block?
I have no money and little food, but I’m a writer. And even though that’s been suppressed by depression, when it’s all I have, I should cherish it. So I care less if I’m skint, so long as I’m impoverished as a writer, and not nothing. If I write something, anything, I feel a little better about myself.
Who was it that reminded me? No-one as such, but a thought lit up in my mind, which had no business being there as I was feeling so depressed. It was like it was someone else’s voice. And the only person around here besides myself is my auntie Margaret.
Happy birthday auntie x
THE WRITER’S LIFE
These last couple of weeks, I’ve been trapped in the worst depressive episode I care to remember. The human memory is selective about these things, so I can’t be sure if it’s the worst ever, but it’s a contender. This Christmas will certainly be one of the worst.
I’ve never been a big fan of Christmas, ever since it stopped being fun when I was a kid and I had to start buying presents. Like a wedding, it’s a day when the pressure is on everyone to have a good time, and where most of that responsibility falls to the host. In reality, everyone’s glad when it’s over.
Christmas was fun again for a while as I watched my own kids open presents, then gaze in awe at some new piece of plastic. Then I had my alcoholic breakdown and Christmas 2013 was spent on the streets. The following year I remained estranged from my family, so I went to a church do for the homeless.
I rejoined my parents for Christmas 2015, when the black cat was cautiously welcomed back into the family home, and when I’d been homeless for two years before finding the rooms above the pub. It was like any other Christmas, where everyone was obliged to have a nice time, and with the responsibility for that falling to my mum, while everyone walked on eggshells around the elephant in the room (me).
My sister stayed away that year and I’ve not seen her since mum’s act of courage when she threw me out of the last chance saloon. My sister blames me for the upset it caused our parents, and rightly, except it brought them much closer together. As far as I’m aware, my sister blames me for my dad’s Parkinson’s. He says it’s nice to have me around, that it’s good for him to have some different company to engage his mind. Mum drew a line in the sand a long time ago now, placing the past where it belongs. But my sister can’t find it in herself.
So for the last couple of years I’ve spent Christmas home alone. I get together with my parents at various times in the year, when the pressures of the festive season aren’t upon us. I was hoping to return for a family Christmas this year though. Now that mum has her hands full with looking after dad, I thought it might be nice for my parents to have Christmas dinner cooked for them. Where I’d go without many Christmases past, this might have been the last when dad remembered who I was.
But that Christmas was cancelled, by DWP stripping me of my independence payment. I simply can’t afford one, even with just myself to cater for, and I’m borrowing money just to buy my kids’ presents. With no Christmas dinner, no cheese board, no chocolates or mince pies, and probably no heating, knowing my kids are okay will be a small consolation on the day. The silver lining is I won’t be contributing to the annual excess of human waste, further suffocating our planet.
Christmas will be lonely torture, but the faceless bureaucrats who inflict this suffering in the name of a social cleansing agenda won’t be losing any sleep. They don’t understand what it is to be human, because they’ve had humanity conditioned out of them, so that they can do the will of fascist dictators. They have no feelings or emotions. It’s like dealing with Vogons.
I’ve asked DWP for a mandatory reconsideration and they’ve sent me a 32 page report telling me why I’m not eligible for my money. I have to go through this, highlight and add comments to indicate what I don’t agree with (most of it: It’s as though they’ve sent someone else’s report. Actually, they may have done that deliberately, to further the suffering). Then it goes back to be reassessed, undoubtedly refused again, then I’ll have to go to tribunal. Again. And hopefully win, again.
I’m sick, sick of this pointless process. I’m mentally ill anyway (chronic depression and anxiety, which is why I got PIP for the last four years), sick of this country and its abuse of human rights, and made more unwell by a system designed to kill people.
I know how they’ve made me feel, and what it makes me think. But I won’t give them the satisfaction. Like Christmas, I’ll just be glad when this is all over. If the electric meter permits, perhaps I’ll escape with Jimmy Stewart and a reminder of a Wonderful Life which went before. I need someone, something, to get me out of here. I need an escape.
In any case, I need to write to live. I need to sell stories or hope for donations from readers grateful of my free fiction. £2.99 buys an eBook of Cyrus Song (the price of a coffee, which I’m always grateful for via the ‘Buy me a coffee’ donate button). I wouldn’t want the Department for Work and Pensions to think I got help from socialist propaganda, as it would defeat their self-purpose.
I’ll have plenty of time to write over Christmas (probably by candle light, while wearing fingerless gloves), and as a sci-fi writer, I can see a world unfolding around us which was prophesied. The Bible says that The Beast will have many heads (look at the rise of the right and the installation of fascist leaders around the world); The Antichrist will appear as a false prophet (see Trump); then there’ll be war (just look around).
Perhaps a new star will rise in the east, an extraterrestrial craft to unite our attention to a greater intelligence. Or maybe the aliens will kill the fascists.
Scroll down for free fiction…
THE WRITER’S LIFE
The shit sandwich finally arrived in the post last Thursday, and it’s taken me this long to compose myself to address it. This benefits process is exhausting by design, and it’s exacerbating my anxiety and depression. I haven’t quite lost the will to live, as that would validate the Tory social cleansing machine’s purpose. It actually says in the rejection letter, “Personal Independence Payment is not for visiting relatives.” I’m appealing, so there is much more writing to do.
Naked Lunch, David Cronenberg
It took nine and a half weeks for someone to decide I wasn’t deserving of my Personal Independence Payment (despite being in receipt of it for the last four years), so denying me much of my liberty and ruining what might have been mine or my parents’ last Christmas. On behalf of myself and my family, we’d like to wish upon the bone of a turkey, a Christmas free of guilt and conscience to the Department for Work and Pensions. With nowhere to go, I’ll be an empty box, a vacant chair; I will haunt their Christmases.
With my benefit payment reduced to a statutory minimum, I’ll have to borrow money to buy my kids’ Christmas presents (why should they go without?) I can no longer afford to visit my parents (nor buy them gifts; they say the children come first), so I may already have seen my dad for the last time while he still remembers who I am. Last time I was there, he said how good it was for him to have me around. Now all we have is memories of Christmas past.
There were past Christmases when I was estranged from my family, after I’d steamrollered through their lives like a drunken shopping trolley, and when I’d be represented by an empty chair at the dinner table. My sister still bears a grudge, somehow having it in her head that I’m the cause of our dad’s Parkinson’s. So while she won’t pick me up on her way through to my parents, my Christmas will be spent with a turkey baste on a true story: That I couldn’t afford Christmas dinner.
I could do as I did in those years of estrangement, and volunteer to help at a church homeless do, provided I can get the transport. But that would involve other people, and this dehumanising process also threw fuel on my social anxiety. The signpost to Christmases future.
Christmas will be cold, because I can’t afford heating. And it’s all thanks to the Scrooges who’ll be stuffing their faces at Christmas dinner, and counting all the money they saved through social cleansing. I’ll be present in spirit, at each and every table, wishing upon that wish bone, to stick in many throats.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
Among my sideline interests, I compile cryptic crosswords. Some of my favourite past clues for flavour:
1. Powered flight? (9)
2. GESG (9, 4)
3. DIM (5, 8)
The answers are in this meandering post…
Today is nine weeks since I had my PIP assessment, and still I’ve had nothing in writing. I eventually got to speak to someone at DWP last week, only to be told that my application was still being processed. At least I haven’t been forgotten. Still I’m on a statutory benefit, sans a payment which permitted me some independence with my special needs. One of the freedoms taken from me is the ability to visit my parents, where PIP used to cover the train fares.
Dad says it’s good to have me around, and I know that contact with others can help with dementia and other degenerative conditions (he has Parkinson’s). So if I’m denied my independence, the system has already made me much more unwell, and quite possibly my dad too. If I’m declined, I’ll be unable to spend Christmas with family (and it could always be the last for my parents or me), no gifts for my kids, and unable to see my dad while he still remembers who I am.
I borrowed money to make the monthly visit to see the kids yesterday, but without my PIP payment, those trips may have to be reduced in frequency. A life is not a singular thing and there are people denied (or spared) my company. Despite winter approaching, I’m eating less and heating less.
The day with the children was very much as usual: lunch and interesting conversation, then shopping and further debate on matters of the world, of nature, medicine and science. We question things, and yesterday I wondered how the Romans did maths, if they only had Roman numerals. An interesting aside too, as we noted that as well as having alliterative names, my eldest is taller than me (not difficult) and therefore the longest Laker; the youngest is just a little shorter than my mum, and the littlest Laker for now.
It was a day punctuated by escalators. The first was one I’d ridden hundreds of times before, and its brothers and sisters around the London Underground estate, possibly millions. And yet, after more than 30 years of working, living and just being in London, something occurred to me for the very first time: ‘Dogs must be carried’. I don’t have a dog. It’s a terrible sentence, implying that carrying a dog is compulsory for riding the moving stairs, and it will haunt this pedant for the rest of my days and every time I see it.
Back at Euston later, ‘Stand on the right’ is the first on the list of London Underground’s levitation instructions, and invariably some people don’t. I tend to walk down and float up, but I was anxious of time and chose to walk up the left of the escalator, to be greeted by a backside, talking to her friend on the right. “Excuse me,” I said, perhaps impatiently with someone too ignorant and arrogant to read signs. “How rude,” I was told.
I apologised for having excused myself so that I could travel freely and not hinder the transit of those behind me, but apparently that was rude and I should be more patient. I passed this down the line behind me, asked if she’d rather have my blood, and told her to get over herself, which elicited a tut. Finally I pointed to the signs at regular intervals on the way up: “Stand on the right,” I read aloud, and added “like fascists”. I was tired of walking by now, so I stood on the right of the escalator, in front of my verbal assailant. As I rose to ground level, I let one go silently and shared the scrambled eggs I’d had for breakfast.
I can only hope that more than nine weeks of stressing and growing more anxious by the day is enough for the dehumanising machine, that nine weeks is considered sufficient suffering, and now I can be returned to an independent life with sufficient funds to live it. If not, if I’m found undeserving for some reason (even though I’ve been on PIP for the last four years), that’s a pretty sick trick to play on someone. Those days out with my kids are about all I have now, and that may be denied by the Tory government’s social cleansing machine.
Life has changed over the last few months, ever since this benefit reapplication process started. Even if I am forced through the tribunal process again, knowing where I stand would be better than where I am at the moment. Right now I have not got a clue what the answers are.
Did you find them all?
THE WRITER’S LIFE
It’s now eight weeks since my reassessment for PIP and I’ve still heard nothing. It could be that the Department for Work and Pensions are still processing me, but my money was cut to a statutory amount a month ago, when my last two-year benefit period expired. I’m surviving without the money I used to live an independent life (the whole purpose of the benefit), but I have nothing beyond essentials. Everything else, I can no longer afford. I’m disabled, dehumanised, and it feels, disposable.
The timing couldn’t be more cruel. If I’m forced through the tribunals machine, the process could drag on for another 4-6 months. During that time there’s Christmas and my kids’ and parents’ birthdays. I can’t afford anything more than token gifts. I have just about enough money to maintain my monthly visits with the children, but little else. I’d like to visit my parents more, but I can’t afford to.
My dad’s diagnosis has changed. For the last six months, doctors thought he had hydrocephalus. He had fluid on his brain, which was drained, and everyone hoped he’d get better. But he got worse for a while. His condition was complicated by a serious neural infection requiring powerful intravenous antibiotics, and a fall resulting in three cracked ribs. All of which seemed to explain his long recovery. But although he’s better, he’s nothing like he was before this all started, when he got lost driving at night and I reported him missing and vulnerable to the police.
The latest prognosis is that dad probably has Parkinson’s, and I’d like to visit him while he still remembers who I am. But with my independence payment taken away, I can’t afford to. What a shame, that the UK benefits system is designed that way, to deny quality of life (independence), to aggravate mental illness with all this anxiety, and take away what was left of a life. A life is not a singularity, and each affects many others.
Shame on some of my so-called friends, who I loaned money in their times of need, but who never repaid me. I hope they enjoy their family Christmas, but that it’s marred by the prickly guilt of knowing they denied a friend what might have been his last. If a house is exorcised and you don’t pay the priest, will your home be repossessed? Karma can be a bitch of a haunting, but exorcism is easily arranged by settling debts (There’s a ‘Donate’ button on this blog).
Like most social tenants, my electricity is on a key meter, so like most poor people, I pay more for electricity and have to pay in advance. I won’t be troubling the meter too much, just putting on extra layers of clothing. A cynic might call it another social cleansing measure, by a fascist Tory government intent on population reduction by writing off costs, like disposable people.
I’m struggling, but I’m still here, hoping to find some humanity in the Department of Waste and Recycling that’s the benefits system. I’ll keep fighting to get what I’m entitled to, and hopefully regain my independence. Don’t forget me dad.
Sudheer Choudhary +917838490127_Email_Sudheerkumar373@yahoo.com_ Cafe Lounge On Map:- jaatsaab cefe $ lounge
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I'm Hamed M. Dehongi. I am a writer and this is my blog. I like writing poetry, short stories, and novels.
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