#who died of hypochondria

[imflyinoveryou]

me my mom and brother lived in a trailer for a year and it would get so fucking cold in there, so we would all get in the big bed and snuggle and watch he-man on satellite tv and talk for hours before falling asleep. my brother would always ask hypotheticals like "what if a man came in here in the middle of the night" and my mom would say something like "id kill him dead" and i would just laugh and laugh

[my-adhd-gremlin-blog]

I am as disappointed as everyone else is with the final season of The Umbrella Academy, but I also have some of my own Thoughts™️. Allow me to weigh in.

We can all agree that the finale was absolute dogshit, right? I've seen a lot of commentary about the character assassination of Number Five, and the cursed as fuck crack ship that should've stayed in the deep recesses of ao3, where no one could find it. But there was also absolutely no character development for any of them in the end? Not really?

Luther still has unresolved daddy issues (why else would he be squatting in the condemned building of the Academy?). And he just, what, gave up looking for his wife? Luther "loverboy" Hargreeves. The man who chased and pined for Allison almost his entire life gave up on HIS WIFE after/within six years? No way.

Diego's character basically went nowhere. Four seasons, and he still didn't come to any kind of realisation that, hey, maybe he is enough. No. If he isn't in Luther's shadow, he's insecure about his marriage, or his powers, and being "strong enough." Everything was a competition to him, even though he was the only one competing. He deserved a little bit of self-love, but apparently, "self-destruct" is all he gets.

Allison had her ups and downs, and they let her end on a fucking down? Her arch was the most disappointing. We literally see her trying to be a better, more honest person in s1, and then a human rights activist in s2. Her powers are morally grey, sure, but she had so much potential. Then she just straight up becomes a villain and has barely any redemption for it? Her character started on a high. It was natural progression for her to hit a low. But not that low. And she never really came back up from it. In six years, it seemed like she made no real effort to make up for what she did. A couple of good decisions do not make up for a multitude of bad ones.

Which brings me to Klaus. I wasn't sold on sober, germaphobe Klaus to begin with. I thought it was just a little bit too out of character. But I'll take that any day than what happened to him this season. And to his credit, his hypochondria after losing his powers at least made sense. But he'd made so much progress, not just on his sobriety but on embracing his powers rather than being afraid. (Also, he and Allison being codependent on each other like that was not healthy).

This season made Ben, as a character, pretty much pointless. From the beginning, it seemed like his death was supposed to bring the Academy together, narratively speaking. It was his "purpose" to die and become a sort of martyr to his siblings (I mean, it didn't work, so even then, Ben kinda died unnecessarily). But in reality, his death wasn't a teachable moment, it was just murder. And without Ben, the story still would have ended the same way. Any of the children born from the marigold could have brought about the cleanse, it didn't necessarily HAVE to be Ben. And with the number of timelines there were, it was probably inevitable that it would happen in at least one of them. They all died pointlessly, but Ben's deaths were especially pointless.

Viktor was about the only character that DID have some development. He finally stood up to his father and received at least some validation for his mistreatment as a kid. Not that it ended up mattering because his relationship with his siblings was practically non-existent at this point. All he'd ever wanted was to be a part of the team, and yet apparently made no effort in six years to see his siblings and actually be a part of the family. It makes no sense for his character.

I hate that Lila was a damsel in distress for most of this season. She's a grown woman who we know is fully capable of standing up for herself, but it felt like she was reduced to just her role in the family. I'm not saying there is anything wrong with being a mother or a wife, but that seemed to be ALL her character was this season, when we know she's more than that. The one thing she got to herself was taken away from her coz it hurt "poor Diego's feelings 🥺". Grow up 🙄. And I am not touching the other thing with a ten foot barge pole.

Now, obviously, there's Five. People have already talked about how his character was completely butchered this season. No, Five of the past would not have given up so easily. Despite the jabs and the squabbling, Five loved his family. He fought hard to get back to them when he was stranded. After a struggle like that, why the fuck WOULD he stop fighting to keep his family together?

I'm not saying all of these characters had to be good, outstanding citizens by the end of the show. But they should have at least had a journey from season one. Instead, they either went backwards or in circles. And in the end, none of it mattered anyway.

This season was so fucking stupid. It completely undermined the rest of the story. What was the point in literally anything that happened in the previous seasons if it was just leading up to all of it being erased? This is some, "and it was all a dream" bullshit, and I'm not here for it.

[scotianostra]

On 21st July 1796 Robert Burns died in Dumfries, he was just 37.

Rather than go over Rabbie's life, this post mainly covers the last few weeks of his life, and him dealing with his iminent demise………

It is apparent from Burns’s correspondence, his poetry, and even from his First Commonplace Book that the bard was plagued by ill health on several occasions throughout his short life. ‘A Prayer in the Prospect of Death’, first published in the ‘Kilmarnock’ edition of Burns’s Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect is believed to have been written in 1784 when the bard was just twenty-five years of age and suffering a bout of ill health: O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear!

Burns gives this poem the longer, more explanatory title, ‘A Prayer, when fainting fits, & other alarming symptoms of a Pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threaten me, first put Nature on the alarm.’

Indeed, we might consider that the threat of illness never truly left the bard: there are several references throughout the poets’ correspondence to rheumatic episodes, hypochondria, physical injury, toothache and periods of ‘melancholy’. However, the first signs of the illness which would eventually claim Burns’s life began in the winter of 1795 when the poet was confined to his sick-bed for several weeks. His health declined over the course of the months that followed, and from the bard’s correspondence in the summer months of 1796 it would appear that he sensed the finality of this particular episode of ill health. In a letter to George Thomson on the 4th of July hewrote: ‘ I received your songs, but my health being so precarious nay dangerously situated, that as a last effort I am here at sea-bathing quarters. – Besides my inveterate rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone; & I am so emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself on my own legs.’ If you remember my last post about Burns at the beginning of the month where he sought the healing powers of the Brow Well and bathing in the Solway Firth near Ruthwell. Burns was soon aware that the sea-bathing was ineffective, writing to his father-in-law James Armour on the 10th of July that;

‘I have now been a week at salt water, & though I think I have got some good by it, yet I have some secret fears that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.’

Tragically, Burns’s final letters became increasingly desperate, and the poet expressed deep concern for the welfare of his family, it became clear the bard was preparing for the worst when he wrote to his brother Gilber:

God help my wife & children, if I am taken from their head! – They will be poor indeed. – I have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, & partly from too much thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands.’

Burns was right to be concerned. Indeed, he died in significant financial difficulty, overshadowed with the threat of debtors’ jail. Burns himself acknowledges this in a letter to his cousin, James Burness, on the 12th of July in which he states: ‘When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail.’

Before this threat could be realised, Burns died surrounded by his family and close friends on this day in 1796.

While biographers and critics have offered several theories surrounding the cause of Burns’s death (many of which are fanciful and without evidence, some even hinting at conspiracy), scholars and medics who have examined the poet’s own account of his illness, together with those of his contemporaries, agree that the poet most likely died from bacterial endocarditis: a serious complication of his recurring rheumatic illness. Of course I dn’t think his like of alcohol helped though.

Robert Burns’s funeral took place at midday on the 25th of July 1796, I will cover it in more detail in a few days……

[genericpuff]

I gotta say, I had the usual stage fright of introducing Charon because I was worried what you all would think of him. But now I'm seeing all the "OH NO HE'S HOTTTT" comments so... yeah, I think Charon's debut was a smashing success 😂

SO here are some fun facts about Charon to keep you satisfied until he shows up again!

He's a male character, but he's designed with androgyny in mind - tailoring to both masculine and feminine dress styles.

His colors are based off obsidian, a naturally-occurring igneous rock formed from rapidly-cooling lava.

Charon is aro-ace, having no interest in forming romantic or sexual relationships with anyone. He is truly married to his work and his work alone.

His eyes are designed to look like obols, the coins paid to him to cross the River Styx.

Due to his job ferrying souls, Charon has developed hypochondria - a form of anxiety that makes him fear he may become seriously ill. This anxiety first arose from his fears of ferrying the souls of mortals who have died from disease or plague. Though his contractors at the Underworld Corp assure him the souls of the dead aren't contagious, Charon still feels more comfortable wearing a face mask while doing his job.

He's actually quite talkative and kind once he gets to know you - but often times he can't hear you through his earbuds, fashioned for him specifically by Hades to muffle out the screams of the dead emanating from the River Styx. His earbuds are also hooked up to a speed-dial networking system linking him to Hades and those who Hades trusts the most to call upon in emergencies - this networking system also includes Hecate and the Furies.

(^^^ original concept sketch of Charon)

[focsle]

how common was scurvy aboard whaling vessels?

Oh bless, this will swerve me from the pit of hypochondria I was burying myself in (I'm not being sarcastic! This pulls me, temporarily, from the pit! At least I don't have scurvy! It's so easily avoidable!)

Scurvy was very common on whalers.

When naval Lieutenant Charles Wilkes came across the whaleship America in 1839, he said of it,

"I have seldom seen at sea a more uncombed and dirty set of mariners than his crew. How they preserve any tolerable state of health I know not, and it is not at all surprising that the ravages of scurvy should be felt on board of some vessels belonging to the whaling fleet, if this is the usual state in which they are kept."

John Martin, of the Lucy Ann, 1840s wrote of "In the evening, dancing cotillions and jumping the rope to keep off the scurvey". It didn't seem to do much. Within two weeks he wrote:

"One man on the sick list, supposed to be caused by his being so long at sea. All hands are complaining of soreness throughout their bodies. If we do not get on shore soon, we may expect to have half the crew down with the scurvey at least. We have no vegetables on board, and are going into King Georges Sound, New Holland [soutwest tip of Australia], a place where we can scarcely get anything to recruit with."

Given that a whaleships spent extended time at sea and were loathe to waste too much time with anchoring somewhere, fresh food ran low quite often. When whaling in the Atlantic and South Pacific whalers usually fared okay, as there were a fair number of provision stops in locations that had fresh fruits and vegetables readily available for trade. It was on said provisions stops that whalers could also, as said by Samuel Wood of the Bowditch, 1849, take a walk to 'knock the scurvey from their bones'.

In seasons that took place up north however, in the Sea of Okhotsk (Kamchatka Sea), Bering Strait, and eventually up into the Arctic, scurvy was extremely prevalent. The fresh food depleted, the ice was always a threat, and unlike other regions there weren't many accessible places to resupply with foods that could ward off scurvy. It's in reading journals during these periods that I find the most complaints of scurvy. And sometimes, the more successful the voyage was, the sicker the men would get because they'd spend more time up there rather than giving up and returning south.

The US Consul in Hawaii made note of this in the 1840s, saying:

"Whaleships were much more successful in taking oil on the North West during the last summer and fall than for three or four seasons previous and most of the vessels remained on the fishing grounds much longer than usual, the consequence of which was that many of the crews were severely afflicted with scurvy, some died after reaching port and before they could be landed, while others were carried to the hospital on litters, being too feeble to walk."

Another US consular officer in Hawaii mentioned the issue of Northwest seasons being taxing to the health too. In the overfishing of whales, it led to a push further and further North, and thus the complaints of scurvy increased.

The Sperm whale rapidly disappeared before the increasing fleet, and in a short time most of the vessels abandoned their pursuit for the whale on the North West Coast. Constant exposure to the cold and fogs of that region soon injured the health of the men and seriously impaired the constitution of many.

In 1844, 1845, and 1846 but more particularly the last two years, a large proportion of the vessels were unsuccessful in taking oil, and when they arrived here in the fall of 1846 they had a large number on the sick list who were obliged to be placed in the Hospitals. With few exceptions the crews were restless and discontented, many had been on board two years or more, and instead of diminishing the debts which stood against them at the time of sailing they had been compelled to add to them in order to supply themselves with necessary clothing— All the hopes and expectations excited by the Agents had been bloated. They were disgusted with the occupation and determined at all hazards to leave their vessels. They would resort to any and every means to procure their discharge. Failing in this, many deserted. If caught in time to be placed on board of their vessels, they would threaten to burn the ship or do some other act to prevent their proceeding the voyage, saying that they would sooner die than go to the North West again, and in many cases Masters ceased to have any control over their crews.

The US Consul was largely concerned with sick (and/or disillusioned) men coming to Hawaii, and then never leaving OR having to have their passage paid back by the government (rather than being forced to ship on another whaler, which was what the Consul's usual method was).

For all that, there were attempts on board made to ward off scurvy. In addition to the exercise John Martin mentioned, he also said the captain allowed unlimited vinegar and free access to the potato pen, ordering them to eat raw potatoes and vinegar to try and hold off scurvy. The vinegar, a mistaken remedy due to its acidity, wouldn't have helped much. Potatoes are an excellent source of vitamin C, more so when they're raw, though eating large quantities raw probably also made those lads have some sad feeling guts.

John King, a rare whaleship doctor on the Aurora, 1837, also had his own remedies:

"13. Salts of Lemon This is good in scurvy when fresh fruit and vegetables can not be obtained. A teaspoonful dissolved in half a pint of water will form an acid nearly the strength of lime juice. It may be mixed with water and taken freely, sweetened or not. [it makes a good substitute for lemonade, in fever, to allay thirst in fever] Water made slightly acidic with it is a good substitute for lemonade to allay thirst in fever."

Okay that's enough, bedtime, thank you!

[why-bless-your-heart]

Lunacy and Letters (1901)

A considerable amount of testimony exists to indicate the rather astonishing fact that the British Museum Library, in addition to its multifarious services, discharges a great many of the functions of a private madhouse. Men and women in that vast palace of knowledge go quietly to and fro, ransack the wisdom of the ages and are waited on by the servants of the State, who in a less humane age would have been screaming in Bedlam upon a heap of straw. It is said that it is no uncommon thing for a family which is responsible for a harmless lunatic to send him to the British Museum Library that he may play with dynasties and philosophies as a sick child plays with soldiers. Whether or no this be true to the full extent, it is assuredly true that this colossal temple of hobbies has all the air of containing many tragedies, for, indeed, a hobby often means a tragedy.

There go the loves that wither

The old loves on wearier wings,

And all dead things draw thither

And all disastrous things.

In that library may be seen figures so weird and dehumanised that they might be born and die in the Library without seeing the light of the sun. They seem like a fabulous and subterranean people, the gnomes of the mine of learning. But it would be hasty and irrational to say that all this amounts to madness. The love of a bookworm for musty old folios may easily be more sane than the love of many poets for the sunshine and the sea. The inexplicable attachment of some old professor for a tattered old hat may be a far less vitally diseased sentiment than some light-minded society lady’s craving for a gown from Worth’s. It is too often forgotten that conventionalities may be morbid as well as unconventionalities. Of course there is no absolute definition of madness except the definition which we should each of us endorse that madness is the eccentric behaviour of somebody else. It is, indeed, an absurd exaggeration to say that we are all mad, but it is true that we are none of us perfectly sane, just as it is true that we are none of us perfectly healthy. If there were to appear in the world a perfectly sane man he would certainly be locked up. The terrible simplicity with which he would walk over our minor morbidities, our sulky vanities and malicious self-righteousness; the elephantine innocence with which he would ignore our fictions of civilization—these would make him a thing more desolating and inscrutable than a thunderbolt or a beast of prey. It may be that the great prophets who appeared to mankind as mad were in reality raving with an impotent sanity.

In a large number of cases, doubtless, these literary eccentrics, in pursuing their hobbies, are pursuing the sanest of all human impulses, the impulse that bids us put our trust in industry and a defined aim. There is probably many an old collector whose friends and relations say that he is mad on Elzevirs, when as a matter of fact it is the Elzevirs that keep him sane. Without them he would drift into soul- destroying idleness and hypochondria; but the drowsy regularity of his notes and calculations teaches something of the same lesson as the swing of the smith’s hammer or the plodding of the ploughman’s horses, the lesson of the ancient commonsense of things. But when full allowance has been made for that wholesome cheerfulness which often peculiarly attaches to laborious and useless employments, there does remain a problem of the sanity of scholarship. Books, like all other things which are the friends of man, are capable of becoming his enemies, are capable of rising in revolt, and slaying their creator. The spectacle of a man raving in brain-fever through the mysteries of a trumpery pamphlet of rag paper that he can carry in his pocket has the same ironic majesty as the sight of a man struck down by a railway engine. Man is supremely complimented even in death; in a sense he dies by his own hand. This diabolic quality in books does exist; madness lies in wait in quiet libraries, but the nature and essence of that madness can only be approximately defined.

One general description of madness, it seems to us, might be found in the statement that madness is a preference for the symbol over that which it represents. The most obvious example is the religious maniac, in whom the worship of Christianity involves the negation of all those ideas of integrity and mercy for which Christianity stands. But there are many other examples. Money, for example, is a symbol; it symbolises wine and horses and beautiful vesture and high houses, the great cities of the world and the quiet tent by the river. The miser is a madman, because he prefers money to all these things; because he prefers the symbol to the reality. But books are also a symbol; they symbolise man’s impression of existence, and it may at least be maintained that the man who has come to prefer books to life is a maniac after the same fashion as the miser. A book is assuredly a sacred object. In a book certainly the largest jewels are shut in the smallest casket. But that does not alter the fact that superstition begins when the casket is valued more than the jewels. This is the great sin of idolatry, against which religion has so constantly warned us.

In the morning of the world the idols were rude figures in the shapes of man and beast, but in the civilized centuries they still remain in shapes even lower than those of beast or man, in the shape of books and blue china and quart pots. It is written that the gods of the Christian are leather and porcelain and pewter. The essential of idolatry is the same. Idolatry exists wherever the thing which originally gave us happiness becomes at last more important than happiness itself. Drunkenness, for example, may be fairly described as an engrossing hobby. And drunkenness is, when really comprehended in its inward and psychological reality, a typical example of idolatry. Essential intemperance begins at the point where the one incidental form of pleasure, which comes from a certain article of consumption, becomes more important than all the vast universe of natural pleasures, which it finally destroys. Omar Khayyam, who is for some inexplicable reason often regarded as a jovial and encouraging poet, sums up this final and horrible effect of drink in one stanza of incomparable wit and power:

And much as wine has played the infidel,

And robb’d me of my robe of honour—Well,

I wonder often what the vintners buy

One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

The Persian was a poet of immense fancy and fertility, but the full force of his imagination could not summon from this multifarious universe anything to rival the attractions of a particular red substance that had undergone a chemical change. This is idolatry: the preference for the incidental good over the eternal good which it symbolises. It is the employment of one example of the everlasting goodness to confound the validity of a thousand other examples. It is the elementary mathematical and moral heresy that the part is greater than the whole. Now in this sense bibliomania is capable of becoming a kind of drunkenness. There is a class of men who do actually prefer books to everything with which books are concerned, to lovely places, to heroic actions, to experiment, to adventure, to religion. They read of godlike statues, and are not ashamed of their own frowsy and lazy ugliness; they study the records of open and magnanimous deeds, and are not ashamed of their own secretive and self-indulged lives. They have become citizens of an unreal world, and, like the Indian in his Paradise, pursue with shadowy hounds a shadowy deer. And that way lies madness.

In the limbo of the misers and the drunkards, which is the limbo of idolators, many great scholars may be found. Here, as in almost all ethical problems, the difficulty arises far less from the presence of some vicious tendency than from the absence of some essential virtues. The possibilities of mental derangement which exist in literature are due not so much to a love of books as to an indifference to life and sentiment and everything that books record. In an ideal state, gentlemen who were immersed in abstruse calculations and discoveries would be forced by Act of Parliament to talk for forty-five minutes to an ostler or a landlady, and to ride across Hampstead Heath on a donkey. They would be examined by the State, but not in Greek or old armour, which are their pleasures, and in which they may be trusted as safely as children at cross-touch. They would be examined in Cockney dialect, or in the colours of various omnibuses. They would be purged of all the tendencies which have sometimes brought lunacy out of learning; they would be taught to become men of the world, which is a step towards becoming men of the Universe.

[shadowmaat]

Life is pain

I didn't want to derail the Padme body horror post making the rounds. It mentions how excruciatingly uncomfortable the costumes were for Kiera Knightly and has an addendum from another person about details from the Queen's Peril that added in some of the agonizing periods she experienced. Which got the pinball in my head rolling. lol.

According to Sources Palpatine has been grooming Padme since childhood. He manipulated her parents into angling her for queendom, "mentored" her as she grew up, and of course convinced her of the whole Vote of No Confidence thing.

Let's take it an additional step and say he formed some kind of one-sided parasitic bond with her. Or at the very least, he was able to feed off her suffering, so made sure she suffered as much as possible. Painful fashion, incompetent doctors/gynecologists, whatever. She grows up thinking this is normal and her handmaidens just sort of roll with it (we'll assume they've tried to help and she shrugged it off as "this is just normal for me.")

Along comes Anakin. Their romance begins. Anakin, who rarely notices anything that doesn't directly affect him and his interests, takes Padme at her word that all her pain is "just normal" and doesn't think twice about it. Sure, he'd spare her if he could because she's his, but if this is what happens to all women, well, he can't fix that.

Good Timeline:

We'll say Anakin and Aayla are on some mission together or just sparring or whatever. Aayla is unusually snappish and apologizes by explaining that it's just the twi'lek equivalent of PMS. Anakin tells her how lucky she is not to be human because it's SO MUCH WORSE for human women.

Aayla, who knows a few things about alien biology, is perplexed and asks for clarification. Anakin blithely mentions that Pad- uh, Senator Amidala is laid up for days because of the pain.

Aayla tells him that isn't normal. Anakin assures her it absolutely is. They argue. Nothing is decided, but Aayla is determined to investigate. She asks Master Che about it. Vokara might not be human, but she's a Master Healer who has worked on countless humans and has access to vast medical databases. Vokara tells her that debilitating periods are absolutely NOT normal for humans. Padme is hauled into the Temple for a thorough checkup, which leads to a bigger investigation, several Nubian doctors and fashion designers losing their licenses/jobs, and a bit of relief for poor Padme, who isn't sure how to handle a life without pain. We'll say that Palpatine's role in things isn't discovered, but he of course expresses sympathy for the poor young thing while mentally moving up his timeline to compensate.

Bad Timeline:

Anakin and Aayla never discuss feminine health. Palpatine arranges for Anakin to have the parasitic bond, which isn't hard to do given Anakin's unhealthy obsession with Padme.

Anakin goes through the war while rarely experiencing any serious injuries. Padme, however, has frequent illnesses and periods of weakness/low energy. Since her corrupt doctors are still in place, she's reassured that not only is this stuff normal for her, but her concern might indicate some degree of hypochondria or other attention-seeking gambit that makes them question if she needs a therapist. That'll back her right off, since she can't be seen as "mentally weak" or whatever nonsense.

Anyway, this route sets the stage for that fanon idea that Padme died because her life force was drained in order to save Anakin.

I think I had more to say but I've been interrupted five times and lost whatever train of thought I was on. Ah well. lol

edit: oh right, I think there was a "worst timeline" idea that involved Anakin killing Padme during one of his tantrums and then somehow reanimating her while he desperately tried to pretend everything was normal and nothing bad had happened.

[firebird-nonnette]

Personal thoughts (ignore meee)

(Incredibly long post to put my thoughts because i dont wanna write in my physical journal right now but ill lose this if i dont put it on my tumblr, which i treat as a sort of visual journal)

Been thinking about death and how to soothe my death anxiety.

I got very sick with covid and I'm still fighting it a month later. Now I have a few early signs of pneumonia, which is one of the real dangers of covid.

After 4 weeks of being very ill with something like covid and with pneumonia looming, the worst case scenario keeps revolving in my mind. It's been tickling my death anxiety and i want to try and sort it out a bit.

Im doing what I can to rest, but who knows how this'll pan out. My boyfriend caught it at the same time and got over it in 10 days or so and he's head empty no thoughts about the fact that we finally (after 4 years of never catching it) caught the thing that stopped the world and killed millions.

So, I've been thinking about death. A little anxiously. A little calmly. Mostly with a nervous puzzle-solving confusion. I want to stop being afraid of illness and death. I have hypochondria and death anxiety. Had them since about a year after my mom died of a sudden illness. They got worse in 2020, like they did with most others afflicted. I've been able to have some months here and there where my anxieties were less. They're usually characterized by less screen time, more journaling, more time spent looking out windows, more time spent reading Stoic philosophy and Compassionate Mind Therapy works, and a little investigation into Near Death Experience studies that overwhelmingly report pleasant and positive experiences of the afterlife. I also spend some time with my spirituality, but I'm a very specific type of spiritual agnostic and since my mother died there's no one in my life who believes exactly what I believe (though my bf believes about 90% of the same stuff). The good times are when I'm in more or less good health and set aside time for gratitude and slowness and lots of gentle thinking and puzzling about life and death. The best times are when I'm very grateful, very mindful, and invest in enjoying the beauty of incredibly mundane things I'm usually too anxious or desenstized to notice: the feeling of my decade-old comforter when I lay on it, how sunlight hits the curtains in the computer room, how the green tea I've been drinking for 13 years tastes, how the trees and bushes cast little shadows, how the wind smells, etc etc. These are things that are almost always accessible in everyday life, but I rarely take time with them. But, when I do, -when i honestly and completely let myself enjoy them with love and gratitude for life and the world around me- I feel the most connected to "life". It's pure joy.

I have a very hard time accessing these feelings when I'm sick or in pain. Instead, I ruminate on my anxieties or distract myself with screentime.

But, back to death:

I hate the idea of dying confused and scared. The same way I hate feeling anxious and scared when I'm sick. I want to be calm and accepting. I want to feel joy and gratitude. I'm not sure how to articulate why this is important to me, but I absolutely hate the idea of getting sick, feeling awful, feeling scared and anxious, and then dying in fear and anxiety. It is very, very, very important to me to meet (or survived brushes with) death with a calm, clear, and grateful mind.

So I've been using this sickness as an opportunity to try and work on that because, honestly, my first reaction is more anxiety than calmness.

I was considering how I might try to accept my death if it were anytime soon - either from this covid pneumonia or from something else. (Because any of us could die from almost anything any day.) This is also because my aunt, who I only got to meet once, is also in hospice right now and I can't travel to see her one last time. She's all that's left of my mom. When I met her a few years ago, I saw so much of my mom in her. Mannerisms and tones and jokes I hadn't seen or heard in 8 years were still alive in her. The sound of her voice over the phone sounds so incredibly like my mother's (of whom I only have 1 or 2 home video recordings from the 90s because she was notoriously scornful of being recorded or photographed) that I cried after our conversation ended. My aunt is 81, if she passes, she will have lived 20 more years than my mom. She came down with this illness right around my mom's 10th death anniversary. She has had a long life behind her. My mom died at 61. A bit young, but she still had a very eventful life full of stories, trials, and blessings.

When it comes to death, I'm not frightened of what's on the other side. I believe death is just as natural and neutral as birth. I believe in all the reports and studies and stories about a benevolent and beautiful "other side", just as my mom had described it when she had her own near death experience 5 years before she passed. She gave me an amazing childhood and adolescence full of wonder and wisdom and death positivity. She loved discussing mortality and spirituality and the science around death. She had equipped me, very well, to know how to mourn her. Of course, without her, I lost touch with that straightforward death positivity and became more and more anxious. But I'm trying to get back to that calm, steady acceptance I once had.

While I'm scared of dying painfully, I'm not too worried. Morphine and other interventions can help and pain is temporary and, I'm sure, forgotten when you cross.

I mostly have a certain stage fright of death. Despite my beliefs about the other side, I'd still be scared, like a novice actor backstage, of being pushed beyond the curtain to see what's on the other side and succumb to whatever it is that happens on the other side. I do take comfort knowing that every human who has ever lived, including my mother, has died and if they can do it, so can I.

One other common fear of death is the worry of leaving others behind. I'm not worried. Ethan would figure life out, eventually. He'd carry on. I've told him, in our occasional talks about death, that he should move on as soon as is right for him. I'm not worried about my friends, they'll be fine, too. I don't have kids, which is the major fear people have about dying "early", so that's fine. My sister would probably grieve a little while (she estranged herself from us, but has been trying to get back in touch a little), but she'd move on, too. Dad would be the person I'd worry about the most, but he has Debbie to take care of him and he'd also move on, eventually, though he would have the worst time of it. He's very death anxious. But, all in all, everyone would be fine. So, I'm not scared of leaving anyone behind.

If I were to die soon, I realized that I'd regret not having the chance to do more.

I'm notorious for being hyperproductive and burning myself out. But I actually feel I'd regret working so hard lol. My company doesn't need ALL of me. I wanna take more time for myself.

I don't mean I'd regret not being more productive. I'd regret not creating more. Not making more of an impact. Helping people, connecting with people.

I've already done some of that, but I want to do more before I go. I'd like to have some kind of accomplishment that's just for me for the impact I've had on others and the world. Volunteering or helping organizations or content creators I admire like Stoicism or Compassionate Mind Theory science communicators or maybe writing the books i wanna write so I can at least give people a fun little time with some stories.

Maybe it would be raising a child someday (probably adopting), though I'm on the fence about this.

But, what really gets me, is I don't know WHAT is missing. I just have a general sense of wanting to do more and consume less. I want to spend a little less time on my phone or rewatching movies and spend that time on something meaningful.

Usually, when people are close to death they regret not making more friends but I feel pretty okay. I'd meet people doing whatever the meaningful thing is I wanna do.

What bothers me is there's no way I'd be able to do a super meaningful or impactful thing between now and when this pneumonia would escalate. Soooooo I also wanna find peace that if I were to die before I could do something more, I want to accept that I did what I was able to up to this point and just be okay with that.

Because, honestly, we are all deeply impactful presences in the world even if we don't do a lot.

My writing for media psychology has had an impact on many people. I've gotten lots of comments from people saying my writing has helped them or inspired them, changed their lives. I think that's probably good enough. Maybe instead of saying I'd "regret" not doing more, the better way to think of it is "if I could live a little longer, I'd love to do more".

Anyways, I'm tired now and rest is important. I had to get these thoughts out linearly. Time for bed. Will try to spend time grateful and joyful tomorrow. This pneumonia will statistically probably get better on its own, but its been a good obstacle and lesson to learn about myself. But, just on the off-chance Im headed for serious illness or even death, I'm gonna try and enjoy everything I can for now.

[forensicated]

Smiffina Episodes: 480

Smithy gets a call to head to the front office to collect something that turns out to be a bunch of flowers. Gina teases him thinking he's bought them for Kezia, however they're for her! From Peter! And Smithy absolutely LOVES winding her up.

Gina reads the card as Smithy leaves the room, whatever is on it, she's not happy about it as she screws it up and throws it across the room.

Smithy and Gina are investigating an old lag, Jimmy Collins, who hasn't gone back to prison after a home visit. They find him at his wife's house - despite her claiming innocence - and Smithy chases him outside where he gets in his wifes car and drives off - causing Smithy to do a rather impressive bounce!

To be fair though, it's not only Smithy who's having a bad day in this episode...!

Reg's famous hypochondria is back in action as Gina finds Diane waiting for him in the yard after she and Smithy have brought Jimmy's wife in. He's complaining of a gippy tummy that has 'knocked him sideways' . Gina tells him to go home or get to work but stop complaining.

Jimmy's wife tells them that he'd said he had 'a thing to do' that morning and then he'd go back to prison but he didn't tell her what that thing was. She says he left the house with her at 8.30, she went shopping and then the police arrived as she got home. Reg is only too happy to trawl through the CCTV looking for Jimmy's movements but Diane keeps begging him to go home because she wants to go out and about.

Reg finds Jimmy on the CCTV and he's clearly been hurt, holding his jacket to his side and limping towards a chemists where he steals bandages and painkillers.

Gina takes delivery of another parcel from Peter - his gifts have gone up in the world as this time it's a dress, shoes and shawl. "The mans got more money than sense!" Gina is horrified though Smithy is very amused. "Er, that's something you wouldn't hear most women complaining about!" Nikki arrives with a further delivery, tickets for the ballet! "As if someone likes me wants to see a bunch of blokes in codpieces prancing around the stage!" Smithy can barely hold his laughter in. "I'm not going!" she insists, even when Smithy points out that the tickets are around £500 for the two given it's a private box!

Look at that little shit...!!

Jimmy's car is found covered in blood, his last known associates are either in another country, in prison, or dead. If he is planning a job it's either by himself or with a new team he might have met during one of his home visits. However, given the amount of blood he appears to be losing, he can't have gotten far.

Diane asks Smithy if she can be paired with someone else because Reg is still refusing to go outside and she claims it doesn't need two of them to watch the CCTV. Smithy gently explains that he's not doing it on purpose, it's simply how Reg is processing Honey's death and that he wants to be at the station and in amongst the team. She sighs but gives in and goes to sit back with him.

June shouts down to Smithy and Gina after she's received the blood results from her stabbing case. There's two sets of DNA on the knife that stabbed the school boy that morning. The boy who was stabbed and Jimmy Collins. She knows Collins is the name of the prisoner they're searching for so they join forces to find out what the hell is going on. June explains that a school boy, Tom Ryan, has admitted stabbing the victim, Martin Clark and that Clark confirmed it but June didn't believe them then and really doesn't now. Tom has gone to youth court, Martin is still at St Hugh's and Jimmy's wife is back in the interview room. She tells them that she hasn't heard Jimmy mention anyone by Martin's name. She does however recognise Tom's name as the son of Jimmy's best friend who has died. He promised Tom he'd help look after him and has kept his promise.

Gina goes to Tom's mums house... and finds Jimmy there who tries to hold her hostage. Smithy realises after Diane and Reg update him on the CCTV and he rushes to get to Gina. In the mean time, Jimmy tells the two women that Martin Clark was bullying Tom. He followed Tom to school to make sure he was ok and then he was going to go to prison but then Martin appeared and started picking on Tom. Jimmy went to his aid, Martin got lippy and produced a knife and stabbed him - Jimmy lashed out and stabbed Martin in the struggle by accident. Jimmy told Tom to run, he picked up the blade worrying about Jimmy's fingerprints and threw it on the roof before running off as Jimmy made him go with him. Gina explains that Tom is saying it was him - and that Martin verified that. Jimmy nods and shows the wound on his side that is bleeding badly as he weakens, saying he wouldn't want them to know about it. Gina collapses and Smithy calls again. She tells him she's fine but that they need an ambulance immediately for Jimmy.

Smithy gets Gina to the car and tells her to go meet Peter. She thinks it's too later but he insists it's fine, he'll do the paperwork and that she should stop making excuses and go and enjoy herself. Peter has sent a limo to collect her and it's waiting outside as Smithy and June watch Gina approaching. "Those shoes won't stay on long!" June muses, watching poor Gina struggling in the heels. "... Let's hope the dress does!" Smithy grins.

[trickster-archangel]

Sometimes I wish more people knew my language. We have not a lot of great musicians, but the ones we have are mostly poets who use music to carve their poetry into hearts and heal the bleeding.

For reasons, I came by a song that I deem, without any fear to be proved wrong, one of the most beautiful song ever written by an Italian songwriter, Franco Battiato. It's titled La Cura (The Cure, but it can also mean healing, care, and therapy), and in a heartbeat, despite having known this song for a lifetime, I understood it's the easiest thing to think about Steve singing this about Danny. Why? Because despite writing the song in honor of his best friend just passed away, this song is the purest expression of Love, in all of its forms: romantic, platonic, familial, friendly. Every kind of love summarized into one song of care, devotion and protection:

~~~

Ti proteggerò dalle paure delle ipocondrie

Dai turbamenti che da oggi incontrerai per la tua via

Dalle ingiustizie e dagli inganni del tuo tempo

Dai fallimenti che per tua natura normalmente attirerai

Ti solleverò dai dolori e dai tuoi sbalzi d'umore

Dalle ossessioni delle tue manie

Supererò le correnti gravitazionali

Lo spazio e la luce per non farti invecchiare

E guarirai da tutte le malattie

Perché sei un essere speciale

Ed io, avrò cura di te

Vagavo per i campi del Tennessee

Come vi ero arrivato, chissà

Non hai fiori bianchi per me?

Più veloci di aquile i miei sogni

Attraversano il mare

Ti porterò soprattutto il silenzio e la pazienza

Percorreremo assieme le vie che portano all'essenza

I profumi d'amore inebrieranno i nostri corpi

La bonaccia d'agosto non calmerà i nostri sensi

Tesserò i tuoi capelli come trame di un canto

Conosco le leggi del mondo, e te ne farò dono

Supererò le correnti gravitazionali

Lo spazio e la luce per non farti invecchiare

Ti salverò da ogni malinconia

Perché sei un essere speciale

Ed io avrò cura di te

Io sì, che avrò cura di te

~~~

I will protect you from hypochondria's fears

From the disturbances that you'll meet on your path from now on

From the injustices and deceptions of your time

From the failures that, by your own nature, you will normally attract

I will relieve you from your griefs and mood swings

From the obsessions of your manias

I will overcome the gravitational currents

Space and light so you won't age

And you will be cured of all ailments

Because you are a special being

And I will take care of you

I wandered the fields of Tennessee

How I got there, who knows

Don't you have white flowers for me?

Faster than eagles my dreams

They cross the sea

Above all, I will bring you silence and patience

We will walk together the paths that lead to the essence

The scents of love will inebriate our bodies

The August calm will not calm our senses

I will weave your hair like weaves of a song

I know the laws of the world, and I will gift them to you

I will overcome the gravitational currents

Space and light so you won't age

I will save you from all melancholy

Because you are a special being

And I will take care of you

Yes, I will take care of you

[byneddiedingo]

Mia Farrow, Barbara Hershey, and Dianne Wiest in Hannah and Her Sisters (Woody Allen, 1986)

Cast: Barbara Hershey, Carrie Fisher, Michael Caine, Mia Farrow, Dianne Wiest, Maureen O'Sullivan, Lloyd Nolan, Max von Sydow, Woody Allen, Lewis Black, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Julie Kavner, J.T. Walsh, John Turturro. Screenplay: Woody Allen. Cinematography: Carlo Di Palma. Production design: Stuart Wurtzel. Film editing: Susan E. Morse.

As an actor, Woody Allen has two personae: the nebbishy neurotic that was the mainstay of his early career as a standup comedian, and the witty, self-effacing charmer who can credibly win the hearts of such co-stars as Diane Keaton, Mia Farrow, and Dianne Wiest. He appears in both personae in Hannah and Her Sisters. As Mickey, he suffers from hypochondria and a fear of death so severe that when he discovers he doesn't have a brain tumor he goes through a desperate but comic search for God, even going so far as to try to convert to Catholicism. He also plays the successful lover, winning Holly (Wiest) after an earlier misfired attempt. But Allen is not the only actor in the film who is playing the two "Woody Allen" personae: As Elliot, who is married to Mickey's ex-wife, Hannah (Farrow), Michael Caine also becomes both the neurotic and the charmer in his obsession with Hannah's sister, Lee (Barbara Hershey). So what we get is Elliot as Mickey's psychological doppelgänger. (Mickey was once married to Hannah and Holly is also her sister, reinforcing the duplication.) That all of this works as well as it does -- and sometimes it doesn't -- is why the film remains one of Allen's most successful. It was a critical and commercial hit, receiving seven Oscar nominations (including best picture) and winning three: for Caine and Wiest as supporting performers and for Allen as writer -- he was also nominated as director. It is certainly well-structured, given the intricacy of the various interrelationships among the three sisters and their husbands and lovers. I think the weakest part of the structure is Allen's own performance; unlike Caine, he never succeeds in integrating the two personae. Some of the problem is the way his role is written: The comedy of his hypochondria is too broad for a film that takes on some serious issues in the way people deal with infatuation and infidelity, and when Mickey recovers from his obsession with God and death, Allen borrows shamelessly from Preston Sturges's Sullivan's Travels (1941) by having Mickey snap out of it while watching the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup (Leo McCarey, 1933), just as Sullivan recovers from his own funk by watching a Disney cartoon. But there is a real sophistication in the way Allen ends his somewhat Chekhovian comedy by playing on our expectation of a happy ending. All of the characters in the film are far too morally compromised for a simple resolution, so Allen gives us what just appears to be one: a Thanksgiving party with all of the sisters and their husbands accounted for. At the very end, we find that Mickey and Holly are not only married now, but she's pregnant. Fade out, music and credits up. Perhaps only as we're walking out of the theater do we remember that it has earlier been well established that Mickey is infertile.

[scotianostra]

On October 29th 1740 James Boswell, the biographer, diarist and travel writer was born.

Born in Edinburgh. James’ father was a judge and belonged to an old Scottish family with the title Lord of Auchinleck. This made James the 9th Laird of Auchinleck.

After finishing college, like many with noble blood, and hence money,  Boswell toured Europe. On his tour he met several dignitaries including Rousseau and Voltaire. Taking careful notes Boswell created detailed profiles of the famous people he met. In 1763 Boswell met Samuel Johnson. They remained lifelong friends.

Boswell’s book, An Account of Corsica, was published in 1768, translated into 4 languages and made Boswell famous.  The man liked to  have a dink and, as he put it “whore around”  he wrote a letter to a friend once saying 

“I got myself quite intoxicated, went to a Bawdy-house and past a whole night in the arms of a Whore. She indeed was a fine strong spirited Girl, a Whore worthy of Boswell if Boswell must have a whore“. He admitted  to getting venereal disease at least 17 times. 

The Life of Samuel Johnson which is considered to be his masterpiece and was published in two volumes. Boswell died before completing the third volume. His most well known book to Scots, is of course, The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Johnson, who himself wrote his own version called A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland.

Boswell married Margaret Montgomerie in 1769. Margaret was his cousin and remained faithful to him despite his affinity to houses of ill repute. In 1789 Mrs. Boswell died, leaving five children. Boswell begged her forgiveness in his tearful eulogy. “Peggy” Boswell had been an excellent mother and a good wife, despite the infidelities and drunkenness of her husband, and from her death Boswell relapsed into worse excesses, grievously aggravated by his hypochondria. 

James Boswell died of a complication of disorders at his house in Great Poland Street on the 19th of May 1795, and was buried a fortnight later at Auchinleck. 

Much of his life can be pieced together through his journals, and the many letters he exchanged with friends over his life.

[rippk3s]

My family is surprised i have hypochondria when literally all they do is talk about who died in what kind of illness

[fcukcancer]

Ten years later, almost.

I graduated ten years (+5 days) ago.

When we talked on the phone, when I was preparing for my final exams, you said that "come hell or high water" you'd be at my graduation. But we were stepping way down into hell. Because you weren't there, you weren't well enough to make the trip to Manchester. I don't begrudge that. It's just something else on the pile of things you weren't able to do. And it's all the little things and moments that you notice it. It's the loss of every tiny sharp thing, that illness, decline, took away from you, and me. And death, in its absoluteness took away everything. You've missed so much, I've missed you so much.

Okay, almost 10 years ago (give it a few months) you tasked me with looking at everything twice. Once for me, and once for you. So here's some things I've seen, some things you've missed, in the last 10 years.

Your own funeral, it was, it's strange to say this, but it was a brilliant day. Later, me and Dad and Niall released balloons into the swirling wind in hall place, watched them disappear into the clouds. Niall went to uni, we visited him one time, saw Frank Turner play, we all got matching t-shirts.

I got a stop gap job. Me, Dad and Niall went to Amsterdam, just after New Year, just because we could. I got a better job, I went on a road trip with three friends, to Sweden. I flew home, my first flight alone. I started going out with one of those road-trip friends. Me, Dad and Niall went on an amazing holiday, to the Isle of Skye. We climbed Ben Nevis before getting the train home. You wouldn't have enjoyed Fort William, you'd have loved Skye. It felt like you were there. I felt so close to you even though you weren't there, corporeally. My uni friends started a tradition, of going on holiday in December, we're still doing it. Me and my partner went on holiday, a tour through Europe, by train. I moved out of the house I grew up in, into a flat share with people I knew from uni. Dad drove me to my new home, the day after we came back from a skiing holiday. Niall graduated, (I wasn't there, but Dad was), he moved back home. I haven't lived with my brother since I was 18. I feel like I shouldn't have left home, but I also felt like I couldn't stay. Dad met someone, she's lovely. I moved house again, into a flat with my partner, and another one of our road trip friends. At some point along the way we all went vegan or vegetarian. Not a big deal I just thought you'd like to know. Dad got married. Niall met someone. We all moved out of the house I grew up in. Dad sold it. It was time. It hadn't felt like home for a long time. Going back made me sad. My partner and I bought a flat, that flat from before in the story, we moved in during an incredibly strange time, during a pandemic. The UK had gone into a lockdown. I'm, not glad you didn't live to see it, but, your hypochondria would not have made the COVID 19 years a fun time for you. Restrictions lasted on and off for 18 months. I had some therapy. Not about you specifically, but also it was about you, everything is about you. I found the therapy really helpful. Niall got married. My best friend got engaged. I had a huge birthday party to celebrate my 30th Birthday. I invited almost everyone I knew. To say, hey, everyone, I'm still here. I didn't die when my mum died. I'm actually doing fine. My best friend got married, (quick turnaround but she's pulled off crazier things) the wedding was such a beautiful day.

This year (if we measure September to September), has been busy. Fun mostly, some sadness. Someone died who shouldn't have, you don't know them, you never met them, but I'm saddened by it. The day before your 9th deathday I climbed Ben Nevis, again. I've been around the UK, and hopped around Europe. I bought a car. I miss you, still can't get over the fact you died. I've spent 10 years in the bad timeline. Learning to live even though the world is wrong. But despite that, I I am happy. I've filled my life with people who make me happy, kept friendships strong through time, despite distance. I have a partner who is a good person, and we live well together. We're lucky, we're healthy, we're not taking that for granted. I get on with my family, the originals of course, but the other people we've brought in as well.

You did a good job with me, I'm your work in progress, something unfinished, I'll always be tangled up in you. And I am happy, and lying quietly beside my happiness is the truest thing I know which is that I miss you.

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Tw chronic illness, hypochondria

I just noticed that I don't "trust" my body, to work properly. I have chronic illnesses, maybe it's because of that. All those posts "your 30s are like your 20s but with pain" but I am 23 and I am already in pain. My body didn't even manage to keep me pain free for my youth.

When I was younger, my mom always made comments, about me getting cancer. Later I discovered, that our family tends to get cancer, many died from it, but as a child I was kind of hypochondriac about it. I often cried, when I believed I found a symptom of it on myself. It grew out, and only comes up when I am in a lot of stress.

So I am moving rn and when I was carrying a moving box, I bumped it into my chest and even got a bruise. And, probably because of that, this sides breast felt weird/hurt when moving.

I postponed it, full of anxiety, and today finally checked my breasts for cancer (I used to do it regularly, not because of fear, but because I wanted to know how they should feel, so that in case I'd notice the difference). And surprise (for me, honestly) there was nothing unusual. And I looked at my body in the mirror and said "I am surprised. You didn't fuck up this one."

I am in a lot of stress because of the moving, and all the carrying of stuff makes my chronic pain worse, and because of that I can't sleep properly.

But saying out loud, that I don't trust my body to work properly (except the chronic pain) felt very real and true to me so, I am asking:

How can I feel safe in my body again? How can I trust it again?

I feel like someone, in whose house it was broken in, and who expects another breaking, every night. No matter how unrealistic it is.

Hi anon,

I hear you and how challenging it can be to trust your body, especially when you've experienced chronic pain, anxiety about illness, and a family history of cancer. It's completely normal to have these concerns and fears, given your experiences and the stress you're currently going through.

Rebuilding trust in your body is a gradual process that involves both physical and emotional aspects. Things like mindfulness, deep breathing, yoga, self care, learning more about your conditions and how to manage them, seeking therapy, adapted exercise, a balanced diet, sufficient sleep, can all gradually help in regaining that sense of trust.

It's important to remember that, like healing, rebuilding trust takes time, so it's important to be patient and compassionate with yourself throughout the process. Each person's journey is unique, so find what works best for you and be open to exploring different strategies.

If you feel overwhelmed or need additional support, consider reaching out to a healthcare professional or therapist who can provide personalized guidance tailored to your specific needs. I hope I could help, and please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[matildainmotion]

MY BLOG IS MOVING! and a blog on How to Keep Going, in the aftermath of anything

I have written 92 blogs, to date. I just counted, because I am slowly sifting and sorting through them, to transfer them over to my new website, which will house them from now on. 92 blogs, but today I feel wobbly about whether I can write this – the 93rd. It’s the first since I became an Author, published a book, and so, of course, as soon as I have this apparent entitlement granted – official legitimacy to write – I doubt that I deserve it or can do it. Proof, if ever I needed it, that self-doubt is a lifelong condition, and that however much acceptance I am given, or even accolades, I will still find a way to wriggle back out to the margins, to claim outsider status, because- truth be told – that uncomfortable place is where I feel most at home.

But there is another dynamic at play here as well, which is to do with finding myself an outsider, not only to the self-assured mainstream, but to my own work, which is out there now, in Waterstones. I can go in and buy it as if it had nothing to do with me (I did this yesterday) which in a way it doesn’t anymore. I spoke at the book launch of how much it felt like a boat launch – a goodbye party, as the boat-book sails off into the world without me, and I am meant to stand on the shore, to watch and see how it fares. But I don’t like the anxious checking – on Instagram, Amazon, Goodreads – the wait to see if it will get reviewed, make a long list, a short list, win a prize, whether it will ’make it’ at all. And I don’t like the sense of emptiness that follows this achievement – the almost inevitable anti-climax: ‘And now what?’

(My book in Waterstones)

So I stand, and hold onto my doubt – that old, uncomfortable, comfort blanket, and wonder whether or not I can write another blog. I wonder, in fact, if I can ever write anything good ever again. And this is also a familiar feeling. I recognise it of old – I just finished a novel dedicated to my mother, but this doubt reminds me of my dad.

My father suffered from a kind of creative hypochondria – as if he was always on the point of losing his powers. He was a German Jewish refugee who escaped to England in 1936, at 16, and was fortunate enough to find his way to Oxford University. An outsider who deeply valued his insider status – a mirror of me, in the next generation, an insider, who values her outsider-ness. He became a medieval historian, but not the dry and dusty kind- he prided himself on his prose, at the same time as being desperately offended once when someone alluded to his ‘purple passages,’ as if his work were all surface flourish. But whenever he finished a piece of work, he would worry as to whether he could ever produce another of equal merit. He published one book – Rule and Conflict in an Early Medieval Society – a scholarly work, never destined for the bestseller charts, but he’d check on its sales in the only way available to him, this being a pre-internet age: he would go into Blackwell’s and count the copies on the shelf. He studied, lectured, wrote for forty years, and worried for all forty of them as to whether he would lose it, or ever make it. When, at the age of sixty-four, he was given a professorship, he finally had at least one worry-free moment: “I’m it!” he told a colleague, by way of sharing the news. And, having become ‘it,’ he died a few years later.

(I don’t have many photos of my father - he is the one in the middle with the impressive eyebrows, that stayed black even when the rest of his hair turned grey)

It strikes me now, as I recognise the same angst at work in myself, as a very male kind of anxiety – ‘How did I do? Was I good enough? Will I be able to do it again?’ – as if each creative act were singular and climactic – a one shot deal – rather than cyclical and iterative. Which is all very well, to lean into these reassuring biological narratives, but I have just turned 49, and my biology and cycles are becoming increasingly irregular and unpredictable. So, I am wondering how to keep going, what other stories I can find to help me, and if there is a less exhausting, worrisome way to move on in the aftermath of publication.

It is both wonderful and difficult that, as a mum to two high needs children, neither of whom are currently at school, stopping is not an option. Motherhood is one long aftermath – which is surely part of the picture in post-natal depression. The birth – the great happening – is just the beginning. The rest of everything after, involves carrying on. Tonight, my daughter needed help to barter with the tooth fairy – can she keep her tooth and still get a silver coin? Can I write a note to ask? My son wanted support with emailing a video game company, keen to offer them feedback on their demo of Street Fighter 6 (good, but it’s too easy to spam the ranged moves, apparently). These things, and others – many much more gruelling than writing notes to fairies or reviews for games- must be done daily, nightly, and they have helped me develop a kind of ‘keeping going’ muscle, which, like the heart, simply keeps contracting, come what may.

On the whole, I am grateful that I have this stubborn reflex to keep going, keep writing, and that because of it, I have begun to learn two things, of which I need to remind myself now. The first is that it is worth accepting almost any commission – notes to tooth fairies, emails to game companies – I will take them, write them all. It is even worth writing rubbish, especially when I am feeling rubbish – depressed, scared, angry, ashamed – you name it, if I start writing it, then perhaps, one day, the good stuff may turn up. And the second thing is that the good stuff does turn up. It always turns up, eventually. It’s like on stage, when doing an improvised scene, you don’t need to make trouble happen – it will come and find you. Drama, story, just has a way of happening.

This law – stuff turns up, story happens – makes me think of my favourite kind of stall at the annual fair I went to as a child in Oxford. Every autumn the fair arrived. It transformed St. Giles, so that it took me until adulthood to recognise it as the street down which my father walked to buy croissants and coffee. Many of the rides frightened me, but I loved the stalls that were festooned with cheap toys – huge inflatable hammers, colourful teddies, bubble blowers – and which promised, in large, painted letters: ‘A Prize Every Time’. There were two kinds – one where you were given a long-handled butterfly net, and in the centre of the stall, a cloud of ping pong balls miraculously hovered. You only had to catch one ball to win a prize. And then there was the ‘hook a duck’ kind – a bamboo pole with a silver hook on the end, and a pond on a pedestal with yellow ducks, numbers on their sides, hooks in their heads, bobbing about, waiting to be lifted clear of the water.

I like the ordinariness of this image. The tackiness. The idea that the secret to creative resilience could be summed up with ping pong balls blown upwards, or rubber ducks drifting in a pretend pond. It gives me a certain steadiness in the face of this vulnerable post-publication time, and in our era of constant online showcasing, feedback, and never-ending worry. The prize may be a cheap plastic toy – not the Booker or any other literary wonder- but it is somehow lovely to know that you’ll get one every time. It helps me know that’s it’s not over. It helps me to move on from standing on the shore, looking out for a sighting of the book, like an anxious parent beside the carousel – to use another fairground image – waiting to spot my child on its next rotation. It helps me look beyond to the bigger picture of this merry-go-round earth.

So look, here I am, nearing the end of my 93rd blog, which I thought I couldn’t write. And, “Look,” I want to tell my father, “You needn’t worry – some works do well, others not so much, life happens, trouble shows up, the world as we know it may be ending – but story keeps unfolding. There is always another ping pong ball to catch, yellow duck to hook – a prize every time.”

And here are your questions – your prizes- to take away this month:

How do you keep going in the aftermath of something? It could be anything – a piece of work, but also a birthday, any point in the calendar to which you have been heading and then it’s over, and you hadn’t thought about this time, but now it’s here…..?

What keeps you steady? Gives you resilience? What are the prizes you can win every time, every day?

And if you want to keep reading these blogs – because I will keep writing them – stuff will turn up – please sign up to my mailing list on my new website, where they will live from now.