Luncheon Roll

Welcome back

Haven’t posted in ages…am prone to use business as an excuse but it wouldn’t really be true. The plain truth is, I’m wary of this open forum where anything can happen if it’s typable. I feel there’s a crushing expectation for bloggers to be cheerful and positive, full of news and jokes. Pessimism is allowed but only where backed up with caustic wit or impressive debating ability. I’ve none of that. I’m just me, a bloody oddball goof.

But I was inspired today. I read and absorbed the story of a kindred blogger, someone with a tale to tell whose candour and simplicity revived a dormant streak for blogging. His name is Darragh and he’s a real man. Read his post on Pride.

What is pride? The Bible says it’s a sin but surely only vain pride, the mental peacock-strut of egocentrics, is condemnable. If pride is not arrogance, is it esteem? Comfort?
Emotional comfort. A relaxed assurance of who you are. To me, pride is the difference between liking and respecting yourself. Am I proud of myself?

Sure I’m proud of my job, it fills me with joy, I’ve achieved a lifestyle unparalleled to my childhood dreams of writing. I am so proud to walk into our office knowing I have a right to be there. Certainly where my children and family are concerned, I’m proud. Just thinking of the kids, I wish for them by my side to cosset and dandle and chuckle. My brother’s so relaxed and affable, a hippy born twenty years too late. My sister is marvellous, a strong young woman forging ahead in a demanding field, sunny and surrounded by friends. My mother’s endured some of life’s cruelest jabs with bravery and fire: a memory of larking with my sister outside Iceland in Brixton while Mum struggled with my baby brother and a trolley stands out. She was accosted by a mugger with a knife who demanded money. With a single withering glance and a few sharp words he turned and ran. My eyes shone with pride.
A few weeks later I was held by knife-point in the flats and threatened with rape by a boy I vaguely knew. I remembered my mother and stood up for myself, admittedly not with aggression but interest: the most important thing was not to look afraid. I got away a few minutes later after lying that one of the bigger boys had been out looking for a fight. Over the years the shine of pride wore off: there were too many braveries to offset.
I am proud of courage. I am proud of love: I do not like but love myself, understanding the key rule that if you don’t, no-one else can. I don’t like my introversion and weaknesses, living under an umbrella of constant assessment and I don’t like the rationing of my brain that makes such fucking stupid mistakes every single day. I don’t like I.
Love has saved me. All the times I’ve sat alone and cried for change, love steps in and stills the tears and gets me up to switch the kettle on. When I’ve snapped at the kids or spent all our money or lost gear, love saves me from jacking it all in and fucking off to Borneo. Love helps ease the shock when people hurt me. Nobody is perfect and the constant scrutinity extends to the rest of the world too: the love that saves me, saves them and I know faults and love them, keep numbers in phonebooks and sensitivity for aftermaths. By hating myself I love others more and am proud of that, that capability to love whilst hating so strongly.

I am sure there will be gasps at the use of “hate”. It’s a very harsh term but necessary. If I were proud of myself I could blog reasons but I cannot. I want to write about the feelings I have, not for want of pity or admiration, just because it’s who I am. I’ve always been too scared. Hate comes from fear. I am afraid of myself.

I am afraid of the moments I wasn’t brave and worry they may return at a far greater cost.
I am afraid of my anger at the world. I just want to love.
I am afraid of the ugly witch in the bottle when I drink. The one who talks shit and dances in her bra and gets arrested and sometimes says “yes” when I mean “no”.
I am afraid of honesty though I do not lie. I am afraid of the truth even though I live by it
I am afraid of the person I was last night.
I have been afraid for far too long and today I was brave.

These words have no reasoning or purpose: they are the off-shoot of inspiration, creativity unstoppered by one man’s honest simplicity. He reminded me that we are who we are. The world’s demands can be met either way: true or false. With pride or not. His naked declaration from the rooftops of the web was brave and inspiring.

Darragh Doyle was a pansy. I was a coward.

Today I was inspired to be brave. I hate myself a little less.
Thank you Darragh x