Holding tight to tea.
February 12, 2013 § Leave a comment
“For every famous last words there are a million last words that no one’s ever heard.” – Miricale of 86′ – Every famous last words.
I’ve worked out that whatever this is, it isn’t going to kill me. I’m not going to let this kill me. Mental illness is a strange thing for the simple reason that most illness, excluding the utmost personal ones, are discussed openly in public. Mental illness doesn’t enjoy such free reign. Those whispers and worry, we are taught to ignore. We are taught to suppress. There is something very British about that. During the second World War a relative of mine, on my fathers side, was living in London at the peak of the Blitz. She was offered the opportunity to move to the country but she did not take it as she valued the work she was doing in the City. Every time she’d hear that air raid siren whine over the marshes she wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t panic. She would calmly put down what she was doing, and make her way to the stove to boil some water. She’d sit at the wooden kitchen table in her empty house and watch the steam rise from the kettle. The world was literally exploding around her and she was waiting to make tea. One day a German bomb fell on the other side of the house next door, it took the out the wall by the old front door and stripped the front door from it hinges. She says she didn’t move from her seat. In my brain, when I imagine it, the splinters and shredded wallpaper flying through the corridor and onto the kitchen floor, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even blink. They say that Ayrton Senna‘s heartbeat dropped when he was sat on the grid and the lights were going out at the start of a race. That’s how I imagine her to be, but more impressive. In this comparison Senna’s just a racer. She’s sat, explosions tearing through any house on the street, just drinking tea, waiting to get on with her day. She saw the end of that conflict. She lived to see London rebuilt and the world start to move on. She went in the late 60’s, a good decade to go. Where was I? I always loved that story. It made me feel calm, easy. The thought of the splintered wood flying through the air around her, not a eyelid blinked. Bless her. I don’t doubt her for a second. Anyway – Enough. That’s what I think about when I think of my paranoia. When I think of anxiety and short comings. When I think of my fear and why I have been alone. I think of sitting in a 1940’s kitchen, holding onto a cup of tea, remembering small my problems are, until they start blowing out the world around me, I should be fine. Sorry? Sorry.