Thought Picnic: Shuttling and bungling

Sacrificing the child

I can imagine the exasperation of a parent when a child, given every opportunity, does not seem to take advantage of the situations presented.

Unfortunately, they usually view this failing from the perspective of the child not trying hard enough and not appreciating the privilege they have, compared to those never afforded such luxuries of comfort, shelter, provision, and family.

Weighed against societal expectations that seem to inform and drive parents to desire children who are naturally intelligent, succeeding, and exercise initiative to the extent that parents need to boast of their wards, they are blinded to other issues.

They never consider the possibility of psychological, mental, and emotional problems exacerbated by their environment that could have resulted in the child's change in behaviour, attitude, and productivity.

Burdening the child

To address these issues, they use attribution and comparison, finding examples of the succeeding and the failing to pitch the child into a quagmire of adjustments seeking to please others without addressing the actual problem.

Now, we have some understanding that bedwetting might not just be a lack of willpower and control of one's bladder; just as sudden changes in a child's performance and ability to produce expected results is not a basic lack of application.

Issues like bullying, childhood emotional and sexual abuse could easily be the factors indicative of these changes, but parents, in their naivety, think the home, or other bubbles they have created, are free of the unspeakable interferences that rob a child of innocence and a clear conscience.

Misunderstanding the child

Worse still, parents wrongly assume that the child, if afflicted by a violation of their body, will immediately run to them with a complaint when they have never created the atmosphere for that kind of troublesome conversation.

They are dealing with the symptoms without being intelligent about seeking the cause.

Whether the parent eventually appreciates this or not, the child carries these unfortunate failings of care and consideration into adulthood, at times damaged or simply resentful. Others find the kind of therapy that helps them move forward.

For instance, I was 52 when my father first learnt that I was sexually abused from the age of 8. This was prompted because, once again, he was trying to address the symptom of my homosexuality, causing him embarrassment, rather than knowing who his son is.

Losing the child

What I did not reveal in that exchange, which would have caused ructions beyond repair, was that my first sexual encounter was at 7, and I had no clue what was going on, but the playful intentions of the other destroyed the bubble of childhood bliss that one inhabited.

If anyone had been curious enough to look at what was happening, maybe, just maybe, there would have been a better relationship between parent and child.

However, the total breakdown of the relationship between my mother and I did not start in August 2023.

What we tried to build upon left lots of unresolved issues that, in African culture, I am not supposed to hold my elders accountable for. Then, whilst I might have an African heritage, I am hardly African, by any stretch of the imagination.

What parents easily overlook (AI-generated)

Since we are in the age of AI, having reviewed my blog above, I asked for it to share some common signs of childhood trauma that parents often overlook. The text following was generated by AI, and I believe it contributes to the conversation, prompted by my blog above.

Behavioural Changes

Academic decline - Sudden drops in grades or loss of interest in schoolwork that was previously enjoyed. Parents often attribute this to laziness rather than considering underlying distress.

Social withdrawal - A child who was once outgoing becomes isolated, avoids friends, or stops participating in activities they previously loved.

Aggression or defiance - Increased anger, talking back, or acting out. Parents may see this as typical teenage rebellion or poor discipline rather than a cry for help.

Regression - Returning to behaviours from earlier developmental stages, such as thumb-sucking, baby talk, or clinginess in older children.

Physical Manifestations

Sleep disturbances - Nightmares, difficulty falling asleep, fear of sleeping alone, or sleeping too much as an escape mechanism.

Bedwetting or toileting accidents - As you mentioned in your post, this is often dismissed as a control issue rather than a stress response.

Unexplained physical complaints - Frequent headaches, stomach aches, or general unwellness without medical cause.

Changes in eating habits - Either loss of appetite or comfort eating, which parents might dismiss as "just a phase".

Emotional Indicators

Heightened anxiety - Excessive worry, panic attacks, or fear of separation from parents or specific places.

Emotional numbness - A child who seems disconnected, shows little emotion, or appears "too mature" for their age. Parents sometimes praise this as being "well-behaved" or "independent".

Excessive guilt or shame - Taking blame for things beyond their control or expressing feelings of worthlessness.

Mood swings - Rapid changes between anger, sadness, and apparent normalcy that seem disproportionate to situations.

Cognitive and Developmental Signs

Difficulty concentrating - Inability to focus on tasks, appearing distracted or "in their own world".

Memory problems - Forgetting things they previously knew or seeming confused about recent events.

Developmental delays - Falling behind in speech, motor skills, or social development without obvious cause.

Red Flags Often Dismissed

Sexualised behaviour - Age-inappropriate knowledge of or interest in sexual matters. Parents often dismiss this as "curiosity" or something picked up from media.

Fear of specific people or places - Intense reactions to certain individuals or locations that parents attribute to "shyness" or "being difficult".

Perfectionism or people-pleasing - Desperate attempts to be "good" or avoid disappointing others, which parents often celebrate rather than question.

Self-harm or risk-taking - In older children, this might manifest as cutting, substance use, or dangerous behaviours that parents view as attention-seeking.

Why Parents Miss These Signs

Cultural expectations - As you noted, some cultures discourage questioning elders or discussing uncomfortable topics, creating barriers to disclosure.

Assumption of safety - Parents believe their home or supervised environments are inherently safe, blinding them to potential threats.

Normalising symptoms - Attributing changes to "phases", puberty, or typical childhood behaviour rather than investigating deeper causes.

Lack of open communication - Never establishing an atmosphere where children feel safe discussing troubling experiences, particularly around sexuality or abuse.

Focus on outcomes - Being more concerned with grades, behaviour, and social standing than the child's internal emotional state.

Denial - The possibility that something terrible has happened to their child is too painful to contemplate, so warning signs are rationalised away.

The Critical Point

As you powerfully illustrated in your blog, these signs are often symptoms of deeper trauma. Parents who focus solely on correcting the behaviour without seeking the underlying cause risk compounding the damage. The child learns that their pain is invisible, their distress is dismissed, and they must carry their burden alone into adulthood.

Creating an environment where difficult conversations are possible, where children know they'll be believed and supported, and where parents look beyond surface behaviours to understand their child's inner world, can make the difference between a lifetime of unresolved trauma and the possibility of healing.

In the dead of the night, don't go changing money for strangers

It’s all on the money

It was a chance to eavesdrop on a conversation that left me wondering about human psychology and social engineering along with the ease with which one can so easily fall for scams or deceit by reason of vanity overwhelming essential self-awareness.

It was at first three people engaged in bargaining activity over money, I could hear the young man and the lady resist every entreaty, that I immediately thought the other man was trying to pawn off some baubles or contraband just to get cash in hand.

The couple was not persuaded and as they separated and this in the witching hour, the man wheeled his bicycle which I had not noticed before towards a black cab where he addressed the driver, and I got a full context of what was going on.

Pounding for a dollar in hand

He had a $100 bill that he wanted to exchange for Pounds Sterling cash and for some reason, this might have been so urgent that he was not ready to wait for a Bureau de Change to open for that business transaction, or so it would seem before my mind took a ponder on the brief scenario that I had witnessed.

The exchange rate at today’s prices suggests $100 would be exchanged for something between £77 and £82 and that is not accounting for transaction costs, commissions, and other charges. I heard the man negotiating from £80 down to around £60.

I won’t know what an authentic $100 bill looks like and how to account for whether it is legal tender or a counterfeit, then a stranger approaches you in the middle of the night with what seems like a bargain, you none the wiser of where he got the bill, beguiled by whatever sob story he has to regale, and your better instincts see you parting with £70 for this unverified paper purporting to be the almighty dollar, you hoping at your convenience you can walk up to a teller at a Bureau de Change and get £80 or maybe £85 for it.

The vanity of half-knowledge

I hate to think of the number of people who have been suckered into the laundering of counterfeit notes and this is not to say the bill in question was counterfeit. Then, many of us might deign to think ourselves seasoned numismaticians (which might read like a neologism, but it is in the Oxford dictionary, I checked), take any bill and give it the handling, feel, sight, light, and smell test, convinced in our assured dilettantism that we have the Real McCoy, only to find at the end of the conversation with the teller, the next day, the teller goes out of sight for a few minutes and next you are being frog-marched by the local constabulary to the station to answer questions, you would never have convincing answers for.

And indeed, that is the quandary, you never got the name of the stranger, he offered no personal details apart from the soothing repartee that eased you gently out of the suspicious and cautionary into the trusting and persuaded, by a total stranger who could easily have been a ghoulish apparition from the city graveyard donning flesh and apparel for the night, just returning from whatever meetings the dead attend.

Always see strangers at night as strange

Yes, I am totally wary of strangers in the dead of the night, striking up conversation with them is something I so totally avoid even as I could be already backslapping strangers in the daytime after a few minutes of engagement. The most I would aver is to tell the time when asked and at a good arm’s length away.

I cannot say if the man did get to change his $100 bill before the breaking of the dawn, but what coursed through my mind was the need to have the presence of mind not to even countenance the thought of exchanging money for strangers, give them something for an urgency, if that is the case, but if you at all listen to the tales and get carried away in the moment that your vanity trammels reason and good sense to assume you are qualified to undertake that transaction, I’ll like to hear that your story is nothing like that worst case scenario I allowed my thoughts to drift to, such that my appreciation of the innate goodness of strangers and humanity is ever so slightly hit.

This could easily have been another Coronavirus streets of Manchester blog. It isn’t.

A WEIRD prism is just one perspective

Influences of significance

When my dad said over a decade ago, “You have always thought like a Westerner.” I feigned ignorance of what he implied, but it got me thinking about things that baffle me daily. How it is that my worldview on many issues and situations are so radically different from many with whom I am supposed to share a heritage.

Then again, I realise that I have also fallen into a trap and a misconception about culture and values needing to converge to a Judeo-Christian Western construct with the view that those who appear to deviate from such might not represent the best of our humanity.

How marriage changed us

Indeed, many of our international laws of trade, of industry, of life, or of diplomacy follow a broadly western model that has become a synonym for modern and civilised, we miss out on understanding other constructs, cultures, civilisations, and customs that makes other members of our diverse humanity uniquely different, interesting, and rich.

This was brought into stark relief when I listened to a podcast The West and the Rest by Matthew Syed on BBC Radio 4 on his Sideways series, which started with the observation of different psychological responses to what was studied and expected in the West to how intriguingly the advent of Christianity changed marital norms like forbidding marriage to cousins, opening clans to strangers and birthed the kind of innovation and mindset that typifies the West today. [BBC Radio 4 Sideways Podcast: 3. The West and the Rest]

Weird as we come

It begs the question about who the weird ones are, we in the west or the non-western cultures. Whilst there is no way I will pass for a WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), I am most definitely one of the WEIRD (Western Educated Industrialised Rich and Democratic), a psychological term that was defined in the 2000 book, The WEIRDest People in the World: How the West Became Psychologically Peculiar and Particularly Prosperous by Joseph Henrich.

Having an audible copy of this book, it would probably give me an appreciation of why I think differently and why I should make ample accommodation for how other cultures will not converge to my worldview. This would mean we need to negotiate and agree on certain principles, attitudes, and rules for the good of humanity even if implementations will differ.

I come away with the insight that cultural divides will only be bridged with an openness of the mind and the putting away of the western hubris that has led us on spectacularly failed escapades of sowing seeds of our kind of civilisation around the world.

Read or listen

The WEIRDest People in the World: How the West Became Psychologically Peculiar and Particularly Prosperous [Amazon]

 

The allegory of shepherding chicks and feathering sheep

While shepherds watched their flock at night

Of shepherds of old, it was said that they rejoiced at the birth of the child and were witnesses to the voices of angels heralding the advent of the son. When the son came of age, he spoke of shepherds of many sheep who having sheltered the many left them to seek out the one lost sheep.

Maybe the shepherd had a responsibility, could not bear the loss or for the life of another, albeit something as lowly as sheep, felt that all must be done to rescue that sheep and be brought back into the flock. More poignantly, the shepherd rejoiced at the finding of the lost sheep.

We be not as shepherds to be understanding of that reality, but knowledge is shared to make one reflect on maturity, duty, responsibility, and capacity. Some might have it and others are literally devoid of it.

O little hen, when, when, when?

Of the hen with a brood of chicks, protecting, nay, over-protecting the brood that not one chick in her eyes got to grow into either a hen or a cock. If the hen were human, the apron-strings grew to become ship tackle, bearing more than stress and strain, binding the brood into an imprisonment of the mind, readily emotionally blackmailed at the whim and caprice of an unconscionable manipulator, no, not an anthropomorphism at play.

For a hen, cannot be said to be a saint, nor can it be a devil. Whether the hen can be said to be good or evil is probably a level of poultry psychology in need of exploration. Yet, the hen had six chicks, then lost one and was left with five. Those sturdy wings that sheltered many lost many a feather that nary a chick was from then safe.

Maybe we should all be praying for time

Grief is understandable and rage that comes with it is probably borne of anger, but to project it on others belies a lack of maturity, grudges kept and allowed to seethe beyond the seminal might affect some and exasperate others. When the time to make peace is passed, the future holds the possibility of being at peace with oneself.

Those who have learnt to make gains after a great loss are given the grace to live even more fulfilled lives of whatever is left to live and live for. It is well in the land of the silent, because it is sometimes prudent to be speechless, for nothing said is nothing imputed. The tale of the shepherd and the hen is an anacoenosis to the ponderous recorded for posterity.

I suggest Spatial-Consideration Intelligence

The rules I break

I believe I have broken a few rules as I remember the words of one of Anita Baker’s songs – She is probably my best musician artiste, “Rules were meant to be broken,” she first says, then you goes on the say, “So many hearts break the same way too, aw baby, I said that you ain't no exception to the rule, yes sir.”

The rules I have broken are mainly the unwritten ones, the ones I have read or can still remember as instruction even if irritating to the point of awakening that streak of rebelliousness in me, I have rarely dared to infringe.

Now, I do not intend to speak about broken hearts, but the taking the exception to the rule or rules does concern me. I love order, I like to see order around, order especially when I leave my home for whatever activity I have purposed to do or just happened to find myself in.

In the way

Starting with stepping out of my front door and not having to ask someone who has inadvertently felt my doorstep is the place to take a standing nap. Then I get on the street and some friends all decide to walk abreast, which is fine but in their chatting excitement become oblivious of others that you either have to alert them or step dangerously onto the street.

That simple element of awareness which should be a rule written on the fleshy tablets of the heart and branded fierily on the jellies of the cranial grey matter, yet so carelessly ignored. People who knowing it is a doorway and take up the space constricting access.

I’ve seen too many instances of the absence of intelligent engagement of the spaces we occupy too, like finding myself in queues when I was in India and having the person behind me pressing against my person for no particular reason that thankfully my towering height helped when I bellowed down at the person, “Hold your space.”

Know your space

I can remember when I touched the man in front of me in a pub and apologised that I could not put my feet in a bag, after he stepped on my toes. A very strange situation where my size 12 feet (European size 46) knows full well not to egress in the pied-à-terre (literally, space for the feet) of others and then to find someone with much shorter feet unaware of where their feet should be.

Space is probably a European concept more than it is for any other place, but I am probably in error when I realise that queues were not the kind of order to find in the Netherlands, it drove me to distraction and brought out the most English of annoyances in me.

You could not get off a train comfortably because everyone wanted to get on, yet, we need to get off for others to get off. That is where my cane sometimes made a violent acquaintance with the shins of others and behold the way opened before me without obstruction.

Consideration and deportment

Public transport does provide a test case for those who are literally spatially ignorant, people who take up more seats than they should or create impediments to others getting access to other seats especially by putting their bags on the seats, worse still is those who put their feet on the seats despite the fact that there are notices clearly saying they should not.

People who bring their caterwauling music unto public spaces who in their enjoyment create the greatest irritation to others, a total lack of consideration, I say. Then, being a cane user, you can imagine when I get on the London Underground and find that able-bodied people have made a beeline for the priority seats and completely ignore the aged, the infirm, the pregnant or the mobility assisted. Those seats are not for them, that is why the signs are put there.

Other views of space

Space is a matter of dimensions and different dimensions of occupancy, manner, appearance and attitude which demands awareness and consideration. The consideration that if everyone else did what I was doing, what would the world be like.

Literally no public seat is safe from the halitosis-ridden oral excrements of chewing gum that you never venture the underneath of a wooden armrest or under the seat, forget the number of pavements with gum and cigarette butts. The former should be banned as they have so done in Singapore.

It manner of dressing is the being assault in public with the sight of cack-ridden undergarments that should be covered up in this rotten fashion trend of sagging trousers. Beyond that, it is those forget to dress for the body they have and end up dressing for what they want their bodies to be – uncouth and unsightly, you almost think you should wear a sick bag like a colostomy bag at the things that things that invade the sanctity of the senses.

Public decorum

Forget those who do not take a seat to make a call or sent a text message on their mobile phones, so unaware that what they think is walking in a straight line is anything but, some have met great mishap as a result when they divorce themselves from the personal responsibility of knowing that each person being aware of the other and acting accordingly is part of the order we all crave in society and community.

Use the bins, press the button if you are first at the pedestrian crossing lights, stand out of the way, give way to others less able to manoeuvre, be courteous, polite and considerate, the list goes on about how I love things to be and what really piques me.

Defining this intelligence

As I thought about this, I was about to give this sense of awareness and consideration on the matter of space, Spatial Quotient as an additional form of measuring intelligence along with Intelligence Quotient (IQ) and Emotional Intelligence (EQ) only to find that Spatial Intelligence is quite a broad field of study amongst other types of intelligence, in what is known as the theory of multiple intelligences, so I back to square one.

Having looked at the nine intelligences listed and the descriptions that follow, for musical–rhythmic, visual–spatial, verbal–linguistic, logical–mathematical, bodily–kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, naturalistic, and existential. I am not convinced this one or a combination of some of these properly address the element of spatial awareness and intuitiveness that I have raised in this blog.

Giving well, taking little

And back to the lyrics I introduced at the beginning of this blog, there is an element of the absence of this intelligence that is expressed in, “So many times we don't give, we take…” whereas, society works on various levels of giving and taking to different degrees that are usually never equal.

I am tempted to suggest, Spatial-consideration intelligence, however, it probably requires more academic rigour from behavioural experts to properly define this or extend the meanings of the previously defined categories.

Space matters, the giving of it, the giving up of it, the taking of it and taking it with clear consideration of others too.

The psychology of the wash

A bath or a shower

When I owned my own place, it is strange that the decision to buy my apartment could have hinged on the bathroom having a bathtub instead of the installed shower unit.

There were times during the negotiation process where that was a niggling thought at the back of my mind, the place became a stronghold, a refuge, a kind of security from the things that ravaged my life and worth many years later. I spent ten and a half wonderful years there before I sold up.

The shower was a special place, the feeling of water cascading down my body, the temperature of the water set to just about bearable, but very comfortable, the floor of the bathroom heated such that the cold of winter was barely noticeable.

The wash for something

Indeed, there was something about the wash; I could adjust the showerhead to deliver the spray as a soft rain through to a pulsing massaging hosing down.

The quest for cleanliness also offered a cubicle of meditation, but there were times when I spent much longer in the shower as if I could get rid of a dirty thought or a feeling of a grimy existence not cleansable with the shower gels scented for seaward ambience and greenish blue hues.

We all have a predilection for some sort of wash, especially we of African descent, whilst those of other cultures might have concoctions to drink and possibly ointments or powders to rub on our skins to provide protection, fortify us for the formidable or empower us from some nondescript daring-do, we have the wash.

The ritual of the soap

I have prayed over waters and bathed in the strangest places, using soaps that would not pass the science of reasonableness to be applied to the skin.

Yet, the soaps, black or any other colour purported to grant powers for the favour from all mankind or defence from the dark arts are well sought for by the many who publicly appear rational but privately can be found in grottos ministered to by shamanic priests, fetishists or witch doctors.

The wash is not limited to these events, Christianity talks of the wash too, the washing away of sins as much as it pertains to baptism as a sign of faith, the Mohammedans perform the wash of ablutions before their prayers as a sign of purification before approaching their deity in submission and supplication.

Ritual purification is a function of many belief systems as Hindus will wash in the River Ganges, and the River Jordan has significance to both Judaism and Christianity.

The wash is deeper than the skin

For the holiday, the wash is in a swimming pool or at sea, we have an affinity for water caressing our bodies with or without particular reason – we cannot deny that regardless of who we are, the wash is critical for our presentation and thereby it determines how we are accepted.

We find that the whole context of clean and being clean is defined by the wash, the health of the body, the mind and the spirit might we be affected by the wash too even though the water only really touches the body, but the effect is much deeper than what we see or feel.

Thought Picnic: Finding purpose in the therapy of my blogs

My unsure person

I attended my second session of freeform therapy this morning where we covered so much ground I have to reflect to understand where we are heading.

We started with discussing my interview concerns that left me a lot less confident about my prospects and the steps I was taking to ameliorate the situation.

How I feel

Then the clinical psychologist reviewing much of what I said from my writings to my lived experiences noted themes of humanity, compassion and introspection. We need to work on these elements of my predisposition to see where we need to go.

She felt I am beginning to build structures and move away from the ruinous losses than have defined the past few years. We need to find ways to take the positives expressed and use those to find more purpose in life.

The place of blogging

Whilst I do not appear to devote much time to thinking or meditation, my blogging is a channel, the way it feels I am like a man possessed when I write has qualities we need to explore.

However, the way I view things is about the story, a long story of human experience where I learn, appreciate, understand and share using the narrative talent I have in the hope that it helps someone else.

Unsure but assured

It will soon come together but as I think about the last two sessions, the next appointment might explore these issues better – I do not know where we are going yet, but I think it is all useful still.

There are discussions we have having I will never manage on a blog or with people, I already know. I am assured there are benefits to being able to share all and bare all with a professional as they help the understanding to better handle issues.

It is early days yet.

Nigeria: Suicides, bad journalism and mental health

Feeds to the fed-up

Since Google Reader died I have used Feedly as my RSS aggregator which allows me to catch-up with blogs, news stories and events.

I take feeds from six Nigerian newspapers, and I might add a few more as I get used to their material and their reporting slant.

However, this afternoon I was left befuddled as I vacillated between utter disgust and incandescent rage.

Rotten journalism

PM News Nigeria published a piece about suicides being on the rise, and that is already a big problem if our youth are now resorting to taking their lives for whatever reasons around situation, circumstance or state of mind.

Journalism in Nigeria just hit a new low, well beneath the unprofessionalism of yellow journalism, absent proofreading or poor copy.

The news story PM News Nigeria published did not warn of the graphic images they attached to their report; one picture showed a boy on a slab, and as if that was not bad enough, there was another of the boy hanging from a noose. [I will not perpetrate this evil by providing a link to the story.]

This level of insensitivity that subscribes to the macabre and savage depiction is contemptuous, we must repudiate this in the strongest terms; it is odium in the extreme.

Mental illness and suicides

We could relate suicides to mental health or emotional issues, and we do not seem to understand that well in our culture; hence, we are unable to find ways to ameliorate the issue before it comes intractable.

Societal and cultural pressures elevating anxiety or creating depression all bottled up leaves a pressure cooker situation that presents suicide as the only pressure valve outlet.

These issues considering our obtuse religiosity are not just spiritual to be tackled with prayer and holy water. The public needs to be aware of psychological and psychiatric care for everyday problems.

The stigma associated with handling mental health issues looms large, we assume only ‘mad’ people or lunatics see psychiatrists. Education, information and enlightenment is necessary.

Therapy is key

I am of the opinion that we all need therapy at some stage of our lives, we must not confuse therapy with counselling, and qualified professionals should handle these issues.

The other issue with these suicides is whether these are really suicides or murders rigged up as suicides.

The question is whether we have the detection, medical examination or forensic expertise to determine the differences and the wherewithal to pursue these cases to the logical and just conclusion.

Could this be murder?

We cannot just assume suicides are the end of the story, there should be thorough investigations of the circumstances to ascertain the whys and determine the possible local suicide risks that might exhibit the vulnerabilities that presage these tragic events.

I hope PM News Nigeria and other journaling organisations or people will recognise that pandering to the basest instincts of feeding the public with the macabre is irresponsible at best, words fail me in describing the extreme that this represents.

May the souls of the unfortunately departed rest in peace and may their survivors find strength and fortitude to bear their losses.

Thought Picnic: The Bloody Tales

Sorry about the title, it is not an attempt at blurting out an expletive.

A medical roll

For the past few months, the highlights of my calendar have mainly been a number of hospital visits, many not having anything to do with seeing a doctor, but handling the consequences of a life-threatening illness four years down the line.

I have seen nurses, psychologists, therapists, social workers and doctors, but the approach to my care has been to attempt to address all other attendant issues beyond check-ups.

I will not attempt to make comparisons between what obtains in England compared to what obtains in the Netherlands, though I felt more catered for in the latter.

Differently tardy

The journey to the hospital did not take as long as I anticipated which meant I arrived on time, but it was not another 50 minutes after my arrival before I got to see the consultant.

None of the preambles of weight measurement or blood pressure readings took place, rather, after leafing through my medical notes we discussed the results of my tests which barely budged towards better compared to the last time I was there.

Lab specimen or drug mule?

Another concern I had which had bothered me for almost a week as I relived the horrors of chemotherapy were put to rest though I was being offered the option of running a hamster cage like a guinea pig for some new Big Pharma idea.

Drug trials can put you in the forefront of avant-garde treatments or completely ruin your life; it could be scary. As you survive or expire, your contribution to humanity is the knowledge gained to help others, more pertinently; the experience helps write the prescription advice and the notes necessary for safe usage.

Whilst there is no need for an intervention, monitoring and assessment are of the essence to ensure there are improvements; where the indicators read differently, we could tackle the issues promptly.

For the first time we discussed costs, not so much of my primary medication but of the supporting drugs that I ended up with a cheaper version and later the pharmacist gave me all the drivel about costs, options and much else for mere calcium boosting mastication tablets.

Drained

As I returned home, overcome with fatigue and a rotten headache, it was as if I was coming down with something, yet, I have two interviews tomorrow that I have to prepare for.

The tale of the bloods read fine though it was not as if I felt any better for the meeting, the atmosphere, the discussion or the future. We scheduled meetings for therapy, social services and the next consultation before we parted not as friendly as meetings I had before in the Netherlands.

In this poker game of life, you can only play the hand you have; the card deck is just a future of possibility, though the smart might well bluff their way to take the pot.

It is well, I am well, and all is well.

Getting the benefits of therapy

The therapy of understanding therapy

I attended the first of a possible six sessions with a clinical psychologist as a pre-emptive and ameliorative exercise to appreciate my situation and circumstances to chart a course for the future.

It was not difficult for me to get into the conversation after I had filled in an assessment form of multi-choice options. I never ticked any of the extremes, apart the one about way I dress, I do not slack at looking smart.

The rest tended to the sometimes, the somewhat or the possibly categories of the affirmative than the negative which left the psychologist with a bigger job than she would have expected.

Coming from a culture where the idea of therapy has negative connotations of mental illness or worse, one has to work out the benefits of accessing such a professional service with an eye on what outcomes one expects at the end of the sessions.

Realigning perspectives

I convinced myself that considering the catastrophic losses I have suffered in means, in status and much else, I could easily be vulnerable to moods amenable to despair, depression or worse. I could not afford any of those feelings.

As to my outlook, I consider my life a story, I am the main character living the events and making my own history whilst having an eye on the type of ending I desire of my story; a good ending. Every waking moment is towards making that story lively, living and happily liveable doing amazing things.

The form of our sessions will not follow any structure but a series of questions, kind of discussion, interactions and clarifications.

Managing the regret syndrome

The question that is presently on my mind is one I avoid asking because the answers can usher in regrets, regrets of what I might have or could have done before or even done better to forestall where I am.

I do want to learn lessons but not dwell on my past, I need to understand that the present is what I have and from the present, one has many opportunities to chart the future.

This broadened the concept of the Kubler-Ross Model beyond dealing with grief or illness to life itself. The ability to accept where you are, to be able to move on, because one can easily be angry, be in denial, be bargaining or be depressed about one’s circumstances, none of which has the scope to move on.

In all the surveys, I noticed none address hope or expectation that I felt were necessary to deal with the negatives that accompany seeking therapy, they are essential to acceptance and progress.

Rather than regret, I have decided not to condemn myself in the things I have allowed. I know have allowed many things to happen or affect me, but those things just become facets and perspectives of experience and life. They are the elements of the story and hopefully that of the richly lived life.

This is useful

Before I knew it, the hour was up but I found it very useful, she was able to understand me as many stories and recollections painted the collage and the landscape of the type of person I am.

I am beginning to understand the things that matter; what are the means and what are the ends, a time of meditation and introspection will benefit me greatly.

I guess that is what therapy is all about, getting a professional to help unravel the knotty bits. It can give you the lift necessary to appreciate that in the daytime there is a sun shining beyond the gloomy clouds and at night, the moon might be absent but the stars do shimmer beyond the clouds too.

Let us do life and enjoy living it.

Thought Picnic: Giving Them A Good Piece Of My Mind

A piece of my mind

Seeing a psychologist gives you the opportunity to speak your mind without prejudice and that is what I did when we met this afternoon.

I relayed to her what happened with regards to meeting with her, the social worker, the doctor and Lewisham Housing Services, then I spoke of my expectations making clear comparisons with experiences I had with similar circumstances in The Netherlands.

The gaping holes in the safety net

The fact is the system for handling exceptional cases like mine where I do not seem to fit into pre-defined categories, but have a compelling case worthy of assessment and consideration is disjointed, incoherent and basically a mess.

I feel like I've been raped

Feeding the great database

They come with forms or sit behind computers, pens to hand or fingers oscillating between keyboard and mouse, they record my words for that great database beyond my reach.

The many times, I have told my story, I could have staged a play and put it in a theatre for entertainment, but this is not entertainment, it is my life and at present, it not fun.

Maybe they were listening with rapt attention, they feigned enough sympathy to appear concerned, and I was deluded into thinking something was afoot, the great database will lay out tables for food, build huts for shelter, hold my hand over unsteady bridges from uncertainty to stability, but no such luck.

They have harvested each meaningful part of my tale into statistics that show they are doing something, but I am seeing nothing.

Used and abused

The psychologist knew the urgency, too many papers were filled and signed, we need to deal with the immediate issue, she said, but nothing came of it, and yet I return today to be raped once more in the hope the abuse would get to the point that I cannot be refused.

Thought Picnic: More Tests ...

Of expectations

The day came with uncertainties and the answer to yesterday’s question is, I am sad. The first meeting was laden with expectations, at least that is what the nurse and the psychologist suggested, these people are clued in, they know what to do and they have solutions, the urgencies and immediacies will be assuaged with ease.

I soon became aware that they do not talk to each other and the view that things might have moved on from where they were left soon was discarded – I had to tell my story again, a third time to people who seemingly interact, but the object of interact is not the files, data or notes but the subject – I was the subject in this case.

Apparently, having lived on continental Europe for 12 years and now returned for the UK for one long year, left me rather bereft of some of the rights that UK residents would have been able to subscribe to – it was disheartening.

Of options

The picture painted even got gloomier as my countenance changed, I could feel the welling of my tear ducts but, I held it all back, I am the cast of my macabre drama, I cannot inflict any more hurt on myself than what I have suffered apart from a looming prospect of destitution and vagrancy – has it really come to this? The way it seems, it has.

There is no breeding, class, education, life, luck or fortune that is not represented in the homeless class and they all have stories just as good as mine, if not better of events in their lives that led to where they have found themselves.

The meeting ended with a list of numbers, addresses and ideas but without certainty, assurance or confirmation, I was forlorn. As it transpired, he had enough examples of people in my situation they could not help, I should have asked myself aloud – why am I in this meeting?

Of strangers

I gathered my thoughts in a few tweets as time passed, another 40 minutes before I meet my new consultant; at least that is what I expected.

She came to get me from the reception and as she introduced herself, confusion clouded my face, I had to interject – that is not the name of the person I was expecting to see and no one informed me in the almost 7 weeks since the appointment was made that the consultant had changed.

She was to do his rounds and by interference she had only leafed through my medical notes that appeared to contain the amalgamated detail from the Netherlands, Wales and the new interactions I have had since June.

Of preparedness

Again, by the first question, it was not so much my filling in the gaps but a new narration of the same tale that was already becoming a recital and performance at each gathering, I was not too pleased.

With time, I commandeered the notes myself, linking the data from the Netherlands to the information from Wales, whilst charting a historical progression of the tales of the bloods which on a chart would have looked like a jagged-saw graph, the current readings on a depression after what was the best indicator noted in almost 4 years.

Eventually, we warmed to each other, though not to the level I was accustomed to in the Netherlands, we discussed my drug regime, my options and additional tests.

Of innards

To be honest, I was not keen on being probed or prodded any further today, I was barely keeping up with myself on a mentally distressed level but in the process, we settled for 2 vials at the phlebotomist’s, prescriptions to last 4 months, which is unusual because beyond 3 months in the Netherlands, insurance requires you pay for the extra and then be reimbursed. I did not have €2,700 in my pocket in December when I was last in the Netherlands, so I left with 3 months of medication even though my consultant had prescribed 6 months with consideration of the fact that I was then resident in the UK.

I will also be visiting the imaging department, having secured an appointment for a month hence, I am to fast for 6 hours ingesting nothing but fluids prior to the largest organ in my body scanned – Gosh! I have pretty much really mucked my life up too seriously to unravel in one short afternoon.

In between all this, I also saw the pharmacist who ensured my prescription went ahead to the pharmacy that I did not have to wait as long as 30 minutes to pick them up.

Of life

At the end of all these meetings, I was not in the mood to socialise, I got on the train and made my way home, burdened with an existence that clouded the glimmer of hope I had earlier in the day and smarter for the fact that I refused to take on more than what I thought I should handle in one day as advice from other friends came in.

As I stepped out of the station, a man approached me, “Please can you help a homeless man with some change for a cup of tea?” He said. But for his skin tone, I might well have been looking in a mirror, though, it was a mirror of circumstances looming as I emptied the coins into the palm of his hand, I said to him, “I will be homeless from tomorrow.”

I made for the place I had called home for the last 5 weeks, tomorrow being my last day, found a short break from my turmoil with some sleep and woke up to write this before I start to pack my bags and think of what really will tomorrow bring – there is no point asking if I will be happy or sad, any comfort will do to find a place to lay my weary head.

Thought Picnic: If you lived my life, what will you do?

A typical ethereal tiff

I woke up this morning from an altogether strange but not unusual dream, which involved a shouting match with my mother where I bluntly told her she was not invited to my funeral.

Shocking as this might seem, too many unresolved conflicts between my parents and I play themselves out in my dreams with a regularity that has become the norm, though this vision was a bit scarier by reason of the fact that I could see myself wasting away, everyone seemingly aware that a certain time was drawing near.

Changes for a new perspective

Now, I am under no illusions about my health, it is as fine as it can be but after cancer, there are no assurances of tomorrow but the day you are in to make the best of what you have, whilst you have it and enjoy life.

The transfer of my medical care is also underway from the Netherlands through a brief stint in Wales to London where a battery of tests have been conducted but I will not be any wiser of the results until my appointment next week, I will be meeting my new consultant and we will be having a chat as to what the bloods have to say this time.

Bloods away

I walked into the hospital and within minutes the phlebotomist called me in, asked for my date of birth and turning to the keyboard punched in some information to retrieve data indicating what other tests need to be run, I took the opportunity to step on the weighing scales, I have not lost much, I think, probably 4kg and that is not due to any strenuous exercise.

I gave 4 vials of blood and then I asked to speak to someone about psychological and social support. We sometimes forget that beyond addressing physical health after a life-threatening disease, there are serious adjustment issues that follow requiring a more professional angle than positive thinking, stoicism and a stiff upper lip, believe me, I have got lots of those three, but one needs to know when to ask for help – it is not a sign of weakness, it is just an expression of deep humanity.

Don’t worry about it

A nurse I spoke to almost 2 months ago came out to chat to me asking about the help I needed, I told her about my seeking new employment, my pending homelessness – well that is not for another week and other concerns.

I say concerns, not worries because I have learnt over times of almost debilitating adversity that worry solves nothing, it holds no magic wand of sudden change to the prevailing circumstances, rather it opens wide the doors for stress and that opens wider gates to other more serious health problems – I know I’ve had my share of those, I need no new ones – thank you.

No, I am not worried, I could be anxious but I cannot dwell on that, what I do is consider what new useful advice I can get and keep my chin up, as every day presents itself both as a struggle and as a victory, life could be better but it is not bad.

Miscellaneous matters

As if to read my mind, the nurse observing my furrowed brow despite the beaming smile was intimated of the fact that I have not really been eating well, not for the lack of an appetite but for other reasons. In short order, I will be seeing a psychologist, then a support network and finally my new medical consultant.

She has assured me that if all those meetings fail to address the prevailing and long term issues, whatever they are doing to help their patients would have to be up for review.

If…

As to whether I am suicidal, you have got to be kidding, I love life and I live it to the full, when I have plenty and when I have nothing.

One small matter of getting nourishment beckons but choices desert me. Here’s to life and here’s to joy, even when it seems there is nothing to celebrate, there is much to celebrate still.

I sometimes wonder, if another one lived my life in the realities I have experienced, what will they do? I will like to hear their story, I might just be doing something wrong.