My Other Mothers

Mothers day 2014 is approaching. My first ever mothers day without my mam. A lot of people may think I would be incredibly sad around this time, and in some ways I am. But it is a different kind of sadness to what I have been through in the last year. It is not a crippling, disabling sadness but an appreciative sadness.  This blog post is less about remembering my own mother, and more about other people’s mams. The mams that have helped me through.

I can say with resounding faith that this mothers day will undoubtedly be better than last year. Mothers day 2013 was when it all really sunk in for me, and I think for my mam too. Mothers day 2013 was the first time I saw my mother sedated. That in itself was terrifying. I spent the day alternating between pleadingly circling the bed, throwing up in the toilet and crying my eyes out begging her “Please not on mother’s day mam, please don’t go today”. It was a selfish association of course, and I can almost laugh now that looking back I was so fraught that my biggest concern was that if she died on mothers day, it would be ruined forever.  Whilst that was understandably a devastating time for me, it was also a complete eye-opener. Because I began to take notice of the tribe of wonderful women that I like to call my ‘other mothers’.

These same women who stood around my mother’s bedside, and indeed, around me, formed a strange sort of shield during my most difficult times. They held me up when I could no longer hold myself, and they stepped in when I was just too tired to be positive for my own mam anymore. Together, we mothered each other, and I learned so much more about my mam in her final months from precious stories and memories of her. Memories I would never have. First came the ‘officials’. Sisters of my mother who were always there for every visit, who lumped my washing back and forth their houses, ironed bedding upon bedding, and did the simple things like forcibly restraining me to shove sandwiches or some form of sustenance into my mouth.  They held strong even though it was their baby sister, a sister they’d nursed in her earlier life and ironically had to learn to care for again. Now, after her death, “the professional” or, Auntie Kath continues to be one of my main supporters.  In my mother’s absence, she has become my confidant. If I have a decision to be made, I can always go to her. I know she will listen to me with respect and give me the best guidance she can with no judgement. I am never afraid to be myself or to tell her my feelings, because she has never shown anything other than 100% faith in me. We limp along, she and I, and we lift each other on the days we’re not quite ourselves.

Then there’s “the crazy”.  Not meant in any way offensively, but anyone who knows my Auntie Chris knows I speak the truth. Auntie Kath is a bit more reserved than her, and if there’s one thing my mother wasn’t, it’s reserved (Ha!). And so, on the days when I need a crazy flavour, that wonderfully wild streak that my mother had, I go to Auntie Chris, and her daughter,  Joanna. I may not see them as much, but I do not need to live in their pockets to know that I always have a welcome and a best friend in both of them.  Wherever my officials are, I have a home, and I don’t feel quite so much like an orphan anymore.

 And then of course, there were the “unofficials”, who may as well have moved in with me. My mother’s closest and most treasured friends; Anne, Debbie and Wendy, Auntie Jan and Auntie Adele.  These women showed me the strength of female friendship. When I consider now, what I would do if I were to see one of my closest and most treasured friends terminally ill, I don’t know how any of them ever came to my house or the hospital with a smile. But they always did. They showed me that my mother must have been a great friend in her time, because their dedication to her care was boundless. They always brought the sunshine into her little hospital rooms, and the sweets and the magazines (Integral to visits, of course). They had no obligation to my mother, or to her family, but they came anyway.  It would have been very easy for them to say “thanks very much, but I would rather keep the memories of your mam as I knew her when she was fit and well”.  My mother often spoke so fondly about her best friends, and even when she was very low she still had room to worry about them. “Something’s wrong with our Debbie”, she’d say, and do the ominous peer over her glasses which told everyone Anny-O was on the case, and don’t you forget it! And I see now that it was just one giant circle, and that when I was born, and my sister too, I was introduced into that circle. They loved me and supported me because I was a part of her.  So thank you ladies, for bringing the light.

Then of course, there are the people who I never expected to be my other mothers. Those who were not friends of my mothers from birth, but who came to know me and came to love me and think of me as their own.  There are two distinct women in this category for me, and both women have helped me in ways that they will never realise. Lynette, thank you for being everything a mammy should be.  Thank you for always checking that I was okay, for holding my hand and for always having that inner radar good mammies have for when I wasn’t exactly telling the truth about how I felt. You opened your home and your family to me, and you gave me stability in a time when I didn’t feel all that put together at all.

Secondly, Viv. I don’t know if you ever knew how much of a support you were to me, through my mother’s illness or through her death. I cannot count on one hand the times we sat in your kitchen, you supplied me with a glass of wine and let me rant about god knows what, just to get it all out.  You were there through it all, and your lovely house was my escape. It was always a haven of calm and comfort in my otherwise bonkers life.  I think my mam was even a bit jealous of you in the beginning, but in the end she was as endeared to you as I was, and she often said how grateful she was that she knew when I was out of my house and in someone else’s, I had a mammy number 2 who would make sure I was on the straight and narrow – without any messing! Sometimes I think we are a lot alike, you and I, and you have been a massive inspiration to me and an even bigger comfort. You are a brilliant example of how sometimes, life does not deal you the best cards, but that with the right attitude and the right support, you can come through something that really is very ugly. You gave me my ‘go get ‘em’ attitude. You never pressurised me to talk about my feelings but I always knew and still know now that you would be there in a shot if I had a problem. You showed me what it was to be a truly good person.

Last but not least, the person I never thought would have to be a mother to me: my lovely papa. Dad, when I think of how far you’ve come in the last year I could cry my eyes out. If anyone has had the most change thrust upon them, it has been you. When you married my mam, you married for life. You never expected to be on your own again mid 50s, and a single parent.  We’ve become so close you and I, and things that I once would never have dreamed about telling you about, now become so easy to talk about. We’re a team hen we get along. In the game of “parent a 15 year old”, we’ve become a bit of a duo. I hope when you look at me you’re really proud, because that’s all you ever make me want to do is show you how well you did and what a brilliant parent you are. Thank you for always being honest with me, even when it hurt, but for never really saying I told you so.  For just being there and knowing that I’m still not too old for a hug off my daddy.  Yes, I do still sit on your lap and I will continue to do so until my arse is too fat or your knees give way. Whichever comes first, really.  We’re only going to get closer Dad, and I can’t wait for you to get even grouchier as the years go on so I can antagonise you a bit more and we can laugh after we’ve had our 5 minute screaming argument and realised how similar we are.

And one more. Ellie. Ellie?! How can my little sister be a mother to me. Well, kiddo, I think it’s safe to say we mother each other, don’t we? Thank you mostly for being a precocious little bugger, because I don’t think anyone makes me laugh as much as you (Or cry with frustration, actually).  You make me laugh the most when you come home from school to find me sniffling in your bed, or when I creep into your room and you just roll your eyes and lift up the quilt in a way that says “get in loser”.  You’re my bestest friend in the whole wide world, you are. And I’m so proud of you every day.  Even when you leave my washing in the machine so it smells damp, and when you leave your glasses on the side and not in the…sorry. Got carried away.

Whoever you are and however you’ve mothered me. Thank you for showing me what it is to be a wonderful woman, friend, or parent.

You’re all wonderful creatures J

"To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others" - Albert Camus

As soon as we are born the importance of honesty and openness is thrust upon us. Don’t tell lies, they say. Share your toys. Don’t be selfish. We are encouraged to share all of ourselves routinely. Whilst doing all of this we are expected to find who we are as a person. At no point are we encouraged to take time out for ourselves, until it is too late and we are so over run and over stressed that we simply don’t have the time to regroup.

I used to be a ‘people person’. I used to believe strongly in needing other people to help you get through things and to make your life easier. Until I had to go through something that was entirely personal and that no-one in the world could ever get me through, even with the best of intentions. And I realised, that in that period of time, I was completely alone, and that factoring other people into my decisions during that time frame just made me more confused and lost. It got me thinking about the rest of my life, and how, in a depressing but somehow liberating way, no-one will actually ever know you at all. You can get really sad about that; incredibly sad, actually. That for all the effort you put into maintaining friendships, forging relationships, it's all for naught, because no-one will ever know the real you.

Now that seems a grand statement I’m sure, but when you actually think of your day-to-day life, the different people you encounter, the different social circumstances, the human being is never one distinct personality. We are incredibly three dimensional characters, social chameleons. We always change ourselves for other people, no matter how minute the change. The way we act in front of one particular friend - the things we’d say, the things we refrain from doing because of judgement - varies. But ultimately, we have one interest in life and it goes against everything we are taught is right, and that is self-preservation. 

It is the reasoning that drives all decisions made in life, and it made me think – is there such a thing as a selfless individual? Why is being selfish actually so bad?  It seems logical to blame all the bad things in life on being selfish, and these things are discouraged. But there are ‘good selfish’ decisions. And I don’t mean leaving an abusive relationship but forsaking your children a two parent home, or anything as drastic as that. It can be as simple as caring for a sick relative. Why do we do it? Yes, because we care about that person, and yes because society expects you do to do so. But also because we must do it, so we can say at the end of it that we did all we could. So nobody could find us wanting.  I don’t think of myself as a particularly selfish individual, but as I get older, I understand selfish action more and more clearly. I am more inclined to be selfish because, throughout your life, you must be your own best friend.  I don’t think there is ever such a thing as ‘knowing who you are’, because by the time you’ve figured it out, you’re already changing again. People are a fickle thing.

The only thing that keeps us from acting selfishly day in and day out is a guilt and morality. But, maybe we judge those who care little for other’s opinions on their actions too harshly. You have to ask yourself, I guess, who is really the fool? The person who goes about life exactly the way they want, with no regrets on any decision made. Or the average Joe, like you and me, who are constantly limited by having to factor in other people into our decisions.

I’m not suggesting everyone sticks their middle finger up to everyone else from here on in, because that would be catastrophic. But perhaps we all need to sit down once in a while and do something. Not because anyone else wants you to, but just for yourself.

Just be yourself.

This Woman's Work

Dear Mam,

It has been 30 days since I’ve seen you, and it still feels like you’re coming back. It feels a bit like we’re all pretending, and I’m still doing things at 100 miles a minute waiting for you to call me, or for me to have to come and visit you.

People keep telling me that I’ll go through ‘Phases’. Of being angry, of being sad, of missing you. I do go through phases, but not of different emotions. I go through phases of forgetting, and phases of remembering things in such painful detail that my heart feels like it’s going to fall out of my chest.  Most of all, I’m lonely. I’ve never felt lonely before because I always had you in my head, to worry about. You were always in there with my other thoughts, rattling about in my brain, always on my peripheral. A direct part in any decision I made, any place I went. And now I don’t have to factor any of that into it anymore. I haven’t been able to put my finger on it before day, but I’m wandering, looking for you or anything that reminds me of you because it almost seems as if you were never here at all. It used to do my head in, constantly trying to work around you, and now it’s like I’ve got too much of everything, and too little of the one thing I really need.

I think perhaps that’s what I struggle with the most. That someone can live for 52 years and fight as hard you did and there’s no physical imprint here. I forgot that even when you were 7 stone and struggling for breath, your character filled the room. You were such a big person really. And now there’s just a hole. Some days it feels like a physical one, right in the middle of my chest and I have to walk round with my arms around myself or I’m sure I’ll fall part.  I know that you live on in me and in my memory, but some days that’s not enough, and today is one of those days. 

And I don’t want you to feel bad either. I know you said sorry to me, I heard you loud and clear even though it was whisper soft. It felt like the loudest thing I’d ever heard in the world and I wanted to kiss you and shake you all at the same time because I knew what it meant. You were sorry for giving in, but you didn’t have to be. I’m sorry too, for getting so angry at the macmillan nurse and the Marie Curie nurse. It wasn’t their fault, but I didn’t understand why they weren’t helping you. I felt so sad and helpless seeing you in that little bed, and I guess  I needed to be angry or else I was going to pass out with the weight of what was really happening in that room. You were finally leaving me, because you had no fight left. You were always so strong, and so courageous. So adamant that you could beat anything, even when your body told you no.   I was and remain what you made me, and I was only ever so positive because you made it look so effortless. Just like when you pretended you weren’t scared of the dentist for 20 years of my life so I wouldn’t be. I’m sorry that I couldn’t pretend for you that day mam.  I was scared and I was selfish because if I was scared you must have been positively terrified. It was the first time you’d ever showed that to me. I wasn’t ready for it. 

You couldn’t tell me that it was going to be alright that day mam, so I had to tell you. I know I was lying, but I hope you know what I meant.  I hope you knew that I was telling you it was okay for you to go. And that I’d look after Elly and Dad. And myself. I promise I’ll look after myself too because I know you’d want me to.  I know you hated leaning on me, but loved it all at the same time. I bet you even had a laugh at my expense some days for all the sleepless nights I gave you and all the dirty nappies. And all the fights that we had the year I was 17. I bet you laughed looking back on them, about how I was so sure that I was a big girl and ready to do it all on my own and without you, and now, here I am at 20, wishing you’d come back and help me out because I’m sodding useless at making decisions and crying in rooms on my own like a loon. What a catch I turned out to be, hey!

I wanted to tell you that I did well in that exam I thought I’d failed too. I rang my course tutor in your bedroom, and I was so happy that I’d done well. I know if I’d have told you you’d say “see, I told you”, in that way you always did, even though I’m sure after the great breakdown of second year A levels, you were never really sure of anything with me anymore. I know you were always proud of me though. You wanted me to do well in school, I knew that, but you taught me all about the real things in life that were important. Most importantly you taught me how to love myself, for who I am, and to be comfortable in my own skin. To be able to be proud of myself when I’d done well but also to call myself a silly idiot (or silly iriot, as you would have put it) when I’d done something colossally stupid.  I never appreciated that until recently.  Anyway, I hope you were listening and I hope I made you proud. I can’t promise you anything about the other exams though because they are looking to be really hard so just send a bit of your academic wisdom (har har,) on that day and I’m sure I’ll be okay.

I think that’s all I have to tell you for now mam. But I’m just letting you know I miss you. I miss our conversations and cwtches and your advice.  I’ll miss you every day from now till I’m 94, even when it’s irrational and I wouldn’t have had you anyway.

All my love,

Amy.

My Lovely Mam

 

There has been absolutely nothing physical that happened to make today remarkable, but I made a startling realisation: I am beginning to forget what my mother was like when she was ‘well’.   I guess it got me thinking about anyone who has ever watched someone die from a long, drawn out illness. On a day to day basis, you forget that there was ever anything other than this constant rota of care plans and thinking one-step ahead at all times, because you don’t have time to think about what you have lost. But on quieter days, perhaps when it’s just you and your relative in a big bed, drinking cups of tea in a companionable silence, you blink and rack your brains for what you did before you were needed for company. Before that person had no choice but to seek you out for help and assistance.

Today, the utter reversal of roles was made glaringly obvious. Prior to my realisation, I was looking through old photographs. Many of me as a baby, dressed up in silly hats and sunglasses, playing with my toys, new friends, my first holidays.  And then the more mundane ones; me in the bath, me sporting an unintentional chocolate moustache (Impressive, even if I do say so myself), me in the process of creating an artistic masterpiece. Although perhaps no more than a stray finger brushing back an errant strand of hair, or a guiding hand keeping the paintbrush on the paper and not on her wallpaper, my faceless advisor, teacher and  - above all – carer,  was my lovely mam.  

I closed my eyes then and attempted to remember feeling that vulnerable, and as the series of pictures progressed and I watched myself find independence in the photographs (Standing on my own two feet, starting school, eventually hopelessly encouraging my sister in our misdemeanours,) I tried to imagine what it would be like to lose it all over again.  You see now, as I watch her completely undone some days by simply finding the effort to brush her teeth, I find it increasingly hard to remember that this woman once had the gumption to stick up for her friend who got bullied at playtime or – ironically - that this woman’s day to day job was to help those with disabilities.  This woman fell in love, carried, gave birth to and raised 2 children and made a house a home.  Just like the disease eats her body, it appears to eat away at my memories of her. I guess my point is that we must make ourselves remember, because for me, if I was in her shoes,  I think the most insulting thing would be that people only remembered me for what I couldn’t beat, rather than all the things I had accomplished. 

My mother has never been a rocket scientist. She has never made a medical discovery that will save mankind. She hasn’t even been to America. But for me, she taught me some invaluable life lessons; most importantly, how to love myself, flaws and all.  And even now, at 20 years-of-age, if I am in doubt on any matter, the final word from Mam can always swing my decision. Because, although perhaps I don’t remember everything I should, I will always know how much of an inspiration to me she is.  Everyday, I see her fight and struggle just to be around for us, to keep things as normal as she possibly can.  Before all this, I thought true strength and bravery came from people rescuing others from burning buildings, siblings jumping into rivers to save other siblings. Although these events are by no means cowardly, I have come to respect that sometimes true bravery can also come from less grandiose circumstances. It is the courage to tell two scared daughters that everything will be okay and that life will go on, even when you don’t 100% believe it yourself. It is the quiet but resilient strength that comes from knowing your body is changing every day, and not for the better, but the decision to fight it anyway.  Sometimes, it’s something as little as a hand squeeze in the dark when you have no words for each other that will make the situation any brighter.

So I guess this is for anyone who’s ever lost anyone to anything, as vague as that may sound. Sometimes, we must look to the people we are attempting to support in order to support ourselves.

Thank you Mam, for everything you do, every day.

Breaking Porn

So last night I went to see the long awaited Breaking Dawn.  Fans will claim that they were excited to see the latest instalment in the franchise because in terms of content, Stephanie Meyer has gone freakin’ bananas and just invented crazy storyline possibilities all over the place (We are all under the illusion that our lovely Edward is as fertile as a vasectomy patient, but no! He has a few vampire/human hybrids left in him yet!).  However, I think any honest person will simply admit that we all went to see Robert Pattinson.

Or rather, Robert Pattinson having sex.

We crammed into the cinema (Full again, despite the film being released over a week ago now,) amongst a diverse range of ages, from your spotty teenager to your middle aged mother.  Even though there was the pretence we were all there for the dramatics, it was blatantly obvious as soon as the film began that we were all waiting for one particular scene. In fact, if someone had shouted “Just bone her already,” I would not have been shocked. In fact, I may have responded with “Hear, hear!”

A lot of people who appear to harbour an intense hate for the Twilight saga generally tend to fall into two categories;

1)      Die hard Harry Potter fans who are truly mortified that anyone should ever write a best seller after J.K.Rowling. SACRILEGE!

2)      Actual film/book buffs who appreciate good acting/writing.

It tends to get quite annoying. When I start talking about Twilight, I don’t want someone to launch into how it is a typical teenage angst novel with no plausible plot or storyline. I don’t want to hear about how the acting is mediocre at best.  I don’t go into the cinema expecting Oscar winning performances, but anyone with eyes can safely contest to the fact that Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart set fire to the screens (And my ovaries,) with all their awkward drama, and that Stephanie Meyer, whilst perhaps not the best writer ever Amen, can definitely write a story that will have you turning the pages in rapture. There is a fantastic blend of normality and abnormality captured in the book. The emotions that simmer between the protagonists is tangible, and so very typical of teenage lust.  We’ve all felt it, and I don’t think it can be described with flowery words and overt expressions. Their love is ordinary and extraordinary in the same time, and I think it is a quiet genius that has helped Meyer to perfect this.  So much so that you sometimes forget that Edward is a vampire. Their struggles appear genuine, and as for the emphasis on sex, so what? I think we can all agree that people, females in particular, are encouraged to save their virginity for someone ‘special’ ; the last time I checked, Edward is about as ‘special’ as a guy can get!

After that brief (!) rant about the literary criticism, I’ll get to the crux of the issue and perhaps what made me a tiny bit confused: the rating.  As a 12A, you’d expect allusion to sex, maybe some heavy make-out scenes.  It would leave parents the possible ‘get out of jail free’ card, maybe so they could turn to their daughter or son and casually remark, “Oh look, Edward and Bella are playing the lying down game naked. Bella’s actually really bad at it.”  I know we all wanted a steamy sex scene, and much as I did enjoy the bizarre flash of K Stew’s nipple (Just in case we had any doubts that they naked in bed...naked,) I was convinced that the only reason that film was not a 15 was because they knew if they bumped up the age restriction, they would successfully eliminate half of their target market. Yes, it appears girls who have not yet hit puberty/realised they have a uterus at all are also affected by the mysterious form of “Rob Rays” that he gives off.

Other than that, the film really did deliver well in terms of effects. Taylor Lautner as Jacob is still perpetually irritating to me (He looks unfortunately like he’s about to sneeze all the time), but as a wolf he was truly spectacular. I particularly liked the generic “I just punched a wolf” noise supplied for most of Emmett’s attacks. To the director’s credit, my heart beat was pounding in all the right places, and I was reminded that people’s biggest downfall when it comes to enjoying the film is learning to accept the slight cheesiness and just not caring! The film also wins points for a majorly cute baby. As for the soundtrack, well, as always, it’s excellently brooding.  Sleeping At Last’s “Turning Pages” was so beautiful and apt that it made me cry in the cinema.  It doesn’t matter whether you’re reading this and you hate Twilight and all it stands for, there is no denying that the song is beautiful.

In conclusion, irrespective of Jasper’s constant look of constipation, Bella’s disgusting vomiting and Rob Pattinson’s freakishly long toes, I really did think that this was the best film so far.

Oh, and by the way...

TEAM EDWARD! *FANGIRLS*

Reality TV, has killed the industry...

Reality TV is simultaneously the most loved and hated topic for the British Public.  After yet another series of “Celebrity” Big Brother (Reality TV’s equivalent of herpes), the nation is once again divided.  Reality TV gets to the best of us, but when you break the ‘purpose’ of each show down, it’s really quite hilarious.

Big Brother is the prime example. Putting a number of random people that you previously had no knowledge of (This can be applied to the celebrity addition too,) into a house and watching them slowly driving each other bonkers for want of normality and personal space, whilst making the unlucky few complete some truly bizarre tasks.  Whilst we can all agree Nicky Graham’s multiple breakdowns and Glyn’s “egg song” were endlessly amusing, ultimately, we’re feeding someone’s narcissism. We treat the cross section of people that end up in the house as representations of the British public, when in actual reality, they are among some of the most bizarre categories – reason enough for television bosses to cram them into the house. They’ll make “good television” of course. It doesn’t matter if they sodomise the beer bottle! It’s good viewing.

Another terrific example, and probably one of my favourites is “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!”, as the irony that the people we adore because we have elevated them to celebrity status become more/less revered by the public when we see how capable they are at being “normal people”. People who will eat widgety grubs to make sure the rest of their camp don’t starve that night.  People who have to survive without a shower for a month.  People who...are getting paid around 50 k to do that show.  Who will come out of ‘slumming’ it richer, because for one month they’ve eaten only beans and rice. Oh the pain! The sacrifice! 

The word celebrity has always been confusing to me – especially the reasons behind why we award certain individuals that status – and it becomes even more confusing when the whole glamorous idea of them is inverted. What is it that we want to see from celebrities?

A prime example is musicians. Recently, I attended Hop Farm festival, and who should be playing but Morrisey.  I’m not a particular fan anyway, and even if I had been, I would have jumped ship quite quickly when I saw that when performing, because he was a vegetarian, he wanted all food stalls displaying meat on their signs to be covered.  Any respect I did have for him quickly accompanied his credibility down a grubby portaloo.  There’s supporting your cause and being comfortable educating people about your beliefs and the alternative choices out there, and then there’s being an idiot.  But it did raise a question – what do we really want from our celebrities? We don’t want ‘organic’ rock stars like Chris Martin and his weirdly flexible wife Gwynnie Paltrow, because they’re accused of being “too fake”.  Going “too far” to avoid their stereotype.  Matt Bellamy, front man of Muse was branded reckless by some at Reading festival when he threw his guitar across the stage.  Stars like Morrisey – obviously proud of their beliefs – are accused of shoving them down our throats. Non descript celebs who don’t really stand for anything never make it big.

What is it about the human nature that spurs us to find out what normality is? Why haven’t we figured out yet that regardless of how “larger than life” a person may seem as a character on the screen, we are all only human and EVERYTHING is real. In fact, everything bar reality TV. These people still need to use the bathroom, need to eat , need to sleep. They all wake up of a morning with sleep in their eyes and bad breath.  

As a race, we have yet to realise that no-one is ‘special’.  Many are talented, certainly, excelling in certain professions that are going to rake in the cash, but no-one is exempt from the taxes life takes on our body.

And I wonder if we make the choice to ignore that willingly. Escapism has always been favoured by our nation.  In wartime Britain, thousands flocked to the cinemas to shut off to the world for an hour or two.  To forget reality.  How strange it seems that years down the line, our idea of escaping our own reality is to study someone else in a simulated environment we deem as ‘real’.  The idea is boggling to me, but we need to believe that some people are better than us and deserve to adored.  We all have our idols, and the famed saying is that you should never meet your own personal inspiration.

And why?

Because you might just fall back up the rabbit hole you’ve created for yourself.  You might realise that actually, things aren’t what they seem.  They’re a whole lot less than it.

(Sing the title to "As long as he needs me" from Oliver. Credit to Jest End)

CLASS B CITIZENS?

Lately, wandering around in my own world, my little bubble has been frequently permeated by a waft of cannabis. Prior to my current relationship (A band member, shall we say...green fingered?) I was blissfully ignorant to the common use of the drug.

Immediately, upon reading the word drug, I bet you've all grimaced and thought of some dirty junkie frantically looking for any available vein to get their latest fix. If a person smoking a spliff wandered down the street of an evening, I bet we'd all shake our heads and throw him a disapproving look for - gasp - exposing our children to substance misuse.

Now, lets remodel the scenario. Instead, change the joint to a bottle of wine, the person on their way to a friends house for a dinner party.  Do we recoil in horror? No. Of course we don't. In fact, we may even allow ourselves to think them sophisticated.

Alcohol can be just as addictive as a drug. Anyone who has witnessed an alcohol related death knows it is often a slow and painful process for everyone involved, with lots of emotional ups and downs before the final culmination. For many, sufferers of alcoholism fall off the wagon many times, and eventually face death after conquering their demons, but not the lasting scars left on their bodies. A drug related death is similar. And yet, the stepping stones to these problems are treated so very differently in this country. People who entertain the prospect of weed are immediately ostracised from the bracket of "good moral conduct" because they have succumbed to the world of the 'illegal drug'.

As someone with little to no real experience of the drug before this year, I too was under the impression that anyone who smoked weed regularly should immediately be treated with caution. Their sense of right and wrong was clearly skewed and therefore, they were destined to be failures in life. Right?

And yet, the more time I spend in the company of the people who smoke cannabis, the more I find myself questioning this stereotype. As a scientific person, I am in no way using this piece of writing to claim cannabis has no adverse side effects. I'm well aware smoking anything that burns at such a high temperature is no good for you in the long run. As with everything, when taken excessively, the bad begins to outweigh the good. The human body is not meant to process tobacco smoke, but neither was it built to withstand 12 WKDs and 40 Big Macs. Or the chlamydia you catch following the WKD induced bad decision.

I'm not sanctifying weed by a long shot. I'm just curious as to what makes it so bad, essentially. As someone who doesn't smoke the drug myself, I would have to force myself to get high to evaluate the true meaning of "being stoned", in order to better understand the stigma attached. For now, I'll have to go on my observations. Have I ever seen anyone smoke a joint and get in a fight? No. Have I ever seen anyone high be verbally abusive/loud/generally antisocial? No. When I ask myself these questions about alcohol, I can't answer no to a single one of them.

The sad reality is, on any given night out in my area, I have seen many drunkards lay into wives/friends/other bystanders, and generally just make other people's lives difficult. I'm not saying these behavioral portraits can be applied to everyone. I'm just trying to get a picture of why my view - previously so anti-drugs - has changed so much. Some may say it is largely my boyfriend's influence - maybe even me trying to justify my romantic interest's choice of extra curricular activities. Again, I don't smoke it, and neither have I ever felt pressured to by him or his friends. Arguably, you could also say being around it so much in a casual context has taken away the shock factor. But then, wouldn't I have stopped thinking about it so much and just got stuck in myself?

I don't know what answer I'm looking to find, if any at all. All I do know is that for most things in life, in my opinion, there has always been a definitive sense of black or white. Yes or no.  Right or wrong. Lately, regarding cannabis use, there have been many shades of grey. And the colour spectrum continues to expand the more I think about it.

Hmm...