On the doorstep of a Saloon Bar
the two lovers’ Summer starts.
Their bodies pressed together,
their lips slightly apart.
His ringed hand reaches round her neck-
entwined in mahogany hair,
slides under her pearl earring;
Eyes closed, they break their stare.
Her hand lies gently on his hip-
I watch it slip under his shirt.
The fabric feels smooth to her skin,
smooth like the gold of my locket.
Within the locket his framed face
smiles sweetly up at mine.
Now, he smiles sweetly down at her.
Their hearts joined, mine frozen in time.
I slip a shadow in the dark,
slam my hand into his chest;
his head cracks the doorknob-
he slumps to the floor, at rest.
On the doorstep of a Saloon Bar,
my Summer suddenly ends.
Pride like a peacock in
his rich blues, greens, yellows
stands tall— overshadows
his brothers. Or so he thinks.
Greed’s safe bulges with gold,
locked in chains.
The key is “lost,” even for
a starved child, a homeless man.
Lust is cloaked in goat furs—
when he’s even dressed at all.
He strips with graceful power.
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
Envy snakes in silence, stares—
his pupils vertical slits.
He marks his prey, he slithers;
he licks his lips, he slavers.
Gluttony talks in grunts, snorts.
Cheese, chicken, fish, sausage, bread
a constant guest in his hand.
The guests do not remain long.
Wrath does not walk. He charges.
His eyes wild, mane red, he roars.
His whisper louder than a
pride of deafening lions.
Sloth drapes himself across chair,
floor, sofa, other people.
Where he is, is where he lives.
A snail. A slug. A maggot.
Anyone who knows me knows how obsessed I am with my dog, Molly. Here she is now-
Look at her tongue!
Pets do magnificent wonders for our mental health. Whenever we’re down and lonely, their innocent little selves are always there to give us affection, to keep us active, to remind us we aren’t alone.
Here are some beautiful stories (and beautiful pets) that show just how important pets are for helping our mental health.
“Charlie lets me hold onto him during anxiety attacks and helps me steady my breathing of we’re home alone, if other people are home he sits down next to me and barks until someone comes to help.” -Annie O’Neill.
“Dogs are like old people in that they sit happily blinking on couches only vaguely understanding what is going on in the world around them. They don’t have body dysmorphia or a Xanax addiction or an absurdly long therapy waiting list, and yet they have everything they need: they can smell when dinner is being cooked and brought to them, they can hear the loving tone in every word their family says to them even if they don’t always know what they mean, and they can enjoy the feeling of the sun on their face without having to question it in the slightest. This is why I love Cosmo. Sitting next to him on the sofa, listening to him snore or seeing him glance up at rattly kitchen noises with light gleaming off his little white head, remind me that life— for all its pretentious tomfoolery— is really a nice simple business there to be enjoyed and cuddled. And although he may wee on the carpet, at least he never voted for Brexit.” -S.B.
(Above: left, Jester. Right, Candy.)
“One time I was crying, and Jester jumped onto the sofa and lay on his back on my belly and just fell asleep there until I stopped.” -Anonymous.
“When College finished, all my friends drifted apart and all I had left was my dog, Milly. She died just before Uni started, and it was the saddest I’ve ever been.” -Anonymous.
“When I was in a crisis, I was able to convince myself that if I did commit, my family would overtime be able to understand and kind of move on, but one of the main reasons why I didn’t go through with it was because I realised Lenny would not have ever understood. It broke my heart to imagine him coming into my room and looking for me and that he would never see me again, especially since when I was having extreme depressive episodes I would spend time with him, because he never pressured me to talk about my feelings and I felt safe, so for me he was the one I could go to when my mental illness was telling me that I couldn’t trust anyone and that I shouldn’t be alive.
I guess you could say he saved my life in a way, because he was there for me when noone else really knew what was happening.
“When Lenny died only a few months later, I started to slip back into my depression, but I was able to stay strong because I knew how much hiss loss had affected my family and I was able to power through it. Even when we got Evie and she was a little rat, I remember my Dad commenting about how happier I seemed and how much more time I was spending with the family, rather than staying in my room and having low moods. I genuinely believe that having a pet, especially one that gives you affection, is the sure for mental health problems. Sure, they won’t fix everything, I still have low moods and panic attacks, but I know that no matter how I act or what problems I have, my dog will unconditionally love me and I think every single person should experience that.” -L.S.
“This is my cat Sam. He purrs like a lawn mower and basically just lazes about the house all day and he licks you if he really loves you. He’s a very loyal cat even if he can be a grumpy old man. We lost him for 5 years but he came back to us.” –Hannah Docherty
(Above: left and middle, Poseidon. Right, Neptune.)
“Tilly was more of a therapist for me. I would go to her and just vent my feelings and get hugs- she was like… all the emotional support I got at home.
“Poseidon and Neptune… they get me out of a rut. I can no longer lay in bed and dwell on how I feel and be lazy when things get bad because they are so dependent on me. I have to get up and feed them and clean their litter tray and make sure they are safe. And because I’m not laying around all day I start to feel better an it kinda gives me a sense of purpose because they need me.” -Sahra-anne
‘The aim in this book isn’t to say that everything is a disaster and we’re all screwed, because we already have Twitter for that.’ — Matt Haig, NOTES ON A NERVOUS PLANET, p. 12
This book isn’t just for people who struggle with mental illness. It discusses the topic in regard to society as a whole, and how modern life, particularly in regard to social media, affects out mental health.
‘The question this time was a broader one: how can we live in a mad world without ourselves going mad? — Matt Haig, NOTES ON A NERVOUS PLANET, p. 9
Matt Haig’s ability to put across such strong messages in such a small chapter is phenomenal. He doesn’t drag it on to be something it’s not, simply for the sake of a long chapter. He’s short. He’s precise. He’s truthful.
‘I am trying to write about the messiness of the world and the messiness of minds by writing a deliberately messy book.’ — Matt Haig, NOTES ON A NERVOUS PLANET, p. 176
Thoughts on mental health are often fragmented. The thoughts take time to piece together. We don’t sit there, mid-panic attack, or mid-depressive episode, and bash out a novel’s worth of deep thoughts on mental health. We piece it together over the years. We learn.
Matt Haig portrays this wonderfully. His short chapters, linked together under the wider sections of the book, fit the tone perfectly.
The perfect combination of personal pronouns and polysyllabic language makes it feel like we, the reader, are have an intellectual discussion with Matt Haig. Not being talked down upon. Not being mansplained to.
The perfect combination of humour, and formal lexis makes it a more enjoyable read without deviating from the serious topic at hand.
‘There are days when I’d find it easier to talk North Korea out of its nuclear weapons programme than to talk myself out of checking social media seventeen times before breakfast.’ — Matt Haig, NOTES ON A NERVOUS PLANET, p. 152
If you don’t struggle with mental illness, you should read this to understand the people who do. If you do struggle with mental illness, you should read this to understand you aren’t alone. You’ll realise the little things you do don’t make you weak. Or weird. Or abnormal. Other people do them too, experience them too.
‘I am a catastrophiser. I don’t simply worry. No. My worry has real ambition. My worry is limitless.’ — Matt Haig, NOTES ON A NERVOUS PLANET, p. 24
Mental illness can come back just as a rose can regrow. It’s odd, to compare something so horrific to something so beautiful, isn’t it? But it’s true.
We need to normalise that mental illness does not easily go away, and that for most people, it will not go away. This isn’t dark. It isn’t accepting defeat.
It’s being realistic. It’s realising the harsh truths. Harsh truths that, once acknowledged, will help you.
I don’t think there is a getting better; but there is a learning to cope. To say you’re getting better is, often, to kid yourself, because if you fall again you’ll only fall harder. If you ignore the signs that those evils lurking in your head are returning because you’ve, “Gotten better!” you won’t be able to help yourself.
Instead, you’ll hate yourself. You’ll hate yourself for being weak enough to let it return.
And you are not weak.
It is not your fault your mental illness came back.
Accepting beforehand that it can return will help you when— for if— it does.
It isn’t accepting defeat. It’s being realistic. It’s helping yourself.
That acceptance will help you come to terms with it more quickly; you’ll learn how to cope with it, rather than ignoring it and letting it fester like a weed, or an ant problem. A problem that, once it fully takes hold, is difficult to be rid of. But, if you see the shoot of the weed early on, or an ant of two scuttling around your kitchen, and you accept the problem then, and begin to deal with it then, it’ll be a whole lot easier.
Not to mention, ignoring that you may suffer a relapse in your mental illness can actually cause the relapse. As wrote by Neel Burton in Psychology Today, a common cause of a relapse is ‘poor understanding of your mental disorder in general, and of the symptoms of a relapse in particular’. Hence, ignoring the issue can lead to you ignoring ‘the symptoms of a relapse’.
So, accept that mental illness can return. Accept it, so you know what you are facing, how to face it, and how to help yourself.
Look after yourself; especially your mind.
The Kitchen is spotless. The ceramic tile floor freshly mopped. Black slate counter-tops, polished and shiny. Outside, the clouds are slate grey and the TiVo DVR in the Living Room warns of an incoming storm.
There’s a bang as the front door opens and closes, followed by heavy steps approaching the Kitchen. Cath immediately sets the table in perfect time for Rob walking through the door.
He sits at the table, grunting in approval, ignoring the mess his dirt-sodden work clothes are making of the chair, and the trail his muddy boots have left.
I’ll mop the mess when he goes to sleep… thinks Cath, as Rob tucks into his tea.
“What the fuck is this rubbish?” Rob says.
Her heart sinks. “It’s just sausage and mash, like you like it…”
“It’s not b—“
“Don’t contradict me. It tastes burnt to me.” The chair screeches as he stands up. He strides to the fridge and grabs a can of Fosters. The can spits as it opens.
“Sit down, sit down. I— I can make more.”
“Don’t be stupid. That’s just a waste of money. My money. That you use on your stupid kids. You can’t even cook right.”
“Our k— …Sorry, honey— sorry.” She glances nervously through the open Living Room door, where Charley and Adam are kneeling at the wooden coffee table over Adam’s school work.
Rob throws an empty can into the bin and sits back at the table as Cath rummages frantically through the fridge: Beer. Cheese. Beer. Butter. Beer. An egg. Beer. Orange juice. Beer.
A cheese sandwich will have to do.
She throws together the bread, the butter, the cheese and cuts it perfectly down the middle before placing it before Rob alongside a can of beer.
Rob stares at her. “A sandwich? A fucking sandwich?”
Here we go. Cath grips the edge of the table.
“I come home, from working all day, slaving away to bring home money and all you bring me is a pathetic cheese sandwich.” He stands up, grabbing the beer and the cheese sandwich as an afterthought.
He storms into the Living Room.
Cath exhales anxiously. She grabs some more beer from the fridge and follows.
He’s sprawled on the couch, flicking through the TV from one noisy channel to the next. Cath offers him a can— he snorts and takes it.
Closest I’ll get to a thank you.
Rob’s Timberland boots have traipsed even more mud onto the white carpets.
“Here, honey— I’ll take your boots off for you.” She kneels down at his feet and starts gingerly untying the laces.
“Leave them. They’re fine.” He kicks her away, getting even more mud onto the carpet.
Cath stands, lips tight, supressing a sigh and a harsh remark. She gives a warning glance to Charley and Adam who are still kneeling at the coffee table, working as if they were in a Library.
I’ll put the kids to bed when he falls asleep… Should be soon— Looks like he’s been at the beer all day.
Outside, the rain is starting to fall, the trees swaying as they desperately try to stay upright against the wind. Cath crosses and closes the curtains.
“…q-u-i-e-t” whispers Charley, leaning over her little brother’s homework. “Remember: ‘Q’ is always followed—“
“—By a ‘U’!” Adam interrupts, throwing his arms excitedly and dropping his pen. It lands next to his orange juice.
“Shhh!” goes Charley. Rob glances at them. “Okay next word…”
Adam reaches for his pen— but knocks over his cup. The juice spills over his work, turning the sheets orange and damp.
“For fuck’s sake!” Rob leaps abruptly to his feet. “Can you not fucking drink?!”
“Sorry…” mumbles Adam.
Rob storms into the Kitchen, returning with a rag clutched in his fist.
He throws the rag at Adam. It falls into his lap. “Clean this fucking table! You’re eight years old and you can’t even drink properly. Do I have to hold it for you?” He grabs the cup and holds it in front of his face. “Well? Do I?”
Rob slams the cup and his beer down on the table with such ferocity that some splashes out. “Do I have to put the rag in your hand for you, too?” He snatches it from Adam’s lap. He seizes his wrist and forces the rag into his hand. “Now move it in fucking circular motions like this.” Rob forces Adams hand to move in aggressive circles on the table surface, making the mess even worse. “There we fucking go.” He drops Adam’s hand and swipes up his can, spilling even more of its contents, and falls back onto the couch.
Adam keeps senselessly moving his hand in circular motions. His hand is shaking.
Cath stands watching by the window.
“Here, Adam, give it to me,” Charley whispers. She gently prises it from her brother’s hand and starts dabbing at the orange juice and beer. The sleeve of her shirt rides up her arm as she stretches.
Charley’s hand is shaking too.
Her wrist is green and purple.
When did that happen? Charley didn’t even come to me saying she’d been hurt.
Cath remains stationary by the window, mindlessly watching Charley help her little brother as if she is his mum.
Why are we still here? He’s their father but… he doesn’t act like one. But he does provide… he does bring in the money… I can’t just do nothing… she doesn’t even tell me when he’s hurt her…
Cath does what she usually would in this situation; she hands him another can. He mindlessly accepts it as he scowls at the TV screen. Thunder rumbles, followed by a flash of lightning 5 seconds later.
“Today, the London Eye has begun to be lifted into its new home on the South Bank…” chimes in the TV.
“Whose bloody idea was it to make this thing? The London Eye. What an eye sore! Pointless waste of money. They should stop moving it before it’s too fucking late.” He looks at Cath expectedly.
“Oh— oh yes, dear.”
Silence follows, broken only by the sound of the TV and the raging storm.
Eventually, Rob falls to sleep. His beer can falls from his hand and spills onto the carpet.
“Should we go to bed, Mum? I can help Adam if you want to clean this up…” Charley whispers, looking expectantly at her Mum.
“No. Not tonight, dear.” The two children look at her, confused. “I’m going to pack a bag. Get your brother ready, Charley; we’re leaving.”
Five minutes later, bags packed, coats on, they’re out in the rain. It’s surprisingly warm, like a shower washing away all the dirt. Cath turns her face up to the sky, drinking it all in.
Today is the first clear sky we’ve had in what feels like an era, and the beach is busy once more as people bask in the long-awaited Sun. Children are dragging their parents from stall to stall, begging for sugary doughnuts and fluffy pink candy-floss to fill their stomachs with. I sit, watching, in the shaded Bus Shelter, knowing full well when the bus comes I won’t hail it. Or maybe I’ll go to the café. It is a beautiful day, after all. For now, I look down, to avoid the blinding sun, judgemental stares.
“Will! Why aren’t you with yer mother?” an old man says, sitting down on the creaky shelter’s bench.
I look up, glancing around at the people walking past: a father flying his little boy around on his shoulders, an elderly couple with their hands entwined as they enjoy a stroll along sandy paths, a photographer capturing the waves as they dance. No one pays any attention to the man. I continue staring down at my scuffed shoes- I could do with some new ones…
The old guy moves closer, leaning on the rusty iron arm rest separating our seats. “Will! Don’t ignore yer old man!” he laughs and playfully punches my arm.
Who is this man? Is he talking to me?
“Ah, just messin’ with ya!” I shift a little further along the bench, as if trying to get more in the shade.
“Well, if your mother is paying you no attention, how about I take you out- a little treat- jus’ like old times! You’d like tha’, huh, Will?”
Why is he wearing a jacket? The heat is insane! Are those- yes they are! Pyjamas, he’s wearing pyjamas under that jacket! Surely not…
“Come on now, Will! How’re you doing? Your mother isn’t here, how abou’ I take you out, Will? A little treat, just like old times!” he smiles hopefully.
The bus is coming slowly around the corner- I fidget with the small hole in my sleeve.
“Yeah. Yeah I’d like that… Dad.” The man grins, showing off his gums. He unsteadily gets to his feet, grabbing my arm as he does so.
Looking around, I hail the bus as above seagulls soar, dive and flee with chips hanging from their beaks; a successful hunt.