Paul Comerford

June: Rebuilding body and mind

As I turn my attention to compiling my book, Racing the Reaper Man, I realise that I need to have some kind of continuity in my running blog. I’ve completed my specific blogs Racing the Reaper Man Year, and Racing the Reaper Man to Ultra, albeit leaving the latter rather open ended on my quest to run 100k, then ultimately 100 miles. I have learned a great deal as to the various affects of lifestyle, running, diet and core work on a veteran body, so I’m changing my monthly blog into both a diary and subject related essay. I think this may make the content better for a wider audience. I’ll be asking for subject matter topics on my Facebook posts, so feel free to ask questions that are related to a lifetime of running, fitness and wellbeing. Thus, my new title headline will be, Racing the Reaper Man Forever.

I didn’t quite hobble into June, but it did become my rehabilitation month in two different ways. Firstly, I was back to work and testing my mental recovery from burnout and PTSD symptoms. I have also come to realise I have a form of agoraphobia – crowds or social gatherings push my anxiety off the scale. Secondly, I needed to make sure my right knee and right leg injuries were given the time and treatment they needed to repair. As I said in May’s blog, I wanted to move beyond coping with the injury, so decided to deal with the root cause and be free of it.

Most runners get so used to niggly pains, me included, that we often ignore oncoming injury. Or worse, we continue to run, hoping they’ll go away, especially if they don’t seem to get any worse with time. In effect, we make a false normal, if you will. In my case, I’d noticed a crampy right hamstring for a year or so, often manifesting itself on long drives, whilst sitting in one position. It became a noticeable issue in running last October in the Run to the Sea 50k. By focusing on core strength and ignoring the pain and numbness, it became my false normal. April’s big runs were the turning point, where the injury limited my speed-over-distance. The 4:15:44 marathon I ran, could have been 4:10. My big 32 mile training run could have easily been 30 minutes faster. Having to drop out of June’s 100k was my wake-up call. It was time to get fixed.

This is life – the reality. We all hit unwanted barriers, self-generated or inherited. The solution to each problem depends on our ability to deal with issues, creating a strategy based upon experience. If an issue is new, it can become harder to solve, especially if one has no idea who to turn to for help or advice. For myself, I had eventually found strategies to regenerate both my poorly mind and injured right leg. So, June was also a month for following two sets of exercises – physical and mental – which I did in my usual way. I built them into my day so they became part of normal life.

Instead of seeing my physical injury as a setback, I’m using it as an opportunity to target my weak points and introduce proper, regular strengthening and stretching exercises. The key areas are my Achilles tendons and lower back. Having woken up to the reality that my right leg issue has been around in various forms for many, many months, maybe years, I intend to get the whole thing fixed. This means additional routines for both left and right legs, to maintain balance for the future. Ricky, my physio, added some back exercises too, so my full daily workout takes around 30 minutes – time well spent. By mid-June, the exercise regime started to show results. My back seldom shot pains through my glutes into my leg, and my knee was no longer swollen, and far more stable. The pain had polarised to my right Achilles tendon which, although annoying, had reduced the overall injury to a single, final location. My running improved through the month, but if I pushed too hard it took a couple days for my right calf to settle down.

One point I must make clear, is I am not resting in the true sense of the word. I run every day, so have accepted that my full recovery will take a little while longer. My mileage is lower and I’m very careful with my leg, but I’m treading a fine line between exacerbating the injury, and getting better. So far I seem to have it right. By month’s end my running streak stood at 551 days and I had put together 19 months of getting to 100 miles or more. My reasoning is, I will take longer to heal, but will have no extra burden of getting fitter and trimmer again.

My mental health remains fragile. Running is my saviour, the one thing I do that makes me feel whole, confident and happy. That is another reason for taking the course I have with injury – keeping running. I continue with CBT and it is showing results. I’m now able to rationalise things and ignore assumption. I started a phased return to working in June, so this is an important mantra to remember: focus on facts, strategise positively, avoid confrontation and be kind. The hardest thing is managing my fragile mental health – it is often ignored by people who should know better and be kinder. So far, I have walked the line reasonably well.

Being anxious about crowds and intense social gatherings has crept up on me for a year. I noticed  in my Facebook posts that I’m only ever alone, with Passepartout or my immediate family, on irregular visits. Testing myself on various trips has been frightening at times, and having my Passepartout with me has been invaluable support. This one anxiety-inducing issue seems to be getting worse, so I’m trying to use CBT to come to terms with it. I’m not overly worried, as my interests are usually in wild places or solo runs, but at times of enforced communion I can get to a point of anxiety that leaves me exhausted for a couple days.  Flashback dreams still wake me at times. Recently they involve my very ill younger brother. Sleep remains a place of irregular rest and sudden horror.

Running gives me hope. Running gives me time to de-stress and decouple from the pressures life seem intent on throwing at me. Running gives me a chance to make sense of it all. Giving up is not an option, ever. I want to race the Reaper Man forever and I fully intend to. Writing Racing the Reaper Man will show anyone interested how to get fitter from your fifties into older age, based upon what I’ve tested and what I live by. I hope to write in layman’s terms and not get too technical with training.

In the meantime I’m getting fitter, getting stronger and pencilling in a couple of possible autumn ultras. Get in touch if you have any questions about rehab exercises, diet or anything to do with, well, anything, and I’ll try to cover it in a future blog post.

June selected statistics

• Weight: 11st 12ish (stable)
• Daily calorie balance: 1746 kcal – back to a good lower level. 
• VO2 Max average: 43
• Average resting pulse: 50 bpm – a slight improvement.
• Total miles: 103¼ (stubbornly getting to the ton+ is my minimum.)
• Unbroken running streak: 551 days
• Belly: 30½”

July and August: Mental Health and Injury

During my Racing the Reaper Man Year, I dealt with all the things I had reasoned may come my way. My changing body felt better, my weight fell away and I was much, much fitter and resilient. I had started the year (2021) with a long thought through strategy, and had developed a simple mantra: if there are any doubts and motivation falls, just stick to the plan. So, I did. What I didn’t realise was, the same philosophy works when unplanned things in life take you unawares. My rapid decline into burnout and poor mental health is a case in point.

There is a lot written about mental health. It is too multifaceted to condense into a few paragraphs, but my own experience shows that there can be a rapid change from normality to illness. My symptoms of burnout came on over a period of a month; my resistance to it crumbled in a few days, after consistent weeks of severe pressure. As I wrote in June’s blog, I have a form of agoraphobia, with PTSD symptoms – crowds or social gatherings push my anxiety off the scale. Yet, even as I write, nine months after my fall into mental illness, people perceive me as well. I look okay. I’m fit and active, and remain articulate. Thus, this hidden illness is disregarded, or forgotten. With CBT sessions I have learned to function in bursts, limiting my interactive periods, especially whilst working, or in crowded, social situations, to 30 to 40 minutes. After this, the Mind-wire* starts to sing in my head and my concentration is replaced by growing anxiety. Thus, once more, people see ‘normal me’ and forget I’m still not myself. This is the crux of trying to recover: one has to become proactive in trying to remind people all is not normal, just when one has reached the point where proactivity is most stressful.

(*Note: Mind-wire – This is how I describe the metaphorical tight wire strung between my ears. As anxiety increases, it vibrates faster and faster until it is deafening, unless I remove myself from a stressful situation. It is the best way I have for describing the worst symptom of my illness.) 

In my professional environment, I have been isolated. It is almost as if my absence made me invisible. I am now what a specialist terms an individual with high-functioning mental illness. In spite of knowing of my past nine months’ history, because I look normal (I use ‘normal’ in its loosest form) I am treated as a well person. One ends up having to function in bursts to suit others, being forcibly pro-active, which increases anxiety. One finds oneself in a position of having to explain one’s illness regularly, which in itself is debilitating and in some circumstances, degrading. I am still on the receiving end of this type of pressure. It is a depressing recurrence and my heart goes out to those who have gone, or who are going through this. Unfortunately for me, such forced events leave me exhausted for a long time, sometime for days. Even in modern times, instead of having comprehensive support to return to the workplace, there is often no joined-together support network to allow that process to happen, in spite of the right policies being in place. That this remains a common debate across the media, shows society still has a long way to go to understand this common type of ill health.

In my own case, interactions in stressful situations will lengthen in time, but not to indefinite levels. My limit seems to be about an hour – by then that Mind-wire is humming. I already know that this will remain with me for the rest of my life. I am changed as a person, but have far greater knowledge of myself. I can now manage in most situations, and remove myself from them if I start feeling anxious. I continue to ‘just stick to the plan’ and this philosophy has served me well. I stick to my adjusted lifestyle: my way of eating; what I eat; my daily run, as far into the wilder trails as I can manage. Thus, I remain physically fit, and can ease my Mind-wire as I run – my salvation from this intrusive, modern world.

In most learned articles, getting outdoors is usually one of the key parts of recovery. I wholeheartedly agree with this. As with most of our problems as a species, it comes down to the fact that our recent hunter-gatherer selves rapidly became victims of modern civilisation and culture. Homo sapiens, us, evolved to survive through deeper time, only beating our world into submission in the last few thousand years. We domesticated animals to suit our needs, but also domesticated ourselves. So far, so good. Yet the one thing we cannot change is millions of years of hunter-gatherer hard wiring. We have, effectively, imprisoned ourselves in a synthetic environment, to which our brains find hard to adjust . Our primitive brain still sends signals from our genetic core – our animal selves – and if these are not responded to appropriately, we get into serious trouble. If we do not have constant input from our self-imposed synthetic environment, life can feel hopeless. Perhaps the biophilia hypothesis is at play, to use an example, the connections that human beings subconsciously seek with the rest of life in our biosphere. Step from a screen into a green place and the world seems calmer. Learn about that natural world and the input from time outdoors can be poetic. I run to stay sane. I will recover, but as a new person, put together differently. There is much of that journey yet to go.

The injury to my right leg continues to improve. I am under no illusion, and accept it will take many weeks yet to fully heal, as I continue to run as I recover. Also, during my August trip to Scotland I was unable to find the time to do my strengthening exercises. During that journey, I found a related problem – my right leg would cramp after long periods of time in a driving seat. With hindsight, this is the origin of my right leg issue, as in last October’s 50k I already had a hamstring niggle. Such is the learning process. Once home I saw my physio again and now have a hamstring stretch exercise to do, in addition to everything else.

By August’s end, I was bone weary, but still managed to run 100 miles all told. That means I’ve completed 100 miles or more for the last 21 months and my daily running streak reached 613. It is never easy, and the hardest run I’ve ever done during this time was the 4 miler on 31^st August… my legs were dead and my mind empty. I did it to get to that monthly ton, I did it to ‘just stick to the plan.’ It works, because giving up can become a streak; not bothering can become a streak; excuses become easier to find than one’s running shoes. Thus, I chose the positive.

If you are injured, see a good physio and do the exercises. It takes time to recover, but there is no reason not to be stronger. For myself, I have a 55k trail ultra booked at the end of October. I think I will be fit to do it, but may lack in long runs. Another adventure. I turn 66 years of age in September which will make me an Old-age Pensioner. I find that shocking and hilarious in equal measure. I will continue to run, and will run on that day when I shall be in Greece, on Alónnisos, where I’m guaranteed peace and good trails.

July & August selected statistics

• Weight: 11st 12lbs
• Daily calorie balance: 1688 kcal – maintaining a good lower level. 
• VO2 Max average: 43
• Average resting pulse: 50 bpm.
• Total miles: 101¾ July, 100 August (stubbornly getting to the ton+ is my minimum.)
• Unbroken running streak: 613 days
• Belly: 30½”

Reaching 66 — the musings of an OAP

Aaaargh! 66 sneaked up on me as I completed my current running life total of 39,080 miles. The bastard! Yet, the road through time has already been trodden, so is irreversible. Our past informs the future; our experience is the launchpad to what we are now. Sir Michael Caine once said, “We become what we’re afraid of.” He meant, upon qualification, that he was afraid of public speaking, so became an actor. I see it as making what one sees as a personal weakness into a strength. It is how I’ve lived my 66 years. Sometimes it is hard, but never a wasted effort. Luckily, I find writing is cathartic. Indeed, in my blogs I have written a great deal, but reaching 66 has prompted me to narrate a little more of my past. A little more of those complexities on the journeys that make each one of us, us.

On 30^th September 1956, sometime in the afternoon I think my late mother told me, I popped into the world as an 8 lbs 7oz howling lump of dazed confusion. Where had the warm place gone? A short time later I settled down and, apparently, was ‘a good baby’. Until my younger brother arrived 18 months later, it seems I grew quietly, was curious and took everything in my short stride, which I started using around a year old. By the time of Pete’s birth, I was ready to be his protector and model for what life as a tot entailed. I was called into play to show him how to use a potty, how to enjoy a bath on the lawn (no bathroom) and how to engage with our older siblings. Ultimately, the small gap in our ages meant we grew together, with me ever so slightly ahead. Eventually over time, 18 months difference becomes nothing. For 63½ years I’ve had a brother to whom I remain close, protective and full of love.

Back to 1961. I started school at around 4½. A Catholic primer, reached by bus. The nuns were all mentally defective and luckily, I had no idea what all the statues and genuflecting was about. As I wrote earlier, I was curious, but also had a logic chip. It all seemed as it is, bloody daft. Showing little kiddies some white hairy person nailed to wood is horrific. My father died the same year, just after my 5^th birthday, he was 56. We moved to a council house and I was removed from the insanity of Catholicism forever, to a local school. Unfortunately, my grief-stricken mother, a widow with four children, was soon picked off by another insane Christian cult, the moronic Jehovah’s Witnesses. This sect is stupid beyond reason, evil beyond belief, and they ensured my childhood ended at seven years old.  

My barren years up to 15 were filled with abuse, denigration and crushed joy. My mother found no comfort in religion, just safety blinkers and personal diminishment. The bastards effectively took over her husband’s role and ruined her children’s lives (and continue to do so with grim determination to this day.) I couldn’t stand the obvious lies, pseudoscientific drivel and brainwashing. It just didn’t work on me. Thus, I escaped once I was big enough to fight back, rescued by bikers who were rough, smelly but worth more to me than all religions put together in a single shitheap.

I rebelled and left, my anger ringing in the ears of the self-important elders. Nasty as they are, they announced in front of that whole half-witted congregation, including my mother and older brother, that her evil son (me) had been disfellowshipped (excommunicated), meaning certain death, and I should be ostracised by all. How repulsive can you get? My abusers announcing my awfulness to my mother in public. She still loved me, but her faith had torn her apart. They broke her without thought, without guilt, justified by the insanity of myth. The Jehovah’s Witnesses tenure of her life ended in the misery they sowed…

My final morning with my mother went thus:

Mother was in bed wheezing for breath. I carried her up the previous evening, her arm over my shoulder, as the stairs were too tough to scale.

“Hi Mum. Do you want a cuppa?” I asked. (I always brought her one up before riding my motorbike to work.)

“I’m alright this morning Paul, I have water.” Her wheezing was awful.

I went down, ate some breakfast and then clumped back up the stairs.

“Bye, Mum”, I kissed the soft skin of her forehead. “I love you.”

“Bye,” she said.

I left her there. An hour later she was dead. She was 52, I was 17. She was broken by the demands of the cult, exasperated by life taking two husbands, and hopeless as she left the world. She died in front of my younger brother. Don’t talk to me of religious freedom – it is an illusion imposed by men, embraced by the weak, desperate or cruel.

My trail through life for the next 50 years has its foundations in this childhood. Yet, here’s the thing, it has been the making of me. You see, where all religion relies on not thinking, I learnt to think, to study, to question. My intellectually rebellious nature makes me check everything, and my inner logic chip remains steadfast. Far from making me religious, religion made me question all belief systems and all ideology where a god or godlike authoritarian figure is involved. It allowed me to dispel all those myths, for that is what they are. I firmly believe that one who only reads one book is far more dangerous than anyone who reads books continuously. The result means I have a clarity of mind based on non-bias. I have told you before about my power source, my Rage Battery – it makes me fight against bullies, naysayers and bigots, and drives me to be the best I can be. It took me through childhood and has powered me through life.

This was the first gift to myself.  Socratic thinking: What evidence supports this idea? And what evidence is against its being true? I am, thus, an atheist. It is the only logical starting point for an intelligent person. Everything beyond that needs proof. Faith in religion and ideology is pissing in the wind and is the refuge of ignorance and the springboard for cruelty.

The second thing that has given me strength is, of course, running. I was 25 when I started, on May 16^th 1982. I began to run because I hated the normality of the life I was plodding through. Anything to do with fitness in the 70s and 80s was viewed as weird, mocked and tagged with inevitable exploded knees, early death and self-imposed misery. Why then did it make me feel so free? The middle bit of my life was filled with a couple of marriages, raising children, working all hours and struggling to provide. Pretty much a standard life for most of us. Yet, I continued to run between all my commitments. It gave me the space I needed. After 39,000 miles, my knees are fine, my resting pulse is normally 47-49 bpm and running remains my well-being foundation, even when I’ve been put through the mill of family or career pressures. I’m still recovering from a niggly injury, but it has not stopped me at all.

The third string to my bow has been humour. I have found there is something not quite right with someone without a sense of humour. I laugh at myself, at my predicaments, the most. One thing I must make straight, humour at its best is never bullying, never violent mockery. However, laughing at the ridiculous, the ironical and people’s unfounded biases – yep, that’s fine. It is a great leveller and peacemaker. People who take themselves too seriously are very, very suspect. The self-important deluded are less likely to laugh at comedy than those who are brighter and honest, because comedy is often about culturally taboo topics. Those who are lying to themselves can’t laugh because they feel it would reveal too much about their real character — they would be laughing at their own absurdity. Billy Connolly said: “The best way of dealing with the dark side of life is to laugh right in its face. Everybody knows death is coming. They try all sorts of tricks, etc., to deal with it. But comedy can release you from your terror. You can treat it lightly.” Examples of humourless people (who tend to get cross): Stalin; Hitler; any Pope; any Imam; any TV Evangelist; people who become politicians who have only ever studied politics as a subject; the intentionally religious; Putin; Saudi Arabia; nationalists; people who wave flags and shout; people who burn flags and shout; people who burn people, wave flags and shout; people who shoot creatures for sport; science deniers; conspiracy theorists; Trump. I rest my case.

The fourth pillar of my life, and the final one for now, is exploring, understanding and conserving the natural world. To write of nature as separate from ourselves, which is the norm, shows how detached we have become. We are not separate in origin, but one of millions of cogs in the great machine, our biosphere that has evolved on our island planet. Seeing ourselves as separate has been catastrophic. As a species, we have gone from being part of a balanced system, to symbiotic, to pretty well parasitic. I see the world differently. I know we, as a species, can live in harmony with the world. I do all I can to make a small difference. Lots of small actions can move the world to a better place. That humanity has the brains to put things right is not in doubt, but we are led by those who pander to our inner biases and paranoia. Thus, I retreat into wilder places, making it my life’s job to identify and understand every blade of grass, every creature, every geological feature – it gives me peace. That is why I wrote this poem:

Wilderness (29-04-19)

We raced from the wilderness,
To sterile boxes,
Fortresses against the wild wood,
Now we creep back,
To find life,
And all we’ve lost,
And dream of what we were,
And what we can be.

Back to becoming 66. On balance, I have looked after myself. It takes conscious effort at first, then it becomes natural. I run a minimum of a mile every day. I have slowly refined my diet to eat the most beneficial food, avoiding ultra-processed junk and retuning my taste buds. I stopped eating meat, but do eat properly sourced seafood. I’m not vegan, but the bulk of my food is vegan. I consciously try to source my food from sustainable or local sources, when I can. Sometimes I drink too much and am far from perfect, but I am locked into a good formula which I immediately return to. There will always be an exception, but I make them abnormal, not the rule. Again, I learn every day and will never settle into a non-changing regime. My body has responded by ageing gently. My physical health is standing up to living very well.

Mentally I have been less fortunate. The pressures of corporate life through the pandemic took a huge toll on me, and I never saw my fall coming. Burnout. This word has a world of pain in its meaning. At 65 I was fine. I served my Racing the Reaper Man Year in 2021 well, coming out stronger, lighter and fitter. Everything that could go right, went better. The year to 66 was totally different and has changed me. Everything that could go wrong, pretty well did. 2022 served up new challenges and my learning curve steepened. Would my philosophy and lifestyle crumble at this unforeseen test? I’m pleased to say, in spite of rebuilding my mind to cope with new pressures, keeping to my Racing the Reaper Man lifestyle has seen me through, thus far. I’m even more convinced that an active, healthy lifestyle is a choice one must grasp, if a full and bright older age is the goal. That will be in my forthcoming book.

I spent my 66^th birthday on old Ikos, the Greek island of Alónnisos. This jewel in the Northern Sporades has become a regular retreat. To make life interesting, I picked up food poisoning on the journey home, running a mile on Skiathos with clenched buttocks, just to keep my running streak going, without a running streak in my shorts. October was hard as it took over two weeks to recover fully. I was supposed to run a 53k ultra on 29^th October, but my ongoing injury and rebellious tummy meant I was not in any shape to attempt it. I have deferred the place until 2023. 

Maybe wisdom has won out over pig-headedness? Yet, I still run every day and still reached 100 miles by the end of the month. My right leg improves daily. It took 8 months to acknowledge the injury, in which time I made it worse, so I’m in no doubt it will take that amount of time to fully heal. That will take me into the New Year. So be it. I will make sure, from now on, I’ll focus on a full recovery and make that weakness a strength – the musculature of my legs show how much work I have done. I do concede one thing, with getting older — recovery takes much longer. 

I write this at Samhain, the ancient Gaelic festival marking the end of harvest and beginning of winter. It is November 1^st. The darker days are ahead, but so is another spring. Always another spring. 66 is just a number, true, but it takes effort to stay in good mental and physical shape. I’ve found that setting goals, aiming for future targets and fighting the urge to give up is the greatest motivator for living, and living well. Excuses to do nothing are lazy,  ephemeral and need constant pursuit. Reasons to be fit are golden. Don’t be scared of getting older, be scared of accepting less than you can do. 

I concur with Dylan Thomas in Do not go gentle into that good night. All of us should:

…not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Live life and be who you want to be – if that’s not the person in the mirror, change it.

September & October selected statistics

• Weight: 11st 12lbs 
• Daily calorie balance: 1853kcal.  
• VO2 Max average: 43 
• Average resting pulse: 50 bpm.
• Total miles: September: 102 miles. October: 100 miles – now 23 months of at least 100 miles.
• Unbroken running streak: 674 days
• Belly: 30½”

2022 Reflections and a Lens on 2023

Once you start running, you stop thinking – the dichotomy of victory and defeat

2022 was a tough year, generally. For me, it was probably the hardest one of my life. This blog entry encompasses much that I have learnt about myself and my new understanding of being healthy in body and mind…

…I run. The reasons that I run have been explained in these posts many times. However, being of an age where philosophising becomes second nature (for me, anyway) I decided to use this blog to look at the act of running in different contexts. Before you decide this sounds boring, there will be bits from the SAS in this, as well as the parallel universes of regaining mental strength and becoming a phoenix. There is also a brief journey through my mind, which is now a cross between a post World War One poppy field with the soundtrack of Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending, and a bag of badgers.

When not to run – “Don’t panic!”

Over the years I have read and heard military strategists, soldiers and special service personnel make comment on strategic withdrawal and running. They are not the same, even if propagandists may suggest they are. Jock Lewes, one of the founder members of the SAS, is credited with the quote, “Once you start running, you stop thinking…” Corporal Jones of Dad’s Army put it more succinctly – “Don’t panic!”. This in itself becomes enshrined in literature, within a literary classic when, in Douglas Adams’s brilliant novel, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, its fictitious, eponymous tome had ‘DON’T PANIC’ in large, friendly letters on the cover.

What am I getting at? Well, in life there are times not to run. Running in blind panic is primal. It is the flight mechanism built into most living things, and most noticeable for us in birds and mammals. The innate fear in endothermic creatures who are often prey, overrides their ability to survive by immediately fighting. Can you imagine a herd of 1000 wildebeest turning in unison on a pride of a few lions? The lions would never survive. Yet, flight is primary, and good for wildebeest as the fastest, more able survive, allowing new generations to be faster, with sharper senses. If the former, predators would die out and the wildebeest would be so numerous they would starve. This is a simplified version of how things are, but a rough idea how our natural world finds balance. So, why not run from your fears?

Once you come to primates and cetaceans, in particular, another thing comes into the equation. Thought. Intelligence. Preconceived strategy. This is a discussion which is wide, and would take far too much of this blog, so I’ll be very speciesist (yes, that is a real word – and applies to most of us naked apes) and refer only to our world. To narrow it down, I will apply things to what I have experienced here, in Britain. Thus, the focus must become my own mind and thereafter mental health. A familiar subject from me over the last 12 months.

On 7^th December 2021 I was sitting at my computer, in my kitchen. After weeks of intense, unsolicited pressure, my mind stopped. It just stopped working. I stared at the clock. It moved without me seeing – it jumped forward. My mind had stopped functioning for 25 minutes, and I was scared. For reasons of confidentiality, I cannot go into details about the reasons for my imposed, unwanted plight. I was facing a huge metaphorical predator, a mind monster – something I did not believe could exist. Weakened by months of mental effort, unbidden, my mind started to run away – it panicked and stopped thinking. The monster of the Id chased me.

Running away, in this scenario, is metaphorical. In reality, it is finding oneself in a position of which you have no experience. Your mind runs away. Yet, the thing that made you ‘run’ – people, mainly – remain. If those that made you run did so deliberately, they will become your nightmares. My dreams are full of them. PTSD, it is called, and my chaotic retreat grew an agoraphobic response. Unfortunately, you cannot outrun your own mind. Ever. All one can do is find a semi-haven. A foxhole. A temporary shelter, shut in by barriers made of pyrotechnic fears. A self-imposed prison of faux safety. You kid yourself it is a fortress, but it is a prison. The boundaries define a new life which, if accepted is crushing and self-generating. The worst thing is, all of this is invisible. Few can see the walls, the hurt, the irrational world within. Those that can are closest to you, they hurt too. Once in this position, you are still running. I see it as a metaphorical black hole: even in that seemingly safe place, one keeps retreating, keeps collapsing in on oneself.

The way back? Well, to stop running and go the other way. Is it possible? Yes. I am doing it. The only things to accept are twofold. First, you need help. Second, one has to accept that you will be changed. It is not possibly to turn back time, or rebuild oneself exactly the same. Neither of these things are a negative or a weakness. They are often the very hardest things to understand, but once acknowledged there is a road to a positive future. One word of warning: do not replace one self-imposed prison for the dogma of another, imposed by authority. Dabble with religion and idealism after your mind is safe. Such authoritarian faux-refuges are designed for trapping the vulnerable.

First port of call is your GP. In this world of social media, search engines and influencers (mainly bellends and people sprayed orange), it is easy to forget medical professionals. Well, don’t. They are the best search engines and have the correct application of knowledge. A GP will listen, point you in the right direction, source help from the right professionals and, if necessary, prescribe medication. Regarding the latter, I only ever agreed to sleeping pills, but ditched them as I found myself wandering around in a numbed state during the day.

Subsequently, one needs to understand what one’s mind is doing, its reaction to the world around it and how it affects one’s mood. Here is where therapy will help. There are a variety of forms, but I chose Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, commonly known as CBT. Put simply, it helps you understand how thoughts, feelings, physical sensations and actions are interconnected, and how negative thoughts and feelings can trap you in a negative cycle. CBT aims to help you deal with overwhelming problems in a more positive way by breaking them down into smaller parts. It works for me. Yet one must be realistic – it takes effort to make it work. That in itself requires a spark of energy, supplied initially by your therapist, then it becomes self-generating as techniques are applied.

Accepting that you are changed as a person is the biggest challenge, as far as I’m concerned. Once help is sought and therapy of whatever kind is accepted, I started to realise I would never be the same as I was. That seems like a negative, but in reality one can stymie any recovery by hoping you will recover and magically move back in time. Yet, growing into a reconstructed you is very much a positive. One can build back into a fully functioning person, even if one carries the scars and peccadilloes of the journey.

I’m only partway on the road to the person I will be. I’m not at all sure I will ever have a definitive answer to who I will become, that all belongs in the future. I am just glad I am able to embrace this new journey. I still have Black Dog Days through which I must apply my new coping strategies. What I do realise now, is that they won’t last. Yes, I forget how well I’ve done and drift into the negative, but, here’s the rub, I know it is a temporary condition. The main thing is, I’ve stopped running…

Always run – even when you don’t.

…and yet, I continue to run.

As I write (10^th February 2023) I have completed a running streak that has spanned 4 calendar years, from December 2020 to now – 777 days of running a mile or more. The physical act of running has saved my mind from total collapse. The streak has given me a constant target to get me out and partake of that me-time; the time where it is just me, the act of running and thinking through any problems.

The daily run is programmed into me. It is no different to breathing, eating or drinking. That may sound odd, unless you think of those days you feel bad, tired or in need of a rest. On such days, one still grabs for a sandwich, a cup of tea or the TV remote, even if all else seems far too difficult. Exercise is just the same. If it becomes the norm, it is never the first thing to be ignored when things are busy, complex or just plain miserable. For me, it is part of life’s formula for existing.

In 2022 I faced a perfect storm of events. Yet, as explained above, I stopped running from my fears and sought help. The one element that hit me the hardest was my first injury. After all the other tribulations, I was suddenly stopped in my pre-planned tracks and had to face the prospect of not running, too. So, just as I treated my damaged mind, my first port of call was a good physiotherapist.

Mine, Ricky, not only explained why my right leg and Achilles were not functioning correctly, he explained the mechanics and the long route required to full recovery. The biggest positive was, I could continue running, but the full recovery would take longer. I accepted that, removed the pressure of entering races, and got on with getting back. After 8 months I’m at the final stage of rebuilding. I’ll be racing again by the autumn.

Ultimately, I stopped running psychologically and continued running physically. It balances out beautifully. Together, it means forward momentum into a free and healthy future. Yes I’m older, but much wiser. If you are scared of anything, always seek to understand what it is. Whether it be a physical injury, or illness, or an injured mind. Once an expert explains what is wrong, it is the major step to getting better. To cope. To overcome or manage.

I’m glad it is 2023. The Reaper Man still tarries in 2022 – by the time he looks up to see where I am, I’ll be trotting through the spring sunshine whilst cold winds still whip around his bony ankles.

Bouncing off Rock Bottom: Beyond 1000 Days – Autumn into Winter

Reflections from a damaged runner

I have finally found time to bring my Racing the Reaper Man saga up-to-date. You may find this a bit tedious, but for me it excises things from my life. I write. Once written, I can move on…

I’m older now. 67 has not been as intimidating as I thought it may be. You see, life is the only countdown that goes up, so there will never be a ‘zero’. I have been programmed by those 67 years. A big part of any human’s programming is fear. Fear is personal. Our fears are different, but often learned. The fear programmed into my vile religious upbringing (indeed, any religious upbringing) was of retribution from a supernatural overseer directed by those in authority. Because those in assumed authority are in a position not to be questioned, it can stop one from finding and telling the truth. Fear is used by authority to drive the one great controlling mechanism unique to Homo sapiens – hate. Hate is used by the religious, the political and the drivers of selective capitalism. It is only now, as I hurtle up the countdown towards 70, that I’ve become well enough to be free of this fear. I’m no longer scared of retribution. I’m no longer scared to be myself. I now know being nice is the greatest of assets. I now know, absolutely, that belief and faith in the voice of unchallenged authority is a deadly myth.

I’m on a streak – running the minimum of a mile a day, every day. On 22nd September 2023 I ran 2½ miles and completed 1000 days – a feat of which I remain inordinately proud. Running beyond 1000 days has taken me on a 3200 odd mile journey across some of the most diverse and insane moments of my life. And it all began when I was already 64 years old, the 26th December 2020 being my last rest day. My running streak will reach exactly 1100 days by year’s end. This alone has kept me sane and ahead of the Reaper Man. 2022 had been very tough, but 2023 turned out to be even more unkind. Through no fault of my own, my mental health took a much deeper dip and my physical health followed. Added to this, I had a longterm injury which meant I had to reduce my daily runs to the very bare minimum. All this plunged me into a perfect storm of exhausting events which I could never have predicted. Being fragile, and thus vulnerable, was alien to me.

Racing the Reaper Man will be the title of my book on running and exercise into older age, based upon my own experiences. By the end of 2021 I thought I’d gathered enough material to start putting the book together in readable form – boy, had I had a successful year! Then, as mentioned, my health started to suffer and I found a new set of things to endure – how could I leave out the reality of being in one’s sixties? I put the writing on hold so I could see how I got through some of the worse months of my life.

“Whither hast thou been, [brother]?” – literary similes and a synopsis of my journey to Rock Bottom…

The subheading quote is from Macbeth, altered by me, for which I hope the witches are in a forgiving mood.

Where have I been? I’ve been stuck in time, rather like Billy Pilgrim in Kirk Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. I found myself trapped on a treadmill, reliving past events in a continuous, repetitive loop of disenchantment, betrayal and discombobulation. If this was fiction, no one would believe it was possible. I have barely come to terms with my own recent life, myself. I’ll stick with Mr. Vonnegut’s theme…

Listen: I have been ill. My machine and its control box has been damaged. It was damaged by my retaining integrity and honesty. My control box was stuck on its ‘honesty’ setting, as I had learnt that if it wasn’t, my machine ran badly and could hurt people. Poorly controlled machines are very dangerous, especially when the control boxes are badly programmed. My ‘integrity’ setting is hardwired to override any tampering. So, the ‘honesty’ and ‘integrity’ programmes of my machine have been adjusted by something only older machines have. Wisdom and empathy. To have control of a machine set up this way is very good. There is a flaw. It relies on other machines to have the same two settings to run well. Faulty machines rely on transmitting fear to feel better about their own dishonesty. These machines know the damage they do, but they don’t care as they are barking mad.

Let  me explain…

From the autumn of 2021, during the pandemic, work pressure rose at a geometric rate. My profession and position meant that I was at the forefront of creating legally sound pandemic guidance for a very big organisation. 70-hour weeks underpinned great success, but right at the end of that year, the law and my professional standing had been compromised by others and I became collateral damage. To look good, they had to hide their mistakes, thus silence my honesty and integrity settings. I was ‘disappeared’ and left to crumble. I retained my belief in justice and that honesty and truth would protect me. Those broken machines kept my honest protests concealed, by creating a false narrative of imbecilic noise.

Burnt out and swept aside I became very, very poorly. After a long spell of illness, I returned to my work and endured another 14 months of even greater pressure to comply with dishonesty. I refused. My health was fragile and my own standards of professional conduct meant I was now an embarrassment. There are monstrous machines out there. I may have been naïve and too trusting, but I am rather proud that my integrity remains intact and my honesty unassailable and above reproach. In brief, I still suffer from PTSD symptoms, unwanted states of anxiety that strike at the most illogical of times and a deep mental tiredness that has been debilitating. There was a moment when death looked better than life.

Because I continued to work under extreme stress I needed a summer respite. Last August, I took some time out, travelling to Scotland, with my Passepartout, for a break. My injuries had been managed away and I felt it was time to start running further, regain my condition and get fit for another ultramarathon. Running in Scotland was a tonic, culminating in my first ‘longer’ run for  months. I puffed and wheezed a 5-miler at 10:08 pace near Findhorn in Morayshire. I loved it! My joy had returned and work was out of my head. I was yet to learn the most important lesson, however. I realised months of intense stress had harmed my mind but had yet to understand completely there comes a point where one’s immune system, one’s physical self, can crack in an instant.

On the penultimate day of our journey home, I received a call telling me one of my sons was in a coma in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) of a West Country hospital. The prognosis was grim. The details are unimportant for this narrative, but the affect on me was massive. Something physical seemed to break inside. We completed the journey home from the north the next day and arranged to travel west. Finding hotels in the middle of a summer bank holiday week was not easy. Within 20 hours of the call, I felt very ill. I was in agony trying to pee, the pain being almost unbearable. On departure morning I had sent in a urine sample to my local GP, and drove west to my home county. My GP had wired a prescription to a pharmacy right next to where I was staying. Antibiotics.

Next day I was crawling around our hotel room after a long night of pain. By now I was passing blood, but only in dribbles of fiery agony. All the time my child was hanging on to life and I couldn’t get to see him. After two days the medication worked a little and, with the help of my Passepartout and my other son, got to the ICU. There, connected to a web of wires and tubes was my boy. My heart broke and the stay in that place of clicks, beeps and wonderful carers, was one of imposed reflection and wretched misery. Every second after I just waited for the call to say he had died. Yet, my misery was further compounded by my own condition getting severe again. I couldn’t stray from my room for long, so I didn’t see my son again. Could physical pain get worse? It regularly took more than ten attempts to empty my bladder – ten bouts of extreme pain. I have to confess that, with my Passepartout holding my hand, I managed to preserve my running streak with single, shuffling 22 minute miles. Why? It was the only thing I had left to keep me going. I can say no more, but will agree with anyone who says I’m mad. Yet, at this time, rage was overcoming fear. I had been made ill at a time when I was required to be strong.

On the morning of our departure my GP called – I had been proscribed the wrong antibiotics! The triage nurse hadn’t known I had previously suffered from prostatitis, so I’d need something prostate specific. A new prescription would be waiting at my home pharmacy. Meantime, my GP instructed me to get to A&E if my prostate seized up completely, to be drained. He was even more emphatic with his final warning and instruction…

“Paul, you have to stop work before they kill you. I’m signing you off for two months so you can reflect and set up a strategy for retiring…”

The drive home was beyond description – I had to stop numerous times to ease my bladder – in gateways, behind trees – I no longer cared. I got home and started my new medication. There followed several weeks of misery, but I slowly recovered. Somehow, during this time, against the odds, my son pulled through. Then I got the news that my PSA blood test was very high – possible cancer indicator. Then I got the news that I had blood in my stools – possible cancer indicator. For the first time in my life I was scared. I was so ill that I was convinced there was only one way to go. The Reaper Man was close and my body had followed my mind. Barely on my feet, I managed to get to Somerset again and saw my now disabled son. It was a relief to talk to someone who had been so close to death. Even this was stressful, and my throat became raw within 24 hours. Still on sick leave, my weakened body was now racked with a severe virus – coughing and aching from head to foot. I also developed a blotchy skin condition – fully stress related. I had just turned 67.

I thought I had hit the bottom several times in the last two years, but now I had reached Rock Bottom for the first time in my life. My body had given up. There are moments in a lifetime where a reset is required – those decisions to change things. One can only do that by taking control. So I did.

The bounce – regaining control and finding happy…

Fear is not always a bad thing. It is a driver for change. Rage is not a bad thing. I liken mine to a ‘rage battery’ which is my reserve of energy. It cuts in to save me when fear of authority becomes overwhelming. John Lydon is right – ‘Anger is an Energy’. So, I stepped back and decided to see where I really was in my life.

It took until November to find out my PSA level had dropped to normal – it had been driven up by the prostatitis infection, not any cancer. Then, I got a call to tell me my colonoscopy biopsy result. ‘Your biopsy shows no cancer,’ said the fabulous nurse. Then came the big reset – I decided to start the process of retirement. From that moment onwards a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. The date was set and I could continue my recovery away from work stress. One morning, soon after, I woke up feeling happy for the first time since 2021. My monochrome world had burst into colour.

There are a lot of people in this world. Many of these will have far more things to endure than I will. However, I’ve written this blog to show that unbidden pressure and unexpected impacts can change one’s life very quickly. So, I am now fighting back and aim to keep this narrative going, honestly and openly.

On Tuesday 21^st November I ran my first 6 miler for 6 months. As I set out on that grey day, I knew these were the first steps to fighting my way back to full fitness. It was hard, hard work. On Saturday 9^th December I managed 6½ miles and felt a little better. The regular, single miles had helped me retain a base fitness.

So, December came and the next piece of finding Happy slipped into place. I bounced off Rock Bottom, pressed the reset and then I married my Passepartout.

March 2024: Goodbye my Son

Listen. You cannot waste time. You can only waste life. Time will get on fine without you. This life is the only one we will get, so it is precious. Finding your way through that life should be a wonderful experience, but we often fail to remember that. Some get by with the tick-tock of routine and the comfort that gives. Others tie their raison d’être to authoritative ideology – political, religious, conspiracy theories, etc. Beyond the realm of relative comfort in our ‘civilised’ society, others struggle to stay alive, thinking only about where the next meal may come from. In all these examples, only the last one is imposed. Only in the last one is life stolen by circumstance.

Where each of us live is an accident of birth. And, being born as an individual, the unique person we are, is pretty special. Consider this: out of some billion sperm cells, just one gets to fertilise the waiting egg. If your sperm cell, the one who makes you you, was lazy, you would not be here. How wonderful is that? All-in-all, we Humans are a mixed bunch: here by the slim chance of probability; and able to find a way through life, if we are lucky, in a way of our choosing. Oddly enough, the only things that stops that happening seems to be a natural disaster, illness, or our choice of authoritative ideology, two unknowns and a known, whether we’re in a developing country or lucky enough to be born into a free democracy.

Democracy is from Greek: dēmokratía, dēmos ‘people’ and kratos ‘rule’ (δημοκρατία). To be successful it is based upon discussion and debate – certainly not arguing and proclaiming. Discussion is a way to reach a thoughtful conclusion. Discussion is ‘group thinking’ to reach a sound conclusion, giving room for more reflection and thought. An argument is the opposite. An argument in this context is the one where diverging views are exchanged, typically angrily and heated. An argument is inevitably opinion based, where minds have shut off and emotions rule the day. Opinions are based on the less thoughtful processes. If someone has an opinion only, I reserve the right to dismiss it.

We humans have bestowed upon our species the scientific name Homo sapiens: a Linnaean appellation meaning ‘wise man’ or ‘knowledgeable man’. This is a nice name for us to give ourselves. I’m of the opinion that these two adjectives, used to define the Latin word sapiens, are accurate enough. There was a time I used to consider ‘thinking man’ to be better suited, but now I’m not so sure. You see, thinking is a process that should furnish a defined end point, a sound conclusion. That is what being wise comes down to. As I’ve aged, I see that wisdom comes later in life. To be wise, thinking must reach a point where one arrives at that sound conclusion, not just an opinion. An opinion occurs when the thought process is cut short to suit a bias. It seems to me, basing a life on completing the thinking process would solve many, many problems. I have thus stepped into the wonderful world of philosophy. If we accumulate enough knowledge and wisdom, throw personal bias to the wind and follow through with thinking, we all become philosophers, especially in our later years.

The word philosophy comes two Ancient Greek words: philos (φίλος), which can be used for ‘friend’ or ‘love’; and sophia (σοφία) which pretty much means ‘wisdom’. [I stand to be corrected by any of my wonderful Greek friends, but I think I’m pretty close to the etymology.] I rather like the thought that, as an older philosopher, I’m a friend, or even lover of wisdom. The only problem with this ability to become a philosopher, to becoming one’s own Socrátis, is the fact that it really does take a long time to accumulate enough knowledge to get there. For a primate as unpredictable, but clever, as Homo sapiens, that has produced something both fantastic and frightening.

Between the time of proscribed learning (childhood) and wisdom (maturity), is that longer, wobbly bit in between – applied knowledge (adulthood). There was a time, not so long ago, when those of mature years added to the childhood years a degree of sanity, of sound advice. Children listened to sound advice from wise old grandparents. Yet society has accelerated to the point where there is a blurred line between each stage of life. With the advent of the marvellous tools of instant news, social media and, believe it or not, fast food, we have tended to plug into these sections of our modern culture to the detriment of critical thinking. The bulk of humanity seem to be bent over a smartphone, which does all the thinking necessary, and also orders fast food very quickly.

I will now make a series of statements that I hope get my readers thinking:

• I have never heard a modern politician proclaim anything that has had critical thinking applied.

• I have never heard any religious howler state anything that would hold up to critical analysis.

• I have yet to see any conspiracy theorist use critical thinking.

And,

• I very often hear those wise heads who announce good, solid information based on profound critical thinking, shouted down by buffoons who seem to have heads full of concrete.

The meaning of our self-applied Linnaean identification doesn’t look quite so accurate in the face of this. Oh, and yes, I have thought this essay through to an endpoint that I never really saw coming, using critical thinking.

My favourite old Greek, Socrátis, was the pioneer and master of critical analysis. In a nutshell, he encouraged us to question everything. His proclamation that he considered himself wise, as he was wise enough to know he knew nothing, rounds it off neatly. Taken as read this may seem clumsy, but there is great beauty in it. It is a gentle warning to us all not to believe we have every answer. To never believe we are so bloody clever, that we can stop learning. He saw that whenever a Homo sapiens reaches that unwise position, it is the point this clever primate starts to shout down those who are wiser. It is also the point where every bit of wisdom gained is thrown to the wind of authoritarian bullying.

I believe that one can live a life with only opinion as a guide, deluded as it is. It is when such a person imposes that bleak point-of-view upon others that it becomes very dangerous and incredibly infectious. It becomes addictive and displaces thought. It zooms from every smart device into brains that take the easy option and believe, without thought, every little piece of bollocks the bamboozlers throw out there. The best way to cover the bamboozle is to quote that late, great critical thinker Carl Sagan, in his The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark:

“One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If we’ve been bamboozled long enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. We’re no longer interested in finding out the truth. The bamboozle has captured us. It’s simply too painful to acknowledge, even to ourselves, that we’ve been taken. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back.”

This brings us to the final part of my own philosophising and will lead on to the title of my essay. We like to think we have choice. Well, we do. Every one of us has choice. The only things that can remove choice are the bamboozlers (ideological, political, religious authoritarians – this often includes parents, unfortunately) and the desire to ignore the obvious. We all do that at some point in our lives. I once pronounced to my Passepartout that philosophy was outweighed by science and thus irrelevant! How arrogant was that? For, without philosophical thought, a scientist cannot keep an open mind. Scientific theory is based on the tenet of being disprovable. If you jump out a tenth floor window and go up, you can disprove the theory of gravity – but don’t try it, as scientific theories are not based upon opinion or speculation. Scientific theory is based upon having the strongest framework to explain a fact: fact – you fall if you jump out of a tenth floor window, this is explained by the theory set out in Newton’s law of universal gravitation; fact – all life evolves (one can see it happen), this is explained most beautifully by Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection. I chose the strongest and most factual examples that have never had any evidence presented to disprove them (bamboozlers’ inflicted baseless opinion, apart).

So, we have choice, unless it is taken away from us by nefarious people or imposed situations. It is hard work this thinking stuff. It takes time. To make a choice should take time. It should be considered. It’s not easy. One may be in love with a bamboozler, and that adoration can skew a choice. One ends up with the wrong partner. Then one has the choice of divorce, I suppose. One may choose a political persuasion, yet be endlessly disappointed by the outcome. (A word from the wise, here. No matter who you vote for, you’ll always be disappointed and end up arguing with other disappointed people who voted for another ideologist, all whilst the incumbent bamboozlers talk bollocks and make choices on your behalf. Choice is a funny old thing.)

My son died on Monday 4th March 2024. No matter how much I think, or how much I philosophise, some things are too painful to bear. My wisdom, my knowledge and my input had no effect on changing things. Years of advice, of presenting choices and finally, just hoping, came to nothing. He’s gone and there is nothing I can do. So, I’ve found another unseen problem with making a choice: sometimes a choice can take you to a place where further options to choose, disappear. This is what happened to Glenn. The disease of alcoholism dragged him into the abyss. I loved him all the way, but it came to nought. We can, however, give him his dignity back. And we will.

Glenn was 47 years old, and a twin. He was a son, a brother and a father. He was brilliant as a mechanic. He was brilliant at fishing. He had been a fine soldier. At birth, he and his twin brother arrived 2 months early, weighing but 3lbs each (1.37kg). They fought the odds and survived. I was just 20 and walked around in a dream. My young wife and I never quite understood the work ahead, young things that we were, just children ourselves. The boys grew rapidly and became fine young men. Glenn was the pusher of boundaries, the dreamer, the trier of things bold and things daft. He could be hilarious and infuriating. Through all this that addiction crept up, that Nemesis that has no respect for class, sex, religion or nationality. And so it goes. We loved him. He will rest with my father, his grandfather, in a place where dignity will be kept.

So, I live in hope that we all start to think a bit more. Let’s be kind and take time to advise those we love. Maybe it’s time for all of us to ignore the wailing sound of those who proclaim via authority, without critical thinking. You see, I have found that being nice covers every eventuality. A nicer, greener, healthy world would be a fabulous thing to leave the next generations of Homo sapiens. I say ‘Goodbye my Son.” He will never be forgotten, because he was loved. That’s the one gift we can all give him, and we shall.

In loving memory
of
Glenn Comerford

A son, brother & father

3rd February 1977
to
4th March 2024

Aged 47

You are remembered,
because you are loved.
We miss you

Oh My Son

Written 15-05-21 to 04-03-24

Oh my son!
My boy, my child,
What am I to do?
You say “Nothing”,
And we hug,
And weep and love,
And you are my little boy again.
Then, back comes the dark,
And I am lost as my heart breaks,
And I’m helpless,
And I love you so.

I don’t want to go,
Don’t want you to go,
Want time to reverse,
Want history to change,
But Want, and What If,
Are just wasted dreams.

I missed you already,
When this last journey started.
Oh my son!
My boy, my child,
What am I to do?
You said “Nothing.”

Our time has gone,
So fast, a blink,
A never ending second,
A never ending agony,
Oh my son!
My boy, my child,
I miss you so,
Even your “Nothing” has gone,
Only love is left.

July 2024: For My Son: Reflections, Closure & All Futures (Plus – Footnotes: Funeral Pieces including my Eulogy for Glenn)

Reflections

This will be my final public writing about Glenn. As a writer, I find the process cathartic, but also allows those who have been so kind, at a distance, to read this closing chapter. Surely, this is what social media is for: to share the wonders of our lives, the heartaches and joys. To give encouragement and to promote kindness. To show others who are in a dark place, that they are not alone in this world, and, just maybe, to show a way through hard times. This blog post will, I hope, allow those same people to see that grieving is multifaceted and that good people are always there to support. For me, kindness is the one human trait yet to be devalued by the white noise of modern life.

When Glenn died on the 4th March 2024, I was blindsided. I ceased to function for long stretches of time. Everything inside was shattered. Everything that made sense disappeared. I went onto automatic pilot and for the first time in my life, was truly helpless. It was Iain, Glenn’s twin brother, and I, who buried Glenn’s ashes on 17th April 2024 in the same plot as my father. My son’s memorial plaque was set in place on 14th July 2024. This marks the visible completion of this page in my life. For me, my surviving son, Iain, and our families, our future is there to step into, to embrace and live to the fullest. Glenn will never be forgotten, nor the pain of his going lessen, but we will become strong enough to carry that burden.

Glenn’s death was attributable to the dreadful disease of alcoholism. I use the word ‘disease’ as a layman, as the effects of alcoholism follows the pathology of medically accepted diseases, in that it is chronic, it lasts a person’s lifetime, it usually follows a predictable course, and it has symptoms. The hardest thing to do when dealing with an alcoholic, is to have sympathy whilst, at the same time, suffering the effects of the alcoholic’s behaviour. This leaves one’s head spinning. Trying to stop my son dying, whilst fighting his growing irrationality in grabbing for a drink, led to every emotion under the sun. From rage to deep sorrow. Sometimes all in the space of a few minutes. The only constant I’ve carried with me is love.

The one thing I was determined to do, was give Glenn his dignity back. Alcohol had taken everything positive from his life, and left only recent events and behaviours as his probable legacy. So, I made sure that the page was turned when he died on that Monday, and that his funeral and memorial would be defined by his whole life, as lived, not those last terrible years. As his father, I felt that this was something I could do. With Iain’s help, and with the positive support from those mentioned later, I know we managed this.

Closure & All Futures

It was but a few days ago that I watched Glenn’s memorial stone set in place. His ashes are interred over my father’s grave. The location at St Michael & All Angels Church in Puriton, Somerset. It is a place I often visit to reflect about the father I lost just after my 5th birthday. It is quiet with that feeling of great age and generations of silent meditation. Now Glenn is there too. My habit is to run here from my usual base at the Crossways Inn in West Huntspill, say my hellos then run back. I will continue this tradition. I never buy flowers. My Passepartout and I gather sprigs of leaves and wildflowers in season, to make a rustic arrangement each visit. I like this look. Glenn knows nothing of this. He doesn’t know he’s dead. He has gone and feels no pain. It is us who feel the loss, and us who are charged with remembering, or forgetting. Love never dies. I will remember my son and love my son as long as I live. That is the very best I can do.

I’m not religious. I find it fatuous, especially monotheism, and it’s rather frightening death-cult messages. It’s a lazy way of being – not thinking for oneself and being led by hocus-pokus, repetitious dogma and droning men (I always hope women are more sensible). I’m a realist and radical atheist to borrow a phrase from Douglas Adams. I do appreciate historical architecture and know a great deal about the history of these islands, of religions, of geology, of evolution and the rise of Homo sapiens. I still hear people asking “What is the meaning of life?” If you hear “42!” shouted back, that’s about as accurate as you will get. In reality, beyond the imaginary nonsense of belief and opinion, I think it is a pointless question. You see, it disregards the factual process of millions of years of evolution that made us human with our resulting state of perception, appreciation and wonder. To have reached this point gives us a solid foundation in the past, and a key position in our ecosystem. To make meaning out of this one only needs to embrace our planet, look after it and understand where we are on this Island Earth. Our survival depends upon a joint effort to live in harmony with our planet, not to sit back and pray to our manmade gods.

Once we understand how fortunate we are to be at this point of our evolution, our only aim should be to live this one life. Living is not a destination. We arrive at the beginning and our only destination, our only stopping point, is death. Life, in its full sense, is a journey and if you stop moving, you no longer grow and get stuck at that point, until your life does end. This is where religion and idealism wants us – to stop at one point, accept dictates from an unseen authority, stop growing and become heavily biased against change, against growth and stop thinking. Those voices feed our fears and biases. Those voices can make frightened or ignorant people do very unkind things.

I’m drifting towards my point. I live on setting goals for myself. Some are set and become a way of life: healthy, meat-free food; exercise every day; become kinder and more understanding; yet being solid of my defence of truth in the face of lies. Other goals are waypoints. To travel in order to see as much of our natural world as I can. To live as sustainably as I can, tweaking things as I go to refine the process. Encouraging wildlife in my garden. Also, recovering from any setback in running to reach new goals: running a 100k at 68; running a 100 miler before I’m 71; reaching 2000 days in my running streak. We should take care not to assume the moment of achieving a goal is the end of anything – for there is always the question, “What next?” It is that “What next?” that will keep you living. To give up is to whither and die.

I have turned another page. I’m still here to live my own what-nexts, be supportive to my family and to rid my life of toxic influences. One thing I do know is that there are many, many kind individuals out there. I find them where e’re I travel. I find them behind a reciprocated smile. It is the same for us all. All futures are out there – it’s up to each one of us to live them our own way.

Thank You

To organise the funeral of one’s child is beyond anything any person should have to do. At such times, one is blindsided, knocked off kilter and left to teeter on the edge of an emotional abyss. This is when the people who really care step forward. Such people are the kindest, strongest and nicest. They have both empathy and sympathy, but most of all, instinctively give you a steadying hand with no thought for themselves. They are beyond value, they are priceless. They are golden. I feel it is time to acknowledge those who kept me on track through the 6 weeks in March into April when I needed them the most.

First and foremost are two of the nicest human beings I know – my wife and my son. Ange, my Passepartout, helped me organise the funeral, kept me sane and always did the right things at the right time. She did this quietly, behind the scenes. Iain, Glenn’s twin brother, my ‘Giant Special Son’, has been a titan. In spite of losing his twin, in spite of his own pain, he worked alongside me and we both managed to complete the ‘heavy lifting’ of the funeral. Together we dug the ground and interred Glenn’s ashes. I could not be prouder of anyone. Liz, my daughter-in-law and Maddie, my granddaughter supported us all without missing a beat. How lucky I am to have these people in my life. My fondest regards also goes to Glenn’s mum, Lynne. We brought up our children as best we could as very young parents. It was immense for her to be there in support, despite her failing health.

My grandson, Sean, Glenn’s son, supplied many photographs of his Dad, and selected a poem and music for the service. He allowed us to create an accurate timeline for Glenn’s pictorial tribute and to ensure the music played was right for the job. He had to be strong over those few months, and he was. Sean has a good heart.

Kate, Glenn’s partner has had to carry the burden of loss as well as closing Glenn’s legal affairs. Such tasks at a time like this takes great strength. I thank her for loving my son to the end and for making him a home where he had some comfort in his illness.

Putting together a funeral is no mean task. Iain and I were lucky enough to find Paula Trotman, of P. J. Harris Funeral Directors in Glenn’s home town of Burnham-on-Sea. She was unstinting in her support and held us all together, directing with great kindness, and ultimately putting together the finest of send offs. Paula is a lovely human being.

My esteemed thanks goes to the Royal British Legion of Burnham-on-Sea. They had helped my son as best they could over his final year, then ensured Glenn’s military career was the theme of the funeral proper. Trumpeter, Luís Martelo, sounded the Last Post and Reveille perfectly.

Glenn’s Army mates – Steve, Dazz and Andy – were immense, too. Good men who filled in a lot of gaps about my son’s active service years in Bosnia, Kosovo, America and Northern Ireland. It was they, more than most, who gave Glenn his dignity back. I love them all.

Overseeing the service was Beverley Symonds, Independent Funeral Celebrant. Bev is fabulous. She worked with Paula to deliver the most beautiful celebration. She was there in support should I falter in my eulogy, then carried the emotional weight of reading poems and introducing music. Bev did not miss a beat. She is golden.

To all who have sent their condolences and kindness to us, I thank you all.

Footnote: Funeral Pieces

Eulogy for Glenn

I’ve decided to publish my written contributions to my Son’s funeral. I’m hoping it shows one way of seeing life, when etched with loss. Grief will bring you low, but I hope my words may bring some comfort when turning that page to the future. With Bev standing alongside me, I managed to read the Eulogy I’d written for Glenn. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I hope the words were listened to. I read the following:

‘Listen. We cannot waste time. We can only waste life. Time will get on fine without us. So, this one life we have is precious. As we find our way through life, we can choose, pretty much, how that journey will be. If we are kind and if we laugh a lot, life will be colourful and we will charge up something I call my “Happy Battery”. The alternative is a monochrome world of unkindness and cruelty – seekers of such a life are best avoided. That Happy Battery is my store of good memories. We all have that, should we want it.

Although we physically live our lives going forward through time, our minds can travel back in time. Time travel is possible. We do it every day. Close your eyes and remember being a child again. Think of one small and wonderful event from the past, one of those precious days you’ll never forget that made you very happy. Isn’t that nice? You’ve just zoomed back in time. And, subsequently, you carry all that time with you to today. Aren’t minds wonderful things? Who would want to remember anything but happy things? Look at the photographs we tend to keep – all full of smiles. They are snapshots that remind us of good things. A physical manifestation of that Happy Battery.

Glenn was my son. He was Lynne’s and my son first and foremost. He arrived some 10 minutes after his twin brother, Iain. They were so impatient to look at the world, they arrived 2 months early, to the day. I was 20, Lynne was but 18. The twins were so tiny they could fit into a single incubator. These tiny scraps of life had to fight to survive – it was 1977 and medicine was far from the honed science it is today. Yet, they made it, grew rapidly and seemed to eat their weight in food until they reached their teens. Then ate even more! You’ve all just travelled in time with me, to the most scary, yet most wonderful time of my life. It is not easy bringing children up, especially when you’re just children yourselves. Somehow Lynne and I managed.

Twins are very similar. Yet they are also single, unique human beings. Right from the start Iain was the more thoughtful, considered and cautious. Glenn threw himself at everything, grappled it and either won or lost – shook himself off then moved on. This was a pattern through their lives. Iain would crash a bike, figure out why, then not repeat the same mistake. Glenn would crash, break an arm, get dragged to hospital, recover, then find an even more spectacular way to break something.

Iain and Glenn were typical boys. In fact, they were wild, even though Lynne and I were fairly strict. There were times their antics were beyond belief! So much so that it is only in the last few years they have told me some of the things that happened. They were like mad scientists. They predated crazy YouTube videos by decades. I have discovered that nearly everything they tried started with one of them saying, “I wonder what happens if …”

“I wonder what happens if…we shake these cots back and forward harder and harder?” Result – The bottom falls out and we can escape.

“I wonder what happens if…we escape our cots and crawl down stairs early in the morning?” Result – No one knows you’re there.

“I wonder what happens if…we empty the contents of the kitchen cupboards into a big pile on the new kitchen floor?” Result – a work of abstract art, so colourful it would make Jackson Pollock envious.

“I wonder what happens if…we drop an unbreakable Tonka Toy tipper truck from an upstairs window onto concrete?” Result – They break. You can also use them to break every other toy, too.

“I wonder what happens if…we detonate a metal tube of self-made explosive in an old cow shed?” Result – It lifts the roof off and stops all cows within a mile producing milk for a week.

“I wonder what happens if…we stick a banger into a bottle and put it into a phone box?” Result – It blows all the glass out.

And, if the Fire Brigade want a scrap car with a deep, V-shape across the grill for exercise purposes – but the recycling yard you work in doesn’t have one to hand.
“I wonder what happens if…we make one by driving a car at 30mph into a metal pillar?” Result – Concussion, exploding air bags and great pain – but mad laughter.

So, even in adulthood, the twins remained curious in the most hands-on way. Pondering this, I realise they probably inherited this pushing the boundaries from my ancestors. The paternal line is full of soldiers, adventurers and pushers of boundaries, men and women alike. Thus, Iain and Glenn always tested the boundaries of what was possible by personally challenging the laws of physics – the amazing thing is, they often beat those laws!

Glenn, however, always tested the boundaries of life to the extremes. In the early 90s, he came to me and asked for help. He was no longer enjoying life and wasn’t pushing the boundaries any more. He was being controlled by the edges of that envelope. He recognised what was happening to him. He wanted me to help him get fit enough to join the Army.

I coached and ran with him. He rapidly became fit, cracking the 10½ minute target for a 1½ mile run by some margin. He joined the Army, settling into the 2nd Light Infantry. I have never felt prouder than on the day of his passing out parade. He went on to serve in Kosovo, Bosnia, and Northern Ireland just before the Troubles ended. This last posting was hard on soldiers – a constant stress, a constant anxiety. Two years of pressure. Alcohol became a predominant crutch for many, Glenn included. It led to the disease that hurt him so much.

Grief is personal. There are no rules. It is a process that allows a trauma to heal in its own time. I said at the beginning that finding your way through life should be a wonderful experience. Equally, grief should never define a life. This is why that time travel to happy moments is so important. We have the choice of painting our memories in colours. I will grieve for Glenn. I will grieve with Iain. Each one of us here will grieve in our own way. Mine will be memories of sunny days and smiles. The illness he had will not guide my own time-travelling choices. I will not allow that to define him.

I will remember the happy times, the laughter. I’ll drift back and remember sunny days, smiles and kindness. My children dashing along Greek footpaths, finding an olive tree full of puppies; swimming in blue seas and loving life. I’ll remember spending some of Glenn’s leave with him on Crete. Climbing a mountain. Being startled by a huge griffon vulture appearing above our heads as we scrambled up steep rocks to the top. Taking pictures of each other bare-arsed on the summit. Glenn laughing when I fell into a prickly shrub, he called a Bastard Bush. I still get the odd thorn grow out through my finger nails to this day. These are my memories. For me, these memories will give Glenn the dignity he deserves.

He will be interred with my father at Puriton church. It is a peaceful spot where any visitors can say ‘Hello’ and reflect. It is the village I was born in, where my father died and where Iain lives. It is central to us. A few years ago, Iain, Glenn, Sean and I visited the spot – 4 generations together. Yes, I know it is the right place. It is a happy place, not one of monochrome misery. Robins sing most of the year, swallows swoop amongst the stones in summer and the old church gives a sense of a long history, of permanence, a spirit of place. A centre of family.

That is the lovely thing about time travel. We can choose to always look at the happy times – and why not? Any fool can be miserable.’

Then, Bev read the poem I composed whilst in a dark place. It eased my own pain, a little.

Goodbye my Son

by Paul Comerford

7th April 2024

Goodbye my Son,
Last born child,
And first to go.
Impatient as ever,
To take the next step,
Never looking back.
We are left in your wake,
Your track through time is clear,
Smiles in photographs,
Pictures of sunshine,
From infant to now,
So, ‘Goodbye my Son’,
Last born child,
And first to go,
Until my own mind fades,
I will remember you,
I will love you,
But, most of all,
I will miss you.

A footnote to those who decided to be less than kind

During this awful time, whilst so many were being kindness personified, to my eternal shock, there are other people who decided to use this moment to reveal the darker side of humanity. They waited until it was safe to come out from beneath their metaphorical rocks. Then, they took grief and used it as an excuse to act like lunatics. Hidden behind a keyboard, safe in a dark room where there is no chance of confrontation, their unedifying barbs were fired. Such people always wait until the hard work is done. Their motivation is based upon hateful fantasy, they thrive on misery and give no thought to the added pain they cause. In my case, they couldn’t even wait until the memorial stone was in place. I’m baffled, but needed to make reference to them. They know who they are.

Such people who use others’ pain as a platform to cause harm, must take the responsibility for their actions. The reprehensible actions of grown adults, even if done behind a keyboard, will always carry consequences. Using vulnerable people to carry out their not-so-hidden agenda, then garnering support from fellow poltroons is beyond my understanding. Stepping into the open, just briefly, gave me a clear look at you all. Your worst is done – now live with it. I know you will now avoid me, as you are cowards. There is nothing you can do to repair this damage. There is nothing I have to say to you. You are, and always will be, beneath contempt.

Epilogue – Retirement & Minke Wales – Racing the Reaper Man, ever onward

It is done. I miss my Son. The pain comes in waves. The grief is profound. My love remains. Somewhere amidst all this chaos, I retired from employment. I worked from the age of 15, was never without a job and somehow found myself working for the Ministry of Justice, in London, with post nominals and a fancy title: Head of MoJ Corporate Fire, Health & Safety – CMIOSH MIFireE. After 13 years here, life had caught up. From 2022 to 2024 my mental and physical health crumbled and I was left rather bewildered. From 2023 to 2024 I was seriously poorly, right at the time Glenn’s final months unfolded. I retired on 5th April 2024, right between his death and funeral. How does one survive such insanity aged 67?

Quite simply, after all of this played out, life continued. As I wrote earlier, ‘Living is not a destination. We arrive at the beginning and our only destination, our only stopping point, is death. Life, in its full sense, is a journey and if you stop moving, you no longer grow and get stuck at that point, until your life does end.’ Thus, I reached the point of asking myself, “What next?” The first thing I did was turn the page – I dumped my hard earned post nominals, stepped away from my professional memberships and made the absolute decision never to work for anyone again. I’m now a writer, runner, conservationist, wanderer of the world and pensioner. I intend not to waste my life. I’m changed, of course, but stronger in my conviction that life is precious and every day should be lived to the full and that we must look after our planet, its biosphere and our species.

In May, we spent a quiet month on Alónnisos. I was teaching myself to rest. 52 years of working is not easily erased from one’s inner programming, so I found myself struggling to switch off. Instead of avoiding the issue, I thought hard about everything. I love change. It was time to press the reset button again. After Greece, we journeyed north to Scotland. Our main goal was to see baleen whales. Whilst staying on Lewis & Harris, we sighted seven Minke Whales in the Minch, on a memorable day with Stornoway Seafaris. During this journey I reflected ever more.

I realised I’d had no respite from pressure for over 3 years. There result was catastrophic on my health. So, “What now?” I had one job left to close this chapter of my life. On 14th July 2024, I watched Glenn’s headstone set into place. My Passepartout and I gathered some wildflowers and arranged them as a small tribute to the two men who lie there. We walked away and went home.

The following Sunday I hit the reset and started to rebuild my fitness. No booze, meat-free food and a gradual increase in core training with my PT, Martin Sorenson. I’ve entered the Race to the King 100k next June and will focus on the waypoint in my life. At 67, I have survived a traumatic period and finally feel whole once more. In 2 months I’m 68. To me, life has to be lived to the full. Yes, it will sometimes hit you with pain and tragedy, it will knock you down, but as long as you get up one more time, you will keep living, not existing. You will get help from good people. You may get kicked by cruelty after the fact. But, as long as you take that next step, you will always move forwards.

My love to you all. Let’s keep Racing the Reaper Man.

Autumn/Winter 2024 Retirement – Running into the Undiscovered Country

As autumn merges damply with winter, I’ve found myself brushing up my Shakespeare. Before you flee from this blog post, fear not, and bear with me awhile. You see, we use and see Shakespearean quotes throughout our lives, mostly without knowing it. From being eaten out of house and home to not sleeping a wink, each phrase can be traced to The Bard. To most of us the Undiscovered Country is the title of Star Trek VI, but in reality, was penned for the utterance of Hamlet. My point is, very often I check a saying and up pops Shakespeare. More phrases will be used here, but, as luck would have it, you don’t need to know where, it’s neither here, nor there.

The title of this blog is a result of me pondering my recent retirement. I settled upon the poetic mystery of the Undiscovered Country, ignoring the fact that Hamlet was speaking of the terrors of an afterlife, and I’ll be writing about the future – which is, sort of, the same. After all, we only fear the unknown, which is what the future is. However, the future is but an horizon – we never get there. We can only dream of the road that leads there and plan for the very best journey.

Retiring from a regulated working life is something I gave little thought to. I worked from the age of 15 to 67. More than 52 years in total, including 30 years of shift working, office hours, long days, early mornings and late nights. Time off was something to look forward to; to make plans for. Time for pleasure. So, with this in mind, retirement is a doddle, isn’t it? Waking up on day one without the immediate need to go out and earn a crust looks like such stuff as dreams are made of? I have found things are not so simple.

It has been discombobulating. Here’s the thing, whether I like it or not, I have a preset internal working-day-clock. It has evolved into my psyche, embedded itself into my circadian rhythms and is not easy to switch off or ignore. My working life was full of doing things to earn enough to do other things on my time off. Shopping, parenting, communicating and being part of the machine. I was controlling my life by rote, by effort, driven by the reward of utopia in the form of retirement, somewhere just over the horizon.

It was when I reached my mid-60s that I understood the horizon was never any closer. I had to find my way through extreme mental illness, physical illness and the loss of my son. The horizon, I found, was never a place to get to. Utopia was an ephemeral, undefined place. Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb provides the closest explanation to how I felt…

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon,
You are only coming through in waves,
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying.

When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown,
The dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.

Life is not an arrival, it is the journey that is important. That horizon is beyond the edge of one’s dreams. Yet, looking to the future and acting to realise one’s dreams, paves the road with beauty and colour. So, as I reached 68 I decided to scrap the embedded model of life, and turned a page. This is the act of clearing one’s mind of dogmatic, biased control mechanisms and looking for beauty. It means having no preconceived ideas of the future, that Undiscovered Country, and ignoring time as the enemy. It is not a rapid process, but if one wants to live life to the full, the past must only be a memory, not an anchor. Taking time to think is the first step. I’m still processing things over half-a-year on.

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so

By July this year, I had survived almost everything life could throw at a person. Life weighed heavily upon me. I had become trapped into remembering what was, and looked at what I could have done better. Instead of using those moments as a lesson for the future, I found myself brooding. Not a very helpful state of mind. It just wasn’t me. I was letting negative thoughts hold me back. I needed to give my mind freedom.

Socrátes said, “Beware the barrenness of a busy life.” Now, that is an oxymoron worth unraveling. All becomes clear if you think about your life from school to retirement. Studying to become qualified to work to live. We laud a good work ethic, diligence and completing tasks on time – before time, even. Work, home, housework, out-out to play hard, to barely recover before it’s work again. We are in control, aren’t we? Nope. It is the illusion of control. I’ve done this most of my life.

Some years ago, when I was a new manager working long hours to keep my career on track, with little time for much else (I had a ‘great work ethic’), I had an epiphany, of sorts. This was down to Steve, a lovely gay colleague and friend, who worked in the office next to mine. He was quite a philosopher. One day he leaned against my office door frame, his usual languid self, eying me with mischievous eyes.
“What are your dreams for the future?” He asked.
“Hmmm. I want to climb above 7000m in the Himalayas; travel to all continents; write a book; see a kākāpō; run an ultramarathon,” I answered.
“What have you done today to make those dreams come true?” He smiled.
I was flummoxed. I tried to waffle about wages and saving and such blandishments, but I suddenly realised I’d done nothing. Had done nothing but leave my dreams somewhere over the horizon. Steve’s words come back to me very often.

Since then, I have made sure I’ve done at least one thing a day to turn my dreams into reality. It meant clearing my mind to think freely. For me, running is my path to meditation, to mindfulness. When I run, and I can strive with things impossible. The rhythm becomes a mantra; focusing on the act of running gives me insight to how I’m feeling; after a time my mind wanders where it will. I am still learning about myself. Running for a long time, raises this focus to a new level. This free-form thinking has allowed me to look at the future as an adventure, not a dark land of terror. It enabled me to express myself. What you see now is who I am.

Socrátes also stated, “Question everything.” Do not accept other people’s direction without looking at their motives. Think freely about what is said to you. Any philosophy that robs you of yourself, of your identity is heavily flawed. If you cannot express who you truly are because the burden of imposed dogma and bigotry, stepping into that Undiscovered Country is impossible. Equally, if anyone says they know what the future is, based on dogma and ideology, they are liars of the worst kind. Rid yourself of these toxic people. Being shackled to poison will not go well.

This view of being has to be driven by a positive outlook for the self, and kindness to the world around. Expressing oneself gives you control of who you are, not power over others. Projecting happiness and positivity really does change the world around you. As Spike Milligan said, a smile is infectious and a single one can spread around the world.

One final thing about free-thinking, it cannot be done for you. This is where I write about social media, memes, and the general staring at a screen. I love the accessibility of information in this modern age. I grew up at a time of relative ignorance of what was happening. It took time to research things and time to come to a considered opinion. 50 years on and things have flipped completely. News and information are instantaneous and opinions are formed without much consideration. We live in a time of lazy thinking – rather like fast food, fast information is not very good for the body and mind. ‘Thinking’ seems to be done for us, should we take things as said. Expression has faltered for a majority, and ‘In-spression’ has started to dominate. In-spression is a word I had to make up for this blog. It means expressing the thoughts and ideas of others as a means of belonging to a sought authority. In short, lazy thinking – you find something out there to confirm your bias, then stop thinking and spew out the raddled information of others. It also goes for dogma – if you have to consult a single ‘magical’ book to find out how to act, you are not free. Enough said.

My long sickness of health and living now begins to mend

Running and fitness has given me a close rapport with my body. Life is finite, so investing in my body comes top of my priorities. What is more important to invest in? After ridding myself of those who wished me harm, I’ve started to heal. After getting rid of negative thoughts, my well-being has followed a positive path. Can you rebuild yourself as you get older? Yes. It takes honesty, effort and acceptance. 

Kintsugi (literally, ’golden joinery’), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver or platinum. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise. It is the asymmetric whole that is regarded as beautiful. Wabi-sabi is a Japanese aesthetic that finds beauty in things imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. These two things fit what I’m trying to say.

My body is now repaired and I’m getting fitter, though my immune system remains fragile. My mind has begun to heal, but I am different. I’m changed. I have found a third part of me that has been damaged. My emotional self. The simplest way to express this is to say I have a broken heart. That ocean of emotions that infiltrates all physical and mental processes, is one part I have only partial control over. Anger – I can regulate. Fear – I can adjust. But grief – it is an ebbing and flowing tide with no regulator. It is these cracks that model my kintsugied rebirth.

It would be pointless regretting the changes, so I’ve learnt to like the newer me. Physical and mental scars cannot be hidden, so I see them as proof of a life lived. There is beauty in that acceptance.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come

Since my retirement in April, I’ve had to confront my automated habits. It will take time to adjust to my new life, free from employment. It is taking time for me to understand grief and the affect grieving has on me. Physically I’m robust. Mentally I am fragile. It is this latter condition that I’ve been thinking about. I think I’ve found a method that works. Laughter.

I chose not to use antidepressants during the last couple of traumatic years. This is a conscious, personal decision. At all times I’ve worked with my GP. I’d advise anyone to do what is safest for them, guided by a professional.  At my lowest, I tend to turn to comedy. All I need to do is listen to Billy Connolly and I forget everything negative. A quick Spike Milligan sketch boosts my fun quotient. Apparently, laughter causes serotonin and endorphins to increase in the brain and decreases stress hormones. As the perfect companion to free-thinking, laughter completely engages the body and releases the mind.

Some people can make you sad. Some people make you happy. Some people make you laugh. Laughter is self-perpetuating, so laughter becomes a feast. Again, freedom to express oneself will make you happy – anyone who doesn’t like you doing this is probably not happy with themselves in the first place.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves

In what is called the Free World, there can be a lot of invisible shackles. True freedom of expression is not always celebrated. There is a tendency to allow celebrity to guide us – in opinion, fashion, lifestyle and in the stuff we buy. But people on screens project an image – an approved cartoon stereotype of reality.

I see celebrity somewhat cynically. Shallow. Entertaining, but not a thing upon which to base a life. On screen, people are just a head atop a clothed torso. The head is their identity. The body is something to hide away, or camouflage. The message is distorted by hyperbole. It tends to be the facial image that draws a viewer.  Although there seems to be more inclusivity than there was, this has led to a drift towards normalising unhealthy habits and the medical issues that go with them. The message that tends to be gleaned is, do what you want – it is a free society, keep looking here and we’ll give you the message you desire. The exceptions are those with information that is of the greatest benefit. Sir David Attenborough jumps to mind.

Ultimately, unless one is unfortunate enough to have a chronic illness or severe injury, we each hold the future of our health and fitness in our own hands. The future is much brighter if you decide to be healthy and fit. Why settle for anything less? Why gamble one’s future away whilst one is young? Young doesn’t last long. Much to my chagrin, I looked up ‘elderly’ the other day. In most medical and legal spheres, one becomes one of the elderly generation at 65! Bastards! But what does it matter?

I decided a long time ago, that I would enter older age with no excuses. The horizon I’m moving towards is still there as on unattainable dream, but the journey ahead is still to make. I’m whole, but repaired rather like a kintsugied pot. The scars and cracks are visible, but to me they have beauty. They show a life lived, and the joins in metaphorical gold are stronger than the original pot. That wear and tear, the wabi-sabi of my life, has not beaten me. A broken heart need not be a lead weight, and for me it never will be. It has given me a greater understanding of the need to be kind.

My emotional-self, that primal well of indescribable feelings, has added to my wisdom. It is helping me to steer my way towards the Undiscovered Country. There is no darkness but ignorance, so I will light my way by learning, by learning acquire knowledge, and through knowledge attain wisdom.

I’ll leave you with the knowledge that there really was a lot of Shakespeare throughout this blog, and with a quote for my Passepartout – I would not wish any companion in the world but you.

All website content ©Paul Comerford, author, unless otherwise stated. All rights reserved.