It'll be okay

Some people shout, some people scream, some take it out on others, some keep it inside, some punch walls, some punch others, some people jump, some people drink, some people hide and some people just don't know what to do.

The day I finished my dissertation and with two hours to get it submitted in time I remember staring at my printer almost paralysed with rage as it steadfastly refused to spit out the work I had churned out over the previous 26 hours of toil.  As I turned towards my bedroom window overlooking a rundown Hull street my mind rattled through the options.

Shout, scream, take it out on someone else, punch a wall, punch a human, jump out the window, head to the pub, crawl under my bed or, and there the options ran out.  I just didn't know how to get rid of the all consuming frustration that had enveloped me.  Thankfully not long after the printer spluttered back into life but the thought process I went through at that time has always stuck with me.

Most who suffer know the triggers that can lead to extended or severe periods of anxiety which in turn often make life unbearable and sometimes painful to endure.  Excessive alcohol, work pressure, lack of sleep, relationship problems or even just being hungry.  Or an impending 12 hour flight to an unfamiliar airport and seven weeks away from a pregnant wife and two year old son.  Yeah, that'll do it.

Therapists often ask patients to write down the physical symptoms experienced when suffering from anxiety.  Sweaty palms, racing heart, dry throat.  None of these will be of surprise.  Then there is the feeling that the digestive system is being squeezed. Unpleasant.  Nearly as nasty as the feeling it'll never end.

Just as the symptoms are familiar so are the remedies.  At least partial remedies.  Cutting out alcohol, cutting down on caffeine, exercise, talking to someone about the problem or just dedicating some time to go through the work, correspondence, admin that needs to be done and doing it.  All help.

As does writing.  As does experience of knowing it will get better.  That in a few days all will be well with the world again.  It's not going to last forever.  It'll be okay.

Mindfulness

Apologies for the cliche but even 'no-nonsense Yorkshire men' with over 200 wickets for England adhere to forms of psychotherapy.  Darren Gough is open about a tactic he employed throughout his Test career.  Following a day's play.  Whether it was good or bad.  He was taught by the team psychoanalyst to write down the events that occurred on the field.  He would then tear out that page and throw it in the bin. 

I imagine Goughie would then proceed to make his way down to wherever the team were congregating and spend a few hours holding court, drinking a pint or two and talking ten to the dozen.

It worked for him and it's worked in a similar fashion for me.

I've always written a diary of sorts.  Hidden away in the attic at my parents home are a collection that chart my angst, ever growing comic collection, teenage crushes, fueds, fears and secret thoughts.

I would often start a year religiously adhering to my resolution to 'write every day' only to get to the start of February and find life had got in the way.  Sound familiar? 

Common themes would appear.  Either it was the start of a calendar year and I was trying to install some kind of discipline into my life.  Again, stop me if you've heard this.  Or something was bothering me that I needed to get down onto paper and out of my system. 

Writing has often been a coping mechanism as much as anything artistic.  In years to come if my diaries are discovered a future relation would be forgiven for thinking I led the most miserable and anxious existence.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  The problem is that when life is at its captivating best I don't have time nor inclination to sit in my room and write about it.

The solitude of writing is also part of the process.  As much as I like to imagine a lifestyle that would allow me ample time and space to write for hours I'm not sure that would work for me.  Put me in a room with a window, sunshine streaming in, a brook and a field outside and I'll be itching to get out there rather than stay put and murder words.

I am also aware of my limitations.  I can't write well enough, I don't know enough and I write so damn slowly.  I am friends with and work alongside several writers.  Amongst them is Jarrod Kimber.  He vomits words. He literally can't stop himself from writing 1000 words every time he coughs.  Most people's cigarette breaks are his chance to discharge another chapter or article.  It's insane. 

But on the flip side this blog storms (limps) into it's 13th year.  2006-2019.  There's no reason to think that even if I've again stopped writing by Feb 1st I won't be back again in 2020 and beyond.  Something inside me wants to get out.  I feel sated by writing in a way that I don't broadcasting.  Although there is a noticeable post show-buzz associated with presenting or commentating well. 

400

We've kinda been here before you and I

My New Year resolutions are thus. 

1. Blog more.  One post a day for the next 400 days.  Why 400?  Well it's a number synonymous with an innings that took place in the region I am heading to next.  In 400 days I will have passed the Caribbean, a World Cup, another pregnancy, an Ashes, a trip to NZ and find myself in South Africa contemplating a journey back to where you find me now, Auckland.  If all goes to plan that is.  400: The number of words I should aim to complete.  Every day.  

2. Be more disciplined.  Whatever that means.

3. Be in the present.  Life is much better when I'm in the present.

4. Remember how to use the Blogspot app on my phone. It developed a bug that meant it crashed every time I opened it.  So I deleted it.  True story.

5.  I wonder if I used : in point 1. properly.

Times have changed since I started out on this blog.  Back in 2006 when I left England for my first major trip abroad I was single, hadn't traveled much and the blog an excuse to develop my writing.  My intended audience my old friends back home.  A way to let them know what I was up to in a (hopefully) humourous fashion.  Slightly self-indulgent at times.  Okay, incredibly self-indulgent.  But at the heart I wasn't afraid to make mention of miscreant antics in years gone by in a slapdash carefree kinda way.  That person doesn't really exist any more.  And my friends have also grown up, had kids and got married.  One night after a Shanks game the topic of windows came up.  I nearly smacked my head against the table.  When did it come to this?

My friends were the alternative ones, the smokers, the drop outs, artistic, musical, daring-doers, funny, idiotic, political, wise, forward thinking, right on, long-haired, individuals.  And they still were back in 2006.  But there's nothing more sad than clinging on to the past. 1994 was cool and all but not so cool that everyone should stay there.  We have to keep evolving.  

So who am I writing this to?  Maybe the 2019 audience want a behind the scenes tale of life on tour.  A talkSPORT expose with stories of mad egos, tantrums, fallings out, bad behaviour, technical nightmares, logistical mishaps with a back drop of 18-30 holiday style drinking and partying.  Well that might happen but it's not going to get aired here.

So where is my voice these days?  Lost amidst a flurry of middle-management box-ticking, administrative tasks, budgets and when time, cricket prep?  It's been a few years since I ventured out onto this platform.  So who am I speaking to?  

I suppose I am speaking to the man my son becomes.  Him and my soon-to-be-born child.  A glance into the life their dad had before they knew me.  I'm talking to myself.  I'm trying to develop my writing again.  I'm trying to find my voice.  I'm just going to write until I know the answer.  When it becomes obvious again I'll feel confident enough to start flagging up this blog.  Until then it's just you and me.  We've been here before.