Spade

My nephew is on a low secure psychiatric ward, recovering from a drug-induced psychosis. I have been cagey of saying this but, you know, there is a whole history of secrecy around mental illness which has placed its heavy burden on enough people already. Still does in some circles. It was not that which held me gagged, but the feeling of intense concern for his privacy. Of which I continue to be mindful. My need is to say that this is one of the hardest things I've experienced. His fragility, his powerlessness, his confusion, the distance, the mental health system, the uncertainty of the prognosis, the dubious merits of psychiatric medication. My deep bond with him from babyhood. His mother's early death.

I have never felt so parental, though I've always felt him to be the nearest I have to a child of my own. When someone you love becomes unable to take responsibility for himself, the intense way in which one suddenly feels responsible to them, even for them, is a thing my heart had no preparation for.

I head south again on Friday or Saturday, and hope to be able to stay in his flat, which will make things much easier on all fronts than having to stay at the Travelodge... All I want is to be able to visit him every day. For a few days at a time I shall be able to do so.

Perplexed

You, bearded with unbrushed hair,

hunched and shuffling in the wrong slippers,

searching once again for clues to decipher the riddle

of your being here in this large room

with its vinyl-covered sofas its ping-pong table

and the Jeremy Kyle Show shouting

even now about the unexpected paternity

of someone's wretched child.

Your t shirt does not feel like yours.

It hangs loose on your bony back, is not your colour.

You look down, read Lonsdale from your chest.

You take it off and sit bare-chested, put it on the table

with the bag of Kent cherries I have brought you,

some of them over-ripe and squashy.

One has made a red wet hole in the paper, protrudes.

Look, it's trying to get out, I say.

What do you mean it's trying to get out?

you ask perplexed, slowly turning your eyes on me,

a blue million miles.

Dark

L has gone across the road to the community centre to find out what new-age kurling might be, and I am sitting here pretending to be warm enough in a short-sleeved shirt and sandals. Summer has gone AWOL again. At least it is not throwing rain down by the bucketful today.

I went to meet the manager of a project, where I have landed myself another job for the portfolio, this morning. Yes, another six hours' work, running the counselling service for an HIV charity. They all seem nice there, and the building is pleasant and so forth. Mind not on the job yet, but I don't have to start for a few weeks so that is ok.

I'm away down South again on Friday, taking in family and friends and then more family in the shape of my nephew in Kent, to bring him what solace I can. To have the dearest young person in my life in distress is nearabouts more than I can bear, yet bear it I do and must. He is the closest I have to a child of my own, and I have no peace while his life is in turmoil. Nowhere I can rest my mind. Except on the thought of being with him for a few hours next week.

Get Knotted

My therapist once told me I reminded her of a pretzel. Look closely at one and you will see. Knottedness.

This knot is an awkward one to undo. I cannot blog about what consumes most of my attention at the moment, but it is hard to blog about anything else. I'm starting to miss being here. I feel shut out by the need for privacy.

I loathe being cryptic, so already I feel this is not going well.

Trying to work out how to be here nonetheless.

And another thing -- tomorrow is L's and my 23rd anniversary. I'm giving her a card with a picture of a pair of turtle doves.

Giant Pretzel

I am eating a giant pretzel, sipping a glass of cold white wine. I feel a bit like a giant pretzel myself.

Weather

Rain clears the air, trickles in gutters, wets my trouser legs. The honeysuckle and lady's mantle glow in the dimmed light. Charcoal grey clouds hurry over the tops. The rain stops, the light grows, the basil leans towards the window. Now a slant of sunlight on the fields, picking out the stripes where the hay's been mown.

Packing a bag, making a plan, looking for a map to follow.

Wordless