Today Is A New Day

When it wins, it wins big, so I must start again. It’s all or nothing where I’m concerned and this morning I find myself sick and tired, full of loathing and regret. OCD fights a guerrilla war now, striking hard and fast before skulking back into the shadows again to await its next contact. There are no unfurled banners and sparkling uniforms. This is the dirtiest of dirty wars. It takes no prisoners and seeks no parley.

I’ll pick up the pieces, batten down the hatches, bury my dead and face the day, afresh. This is a silent war, there are no booming cannons or clashing swords to herald the coming conflict. It’s an internal struggle, a ten steps forward, nine steps back war of attrition. I play the long game, ceaselessly patrolling the borders of my psyche, ever vigilant, my finger twitching on the trigger.

You will not see it coming. A blade in the back and a second of recognition before the darkness descends is the best you can hope for. Mental health is the most fragile and fickle of commodities. We preen and pose to attain physical perfection, while inside our neglected minds wither on the vine. It laughs as I lace up my running shoes and prepare to pound the pavements once more. For it knows. It knows.

I have my allies. Defences have been bolstered and ramparts manned. The long watch begins once more as I scan the horizon, watching the weakest of suns peek above the treeline in the distance. It’s out there, watching me watching it. We are in this for life, joined at the hip. It will not stop and I will not give in. A fight to the death. Every war has its casualties. Yet, today is a new day. Today I start again.

How is your mental health today?

Thoughts From A Crime Scene

The written word is a smoking gun. It leaves clues, drops of blood that we follow pitter, patter to the scene of the crime, the grisly truth. A crime scene is an oasis of silence, a deadly dearth, until life explodes upon it. Raised voices, orders tersely barked, the click, whirr, click of the photographers lens. It lies before us, to intrigue and disgust in equal measure. An opulent opportunity to discover what really happened.

DNA, fingerprints, a single strand of hair. A discarded apple core. Every inch of ground pored over in microscopic detail for the ethereal evidence we so desperately seek which is right there, staring us in the face. If only we can find the key to unlock it, to throw back the latch and reveal the light. To lead us to the killer, see justice prevail and restore calm and order, separate right from wrong.

Such it is with our words. What does he mean? Who is she talking about? We second guess and speculate. Is it me, is it him, so and so or what’s his face? The author beguiles and intrigues, smoke and mirrors, scents and shadows. My words mean everything, my words mean nothing, the fickle strokes of a pen on the page building worlds and destroying empires on a lazy whim.

The ideas, they keep coming. An endless procession of plots and characters, hurtling round my mind, begging to be released. They are my then, my now, my not so happily ever after. My past becomes the currency of my future, I’ll pay the toll and take my chances. So much to write, yet so little time. Shackled by the weight of the daily grind, the 9-5. Bills to pay, when all I want to do is tap, tap, tap these characters into being.

Soothing words, brutal words, words of hope and hopelessness. I am a prisoner to them, they will not release me, until I birth them, gagging and choking onto the harsh glare of the keyboard screen. They haunt the inner recesses, demons from the past gorging on the success of my present situation. Dare I let them out for where they dwell, chaos follows close behind. They destroy all they survey.

The written word is a smoking gun. Bag it, tag it, you’ll never get to the bottom of it. A conundrum of could be and what if? It drives me forward, day by day to where I do not know. Will you join me on this journey for I know not where it ends? Words kill like guns, another darling bleeds out from my fingertips. Every contact leaves a trace, a trace of what could have been.

Follow the clues, follow the words. Down the rabbit hole, through the looking glass, we know not where it ends. Life or death, the flick of a coin, I write on the edge, and none of them are safe. Nobody is safe when I’m in the zone, when I lift the yellow tape and take in what I have created. The bloody, magnificent madness of it all. I am what I am and what will be, will be. Que sera sera, tick tock, adieu.

My characters sleep with one eye open for I am coming for them, a literary assassin. My pen is a blade, the prose spattering the page like an arterial spurt dancing across the watching wall. Look close at those random patterns of life extinct, look closely, can you see yourself? Or is it merely a trick of the light, an illusion of your desire. Time will tell, the truth will out. Every crime scene leaves a story. This is mine.

My Desert Of Doubt

Sometimes I don’t know what to write. The ideas well has run dry and my imagination stretches before me, an arid, endless desert of dearth. Those are the worst mornings. The mornings where I sit before my blank screen feeling I have nothing to offer. Nothing to offer myself, nothing to offer my family, nothing to offer the world. I am a husk, an empty, brittle husk, devoid of creative intent.

Doubt is the cactus of the mental landscape. It thrives, where other emotions flounder, it’s roots find purchase in the parched earth and suck what little sustenance there is out of the soil of my soul. Doubt is the demon that doesn’t want me to write, doesn’t want me to run, doesn’t want me to do anything for I’m a fool, a fake, a fraud. Trying to wrestle that cactus of doubt and you are left with bloody, tattered hands.

Doubt will always introduce you to it’s cousin, worry. It’s a weed, strangling any fresh shoots of hope, condemning you to hours of negative, introspective thinking. I’m not good enough, I’ll never be good enough, this is the end of the road. Fatigue plays its part but once doubt and worry get their claws into you, it’s painfully difficult to wrench free. Even when you do, they draw blood, they leave scars.

I am on the cusp of potentially great times, both in my working and personal life. I stand on the edge of achievement and recognition. That is when we are at our most vulnerable, when we relax for an instance and start to think we’ve made it. We are valued, loved, worthy. Then….BANG….we are lying on our backs, staring at the sky, dazed and confused. How on earth did that happen?

I am guarded when it comes to plaudits and praise. I am naturally shy and introspective, socially awkward at the best of times. I wear a mask, exuding confidence and calm, but beneath it I am brittle. The slightest setback and I can crumble, reduced to a pathetic pile of ash. Peeking from my shell is an arduous and nerve shredding matter. It’s not where I want to be, exposed and alone.

It’s when I am here, I rely on my loved ones to gather round, to form a phalanx of protection, shielding me from the barbs of enemy forces. It’s when I need them most, when I reach out and hope they will respond to my cry for help. Without them, I will be overrun, trampled underfoot before being dragged from the battlefield, a lifeless lump. History is written by the winners. The dead can’t talk.

So today, I am anxious, worried, afraid. I don’t know what lies ahead, the next month is make or break in so many ways. Part of me wants to turn around and run screaming for the hills. The way of the coward. But when I do, I see those who have remained loyal, barring my path. They encourage me, console me. Many have dropped away, so I am doubly grateful for those who remain.

I’ve written today’s blog….somehow. The words have trickled, then flowed, the screen is full as my finger hovers over the ‘publish’ button. I’ll go to work, play the game, hit the ball out of the park. It’s who I am, what I do. Always on the front foot, never looking back. You never look back, for that is where the past belongs. Behind you. It’s a long, hard trek across this desert. One step at a time. It’s all I know, all I need.

Where Are You On The ‘Me Me Me’ Tree?

We are all a little self obsessed. It’s human nature, that we focus on our own interests. Animal instinct, if you like. The trick is to be aware of this character defect and work against the grain, to put the needs of others before our own. Love others. You get my drift. It’s not easy though and often the old habits slip back, leaving us trampling over all and sundry in our desire to clamber to the top of the tree. The ‘me me me’ tree.

Life seems grand at the top of the ‘me me me’ tree. We can scan the world around us, pat ourselves on the back and look down disdainfully at those beneath us, who are scrambling for purchase on the slippery trunk and branches beneath. They haven’t quite made it to the top, which makes the fact we have all the more satisfying. It’s easy to forget about these folk who, not so long ago, meant the world to us.

We become immune to their pain, we don blinkers and ear protectors to protect us from their suffering. It’s all so unnecessary and, well, frankly a tad desperate. You don’t need to be sullied with their grief and anguish. It takes the sheen off your own glorious rise to the top. You tend to forget that if it wasn’t for some of those far below, you wouldn’t be lording it up at the top of the pile. Memory can be so selective at times.

Having a conscience is a double edged sword. Wouldn’t it be great if we could plough ahead without that little voice in our head popping up and whispering in our ear; correcting us, chastising is, reminding us of the difference between right and wrong. It can be a real party pooper, a wet blanket of immense proportions. The adult in the room, tidying up behind us and suggesting we turn the music down a little.

Conscience acts as a radar as well. For at the fringes of our senses, we will detect the faintest beep. A voice, a cry of desperation. We look down and far, far below we see someone clinging to a lower branch. We recognise them immediately and our heart aches. For it is a loved one, a person dear to us and who, not so long ago, was an integral part of our life. They haven’t fared so well on the ‘me me me’ tree and have been left far behind in the climb to the top.

They catch our eye, they tug at our heartstrings and, suddenly, it’s too late. We acknowledge that they are part of the reason we are where we are. Have we trampled over them in our victorious ascent? It’s hard to remember, it was all so rushed and confusing. Did we? Possibly? But it’s too late now as the gap between us seems too far to be bridged. We are filled with guilt and regret.

The good news is that it’s not too late. You might be reading this, thinking it doesn’t apply to you. Life is going pretty well right now and you’ve nothing to feel bad about. But look around and think hard. Listen. Do you hear that faint, almost indiscernible beep in the far distance? Listen. There it is again. It’s that relative, friend or colleague who you haven’t heard from in a while.

They need you. Now. Today. Reach out. Make that call, send that message, ask how they are doing. Reach down from where you are perched and haul them up beside you. All they need is that one helping hand, to know they are still cherished and not forgotten about. To show them that you are still there for them, that you still care and will never leave their side again. The ‘me me me’ tree can never destroy that bond.

Where are you on the ‘me me me’ tree?

Well Done Hannah

Fractured Faith Blog is a team effort and always will be. It’s most definitely not just about me and I doubt it would even exist if it were not for the love and support of my family. I’m always keen to share the limelight with them. Today is no exception as we received a very pleasant surprise when Hannah arrived home from school yesterday afternoon, laden down with awards.

She was ill last week so missed her school’s prize giving ceremony. Little did we know but the little madam won a Science trophy, plaque and certificate for her work during the year. Well, I never saw that coming. Hannah is a very modest young lady so it was great to see her hard work and dedication throughout the year awarded. All we were missing was an open top bus parade around the village, although that was suggested.

The trophy has to be returned to the school next week for safe keeping, but we made the most of the photographic opportunities open to us. Adam and Rebecca finish their exams for the week today, so there will hopefully be an atmosphere of relief and celebration when I return home from work later. Here’s hoping there is more good academic news for Team Black just around the corner.

Well done Hannah. We are all very proud of you.

Where Is Your Quiet Place?

This is one of my favourite places in Belfast. A creaky, musty second hand bookshop just around the corner from my office, called Keats & Chapman. I visit it every couple of weeks and have whiled away many a lunch break wandering up and down its narrow corridors. Shelves of second hand books tower precariously above me on either side, holding hidden gems waiting to be discovered by the determined bookworm.

They have a huge fantasy section which I invariably gravitate towards but if you venture deeper into the bowels of the shop, you can find all manner of topics. The entire layout of the store appears shambolic at first glance but the more time you spend there, the more you realise there is a crazy logic to it all. Everything is just where it’s meant to be. I know it like the back of my hand.

I don’t think I’ve exchanged more than 10 words with the owner during my many visits. He sits hunched behind the counter, listening to an Irish language radio station. I don’t buy a book every time I call in, but when I do, money passes hands accompanied by a cursory grunt or nod. Some might view this as rude and, yes, his customer relation skills are a tad lacking but, to me, it adds even more to the charm of the place.

Whenever I cross the threshold of its door, I feel as if I’m entering a parallel universe, where I can leave behind the stresses and strains of the outside world. It’s a still sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of 21st Century life. I could spend hours, days, weeks in this murky domain, inhaling the musty aroma of battered first editions and crumbling paperbacks. Nothing costs more than £3.

Where is your quiet place, that sanctuary of calm you know you can retreat to when it all seems to be getting a bit too much? It could be a regular destination or somewhere you only visited once, but can conjure up in your minds eye in times of turmoil. How do you feel when you are there, or do you crave such a place, but have yet to find it? If the latter, then keep looking for it’s out there, waiting for you.

It’s Like Trying To Raise The Dead

Trying to get teenagers out of bed is a bit like trying to herd cats….a virtually impossible task. Take this morning. At the fourth unsuccessful attempt to rouse Adam from his lair I was greeted with a strangled groan more befitting a scene from a zombie movie. ‘It’s like trying to raise the dead,’ I muttered, musing that my parents never had such problems getting me out of my boy cave, back in the day.

Okay, maybe I am revisiting the past through rose tinted spectacles. But I’m fairly certain I wasn’t as bad as that. As I write this I’m still awaiting our 16 year old son to grace us with his sparkling presence. There will no doubt be rapier like exchanges of wit, which would have left Oscar Wilde chuckling with delight. Or, as is more likely, monosyllabic grunts and little else.

The weird thing is, by the time he staggers down the road to the school bus, he will once again be the class clown, the life and soul of the party. He can turn on the charm like a switch. When I was his age, I was the shyest, most awkward creature known to man. I have no idea where he gets his confidence, it’s certainly not from either of his parents. And for that, Fionnuala and I are grateful.

It’s like trying to raise the dead….

The second the words left my voice, they struck a chord with me. There are times in my life when I feel as if I’m banging my head off a brick wall. I’m trying to communicate with others, I feel as if I have an important message to share, but nobody on the receiving end wants to listen. It can be talking to one of the kids, a work colleague, or any other number of scenarios. I’m just not getting through.

With age and experience, comes wisdom. Some people do not want to know. They aren’t interested in your new idea, project or dream. They are too wrapped up in their own lives to pay any attention to what those around them are doing. The umbilical cord of the self is choking them, blinding them to the countless opportunities and boundless potential open to them, if they would only open their eyes and see.

Life is all about interaction and new experiences. Without that, we wither on the vine, shuffling along like an extra from ‘The Walking Dead.’ Risks are there to be taken, if we turn our backs on them we consign ourselves to decades of regret and bitterness. It is the slowest of deaths, a creeping catharsis which mummifies and sucks every last drop of life from our souls.

Cowards choose the status quo, they stagnate in mediocrity. They still draw breath, but they slowly rot away before our very eyes. We scream, we shout, we jump and down in front of them, but it matters not a jot. They have chosen their allotted path, and nothing we can do will change their minds. They don’t want us, preferring instead to wallow and feel sorry for themselves.

You may read this today and sense a twinge of recognition. It may resonate and speak to you, causing you to reflect on your life and the choices you are making. Or you may stare at it blankly and keep scrolling down your feed, just another meaningless post in your increasingly meaningless life. It’s up to you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The dead are among us. Please don’t become one of them.

The Enemy Within

The Olympic Flame goes out more than Fionnuala and I. It’s the joy of having three hatchlings which are a constant strain on our time and finances. Even when we do have an opportunity we are normally incapable of doing much more than slumping on the sofa and getting caught up on our favourite TV shows. Of late, it’s been ‘The Enemy Within,’ which I keep referring to as ‘The Enemy At The Gates.’ Some days, I barely know my own name.

Jennifer Carpenter stars in it. She played Dexter’s sister in er…..Dexter. For those who haven’t watched it, she plays a disgraced CIA operative imprisoned for treason who a FBI team use to track down an international terrorist mastermind. You never quite know what side her character, Erica Shepard, is on. On the surface she appears to be one of the good guys, but there is a darkness lurking beneath which occasionally surfaces.

We all have that darkness lurking within us. The part that isn’t for public consumption, that we hide from prying eyes. None of us are perfect and those who protest they are, are deluded or liars. There is a grimy past, an unsavoury secret, something which we will do everything in our power to prevent from emerging into the light of day. It’s a battle which wages unseen from the watching world. The demons within, they claw and scream for release.

Erica Shepard uses her demons to get inside the heads of her enemies. She is a chameleon, manipulating friend and foe alike to achieve her ends. She can think like a terrorist, enabling her to remain one step ahead of all around her. Overcoming and taming your demons equips you to see the warning signs, when the next wave of attacks are launched. For life is all about being attacked. It’s how we handle these is how we dictate the quality of that life.

I’m looking forward to tonight. We are only going to a friends house for a takeaway. Fionnuala may even have a cheeky glass of wine or two, as I shall be driving. Not the most exciting of evenings you might think but it’s a big deal to sofa surfers like us. Our days of being party animals are long behind us. I imagine we will still be tucked up in bed, well before midnight. There was a time when we considered that unthinkable.

I know my enemy. He eyes me every day from the corner of his cage as I pass him by. He is patient, cunning and ruthless. Waiting for the slightest chink of weakness to break free of his chains and throw my life into disarray again. I must forever be on my guard, alert to his tricks and traps. I can never afford to rest on my laurels. He licks his wounds and I eye my scars. Reminders of what he is capable of.

He hates normality, the status quo drives him to distraction. My strategy is to bore him to death. Day after day, month after month, year after year. Like tonight. Chinese food, six pack of Diet Coke. Early to bed and a 10K run in the morning. Nothing to see here, folks. Keep right on moving along. This is how it is, these days. And, oh, how he hates it. The drama, the people, the lifeblood he feeds on, all no longer there.

I keep him under lock and key. I keep the key on a chain around my neck. He wants it more than anything, for it is his only means of escape. He cannot have it. For I possess the tactics and tools to keep him at arm’s length for as long as I desire. I’m no Erica Shepard. Glamorous and ruthless. But, like her, I know how to play the game. Play the game and win. Keeping the enemy at bay. Until the end of my days.

Words Are Where It All Begins

Life is too short. We need to say what we mean. I’ve spent much of my life beating about the bush, avoiding the real issues and choosing to ignore the various white elephants trumpeting in the corner of the room. I often feel that I’ve wasted so much time and am now desperately facing a race against time to set matters straight. To put my affairs in order, to make things right. At times, it seems an impossible uphill battle.

The good news, for the less eloquent of us, is that you don’t need to be Henry V or Oscar Wilde. Impressive oratorical skills are not required. In fact, often the less words you use the better. Cut through the nonsense and get to the heart of the matter. Look that person in the eye, dial that number, compose that message, whatever it takes. Just start the ball rolling and reach out to them. It’s never too late.

It can be three little words – I love you. Or two – I’m sorry. Or even one – Yes. Those utterances can break the dams of hurt and regret, send the walls tumbling down and allow love and hope to grow and flourish. It might not happen in the blink of an eye, but it’s a start, a line in the sand that you’ve crossed. Tear down barriers, repair damaged bridges. The power to do so is within you. Words can heal like no medicine known to man. They sooth troubled souls.

Does this resonate within you? Is there someone out there you need to engage with, to reach out and try again. Well then, what are you waiting for? The time is now, and today is the day. Be brave, and take that step. Speak those words and pave the way for the subsequent actions on your part which will prove you meant exactly what you said. Actions speak louder than words, but words are where it all begins.

Do you need to speak to someone today?

Nothing Is Impossible….Just Ask Hannah

I didn’t feel much like running this morning but reluctantly dragged my body out for a seven mile plod along the country roads surrounding the village. I hate running first thing but, on this occasion, there was a method to my madness. For getting the run out of the way early meant I could accompany Fionnuala, Rebecca and Hannah to the local ski slopes where the latter was trying her hand out at snow tubing and skiing.

Despite her disability, Hannah has never allowed anyone or anything to get in her way or tell her she couldn’t do anything. She has been a fighter since birth, overcoming multiple surgeries in her early years to lead a fulfilling and productive life. A smile is never far from her face and she has proved so many people wrong by turning into the smart, sassy, beautiful young woman she is today.

Last year she went cycling and surfing with the Mae Murray Foundation, a fantastic local charity who allow young people with disabilities to access all kinds of sports and activities. Hannah was fearless today, hurling herself down the slope at a frightening speed. Thankfully her screams were of excitement and happiness, so Fionnuala and I could breathe a collective sigh of relief.

She even inspired Rebecca and I to have a go at snow tubing, although Fionnuala could not be tempted to join us. I will spare you the sight of a middle aged man wedged in a rubber tube with his legs in the air, hurtling down a ski slope. This is a family blog, after all. But I will share some photos of Hannah and her friends. They are living testimony to the edict that nothing is impossible. All you have to do is turn up and try.

How Is Your Garden?

I’ve been gardening this morning. It rained overnight and a faint drizzle still hung in the air as I pierced the soft, pliable soil and turned it over. The spade plunged deep and before long a reasonable sized hole was before me, in which I proceeded to bed a new addition to our array of plants. Digging is hard work and my fingers are far from green. But I was proud of what I had created over the last few weekends.

I was bringing order to the chaos that was our unkempt front garden. When I look at it now I feel calm, as opposed to anxious at the task which I’d been putting off all these months. But as well as order, the garden looked healthy and alive. It was balm to my soul as opposed to the eyesore I’d been consciously avoiding for so long. With very limited ability, and a healthy dose of hard work, this was my humble creation.

Then it hit me. This was my life, not so long ago. An overgrown mess. Thorns and weeds strangling any goodness which was struggling to reach the light. A barren wilderness of selfish need and negativity. My life was in free fall and I was tumbling helplessly into the void, oblivious to the collateral damage I was wreaking around me. I pushed away all offers of hope, for I knew best. I had all the answers.

I delighted in blaming anyone and everyone for my plight. Physically and mentally I was a wreck. I ate all the wrong foods and binge drinked at the weekend. I got out of breath climbing a flight of stairs and my waistline crept steadily upwards. The OCD I’d battled all my life ran amok through me. Inappropriate thoughts and unacceptable behaviour became the norm. My moral compass spun out of control.

That was then. Today, I tend my garden. I still have a sweet tooth but I try to watch what I eat. I run and sweat off the excess pounds when I feel them creeping back on. I don’t drink and don’t want to drink. I take my medication and talk to others when I feel the intrusive thoughts threatening to take hold again. The routines I adhere to now provide me with focus and clarity. I am in control. I am alive.

I take no personal credit for all of this. If I had my way, I’d probably still be languishing amongst the weeds. Others have dragged me kicking and screaming to where I am today, opened my eyes to the truth. My family, my friends, the list is too long to write down here for that would take a dozen blog posts. Yet I am grateful to each and every one of them and always will be. They saved me from myself.

How is your garden? Do you tend to it daily, pruning back the bushes and keeping the weeds at bay. Or has it been overrun, to the point where you are at a loss as to what needs done. Are you adrift and stranded? If so, reach out, swallow your pride and seek the help you need. And when you find it, cling on tight and milk every last drop of love from it. We need you to flourish, to live the life you were created to live.

It can be your family, your friends, a work colleague. It can be medication, counselling or therapy. It can be running, singing, dancing, whatever. It can be reading this blog every day. It doesn’t matter. Just find it and do it. Your garden is the most precious, beautiful thing you will ever have control over. If your garden is healthy, then it’s more likely so will be those of your loved ones. A community of vibrant, living hope. A community of us.

Kirkwood Scott Photo Shoot

Some snaps from today’s shoot for the book in Belfast City Centre. Thank you to my photographer, Peter. The shots he took are amazing. He even managed to make me look semi presentable and I’ll be forwarding them to the publisher over the weekend to help them visualise the book cover. Also thanks to our model, the lovely Rebecca, who brought Meredith Starc to life before my very eyes.

Me And My Cave

I live in a cave. A social media cave. Called WordPress. You may have heard of it. It’s my safe place, my sanctuary, a refuge where I’ve been able to lick my wounds and heal. When my confidence was at an all time low two years ago I discovered it. It was a new beginning. A chance to start afresh and tentatively expose my writing to a new audience. An audience which I’ve watched grow beyond all expectation.

I would say my WordPress experience has been 99.9% positive. I’ve met some amazing people along the way. Oozing talent, telling their stories, bravely opening their souls to all and sundry. Bloggers encompass a kaleidoscope of genres, interests and values. A more eclectic bunch I’ve never seen. Yet at their core, runs a common thread of goodwill and kindness. Bloggers aren’t nasty. End of.

2019 has necessitated me stepping out of my comfortable, dank cave into the glare of other social media platforms. This has been a disorientating experience. I feel like it’s my first day at a new school and I’m standing in the middle of a packed playground, stark naked. The cool kids point and stare. I want to run away, back to where I belong. Back to WordPress and steady, stable ground.

Instead I find myself on Twitter, an old stamping ground I find baffling and infuriating in equal measure. Everything is a million miles an hour. My efforts at securing a toehold are largely ignored and I’m lost in a screaming melee of other wannabe authors, desperate to be seen and heard. Twitter is me, me, me, the land of the selfie. It’s also possibly the angriest place on earth.

There are a lot of very angry people on Twitter. They have an opinion and they want to share it with us all, and woe betide anyone who dares to think differently. Arguments erupt left, right and centre. A minefield of bitterness and bile. Politics, religion, sexuality, it’s all there. And it’s often the so called oppressed minority groups who reign supreme, bullying and baiting the rest of us into submission.

It’s not a place I want to frequent. The blog appears there and I skirt the edges of its writing community. But I’m wary of fully immersing myself. Before too long, I’m beating a hasty retreat back to my cave and my tribe. WordPress is my online home. It’s where I go at the end of a long, hard day. It’s where I feel appreciated, valued and wanted. It is the antithesis of Twitter. It’s where the good people are.

Then there’s Facebook. My authors page was launched there yesterday. ‘Real’ people now know about the book. People I see every day. I have no idea how they will react to this news. Will I become an object of scorn and ridicule? I hope not, but I worry some may see this as an opportunity to mock and belittle me. It makes me edgy, anxious and defensive. It makes me want the security of the cave.

It takes courage to step out of the cave. Courage I’m not sure I have. But here I am, nonetheless. At least I know, if it all comes tumbling down, I have somewhere I can retreat to, I have people who ‘get’ what I’m doing and will rally round when the wheels come off. I hope that time never comes. My period of hibernation is at an end. I stumble out of the darkness and into the light. It is time. My time.

Waiting….

I am succeeding, things are happening, momentum is gathering. The rusty bolt in the gate has finally succumbed to my tugging and twisting. The huge boulder which has resisted me so long is finally starting to trundle down the hill, gathering pace as I run alongside it, breathless and giddy with excitement at what lies ahead. Everything is falling into place. I can see the finish line, hear the cheering crowds. I’m that close.

Which makes these final days all the more frustrating. Everything I’ve touched of late has turned to gold yet, here I am, another Monday morning about to crawl out of bed and head to the office. It comes around so fast. I’m swamped at work but such is the reward for becoming a Big Boss. There is nowhere to hide now, no slacking or skiving. Great things are expected of me, the Bigger Bosses have said as much. Yet, still I dream.

The book deal creeps ever nearer. I check my inbox 5857 times a day. They are busy people but my already frayed patience hangs by a thread. Hurry up, can’t you see I’m straining at the leash here. I regulate my breathing, pop another happy pill and try to focus on the here and now. But I’m a dreamer, always have been, always will. I want this to happen today, now. Waiting is for mugs and I’m tired of being one.

Is today the day, the day I sign the deal that changes my life, the life of my family? Or am I just another deluded, wannabe author, building their hopes up only for them to be dashed against the rocks of anonymity and failure. Were the doubters, the mockers right all along? Am I destined to fall short and prove them right? Only time will tell, I guess. Time. What a double edged sword it is.

I’ve been beaten up and beaten down these last nine years. Nine years. Since my father died. I have the dates tattooed on my arm but I still stare at the ink in disbelief. Would he be proud of me today? My mother told me recently he always wanted to write a book himself. There were so many things he could have done, should have done. Until you took him. God works in mysterious ways. I hate that saying. I’ve had my fill of mysteries.

I’m sure he’s looking down, telling me to calm down, to remain patient, to wait. Echoing the words of my wise wife. Don’t hit self destruct, Stephen. Play the long game, one more week, that’s all it will take. They’re right, I know, but that doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow. But I’ll wait, I’ll wallow, I’ll pout but I’ll swallow. I’ll get up for work and play the game. What’s one more day between friends. Or enemies, for that matter.

Digging

I’ve been digging in our front garden this week and now understand the meaning of the phrase ‘farmer fit.’ It’s ridiculously hard work. By the time I finished my back ached, my hands were raw, and the sweat was dripping off my nose. I staggered back into the house, doubled over and struggling for breath. ‘You’re not used to real work,’ Fionnuala remarked drily. She had a point, though.

Hard physical labour and I are not on speaking terms. When I was digging, it triggered a memory of watching my grandfather and uncle digging potatoes when I was a young boy. They must have had backs of iron for they never faltered, never flinched from the rhythmic rise and fall as they methodically worked their way through the soil, rarely stopping for rest. These were real men, unafraid of proper graft.

My father was much the same. Broad shouldered and deceptively strong, he could toil in the garden all day, a workhorse who only downed tools when my mother called him in for lunch or dinner. These were tough, unassuming Northern Irish men. They didn’t have muscle vests or gym memberships, they didn’t need them. The land was their gym, the only workout they knew or needed.

All of this reminded me of the poem ‘Digging,’ by Seamus Heaney, which I studied at school. In it, he watches his father dig and compares it to his own art with the written word – ‘Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.’ One of the few lines of verse I remember from my school days, powerful and evocative in equal measure. Writers are diggers, and the pen is our spade.

What are we digging for? Well, I can only speak for myself. I dig to unravel the past, decipher the present and prepare for the future. It is my therapy, my release, a purging, cleansing, bleaching of the spirit. As I write, the toxicity ebbs from my body. I don’t expect fame or fortune. Writing is no means to an end. It is part of me, now. As natural as breathing. I am a writer. I write. That is is the stark, bare truth.

I feel utterly inadequate as I compare my own puny efforts with the spade to the men from my past. There is no comparison between us and, try as I might, I will never match them when it comes to working the land. All I can do is pick up a pen and pay tribute to them. I turn the top soil over and unearth hidden gems, buried deep in the recesses of my memory. Memories, both good and bad, which need to see the light of day once more.

They dug for potatoes, yet I dig more more. I dig to maintain the status quo, an equilibrium and balance so sorely lacking for most of my adult life. I dig to keep on track, eyes fixed ahead, afraid of losing my step and sliding helplessly back down into the miry murk of the past. Dig, dig, deeper and truer with each passing day. Closer, ever closer to the essence of who I am, as opposed to what I became.

‘Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.’

Never Take Your True Friends For Granted

A big shout out to a friend of ours, Dawn, who has been poorly of late and in and out of hospital. This lady and her family entered our lives last year and have been a constant source of love and support ever since. Our families have merged and it feels as if we have all known each other for decades, as opposed to months. We were worried earlier in the week about her, but thankfully it’s nothing too serious and we hope to see her fighting fit again soon.

Dawn is an amazing baker, the cupcakes she made for my birthday still bring a smile to my face. She is an even more amazing mother to three super talented children who excel in film, theatre and art. Her eldest daughter is designing the cover for ‘Skelly’s Square’ once her exams are over and I can’t wait to see what she comes up with. I’m also hoping her son will take the promotional photos of yours truly looking mean and moody in murky Belfast back streets.

So, thank you Dawn. For your love, talents, humour and prayers. We love and miss you. Never take the friends in your life for granted. The true friends, the ones who show up when you most need them, who talk the talk and walk the walk. They are precious and the rarest of commodities. It’s like panning for gold but worth it in the end, as you sift through the grit and gravel for years on end, before finding that golden nugget.

What friends are you most grateful for?

The Hangover Dream

As recurring dreams go, the ‘hangover dream’ is top of the pile. I have had it on a semi regular basis since my decision to give up drinking alcohol six years ago. I would say I haven’t looked back since, except that’s not strictly accurate. The hangover dream is testimony. An unwelcome reminder of what once was but can never be again. And here I am, awake at 05:00 a.m, mulling over another night where it has got the better of me.

It’s always a variation of the same theme. I wake up, hungover, gripped by the physical symptoms and a mental unease as to what happened the night before. For I’ve blacked out at some point and can’t remember. I know I’ve messed up though. I always mess up when I’ve been drinking. It’s par for the course. Lily Allen wrote a song about it called ‘The Fear.’ Lily Allen was right.

In the dream I need to be somewhere and I’m late. I’m rushing about, trying to get back on track while battling the nausea and lethargy. I’m pretending that everything is ‘fine.’ Everything, however, is not fine, it’s far from fine. I’m teetering on the brink, wracked with guilt and regret. Never again, I think to myself. This sick cycle needs to stop. And so it does. Until the next time, that is.

When I wake up, I have the physical symptoms of a hangover. My stomach is queasy and I’m exhausted. ‘The Fear’ envelops me like a cloying blanket. The smell of cigarettes assails my nostrils and my flesh crawls with anxiety ants. I want to bury my head beneath the covers and not emerge until it’s all gone away. Yet, I must get up, dust myself down and face the waiting day. That’s what great pretenders do, right?

Six years. Why do I still dream this dream, unlocking a portal to a past life I want nothing to do with? I have no interest in alcohol now. I’m never tempted. Nowadays I run, I write, I live. These are the best days of my life and I truly believe there are even better ahead. Yet still I dream. The night before the biggest of meetings with the biggest of bosses. When I need to bounce into work fresh and raring to go. Why?

Never rest on your laurels. Complacency is a stealthy assassin, waiting to creep up behind and slit your throat from ear to ear. Just when you thought you could relax a little, lower those defences. Well, breaking news, you can’t. This is for life. One slip, one poor decision, and you end up slithering back down the slippery, steep slope into the murky mire of a past you so desperately want to leave behind.

It’s there, it always will be. A necessary evil, the umbilical cord between who you were and who you want to be. My advice for what it’s worth is to use it. That cord can be a noose or a lifeline. Use it to guide you, to remind you of the high stakes game you continue to play, must continue to play. Day in, day out for the rest of your life. When viewed within that context, the ‘hangover dream’ is a small price to pay.

I have a dream. A horrible, nightmarish dream but one I need to periodically experience so as I remain vigilant and alert to the warning signs. I must be prepared at all times to repel enemy attacks, to man the ramparts at a moments notice in order to face the coming storm. I feel rough, I feel rotten, but at least I feel something. Alive to the threats, the possibilities, the tripwires and hidden pits. Alive to life.

I’m No Hugh Jackman, But….

I write from the heart, warts and all. You get exactly what it says on the tin. A lot of people seem to like this style, others less so. I cannot pretend to be happy when I am not. This is a modern day skill I have never quite been able to get my head around. I don’t say ‘I’m fine’ and ‘I’m loving life’ when I’m clearly not. I have my ups, my downs, my peaks and troughs. I can be happy Stephen, sad Stephen, somewhere in between Stephen.

I’ve written largely positive material these last two years on the blog. It’s been a slog at times, but I’ve largely posted on a daily basis, ably supported by Fionnuala when I have needed a break or been too busy to write. Rebecca has also popped up with the occasional special guest appearance. We have always viewed Fractured Faith Blog as a platform to show others there is hope, even when all seems hopeless.

In order to adequately explain this, however, I’ve had to, on occasion, revisit the darker times. I’ve had to dip my toe back into the murky waters of despair and dismay. This has been a necessary evil. In order to represent the impact and brightness of the light, you must also depict the soul wrenching darkness from which it emerged. It is the backdrop to who we were and helps educate the reader as to how far we have come.

I call it the Abyss. There are several chapters in the book, where Meredith Starc finds herself cocooned within it, utterly disoriented and devoid of hope. I have also written about it on the blog, the darkest of places, where I once dwelt. A modern day Gollum, scurrying around in the gloom, wallowing in self pity and regret. I hated that world, I hated that life, but most of all I hated myself. I so wanted to be Sméagol again.

Life is so much better now, which I hope is reflected in the content of this blog. The good days vastly outnumber the not so good ones. This allows me to write with a freedom I once knew nothing about. I no longer have to fake it, like so many do both online and in the real world. I am finally comfortable in my own skin, allowing me to discard the mask and throw it aside. I am me and, most days, I can look myself in the mirror and accept that.

This blogger ain’t for changin’. There will, no doubt, be gloomy times ahead, such is the nature of this unpredictable beast we call life. I will continue to mix it up on here, as required. I’m hoping it’s a mostly smooth ride for you lot, but I’m guaranteeing nothing. There will be rough, there will be smooth, there will be the long, largely boring bits in between where nothing much happens.

A consistent message on this blog is to be yourself. It’s okay to feel miserable and disconsolate at times, if that is what your external circumstances are dictating at that particular moment in your life. You don’t have to put on a performance. I know this better than anyone. I’m no showman, Hugh Jackman can rest easy on that front. I am who I am, and so should you. This is me.

What They Don’t See

What They Don’t See

https://everysmallvoice.wordpress.com/2019/03/22/what-they-dont-see/
— Read on everysmallvoice.wordpress.com/2019/03/22/what-they-dont-see/

This weeks guest blogger is Heather at http://everysmallvoice.wordpress.com A very underrated writer, her blog deals with a range of topics, many of which I can relate to. I was spoilt for choice when picking a post, but plumped for this poem, which I could have written myself. Please share the love and follow Heather’s blog. You won’t be disappointed.

Photographs From Today’s Run

Here are some photos from today’s run. My 12 miles ended up as 13.5 but hey ho. Hannah joined me for the first mile while Rebecca chilled out at a picnic before joining up with me near the finish. Fionnuala was there to capture all the best moments and keep us all under control. The weather stayed fine and my legs felt good. Now for a hot bath and a Chinese takeaway. Not at the same time, I might add. Enjoy your Saturday whatever you are up to.

Saturday With Team Black

Today promises to be exciting. I’ve been approached by a ministry team who are running marathon relays through each of Ireland’s 32 counties this year. This weekend is Week 15 and they arrive in County Armagh. It’s a massive undertaking but they are totally committed to completing the challenge, no matter what obstacles or adverse weather conditions they have to overcome.

The ministry leader, Katey, is an inspiring lady, committed to sharing her love of God and his Word with others. I was thrilled to be asked to participate but not quite so thrilled when told I was pencilled in to run the longest leg – 12 miles along the canal towpath from Scarva to Newry. On the plus side it’s a beautiful, and thankfully flat, route which I’ve never run before. And we have been promised dry weather.

My leg starts at 1:00 pm and I plan to be in Newry by 3:00. Hannah is starting the leg with me and I will meet up with Rebecca near the finish line, to pass on a scroll to her, which all the runners carry to represent the Word of God being carried around the island of Ireland. Each relay is started by a church leader and finished by a young person. Rebecca and Hannah are both super excited to be involved.

As ever, Fionnuala will be holding it all together by driving us to and from various locations and keeping us fed. At the finish line there will be a worship event awash with music and colour. I will be the sweaty mess in the corner, nursing sore feet and guzzling water. But it is a worthwhile event and we are honoured to be involved, representing the Father’s Love ministry, led by our dear friends, Graham and Anne McCartney.

It’s been an eventful week and, what better way to end it than this. I’ll post an update later today, hopefully with photographs of us all. In the meantime, any prayers and positive thoughts for Team Black would be much appreciated. I see honeycomb ice cream in my future later this evening. Lots and lots of honeycomb ice cream. What are you all up to this weekend?

Fractured Faith Hits 10,000 Followers

Hello from Northern Ireland. We woke up to more good news this morning. Fractured Faith Blog passed the 10,000 follower mark overnight. Almost two weeks ahead of schedule. Fionnuala and I would like to thank everyone who contributed towards the ‘final push.’ It’s been a tumultuous and topsy turvy week and I, for one, am excited for what the future weeks and months bring.

Thank you again.

Thank You Everyone

Just a quick note to thank everyone who has forwarded best wishes regarding Fionnuala’s post yesterday that the book has finally found a home and is going to be published later this year. After a few near misses with bigger US agents I finally settled for a smaller, UK based publisher. The clincher was a lengthy, detailed e-mail from the editor, who had clearly read the book from cover to cover and ‘got’ what ‘Skelly’s Square’ was all about.

I’m still processing the news but am, of course, excited and delighted. It’s hard to take in that a ‘mere’ 18 months ago I first had the idea of a troubled young man haunted by an imaginary voice in his head. Except the voice wasn’t imaginary. That I stumbled across a piece of graffiti in a Belfast back alley which was to become the gateway to countless parallel universes. That Kirkwood, Meredith, Harley, Emily, Skelly and Dobson would be born.

The outline for Book 2 in the series is simmering nicely in the background and I guess I should get cracking with putting pen to paper on that one. I’m also committed to my other project, ‘Bomb Girl,’ which is presently being serialised on my Wattpad account. I’ll post a link to that later today for those who would like to sample my fiction writing. There is a third project also – ‘This Troubled Land,’ but more about that another day.

I hope some of you will purchase ‘Skelly’s Square’ when it sees the light of day, probably later this summer. I have a lot of work to do with the publisher, but it will available to buy on Amazon in both e-book and hard copy form. Or you can order one from me directly. Until then, I want to thank you, my WordPress family, for your unwavering support of the blog and my ramblings. Only 30 off the big 10K now. Thank you.

HE HAS ONLY GONE AND DONE IT!!

Fionnuala here and I have some amazing news to share with you all. Stephen mentioned in his blog this morning how he felt this month was going to bring good news for him, well he didn’t have to wait too long, this afternoon he has been offered a publishing deal!!

Myself and the kids are so proud of Stephen it’s hard to put into words. Stephen for as long as Ive known him, which is 23 years, has put himself down and listened to others put him down and rubbish him so much so that he almost lost everything. Even in this mornings blog he wrote how he felt like a fraud in a suit well I can honestly say that my husband is anything but a fraud in the not too distant future my husband will be a published author.

When Stephen sets his mind to do something he does it, a few years ago he decided he wanted to run a marathon – he has now ran 9, just over a year ago he decided to write a book and now today he has been offered a publishing deal.

If you have a dream don’t give up on it no matter what the haters say even if that hater lives in your head if your dream is on your heart go for it. Don’t put off to tomorrow what can be done today.

Hard work pays off and it certainly has for Stephen and we are all immensely proud of him.

Mr. Razor Awaits

It’s back to work this morning. Which means I have to shave. My face, I might add. After a glorious bank holiday weekend in the realm of scruffy stubbledom, it’s back to reality with a resounding thump. Mr. Razor has an appointment with me in the bathroom, the second I stop writing this blog and shuffle off to meet him, like a condemned man making the long walk to the gallows.

Being a BIG BOSS now, I have to present at least a veneer of respectability to my adoring team as I go about my daily business. This entails wearing a business suit and tie, shiny shoes and shaving. It doesn’t impact upon my performance in the slightest but is expected of one who has risen to my lofty position within the organisation. Thankfully, no bowler hat or copy of the Financial Times. Yet.

Fionnuala is no fan of the stubble although she did allow me to go two weeks without shaving a few Christmases ago. I was quite impressed with the results, her less so. I do ‘good beard’ and am now of an age where my chin furniture is of a silvery glow. I like to think I resemble a young Clooney. George, not Rosemary, that is. In my minds eye I’m a silver fox, as opposed to a manky old tramp.

Our Adam is now of an age where he has challenged me to a beard growing contest in the summer. Although I suspect his would blow away in the face of a moderate breeze. In these parts, we call it ‘bum fluff.’ Those who are easily offended may wish to look away at this stage of the post. He talks now of shaving, tattoos and learning to drive. What happened to our baby boy?

El beard is, of course, poor laziness on my part. Shaving every day is such a chore. I know you woman have childbirth and everything but really? Shaving and man flu. It’s tough being a male of the species. Please read the previous sentences in a heavily sarcastic tone of voice. Although I have my lawyers on speed dial, just in case. Oh that’s right, I don’t have any lawyers. I don’t even have a lawyer.

It’s all just part of my ingrained desire to hide away, of course. When I’m unshaven and wearing my customary hat, I can glide anonymously through life, without acquiring a second glance. Clean shaven, suited and booted, I feel horribly exposed, just waiting for those around me to point and exclaim ‘Look at him. He’s nothing but a big, fat fraud.’ The voice in my head never fails to disappoint.

But, play the game I must. There are bills to pay and mouths to feed. My office awaits and, within it, a team requiring direction and leadership. So I’ll shave the stubble off, don my work suit and wait for the train along with all the other middle aged business types who share my daily commute to and from Belfast. I wonder if they all feel like I do. Maybe one day I’ll ask. Set up a support group, or something.

I’ve a feeling this could be a big month. A game changer in many ways. Don’t ask me why, I just do. But until that happens, Beardy McBeardFace will have to grin and bear it. Mr. Razor awaits. Is this how Marie Antoinette felt as she faced Monsieur Guillotine? Time will tell. But let’s hope there are better days just around the corner. The world needs more George Clooney lookalikes. I know I do.

Help Us Hit 10K

We are less than 70 followers now off the BIG 10K at Fractured Faith. It would be great if we could reach this milestone by 21 May which is the blog’s second birthday. So, while we normally seek to give as opposed to take, it would be much appreciated if as many of you as possible could hit us with a reblog in order to help us over the finishing line. We are always grateful for the love and support we receive from our WordPress tribe.

THANK YOU!

The Breaking Even Point

Being the most boring man alive, I’m reading a book about leadership at the minute called ‘The First 90 Days.’ It’s aimed at people who have moved into a new work role, normally as a result of a promotion, and who are expected to make an initial positive impact. It features lots of fancy leadership speak, talking about transitional acceleration and the like. I would much rather be reading ‘Lord of the Rings’ but needs must.

I’ve only read the first chapter, there being ten in total. Each chapter focuses on an area of your work life which you can improve upon. Chapter titles include Promoting Yourself, Securing Early Wins and Network Building. Worry not, this is not the beginning of a ten blog series on the topic. I’ve no desire in seeing my leadership plummet so will spare you all the misery of such a proposition.

The one point from the book which has struck a chord with me so far, however, is about reaching the ‘breaking even’ point. This is the stage in a new post where you behind to contribute more than you consume. The aim is to get there as efficiently and effectively as you can, so as you become an asset to the organisation as opposed to a burden. 90 days is the make or break period.

The book was recommended to me by a colleague as I’ve recently been promoted, but it got me thinking. For many years I wasted my life, meandering along with little focus or direction. I was a bit of a mess, if I’m honest, lacking in confidence and self belief. I convinced myself I was a failure with little, if anything, to offer the world. I wallowed in a sea of self pity and loathing.

When my father died, nine years ago now, the wheels came off completely and I spiralled into a destructive tailspin which I couldn’t pull myself out of. If it wasn’t for my family and true friends, I dread to think where I would have ended up. It was car crash television of the highest order and I was the star of the show. Yet, by hook or by crook, I survived it to tell the tale.

This blog is my testimony to that, my survival journal. It’s written as a signpost to others, showing that it is possible to step back from the abyss and make something of your life. It is possible to contribute more than you consume, to attain the ‘breaking even’ point in life, whereupon you feel worthy, valued and no longer a burden on loved ones. It’s the stage in life where you can look yourself in the mirror and not flinch away.

This blog is also a lifeline, a daily reminder I can never rest on my laurels for fear of sliding back into old habits. Complacency can creep up on you so easily, it’s a silent killer. Writing is one of the protective mechanisms I’ve surrounded myself with to ensure I don’t ever return to that cold, dark place. I’ve fought hard to get to my ‘breaking even’ point. It’s been a long and rocky road but I’m finally there. Are you?

Have you reached your ‘breaking even’ point in life?

I’m Sorry I Don’t Say Sorry Enough

I’ve been a little tardy in replying to comments posted on the blog of late and reading the posts of others. A new job has been steadily eating into my day, in addition to the million and one other pressing matters tugging at my time and attention. This is most unlike me as I quietly pride myself on interacting with others and building a sense of community on WordPress. I hope to be firing on all cylinders again, very soon.

So, sorry….

It’s a small word, but a powerful one. In Northern Ireland, it is bandied about with little sense of its impact. Everyone constantly apologises to everyone else about such inconsequential matters. You accidentally nudge a fellow commuter on a crowded train – sorry – you knock a pen off a colleagues desk – sorry – you neglect to blog in a few days – oh, I’m terribly sorry.

Some of us apologise without even thinking about what we are apologising for, but do we truly mean it. To say sorry is to accept a fault or failing on your part, which is extremely difficult for some. It’s accepting you have fallen short of the standards you have set yourself. For some, that is a bridge too far. It’s tough enough being judged by others, without having to reflect on your own conduct and realise it could have been better.

We need to say sorry, though. It opens the door to forgiveness. It’s whacking the tennis ball across the net and hoping the person on the other side returns your serve. You have to mean it, though. Really mean it. Recognise where you messed up and take positive steps to ensure it never happens again. Sorry is the flag in the ground, the line in the sand, the place of no return. It defines who we want to be.

I’ve said sorry a million times, but for many years I never really meant it. It was a selfish exercise in self preservation, trying to wriggle off the hook when I discovered I had nowhere else to run. It took me a long time to say sorry and actually take affirmative action to prove to others I meant it this time, and it wouldn’t happen again. Words are cheap, they need to be backed up. You need to convince the injured parties.

Saying sorry and meaning it requires guts. It’s not for everyone. But it is a step down the path towards freedom. Breaking free from the shackles of guilt, shame and self loathing. It’s the key to unlocking the cell door you have been languishing in for what seems an eternity. It’s a chance, an opportunity to haul yourself out of the pit and start over again. It’s a painful process, initiating forgiveness, but a necessary one for all concerned.

The etymology of the word can be traced to the Old English ‘sang,’ meaning ‘pained’ or ‘distressed.’ Forgiveness is a painful experience, it drags up past memories which we don’t want to address. But wounds need to be cauterised and sometimes there needs to be additional pain, before proper healing can begin. That’s why so many of us detest change, much preferring to wallow in the status quo.

Everybody needs to say sorry, now and again. It’s a lifeline, one I would encourage you to grab onto and tug for all it’s worth. If you are reading this today, and feel it applies to you, then what are you waiting for? Find the person and say it. Sorry seems to be the hardest word, somebody once sang. But, such a necessary one. Say sorry today. It might just change your life. Forever.

Are you good at saying sorry?

Who do you need to apologise to today?

Guest Bloggers – Meredith and Shae Jackson

Family Memories

https://theshaesdaysblog.wordpress.com/2019/04/28/family-memories/
— Read on theshaesdaysblog.wordpress.com/2019/04/28/family-memories/

The first blogger I’d like to feature in my series on WordPress people who inspire me, is in fact a family. The Jackson clan from the good old U, S of A. Mother and daughter team, Meredith and Shae Jackson, are two of the loveliest bloggers you could meet. They write regularly on a variety of topics; from faith to fitness, family life to food. They also were invaluable beta readers for my first book.

Shae is one of my youngest, but most loyal followers. Wise beyond her years, she is funny, smart and ridiculously talented. She also has a huge heart and writes accordingly, always putting others first. She dances, restores antique furniture and writes short stories which leave me scratching my head as to how one so young can be blessed with such a wide range of skills.

Meredith, aka ‘mom’, is a brilliant writer and teacher who has bolstered my own Fractured Faith since I first discovered her blog ‘My Way Home Life.’ I’m not quite sure how she crams so much every day into 24 hours a day. Her and Fionnuala share that particular gift. We talk most days and I always look forward to her comments and humour. Her love for God, her family and community is evident in everything she posts.

I’ll be featuring more of my my favourite bloggers in the weeks ahead. I’d encourage you, if you don’t already, to follow them all. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

Running Through My Thoughts

Yesterday was my first pre-work run, necessitated by a promotion which bid farewell to long lunches and leisurely runs through the city. Now let’s get one thing straight, I detest running first thing. It takes a few hours for my body to even consider physical exercise when it awakens. If I had a pound for every time I said I was going to jump out of bed and go running, I’d have at least £637. Possible £640.

So it was with some surprise that I found myself awake yesterday before the dreaded alarm klaxon summoned me to the land of the living. I briefly considered ignoring it before steeling my resolve and flinging back the covers. Today was not going to be that day. I was running a 10K if it killed me. Which, given my aversion to morning exercise, was a distinct possibility.

I peeked out the curtains, to be greeted by a damp, grey landscape. Wonderful. I slipped into my running gear which I had optimistically set out the night before. Opening the front door, I was greeted by a brisk breeze which left me in doubt that the next 6.2 miles of my life were not going to being the most joyful experience of my life. But, there was nothing else for it. I tapped my stopwatch and was off.

After the initial shock wore off, I settled into a steady rhythm. It started to rain and gusts of wind forced me to retreat into my thoughts rather than consider the long road ahead. All sorts of thoughts bombarded my mental floodgates. Good thoughts, bad thoughts, unwanted thoughts, thoughts I latched upon and never wanted to let go of, all of them battling for my attention.

Endless images flashed across the internal movie screen playing in my head. Some made me smile, others caused me to cringe and flinch away. Many were regular visitors, others less so; obtrusive and insisting I invite them in for a protracted stay. As I plodded up a hill outside of the village, I wrestled with the internal Pandora’s Box which intermittently seeks to disturb my settled existence.

One step forward, two steps back. Then four steps onwards again. This is OCD. Forever elusive and tantalisingly beyond one’s stretching fingertips. A seductive siren tempting you onto the rocks with its incessant song. A never ending drumbeat, a vice that refuses to lessen its grip on its victim. Pounding, pounding, pounding you into submission.

If you let it, that is. I take my daily medication. I talk to loved ones. I fill my day with productive, positive activities, not allowing it to lay down it’s toxic roots. And I run. I sweat the stinking thinking from my psyche. I purge myself of the poison that is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I embrace the temporary physical pain of distance running. I’m playing the long game. It is worth the suffering.

At the end of the run I felt cleansed and ready for the day ahead. I know the thoughts will return, they always do. But I will be ready for them, armed and waiting. For years I was it’s docile victim, but no more. It snaps, it snarls, it prowls at the edges of my sanity, waiting for the slightest chink, the most fleeting opportunity. I am ever vigilant, I cannot, will not let it prevail.

Help Me With My Bucket List

I turned 49 today. I know, I know, I don’t look a day over 39 you silver tongued charmers. I’ve had a fantastic day with the family, received some lovely presents and eaten far too much. Back running again tomorrow in order to burn off the 49 million calories I consumed today. Thank you to those of you who sent birthday greetings and/or participated in my birthday related posts throughout the week.

Over pizza this afternoon, Fionnuala and the kids challenged me to compile a bucket list of ’10 things’ I want to do before I hit the dreaded big 50 in 365 days time. For, truth be told, I am dreading it a bit. I’ve achieved a lot but I still believe there is a lot more left in the tank. I’ve made progress but the road ahead stretches over the horizon and out of sight. I still feel like that awkward 15 year old.

Here’s what I’ve come up with:

1. Run my 10th marathon.

2. Succeed in my new job.

3. Publish my first novel, ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles: Skelly’s Square.’

4. Write Book 2 in the KSC series.

5. Complete my Wattpad story, ‘Bomb Girl.’

6. Read The Bible and The Lord of the Rings from cover to cover.

7. Get A Fractured Faith to 20,000 followers.

8. Bench press a minimum of 60kg.

9. Create a new look front garden.

And yes, I realise that’s only nine goals. Which is where you lot come in. I’m inviting suggestions for a 10th and final suggestion for the bucket list. Just drop a comment below. I’ll let you know if it’s a possibility and announce the ‘winner’ next week. And sorry for over egging the birthday celebrations. It’s just WordPress has been desperately quiet of late and I’m trying to inject a smidgeon if interaction and community.

Thank you, as ever.

I’m Swamped….In A Good Way

I posted earlier in the week, asking fellow bloggers to send me their submissions and ideas for a guest post on Fractured Faith. I expected a few responses but was totally unprepared for the volume and quality of what I received. It will take me until my next birthday to read them all. I want to thank everyone who submitted for taking the time to do so. It speaks volumes of our online community.

So what I’ve decided to do is post a series of guest blogs in the coming weeks and months. There are simply too many to choose from and it would be unfair to limit my choices to this week. This blog is all about inclusion and connection. There are so many great writers out there who put my efforts to shame. I want you to be exposed to their talent and learn to love their work as much as I do.

The guest post slot will run on a weekly basis. I haven’t decided which day of the week yet. If you would still like to stick your head above the parapet and submit, then feel free to do so. I’ll be running another ‘birthday giveaway’ on WordPress and Twitter later today so stay tuned for that. I’ll also be dusting down a few blog ideas from the past which again encourage interaction and communication. It’s only three days now until the big event.

Don’t forget my work in progress, ‘Bomb Girl’ which you can all access on my Wattpad page. Just click the link on one of my related posts and it should take you to the story. Chapter 3 is brewing nicely in my noggin which I hope to share with you all in the not too distant future. I’m buzzing with ideas at the moment, so be prepared for lots more of my fiction in the months ahead. Talk to you all again soon.

Bury A Friend: My Experiences With The Unfriend Button

I haven’t been active on Facebook in many years, but have recently begun to dip my toe back into that social media swamp. I’m starting afresh so need to have a massive purge of my old account. This has necessitated me hitting the ‘unfriend’ button repeatedly as I clear my timeline of those who I never had any connection with in the first place. It’s a cull, a cleansing, an online reorganisation of my life. In a way cathartic, but also a tad guilt ridden.

I wonder what it would be like to be on the receiving end of this unfollow frenzy. Do those affected even notice, or somewhere have I hurt somebody, left them feeling unwanted and discarded? Due to the nature of my previous account, I have never spoken to nor met the vast majority of these people. Yet still, I feel a tiny prick of my conscience every time I hit that button. Am I really that thoughtless, that callous, that cold?

I’ve been on the receiving end of the unfriend button, both online and in real life. I believe the former is known as ‘ghosting,’ where a person makes the decision to cut you out of their life, without explanation. I’ve felt snubbed by those who have turned their backs on me, when I’ve been on my knees and in need of true friendship and support. People who I thought cared about me, wanted to be part of my world.

It’s not a nice feeling, and so easy to wallow in self pity, asking yourself why they are being like this and what have you done wrong. You pick at the scab, over and over again, until fresh blood is drawn. The obsessive personality refuses to let it heal if its own accord, you dissect and over analyse in forensic detail the reasons why you are no longer good enough to merit their attention or time.

It’s not a pleasant feeling and a guaranteed way to plummet down a rabbit hole into a Mad Hatters pity party of quite epic proportions. You become the failure they have painted you as, you look in their eyes and see their perception of you, the failure, the inadequacies, the weaknesses. You fail to see the truth, and swallow the bitter pill they have shoved down your throat. You consume the lie they force feed you with.

Look around and take in the truth. The truth is in the eyes of those who remain. The family and friends who have stuck by you, even at times when the wheels have threatened to come off and send us all screaming over the edge of the precipice. They are the truth, and they are all that matters. Not the flatterers, the fairweather friends, the false and the fake. Discard them like an old coat and keep walking forward.

This is an exciting time for me. A major promotion at work, on the verge of publishing my first book and running a blog which has succeeded my wildest dreams. A fantastic running opportunity has also landed in my lap this week and I am loved by people around me who are all I need. I am in a good place, light years from where I was previously. The negativity, the depression, the unhappiness are nowhere to be seen.

And I realise. I needed to be unfriended. It was a necessary evil, a cauterisation of a festering wound which was threatening to infect my entire being. I am free of that life now, free to rebuild and live the life I was born to live. I have what I need as I head towards my birthday on Sunday. So, hit that button all you want, batter it, but you will not batter me into submission. For I am starting again.

What have been your experiences of unfollowing, unfriending and ghosting?

Happy Birthday To Me….Well Almost

It’s my birthday in five days! Where has the last year gone? Search me. No need to guess my age or enquire as to my address for cards and gifts. Well, unless you insist. Rather, I want to spend the week returning the favour. I’m very blessed and grateful for the life I have. There but for the grace of God and all that. It could all have turned out very differently. Yet, here I am. A very fortunate man.

Every day this week I’ll be offering my fellow bloggers a free service from yours truly. Unfortunately it won’t be the contents of my bank account, not that that amounts to a hill of beans, as it’s also four days to my next pay day. Today it’s the opportunity to be a guest blogger on Fractured Faith Blog. We are now nearing 10K followers so it’s a great opportunity for a fellow writer to showcase their talent.

All you have to do is comment below if you are interested, with a brief pitch as to what you want to write about on the blog. I’m open to most subjects. Sell it to me and make me an offer I simply cannot refuse. I’ll post my favourites next week. Please don’t be offended if you’re not chosen. It can be an old post you’re particularly proud of or something brand spanking new. The choice is yours.

Tomorrow I will post another gift I’m offering you wonderful people. Keep tuned to see what that is. If you’re a little shy about sharing your guest blog idea in open forum for now, then drop me an e-mail and we can take it from there. There are so many talented writers on WordPress who deserve 10K followers much more than me. It’s only fair that I use this week to share the love a little.

Drop your guest blog ideas below or e-mail me.

How I Spent My Easter Monday

Charlie the border terrier may be seven now, but he doesn’t know that, so still bounces about with all the energy of a three month old pup. We woke up to a beautiful, sunny day so I decided to take him for a walk around the village so as to burn off some of his excess excitability. The loop in question is 2.5 miles which I regularly run. It’s undulating so I was certain Charlie would be ready for a lie down by the end of it.

Charlie has a unique walking style which involves sprinting 30 metres, stopping, sniffing a fence/lamppost/wall, cocking his leg, and so on. He was on a mission to let every other canine within a five mile radius know that this was his village and it was time to set a few markers down. We tweet, text, and occasionally talk to one another. Dogs bark, sniff and er….urinate.

As such, my 25 minute run turned into a 55 minute stop/start walk. Charlie had a whale of a time and returned home to a well earned bowl of cool, fresh water. Followed by a snooze in the shade. Fionnuala was by now performing heroics tackling the ironing so I resorted to my next chore; clearing our front garden of a mountain of bark, prior to digging it up and replanting for the summer months.

I’m no gardener but who needs the gym after an hour in the son shovelling bark clippings into rubbish bags. I was covered in sweat and aching all over. It’s what we refer to in this part of the world as ‘real work’ which a pen pusher like me is totally ill equipped for. Fionnuala often remarks on how smooth my hands are, given I’ve never done a proper days work in my life. Today confirmed the above.

The sun was now high in the sky as we were blessed with the hottest day of the year so far. I decided to make the most of it as, let’s face it, it could be snowing this time next week. We do live in Northern Ireland, after all. Fionnuala raised an eyebrow when I announced my intentions, suggesting I wait until later in the day when it was a bit cooler. Did I listen to her wise advice? Of course, I didn’t.

The plan was a gentle 10K out of the village to the shores of Lough Neagh and back. As I set off I was greeted with a tailwind which ensured the outward leg was brisk and cooling. No problem. I turned in a reasonable time and headed home in good heart. That’s when the heat hit me in the face, combined with my dog walking and gardening duties. The inward 5 K was sweaty, stifling slog.

I returned home and promptly collapsed in the kitchen in front of a bemused Hannah and a wife wearing her best ‘I told you so’ expression. Thankfully neither CPR nor oxygen were required but maybe I’ll listen to my wife in future when I contemplate running in the Irish equivalent of a heatwave. Us Celtic folk are not built for such conditions. Give me freezing sleet any day of the week.

So a most productive Easter Monday so far and several welcome opportunities to work off the calorific excesses of the day before. I’m back to work tomorrow to start my new job as a BIG BOSS. I’ll be shaving, wearing a suit and tie, talking corporate gobbledygook, that sort of stuff. Thank God for WordPress where I can be me. Simple, silly me. You lucky, lucky, people. Happy Easter wherever you are.

How are you spending your Easter Monday?

He Is Risen

Good Morning WordPress.

Fionnuala and I hope you all have a wonderful Easter wherever you are.

I’ll post my ‘normal’ blog later in the day.

Never give up, no matter how much of a mess your life has become.

I’m a walking, talking testimony to that.

Don’t give up.

There is still hope.

For….

He is Risen.

Let’s Start Again

When it comes to beating yourself up, I could compete for Ireland at the Olympics. But the last few days have taught me I need to focus on my strengths as opposed to dwell on the perceived weaknesses which always loom large in my rear view mirror. Fionnuala reminded me recently of what I have achieved in the last year, achievements I should be proud of, it’s not all doom and gloom.

I’m a hypocrite but I need to practice what I preach. When I write, I try to be positive and inspire others. The blog is nearing 10,000 followers and I’m hopeful we can hit that target within the next month. We value every one of you, both regular visitors and less frequent fliers. WordPress is the most supportive social media platform and has restored my fractured faith in online communities.

I was asked recently why I feel the need to blog every day. Isn’t it too much for me? Do I really need to? Well, there are a number of reasons. Yes, I am seeking to promote my writing career. It’s my dream to write for a living one day, although a job promotion earlier this week means there is less pressure on me at present to do so. But more than that, I enjoy writing, it is my release, my therapy, my passion.

Above all of these, however, YOU are the reason. I love my WordPress community and I look forward every day to engaging with, and learning, from you all. Communication is a two way street and I get as much out of your comments, as I hope you all do from this one. I read A LOT of your stuff, even though I don’t always get the opportunity to comment in detail due to my million and one other responsibilities.

I’m currently beta reading for three other talented writers, and I’ve connected with many other great people along the way. You are ALL part of this journey and you will never know how much your encouragement has spurred me on in other areas of my life. So today’s post is a thank you and a celebration. I see a lot of pain and sadness on here, people who feel life has passed them by and there is no way back in the game.

My experiences these last two years tell me it hasn’t and there is. Easter is traditionally seen as a time of resurrection and revival. A time when light prevails over darkness, where hope and faith are rewarded. Whatever your spiritual beliefs, we can all agree on such sentiments. Wherever you are, whatever your current situation, you can and you will punch through to the other side.

Starting today.

Do you want to start all over again?

I Got The Job

Well, despite my best efforts I passed the interview board earlier this afternoon and have been promoted. I am now officially a BIG BOSS. Two weeks of worry and gnashing of teeth evaporated the second the BIG BIG BOSS told me I was a BIG BOSS. I’m now in charge of a NOT QUITE SO BIG BOSS and a team of human beings. They are also going to give me extra money. Every month, no less.

The interview went much better than I expected. My brain didn’t turn to mush and I was able to string together several coherent sentences. The panel took notes, nodded and smiled throughout. I even managed to give a ten minute presentation without knocking over the flip chart or falling out of a window. It would appear that I’m slightly better at this ‘adult’ stuff than I first surmised.

For those of you worrying I now have to be sensible and mature, worry not. You can still look forward to the normal blogging silliness on a regular basis. Writing remains my passion and I’d miss you all too much if I disappeared back into the real world. I’d like to think some of you might miss me as well. Although given the success of Fionnuala and Hannah’s posts last week, I’m not so sure on the latter count.

If nothing else, the pay hike will be a much needed boost to the Black coffers. Which is always nice. But, more importantly, this has given me back some much needed confidence. I now know I can perform at a high level in the workplace, something I never thought I’d hear myself say again. Thank you again to everyone on WordPress who has been praying or thinking kind thoughts these last few days. It is MUCH APPRECIATED.

I’ve Got 99 Bibles….

While I’m an avid reader I haven’t picked up my Bible in some time. This has niggled away at my conscience but there always seems to be something else which gets in the way. It’s hard to put my finger on but one of my ‘problems’ is that when I think about reading it, I can’t decide which one to open. Saying I’ve 99 Bibles is a little disingenuous. I’ve actually got five. But 99 made for a cooler post title.

My first Bible was a zip up, tiny travel New International Version (NIV). It was when I started to explore my faith and I was so clueless I went to a high street bookshop as opposed to a specialist Christian one. They had a very poor selection and I settled for this one, even though I can barely read the print. For a long time, I carried it everywhere with me in my manbag.

It was replaced with a larger, black leather NIV which Fionnuala bought me as a Christmas present. This was my go to text when I was at my most diligent. I’ve read it from cover to cover, scribbling notes in the margins and highlighting verses that spoke to me. I was passionate about my faith then, so much so that I’m almost afraid to open it again and see how far I may have fallen backwards.

Next up was another present from Fionnuala. A beautiful C.S. Lewis Bible, peppered with quotes from my fellow countryman. My problem with this tome is that I love it so much I’m afraid to write on it or do anything to detract from its pristine condition. It’s like an immaculate sports car which sits in the garage as it’s owner is afraid to take it out in case it gets scratched or muddy.

Then I tried The Message version. I loved its New Testament translation, especially Paul’s letters, which really came alive for me. But I struggled with its paraphrasing of the Psalms. As in really, really struggled. Oh and don’t get me started on Proverbs. It proper butchered Proverbs. So, once again, I found myself in my local Faith Mission store, scanning the hundreds of translations on offer.

This time, I plumped for a New King James Version (NKJV). I heard that the NKJ is the most accurate translation of the original text but it reminded me of Sunday School with all its ‘thees’ and ‘thous’. I liked the NKJV but, again, it just was a tad old fashioned for me in its language. And while I love my Kindle, I can’t read the Bible online. I need a physical copy of it in my hands.

Before you all start, I know I’m just making excuses. God’s Word is God’s Word. Just pick up a copy, any copy, and read it Stephen. Let go and let God. The truth will set you free, be it KJV or NIV. Just make it ASAP. It’s a mental block, a hurdle I’m struggling to negotiate. And the longer I stare at them on the bookshelf, gathering dust, the bigger the issue becomes for me. It’s the white elephant in the room.

I know you aren’t all Bible readers but, to those of you who do, any advice would be much appreciated. I’ve been very anxious this last week, worrying about big stuff looming up on the horizon. To the point, I felt on the verge of a total meltdown a few days ago. Thank goodness Fionnuala and Hannah were on hand to keep the blog going over the weekend. I’m glad we are all back under the same roof again though.

We found him!!

As most of you are aware Hannah and myself are in Dublin for Shawn Mendes concert and Adam and Rebecca are at home looking after Stephen! AWhilst we were in the same city as Mr Mendes we thought we would try and catch a glimpse of him before the concert.

Hard stalking, sorry work, certainly does pay off and after locating his hotel last night this morning we casually stood outside said hotel for 2 hours and yes we saw him all be it just the back of him but that was enough for Hannah.

We are just back from the concert and Hannah has had the best night of her life she says and it actually was a brilliant show.

Me and Hannah love our selfies ❤️

Just look at that smile and the excitement in our girls face ❤️

I have enjoyed this very special time with Hannah and special memories have been made this weekend. This has been first time Hannah and I have had the opportunity to take a trip together and it has been so special for both of us. We have always been close but this weekend has brought us even closer.

There is a phrase that a lot of parents of special needs children have said to them which is “God only gives special children to special people” and I know a lot of people that that phrase really annoys and upsets them. To me all children are special and Stephen and I have been blessed with three amazing children in Adam, Hannah and Rebecca each of them totally amazing in their own light. As for Hannah yes she has additional needs and I am honoured that God choose me to be her mum and look after such a precious gem. So if you have children cherish them because they are our treasures.

Normal services will be resumed tomorrow with Mr Black he has had two days off now and I’m sure will have plenty of his own antics to update you on.

Putting the Gory Into Glory

The other day I posted about running the Omagh Half Marathon on Saturday. And, sad man that I am, I spent a good part of yesterday evening scrolling through the race’s Facebook page in an effort to find a half decent photo of me crossing the finish line. I wanted to capture that moment of glory, of triumph, the culmination of several months toil and turmoil.

In my mind’s eye, I strode over the finish line like a Greek God, the sole focus of the crowd’s adoring cheers. ‘Isn’t that Stephen Black?’ they murmured to one another. ‘The renowned blogger and talented, if unpublished, author? He runs as well? Is there no end to this man’s talent?’ There would be hearty handshakes and back slaps all round as I bounded home, as fresh as a daisy.

The reality was, of course, somewhat different. I’m just one sweaty, gasping middle aged man lost in a field of other runners. If I resemble a Greek God, then it’s certainly not one who adorns art galleries and museums. I’m not punching the air in triumph, rather fiddling with my stopwatch and begging for the agony to end. I have run the race but, rather than wax lyrical, all I want to do is lie down.

It was glory of sorts, but the most gory sort of glory. It was aches and pains, and not the perfect, pretty picture I naively expected. Not all successes are ticker tape parades and front page news. Many are quiet acts of determination. Glory is most often an ugly, solitary act, gone in the blink of an eye as the next hurdle looms up on the horizon. Yet, you did it, and that’s all that matters.

What are your thoughts on gory glory?

Mission Accomplished

I’m delighted to say I completed my home town half marathon in Omagh today. I was very nervous about this run as my training this year has been disrupted by three bouts of illness. I had a heavy cold for most of the week and haven’t run since last Sunday. I wasn’t sure until Thursday I was going to run and, even then, was concerned I would be able to complete the course.

Somehow I did. Thankfully the weather conditions were kind and I awoke to dry, sunny conditions. My target was to complete the undulating course in under two hours and I set out hoping to stay ahead of the pacer. I plodded round at a steady pace, conscious I was always ahead of him but afraid to look over my shoulder to be greeted by the two hour pack bearing down on me.

At the half way mark I was over a minute ahead of schedule and I dared to dream. With 5K left I knew I only had to keep going and I would hit my target time. The final 400 metres is around the leisure centre’s running track and a big crowd dragged my flagging body round it. I was so pleased to look at my stopwatch and see the time at 1:58:05. I clutched my winner’s medal. It was over.

I don’t think I’ve ever been as pleased with a time. It’s nowhere near my fastest but, given my less than perfect preparation, it proved to the nagging voice in my head that I’m still a decent runner. My legs ache now but it was all worth it. I’ll take a break now and work on steady mileage before planning my next race. Thank you to everyone who has supported my moaning running posts in recent months.

Why I Won’t Be Lying For Another 364 Days

Yesterday was the busiest ever day in the two year history of the blog. Our April Fool’s Day post received 227 views and, in total, we broke the 500 view barrier for the first time. We also broke the 9500 follower mark and are heading towards the big 10K, a figure we never dreamed of attaining all those months ago. The old Stephen would have been ecstatic with these numbers.

That’s because the old Stephen loved nothing more than attention and plaudits. He was so insecure and full of self loathing that he fed off such infamy like a blood sucking leech. This morning, though, I look at these figures and, while inwardly pleased, I now recognise they mean nothing. 10,000 followers doesn’t make me a better person or anything special. In the greater scheme of things, they mean nothing.

Especially given yesterday’s record breaking totals were based upon a lie. An innocent, playful lie, but a lie nonetheless. This resonates deeply with me, as my previous incarnations on social media were equally disingenuous. I created a fake persona, the life and soul of the party, Mr. Nice Guy. The more popular I became online, the more detached from reality and miserable the real me became.

10,000 followers won’t guarantee me a publishing deal, nor will it make me a faster runner. It won’t dazzle my bosses and it cuts little sway with Fionnuala and the kids. Blogging is good for me mentally as it allows me to express myself and get a lot of issues off my chest. Issues that I kept bottled up before, festering and rotting inside me like me a rancid carcass.

It’s what I do away from blogging that truly matters. I used to lie a lot. They rolled off my lips effortlessly, I didn’t even think about them as I dug myself into a deeper and deeper hole. It got to the point where I started to believe them myself, or at least could justify them to the extent that I couldn’t or wouldn’t stop. I was aboard a runaway train, hurtling down the rickety track towards my doom.

It all ended in tears of course. Lies cannot lead to happiness. They only paper over ever increasing cracks while you flounder in ever decreasing circles. So, while yesterday’s fibbing was harmless fun, I have no intention of turning it into a regular pastime. This blog is founded on the truth, warts and all, so if you want a sugar coated version of my life, then I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.

Which means more rejection e-mails and below average runs. More tales of the domestic chaos that is the Black household. We get sick, we get on each other’s nerves, we bicker and scream at each other. But we always make up, and the deep love we have for one another never changes. It’s who we are, it’s what we are, we know nothing else. It’s the truth. Lying can wait. Until 1st April next year.

Have you ever struggled with the truth?

How real are you online?

My 20th Rejection E-Mail And Other News

Regular readers will know that I’ve written an urban fantasy novel which I’m currently querying with literary agents and publishing houses. I went into this process with my eyes wide open. I knew it was an incredibly competitive environment and very, very few authors are successful in securing representation. The majority of authors receive nothing in return for their efforts other than bland, generic rejection e-mails.

Today I received my 20th such e-mail. It hasn’t been all doom and gloom, of course. A handful of agents have sugared the pill by adding positive comments about the story and standard of my writing. Others have been more blunt. Some are so dry you wonder if the agent has even bothered reading the submission you have slaved over all these months. I’ve received six such e-mails this week and I must admit they have knocked my confidence.

As a result, I haven’t felt much like writing. Fionnuala has done a fantastic job keeping the blog ticking along. In fact, her posts this week have been so popular I’m tempted to offer her the job on a permanent basis. I’ve much appreciated those of you who noticed my absence and posted kind comments as to my welfare. I’m fine, honest. A little battered and bruised but still standing.

I never expected to become the next Stephen King overnight but I’m going to persevere with the querying process for now. One agent did ask for the full manuscript so there is a glimmer of hope amidst all the ‘thanks but no thanks.’ And if all else fails, I will lick my wounds and scrimp together the pennies to self publish. Thanks again to those of you who have posted support and encouragement these last few days.

Stephen

Why I’m Pulling Out Of The Belfast Marathon

I decided to pull out of the Belfast Marathon today. It would have been my tenth but I realised I was fighting a losing battle and was nowhere near ready for it, both physically and mentally. I’m disappointed with myself but I knew it could well have been an even bigger disappointment had I turned up on the day unprepared. Marathons are brutal. They will chew you up and spit you out if they see a chink in your armour.

The disappointment and frustration is also tinged with relief. I was dreading the prospect of long training runs on my own which would have eaten into the already limited time I have at the weekend. I’ve been without a running buddy for some time now and, while I largely enjoy running on my own, it’s tough plodding 20 miles along deserted country roads with nobody to keep you company and take your mind off the discomfort and pain.

I still plan to run the Omagh Half Marathon next Saturday. It’s my home town and I’ve already paid the entry fee so I’m determined not to miss out on it. There will be less pressure on me now and I’d be happy to complete the course in 2 hours. That’s almost 1/2 hour slower than my Personal Best but my days of killing myself to run faster and faster are long behind me. I’m 100% with my place further down the field these days.

Running, for me now, is about keeping fit and mentally healthy. It makes me a better husband, father and person. I’m not interested in strutting about adorned in medals and bragging about my exploits on social media. That was the old me. Which is why I love writing on WordPress. It’s me. Good days, bad days. What you see is what you get. Warts and all. 26.2 miles can wait for now.

Can I Introduce you to Father’s Love Ministry Ireland

You may have all read in previous blogs we have posted about very good friends of ours called Anne and Graham who have started up a ministry, if not let me tell you a bit about them.

Graham and Anne have received numerous prophetic words all pointing towards starting up their own ministry and in September 2018 it was birthed. For the past 6 months we have been meeting weekly at our house until suitable premises became available and after much prayer the new premises have been found.

If you would love to hear more about Father’s Love Ministry Ireland and are on Facebook please give their page a like https://m.facebook.com/Fathers-Love-Ministry-Ireland-283189355639753/ you may even see some posts from Stephen and myself.

Graham and Anne have been tremendous support to Stephen and I especially in our darkest days and we are so happy and proud of them today.

God Bless and have a lovely day

Fionnuala ❤️

Stephen Has Lost It

He has lost it people and we need your help to get it back!!

Stephen has lost his writing mojo!! He hasn’t wrote a blog since Sunday which has lead me to write this week and now I’m posting a second what is the world coming to what’s going on?

All us at home really look up to Stephen, apart from Adam because he is taller than him but you get what I mean, we love and respect him and are so proud of how he has turned his life around these last few years. When he sets his mind on doing something he does it, apart from DIY projects he would rather run a marathon and that’s were we are different and that’s how we work so well together. So to see him feeling not so great about himself it concerns me I’m a fixer but I can’t fix this one by myself I need our WordPress family to contribute to.

Can you all send him something encouraging to help get his creative juices flowing again please.

Tell us what your favourite blog has been the popular ones I might even reblog again.

Tell us about something you lost before and how you got it back

I know you guys won’t let me down so please accept my thanks for your encouragement and help.

Hopefully normal services will be resumed soon.

Don’t Give Up

Do you ever get the feeling that there is something exciting in the air like there is good news coming? You feel as if you stretched your hand out far enough you might even be able to touch it? I’ve been feeling this way for a while now chasing and waiting and wondering and hoping and praying that time would speed up and all our prayers would be answered. But today we are still waiting!

It’s not just Stephen and I that are feeling this way close friends of ours are experiencing the same feelings also. I shared a few weeks ago at our prayer meeting that as Stephen is training for his 10th marathon in May we all feel like we’ve been completing a marathon ourselves and are on the final stretch. We are all tired and weary and feel broken and ready to give up but if we just keep going round that next bend it will be all down hill SO DONT GIVE UP.

I’m waiting every day for a letter, an email or a phone call to tell me that a situation I’m going through with my family has come to an agreement, Stephen is checking his email every 30 seconds for good news on his book, Hannah is waiting for Shawn Mendes to follow her on twitter and friends of ours are waiting on prayers to be answered and promises to be fulfilled. We all have something we are waiting for we just have to keep going forward till we get round that last bend.

So whatever you are going through today if it’s not going as well as you wanted it to be just realise you are a day closer to your dream or promise coming to fruition so please don’t give up keep pushing forward.

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41v10

I Check My E-Mail 6,479 Times A Day

I’m on the train into work after five days off. Yeeee-haaaa!

Not….

My work inbox will be full of e mails. Some I will delete without even opening, others after cursory glance. Some will require immediate action, others I can put on the long finger. I may even reply to the occasional one. I will delegate, prioritise, solve problems and make decisions without a second thought. It’s what I do. All while stifling groans, and the occasional moan.

An old boss of mine once told me to only check your e-mail twice a day. Any more, was a waste of time. If something is really, really urgent then you won’t get an e mail about it. You will receive a personal visit, or at the very least a phone call. E-mails eat into your working day, they suck at your attention and distract you from the priority business. It’s a piece of advice which has always resonated with me.

I check my business e-mail twice a day. Or at least that’s the standard I try to maintain. I check my personal e-mail 6,479 times a day. I’m a querying writer. That’s what we do, right? For that next e-mail could be the one from a literary agent making all my dreams come true. Although in all likelihood, it’s a ‘thanks but no thanks’ generic rejection, plunging you into the depths of despair again.

So, I’m a hypocrite but at least I’m consciously hypocritical. I need to let it go a la Frozen. What will be, will be. But then the notification appears on my phone and I’m scurrying to the in-box. Only to sigh in disappointment when it’s Manchester United trying to entice me into buying a season ticket. Which I’ll never afford unless I get a six figure advance. Anyway, back to the day job. Time to tuck ten dreams away for another 8 hours.

Playing The Bad Cop….Badly

I spent a bit of time last night drawing up a study timetable for Adam’s GCSE exams which begin in May. These are very important and will largely determine his educational path for the next few years. If he does well he can move on to study A levels, which he will require in order to get into university. More important than rugby, even. There I’ve said it, even if it was through gritted teeth.

Adam is a bright young man but, like most teenagers, he’s not the most organised. Which is where I come in. If it was left to our son, he would probably leave his studying until the last minute and then sit up all night, desperately cramming. To avoid that, I devised a study schedule spread out over the next two months, which allots specific hours each day to revision.

Each of the ten subjects he will be sitting examinations for is covered by the timetable, with additional hours for subjects he isn’t that keen on. Like French. Yuck! And Physics. Double Yuck! It’s weird, but I struggled with the same two subjects at school while I also excelled at Adam’s favourites – English, History and Geography. Like father, like son you might say. But it’s about the only thing we have in common.

Adam is a rugby star while I was rubbish at it. He’s popular and funny, the class clown. I was an utter nerd who spent most of his school career trying to keep as low a profile as possible. I’ve no doubt he will be fighting off the girls in the years to come. I don’t think I spoke to a girl, other than my sister, before I was 18. Even then, I was a largely girlfriend free zone until Fionnuala finally took pity on me.

The timetable is aimed at keeping Adam on track and allowing him to perform to the best of his abilities, come exam time. We know he has the intelligence and ability to do very well. I can’t sit the exams for him but I can do my very best to prepare him for them. The same goes for Hannah and Rebecca who I’ve coached through Geography and French tests in recent weeks.

I spent a good part of my adult life off track. I can’t blame this on my parents who were largely unaware of my antics until it was too late. I didn’t come completely off the rails until after my father’s death. Thankfully I had people around me who dragged me kicking and screaming back onto the right path. I don’t want our kids to wander down the dark alleys and dead ends I used to traverse and will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening.

If I were to list Fionnuala’s parental strengths then I would still be writing this blog in a month’s time. She is a brilliant mother and superb role model to them all. I chip in where I can and try to be the best father I possibly can. If that means getting frozen to the bone on rugby touchlines and designing tortuous study timetables then so be it. I’m your man. Parenting is a never ending learning curve

Adam may despise me in the weeks ahead as I nag him mercilessly regarding his studies. I will undoubtedly have to play the bad cop role at times, one which never sits comfortably with me. But I hope, when he gets his grades in the summer, he will realise I did it with the best of intentions. As Fionnuala occasionally reminds me I’m their father, not the their best friend. Which now and again means laying down the law. Even when I don’t really want to.

Can you play the bad cop?

How effective are you at laying down the law?

Worst Limerick Ever

Happy St. Patrick’s Day from a blustery Northern Ireland. Fionnuala suggested an ‘Oirish’ themed post today, so here’s a photo of our three hatchlings celebrating as only they can. The photo was taken a few years ago but you get the idea.

As for me, well the best I could come up with was this well below average limerick.

‘There once was a family called Black

Who always enjoyed mighty craic

When Dad wasn’t blogging

He’d be away jogging

The rest of them thought he was daft.’

Ahem….

Apologies to all concerned. Enjoy your day wherever you are.

Chasing Your Losses

This week the Cheltenham Festival takes place, the biggest horse racing festival of the year in the United Kingdom. Four days of top racing as the very best horses, jockeys and trainers from Britain and Ireland compete for the glory and prestige of a Festival winner. It’s the World Cup of equine sport, think Kentucky Derby and Melbourne Cup rolled into one and then spread out over 28 races.

I used to be obsessed with Cheltenham. It was my Christmas Day. I didn’t bet excessively throughout the year, but from January onwards would start to study the racing form in forensic detail, trying to pick out Cheltenham winners. The house would become cluttered with racing papers and I would spend my lunch breaks scuttling round the city’s bookmakers looking for the best prices.

Come Cheltenham week itself, I was a nervous wreck. I would always take the week off work and watch every race, a case of beer at my feet. My stomach would be in knots as I jumped every hurdle and willed my horse to be first across the finishing line. Sometimes they were, but invariably they were not and my racing funds would steadily become more depleted. The initial excitement would turn to despair and self recrimination.

The buzz would dissipate and the ‘poor me’ mentality descend upon my shoulders like a robe of disgrace. Why had I been so stupid to fritter away the little money I had on a useless nag who was still toiling several minutes after the rest of the field were home and hosed? I would wake up every morning, hungover and miserable. A wise man would have got out while he could. Instead, I chased my losses.

For the uninitiated this means placing increasingly large bets in the hope of recouping the money you have already lost. Speculating to accumulate. Punters call it ‘getting out.’ Sometimes it works, and that 33-1 long shot romps home, amidst scenes of wild hysteria. Grown men hug each other and backs are slapped as we smugly collect our winnings. These moments, however, are few and far between.

Normally you lose, and dig an even bigger financial hole for yourself. You fail to see the warning signs and instead hurtle down the track towards oblivion. You are that train wreck. I would wake up the morning after the festival with a bruised liver and even more bruised ego. Vowing to never again indulge in such reckless abandon. Until the next time. For it was only 364 days until the next Cheltenham.

I don’t bet on the horses anymore but it was another manifestation of the addictive behaviour which ruled my life with an iron rod for many years. Horses, alcohol, people, I was easy prey to them all. There was no filter, no panic button, no emergency brake. I chased my losses, until I stood teetering on the brink, staring down into the abyss below. Just one more step. One more step. Chase your losses to the bitter end.

You might be chasing your losses today. It could be anything. Alcohol, drugs, relationships, the list in endless. My advice? Get out. By whatever means you can. Break the cycle and run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. While you still can. For the abyss will swallow you whole if you take that final step. Only the blind chase their losses. Open your eyes before it’s too late. Chase the things in life that matter.

Are you chasing your losses today?

Have you chased your losses in the past?

How did you break the cycle?

The Morning I Regretted Making Breakfast

As it was Fionnuala’s birthday the other day, I bounced down the stairs and grandly announced I was going to make breakfast for everyone. I zoomed off to the village shop, returning with bacon, sausages and fresh bread. Throwing them onto the grille, I began to probe the Black clan for orders as they blearily emerged from under duvet covers. Everything was going swimmingly. Or so I thought.

Fionnuala queried what type of bread I had purchased. If it was a pan loaf, she wanted it toasted, but untoasted if a plain loaf. Lightly buttered, bacon and sausage. Sorted. Hannah wanted sausage, not bacon, while Rebecca wanted bacon as opposed to sausage. Even though the former likes bacon on her burgers and the latter sausages in her hot dog. Er….right.

My head was already starting to spin and the anxiety levels rising as Adam emerged from his lair. He wanted bacon on plain bread. Or was it sausage on toast? I looked despairingly at Charlie the border terrier who sat patiently at my feet awaiting his sausage. Bacon? Either way, his dog food would sit uneaten while there were tastier treats on offer from his human masters.

Had there been vegetarians or vegans in the house, I fear my brain would have imploded. I slaved over the breakfast counter, sweat lashing from my brow, muttering under my breath, while simultaneously ensuring all and sundry that everything was under control and I was ‘just fine.’ There was nothing could tip me over the edge. I was on the brink of a culinary conquest of epic proportions.

Until I asked Fionnuala if she wanted a cup of tea. Why, yes she did. Not too weak and not too strong. With milk. No sugar. Oh and when it’s made, can you top it up with cold water? Which necessitated making the tea, then pouring half of it down the sink again. My mind was well and truly boggled. I eventually slumped into an armchair, mission accomplished but utterly exhausted.

I eat most things. Apart from Brussel Sprouts, don’t get me started on them. And beetroot. But I now understood how frustrated Fionnuala would get when she compared making dinner in our house to working in a hotel, cooking five different dishes at a time. Why couldn’t we all eat the same thing? Spoilt rotten we were. I can only now nod in agreement at the varied palates of the Black household.

We are all very different people, with eclectic tastes and preferences when it comes to most matters. Yet, we are all part of the one family and somehow, despite all said differences, we somehow make it work. We are one. A largely functioning one, despite all the hiccups and glitches along the way. We can’t choose our family, unlike our friends. So we have to make it work, knuckle down, and get on with it.

It’s all about compromise. Compromise and a generous topping of patience. We adapt, we agree to disagree, we give and take. Yet the central core remains intact, the bond that holds it all together. Love is the glue. A love which forms the cornerstone of this crazy, chaotic household. Although it might be a while before I volunteer to cook breakfast again. I think I need a lie down after all that.

Sausage? Bacon? Veggie? How divided is your household when it comes to breakfast?

My Little Black Book

I have a little black book….

But don’t worry, it’s not that kind of little black book. My little black book contains the details of literary agents I’m researching. Agents who, if they tick all the requisite boxes, I will query with regards the book. The book, the book, always the book. Writing it was the easy part. This is the real battle, the real war of attrition. Trying to hook that one agent. The one.

I had a nibble last week, a chink of light in the dark abyss that is attempting to secure literary representation. An agent asked to read the full manuscript. Which, I duly forwarded. Now, I wait again. The voice in my head rubs its hands, if it had hands, with glee. She will hate it, it whispers. It’s too long, too wordy, too….everything you don’t want to see in a published book.

In the meantime, I update my little black book. More agents to query, Twitter accounts to stalk, websites to devour. Query letter, book synopsis, first three chapters. Times New Roman, double spaced, no Word attachments. Bang, Bang, Bang. 6-8 weeks, if you don’t hear from us then consider it a pass. An endless not so merry go round of raised hopes, dashed dreams and interminable waiting.

Agents. What do they like, what do they hate. What do they want? Plot, characters, rinse and repeat. Their details are highlighted, circled and underlined before being savagely crossed out the moment the dreaded rejection e mail arrives. There are worse little black books to keep, much worse. Especially those we keep away from prying eyes, locked away in the deepest, darkest recesses of our hearts.

Filled with petty grudges, festering emotions and dangerous desires. We clutch them close to our chests and will fight tooth and nail to keep them from seeing the light of day. If only people knew what lay beneath the bland facade we display to the world every day. If only they could see the hate, the guilt, the devastation. If the truth of our little black books were known, then anarchy would reign. Madness would triumph.

I hope one day, and soon, to no longer need my little, black book. In my dreams, I secure an agent who, in turn, secures a publishing deal and we all live happily ever after. It lies open for anyone to see, yet it hangs around my neck like a rotting albatross. Taunting me, reminding me of imagined flaws, inadequacies and failings which wreak havoc within my already spinning head.

Do you have a little black book? What’s in it? Let me see, let me pry, just a peek, I promise not to tell anyone. Cross my heart and hope to die. What secrets do you hide? What monsters lurk? The deceit, the loathing, a Pandora’s box which would destroy your life and many others, were it to be unleashed, screaming and flailing into an unsuspecting world. A personal apocalypse.

Let’s build a funeral pyre, a bonfire or these terrible tomes. Stand with me as I light a match and toss it on the pile. We form a circle round it, holding hands, united in our desire to change, to build a better future. A future where no such books exist, where hope replaces dread and doubt. A better place, where you and I can live the lives we were born to live. Oh little black book, where are you now?

Tell me about your little black book?

Planes, Cranes & Swedish Fish

Whenever one of the hatchlings misbehaves, which is most days if I’m honest, Fionnuala and I threaten to hit them where it hurts the most. We go for the gadgets. Want to make a 6’1” rugby playing teenage son’s bottom lip quiver? Take his PS4 off him. The same applies to our two delightful daughters. Hannah cannot exist without her phone, while confiscating Rebecca’s I-Pad is a sure fire way to guarantee tears.

I was therefore pleasantly surprised, yesterday, to discover a technology free way of holding their attention. Take them to the top of a multi storey car park and let them watch the planes taking off from the adjoining Belfast City Airport. Well, Adam and Rebecca were entranced. Hannah took one look, decided it was too windy and took off for the sanctuary of IKEA, remarking she didn’t see what the big fuss was as it was ‘only bits of metal flying into the air.’

I loved how she witheringly dismissed one of the miracles of 20th century invention in a single sentence. Who can be bothered marvelling at the genius of the Wright Brothers et al when there are acres of Scandinavian flatbed furniture to navigate prior to buying your body weight in ‘Swedish Fish’ sweets at the end of your trek? You just can’t compete with logic like that.

We took a few snaps of the Belfast skyline. Incredibly, it’s not raining, so I hope you get a taste of the city and surrounding hills. The big yellow cranes dominating the skies are situated within Harland & Wolff shipyard, where The SS Titanic was built. They are called ‘Samson’ and ‘Goliath,’ and stand at 348 and 315 feet tall respectively. Or, at least that’s what Wikipedia says and we all know that it’s always right.

Almost as famous as the iconic cranes, are the tourist t-shirts proudly claiming ‘Titanic – She was all right when she left us’ and ‘Titanic – Built by the Irish, Sunk by the English.’ To say Northern Irish humour is dark, is like saying President Trump tells the occasional fib, but it got us through 30 years of murder and mayhem so who am I to argue. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the photos.

What is your city/region famous for?

The Good Wife

Last night Fionnuala and I settled down at the dinner table, the kids in their rooms and the house unnaturally quiet. I poured us drinks and settled down beside my lovely wife. Romantic dinner for two? Er….not quite. But close. The night was young and the entire evening lay ahead of us. But we were not there to play footsie under the table and whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears.

No, we had much more pressing business to attend to. Two days ago Fionnuala phoned me at work. ‘Check your e-mail. Now!’ she bellowed down the line. Ever the pessimist, I decided to hedge my bets. ‘Is this good news or bad news?’ I tentatively replied. ‘Good’ she responded and with that I nervously checked my phone. As a querying writer, it could mean only thing. An agent had been in touch.

To date, I’ve received a handful of standard ‘thanks but no thanks’ brush offs. Several actually named me, although one referred to me as ‘Dear Author’ and another didn’t feel the need to address me at all. One stood out, the agent complimenting the quality of my writing and adventurous nature of the book. I had been clinging to these small crumbs of comfort in my ongoing battle to secure literary representation.

This latest e-mail took it a stage further. An agent based in New York with a swanky address involving the word ‘Suite’ and lots of numbers was ‘intrigued’ by my book idea and requested the full manuscript and a detailed synopsis. Had I been sitting down, I would have fallen off my chair. Me, messed up, socially awkward, uber nervous me had been e mailed by Sarah Jessica Parker or someone equally swish.

A full manuscript? Not a partial. The whole shebang. She may well read it, conclude it’s utter nonsense and regret the day she ever contacted me but that’s by the by. I can now bore my grandkids rigid with the story of that time Granda thought he was getting a book deal and becoming a famous author. Up there with that time Granda cornered the Stark sisters in a Belfast jewellery store and refused to let them leave until they posed for a photo with him.

Which was why Fionnuala and I were slaving over a very uncooperative laptop last night. My Australian editor Laura worked nine hours straight to complete her edit after I sent a frantic e mail, informing her of the SJP development. Then my wife displayed the patience of Job tinkering with the manuscript as her computer illiterate husband peered over her shoulder, biting his nails and chain drinking cans of Diet Coke.

Eventually it was done. I typed up a covering e mail and hit the send button, before asking Fionnuala 19 times if it had gone and, if so, did the Word attachments go with it. Did I tell you I have OCD? Eventually I sloped off to bed, giving her some peace to continue her last box set binge – The Good Wife. How very apt I thought, for not many spouses would have put up with the fretting and fussing that I displayed.

The waiting game begins again now. I’m already bombarding Fionnuala with further agent details for her to fire off more queries and sample chapters. I jump three feet in the air every time an e-mail lands in my in box and read the tweets of queried agents for a subliminal signs they have just received the humdinger of all books from some random debut Northern Irish author. It’s no wonder most writers are barking mad. Querying breaks even the strongest mind.

Good News!

I have good news. This afternoon I received an e mail from a literary agent based in New York City asking to read a full manuscript of my book. To say I’m excited is a bit of an understatement. My flabber has been well and truly ghasted. This isn’t a book deal, or even an offer of representation, but it’s a big step in the right direction and a massive boost to my confidence. I’ll write more about this tomorrow.

Thank you all so much for your continued support.

Are You A Confident Person?

Fionnuala and I are attending Hannah’s annual school review this lunchtime. This does exactly what it says on the tin. We sit around a table and listen as her teacher, classroom assistant, physio and occupational therapist update us as to her progress so far this school year. I know we will have nothing to fear as Hannah is a model student, popular, polite and hard working. We always leave such meetings with smiles on our faces.

It’s also fast approaching the time of year where I am subject to my own annual review at work. This time, the shoe is on the other foot. I sit quivering before my boss as he gives me his thoughts on my performance over the past 12 months. Thankfully, I have a very understanding and accommodating manager and I don’t think I’ve screwed up (too much) during the reporting period.

This year is a little different as there is a promotion opportunity looming on the horizon that I have been encouraged to apply for. On the face of it, this might seem a no brainer. I’m one of the few people within the organisation trained to do the job. It’s a considerable pay hike and people have been telling me for years I am capable of performing the role. And yet, I hold back, reluctant to throw my name in the hat.

There’s the little issue of my lack of self confidence to begin with. I’m my own worst critic and constantly tell myself the promotion boat has sailed. My face doesn’t fit, senior management don’t rate me, I wouldn’t be able to cope with the added pressures and demands of the job. I’m the king of excuses when it comes to such matters, my own worst critic. I don’t just knock myself down. I then check the rear view mirror and then reverse over my inert body, just to be sure.

I’ve been dreading this past week where I’ve held the on call phone. I’m not good enough, I won’t be able to cope, I’m going to make a total mess of a call and be found out. I’m always worried about being found out, shown up for the fraud and charlatan hiding behind the professional and competent front I present to the ever watching world. The same applies to the other hats I wear.

Husband, Father, Christian, Runner, Writer. I’m a big, fat imposter and today is the day I’m going to be found out. Today is the day I’m going to sit in front of those who matter and be told I’ve fluffed my lines and my services are no longer required. Pack up your belongings and hand in your ID card on the way out. Stephen has left the building with his tail well and truly between his legs. Game, set and match to the nagging voice inside my head.

Do you ever feel that way? Where your confidence pours through your fingers like water from a gushing tap. You watch as it trickles down the drain, unwilling and unable to take that step out of your comfort zone. It could be the step that changes your life, one way or the other. There’s only one way to find out and yet you hesitate, you hold back. The self survival mechanism within tells you to stop.

You’re at a crossroads. Which way do you turn? You’re sitting in front of an interview panel. What do you say? Decisions need to be made, yet you sit there floundering, barely able to draw breath, let alone formulate an eloquent answer to the question you have been asked. It’s at times like this you need to draw deep from the well within. Hoping you find deep, refreshing waters of inspiration as opposed to a few inches of stagnant, murky despair.

Are you a confident person?

Have you a big decision looming on the horizon?

How do you combat the nagging voice of doubt?

Temporary Pain, Long Term Gain

Regular readers will know I’ve been struggling to locate my running mojo of late in the lead up to the Belfast Marathon in less than two months time. I’ve been restricted by illness and even then, I’ve found it hard to get motivated for this year’s event. Training runs have been missed and my diet has been all over the place. I’m two weeks behind where I need to be and my times and mileage reflect that.

I gave myself a good talking to at the weekend and resolved to get back on track this week. This coincided with atrocious weather conditions and runs yesterday and today have been completed in driving wind and rain. On both occasions I have resembled a drowned rat by the end of the run. The key word here is ‘completed.’ Despite the squall outside. I’ve went out and got the job done.

Mo Farah has no need to look over his shoulder yet. My times have been far from spectacular but every mile counts, and I’ve racked up 16 miles. I’ll rest tomorrow and then go again on Thursday, with the plan to fit in a 12 mile run somewhere before the end of the week. The Omagh Half Marathon has been booked for next month and I’ll be running to raise funds for SHINE Charity.

Some days are so meh you see no point in showing up and lacing your running shoes. But when you do go out there, even if it’s blowing a gale l, the endorphins kick in and it all becomes worthwhile. Temporary pain is necessary for long term gain. Here’s hoping these rainy runs are the gateway to a clear path to the starting line of the Belfast Marathon. I certainly hope so. I’ll continue to keep you all updated.

What temporary pain are you experiencing at present? Is it worth it?

Another Day, Another Mid Life Crisis

A work colleague of mine has started training for a charity white collar boxing event. He’s thrown himself into an intensive programme of gym classes, sparring and weights. The big day is less than a month away and he’s truly a man on a mission. Personally, I don’t understand these men who hit their forties and take up sports when they should really know better. It’s all a bit sad don’t you think?

Errrrrrrr….moving on.

Today he brought in a pair of boxing gloves as he has a sparring session tonight after work. After impressing us with how many one handed press ups he could do, he then produced the gloves and handed them to me. ‘I want you to hit me as hard as you can in the stomach,’ he cheerily announced, keen to display the benefits of six trillion sit ups a day. ‘Er….sure,’ I replied. I wasn’t at all sure.

If I’ve ever worn a pair of boxing gloves before, then I can’t remember. I’m proud to say I’ve never thrown a punch in anger and would run a mile in the opposite direction were a brawl to break out. It took me the best part of five minutes to put on the gloves, gnawing at the velcro straps with my teeth, as my colleague patiently looked on, with tensed abs. If that’s what people with abs do. I wouldn’t know.

Finally ready, I launched a tentative jab towards his rock hard six pack. I didn’t want to hurt him, after all. He didn’t bat an eyelid, causing me to put more force into the next punch. Nothing. I looked him in the eye to see him smiling back amiably. Okay, I thought to myself, to an imaginary Rocky soundtrack in my head. It’s time to up the ante. My manly reputation is on the line here, there are people watching.

Summoning up my inner Raging Bull, I drew my right fist back and unleashed a haymaker of epic proportions. Surely that muscular missile would cause him to double over in agony, the wind knocked out of his sails. I was ready to rumble, to bring the pain, unleash hell and stuff like that. He smirked at me. Smirked, no less. I gritted my teeth and unloaded one last blow, putting every fibre of my being into it.

At which point, a shard of agony roared up my right arm and into my shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’ he enquired as I winced in pain and fought back the tears. ‘Yes I’m fine,’ I lied, convinced I had broke my thumb. I gingerly removed the gloves and retreated to my desk, vowing never to indulge in pugilism ever again. My feeble fists had been overcome by a washboard abdomen. I looked down glumly at my own rather less Herculean midriff.

I’ll stick to running in future. The funny thing is, I’ve run with my work colleague before. He’s as fit as a fiddle but when it comes to running, he collapses in a heap after 3 miles, whereas I can plod on forever. We are both fit but have different kinds of fitness. His relates to physique and strength whereas I have stamina and endurance. I guess it’s a case of different horses for different courses.

Today taught me a lesson. Have you ever set out to hurt someone emotionally but ended up only causing pain to yourself? I know I have, and still do. We need to let go of those petty grudges and move on. They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but its best to scrape those leftovers into the bin and start afresh. Otherwise you will end up with a badly bruised ego. And possibly a broken thumb.

Have you ever thrown a punch in anger?

Do you struggle to let grudges go and move on?

Rejection Never Tasted So Good

I received another rejection e-mail yesterday, my fifth in total, but this one was a little different from the others. It contained feedback, words of encouragement, a glimmer of hope in the dark world of the querying wannabe author. What was even better was that it came from one of the biggest literary agents in the U.K. I won’t name names but this agency carries some clout in the world of publishing.

The agent thanked me for my submission and stated she admired the ambitious premise and quality of my writing. Unfortunately, she wasn’t completely drawn in by the opening chapters. So it was a no, but possibly the best no I have ever had in my life. The word quality was there. From someone whose job it is to assess and analyse hundreds of manuscripts a week. She had actually read my work and liked it.

Prior to receiving her e-mail I had been a bit down in the dumps. As days went, this was turning into a pretty rubbish one. Nothing serious, just minor irritations that I won’t bore you with. The e-mail was manna from heaven and I gratefully gobbled down its content like a hungry Israelite wandering around in the wilderness. It re-energised me and provided the kick up the backside I sorely needed.

The key word in her e-mail was ‘quality.’ I was beginning to doubt myself and my writing. Despite the daily encouragement I receive on the blog, the dreaded voice was back telling me I wasn’t good enough, I was wasting my time. It was also constructive. Do I have to work on the opening chapters in order to draw prospective agents into the story? Do away with the prologue?

It truly was a ‘glass half full’ moment. The blog has just passed 9000 followers and there are still a host of other agents to query. Once my editor has completed her work, I can also begin to directly query smaller, independent publishing houses. Then there are the other projects I’m planning to start work on soon which I hope to talk about in a post later this week.

I can’t give up and I won’t give up. Too much has been put into the project in order to chuck in the towel now. There are, no doubt, further rejections ahead but this one was different, one I will forever cherish. A very step, but a step nonetheless, in the right direction. I’ll keep stumbling down the path. Who knows where it will take me but I sincerely hope you all stick around for the ride.

What’s the best piece of constructive feedback you’ve ever received?

9000 Followers Can’t Be Wrong….Can They?

A belated thank you as the blog passed 9000 followers over the weekend. We continue to be amazed by the support and encouragement we receive on a daily basis from you all. The fact that people take time out of their busy days to read the posts and comment on them is a humbling experience in itself. When we reach 10,000 I’m considering a big party at our house with cake and balloons. Everyone is invited.

Fionnuala And Stephen: A Love Story

Fionnuala and I are going out! Together! At the same time!! With no kids in tow!!! This is a cause of great excitement for the last time we had a night out, Bill Clinton was still President. Thankfully I got some new ‘going out’ clothes at Christmas otherwise I would have been reduced to wining and dining my beloved in a Washington Redskins hoodie and Buzz Lightyear pyjama bottoms. Which nobody wants to see.

The occasion is Fionnuala’s upcoming birthday in a couple of weeks. We talk about going out all the time, but life and other family commitments always seem to get in the way. Take this weekend for example. Adam had to be ferried to and from his part time job while today Hannah is performing at a concert in Belfast. We always put the kids first, which is right and proper, but sometimes you need a bit of ‘us’ time.

I love my wife very much. And when she’s not shouting at me for leaving stuff lying around the house or forgetting important appointments, I know she loves me too. We have been married for 16 years and together 22. We aren’t a particularly ‘lovey dovey’ couple. We don’t do public displays of affection because we don’t feel we need to, but have a strong bond. Many have tried to break that bond, and all have failed.

We both work hard for the family and often it feels we are ships passing in the night. There are evenings we are exhausted and conversation is at a minimum. We just want to go to bed and sleep. Such is the nature of raising a family. I keep saying we can make up for lost time when the kids are grown up and settled. But there are times, when such a day seems impossibly far off. As in, never.

Fionnuala is everything to me. I know I don’t say that enough. She has kept me going through my darkest days and always been there to pick me up on the many occasions I fall flat on my face. She works incredibly hard even though her health hasn’t been great in recent months. She rarely complains and just gets on with life. She is tough and practical, never afraid to roll her sleeves up and get her hands dirty.

She is also incredibly loyal and loving. She always puts the needs of the family before her own. She is forgiving and would drop everything for a family member or friend in need, expecting nothing in return. Her kindness is second to none. I learn from her every day and am in awe of the standards she sets as a mother, wife, daughter, sister and friend. Even when that love is not reciprocated, she keeps going.

So we are donning our glad rags and hitting the town. I’m on taxi duties, affording Fionnuala the opportunity to have a glass of wine or seven. I’m hoping we can talk about our plans, our hopes, our dreams. Without being interrupted by squabbling siblings or queries regarding missing school uniforms and tricky algebra homework. This will be a time for us to refuel and reflect on our crazy, incessant lives.

Love is many things. These include resilience. It can bend, but it doesn’t break. It has to be capable of withstanding the many storms of life and still be there when the sun rises the following day. It might not be pretty at times, but it’s still there, intact and defiant. It is an iron act of will as opposed to a fluffy emotion. It is turning up every day even when you don’t want to. It is my wife. And for that I am forever indebted.

When did you last have a night out?

What is love to you?

Do you love enough?

Are You A Wall Builder?

Everybody is talking about walls. Or barriers. Obstacles. Objects which will keep people apart. For a plethora of reasons, some of which make sense to me, others where I go ‘hmmmmm….I’m not so sure.’ This post is not about my opinions though, rather the subject of walls. This could be a bit of a rambling piece, so bear with me. Hopefully it will make sense.

There’s Brexit for a start. The British are obsessed with it. The politicians can’t agree on anything and we seem to be going in ever decreasing circles. Some want out, others scream remain. Everything hinges on a hard border. Around my country, Little Northern Ireland, no less. The spotlight is well and truly on our little part of the world.

Then there’s President Trump and his Mexican wall. I’m a bit sketchy around the reasons for this, as I’m no expert on U.S. politics. But a lot of people seem to be getting very angry about it. I watched him give a speech the other day and there was a woman called Nancy sitting behind him in a white suit. I don’t think she was very happy with him for she kept pulling lots of strange faces behind his back. Either that or she was constipated.

Not forgetting the ISIS brides. The English teenage girls who upped sticks a few years ago and headed to Syria and the caliphate. Radicalised online and married off to ISIS fighters they disappeared off the face of the planet. Until now that is. It’s all gone a bit askew for our ‘Jihadi Janes’ and they are begging to return to the U.K. Those of them still alive that is.

This has sparked outrage. Some holler ‘Let them rot,’ while others argue these young women have been used, brutalised and deserve a second chance, as British citizens. Not to mention their newborn babies they are now pleading should be allowed back into the country to receive the urgent medical attention they cannot access in Syria. As moral dilemmas go, it’s right up there.

We are obsessed with walls, be it building them up or tearing them down. But what about the walls within? The walls we construct around our hearts and minds, again for a billion and one different reasons. Some are necessary in order to survive and protect ourselves – from toxicity be in the form of people, objects or situations. Others are cemented by jealousy, fear and mistrust.

I see walls every day I venture onto WordPress. Fellow bloggers peek over them on occasion but hesitate to let the drawbridge down and reveal themselves to the online community. For me, writing is a means whereby I can lower my defences and express myself in a way I have struggled to do for most of my life. It is part of my therapy, my recovery. It is a natural part of my day now. Writing is part of who I am.

Walls have their uses. But it’s a case of horses for courses. Building, and then hiding behind, a wall shouldn’t be our default setting. For decades, Belfast was divided by a ‘Peace Wall’ to keep apart the warring loyalist and republican communities. It was anything but peaceful. 3000 dead testify to that. Some walls are necessary. Some walls bring peace. Others need to be smashed to pieces. You decide that.

Have you constructed walls in your life?

Are they healthy? Necessary?

I’m Exactly What It Says On The Tin

It’s Day Two of my Interview Panel Skills Training – everybody go yaaaaay – and today we are conducting mock interviews – everybody go boooo. I woke up with a sickly sheen of dread coating my body. For I despise days like this, where you are encouraged (forced) to partake in role play within the training environment. The only benefits are I don’t have to go near the office today.

Mock interviews involve us practicing the classroom skills we have been taught during the first day of the course. It’s the safe place where we can make mistakes prior to being unleashed upon the general workforce. Many embrace this opportunity but I’m the opposite. I cower in the corner of the room dreading those fateful words – ‘Your turn Stephen.’ The spotlight suddenly settles upon me.

it’s made worse in that I have to endure this ordeal with, and in front of, complete strangers who then, horror of horrors, provide you with ‘constructive’ feedback regarding your performance. I cringe, I cower, I place my hands over my ears and go ‘lah lah lah’ over and over again. For we hates it my preciousssss, we hates it. Have I ever told you I tend to exaggerate occasionally?But you get my drift.

Hate is a strong word, I know, but I hate these training exercises. Playing a role, donning a persona and acting it out in front of others. I might be asked to be a nervous interviewee, or an empathetic and supportive interviewer. There has even been talk of the interviews being video recorded. So I have to watch myself going through the ordeal. Ye Gods, is there no end to this madness?

I would far prefer to be out in the workplace, doing my job for real and just….well….getting on with it. Being real, being me. Thinking this thought yesterday as I was informed of what lay ahead, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. Playing a role? Donning a mask? Haven’t I been doing this for most of my adult life? For when it comes to fitting in with others and acting the social chameleon, I am second to none.

It’s only since I started seriously writing I have stripped back the layers of pretence and revealed the real me, warts and all. Fellow bloggers commend me on my honesty, but for years I wouldn’t have known the truth if it had walked up and slapped me about the face with a wet fish. I was a liar, a fraud, and especially online where I created a faux personality in order to impress and ingratiate myself with various social media communities.

The book I have written is fiction, an urban fantasy where supernatural forces of good and evil battle one another on the back streets of Belfast amidst its homeless community. Yet my central protagonist, Kirkwood Scott, is loosely based on me in my mid twenties. Within this fictional work I write more honestly about my struggles and flaws than I ever have on this blog.

So, think of me today as I mutter and mumble my way through mock interviews like the most miserable of fish out of water. I will be at my most awkward, socially inept to the point where people may pity me. But, at least they will be seeing the real me. The ugly duckling as opposed to the proud peacock who used to preen and strut around, playing to his audience . Today I’m exactly what it says on the tin.

Have you ever donned a mask? Played a role? Pandered to an audience?

How did you feel, both then, and looking back now?

Why Do You Read Fractured Faith Blog?

I’m on a course this morning. It has a very grand title – Interview Panel Skills Refresher Training. One of the many hats I wear at work is that I interview prospective employees. You know, when you apply for a new job. You nervously enter the room in your best suit to find a stony faced interviewer or three sitting across the room from you. Your heart sinks and your stomach performs a cartwheel.

Well, worry not, for that stony faced suit is me. And one of the first things we are taught is not to be stony faced. Quite the opposite actually. We are to be welcoming, friendly and do everything within our powers to make the applicant feel at ease. We smile, offer them glasses of water, encourage them to relax and make themselves feel comfortable. For the next 45 minutes or so, I’m their new best friend.

The reason for this? We want the interviewee to do well, to perform to the best of their ability and blow us away with their awesomeness. We want to give them the job, not intimidate them to the point they are a gibbering wreck unable to string two sentences together. If we do that, then we risk losing high quality applicants and never filling the vacancy. Our job is to guide you through the interview and bring out the best in you.

To do so, we ask lots of open questions. We allow the candidate ample time to answer. We nod, we smile, we maintain eye contact. We take notes and, where required, offer helpful prompts to ensure they don’t veer off track. We mark fairly and consistently to give the applicant the best possible chance to pass the interview. And at the end we afford them the opportunity to ask any questions they might have about the job or the organisation.

Before they know it the interview is over and it’s warm smiles and handshakes all round. We thank them for coming, show them out the door and tell them we will inform them as to whether they have been successful or not at the earliest possible opportunity. We want them to leave the room on a cloud as opposed to under one. So that when their friends ask them how the interview went they will reply ‘Yeah, it was tough. But it was fair.’

I want this blog to be a similar experience. When you dip into it, I want it to be a welcoming and positive encounter. I want to encourage, facilitate and accommodate. There’s nothing worse than an awkward, one way conversation where you are made to feel on the back foot from the word go. I want this to be a safe place, a place where you can be yourself and leave your worries and problems at the door.

I want to get you thinking and talking. I want you to engage, leave comments and interact with both myself and the wider blogging community. I want you to leave this blog in a better frame of mind than when you entered it. I want you to come back, day after day, and become a regular visitor. To share your knowledge and wisdom with us all. For isn’t that what blogging, and writing in general, is all about? To share, to learn, to grow?

As Fractured Faith nears 9000 followers, I’m proud to watch our little community grow. I’m constantly seeking feedback as to how we can improve, how we can develop into a blog that you always look out for on your cluttered timeline. So I’m throwing it out there. Why do you visit the blog? What are we good at? And where can we improve? Please leave your comments below and let’s get talking.

Stop Beating Yourself Up

Of late, I have been bumping into people who I used to spend a lot of time around. I would have regarded them as friends. In fact, I spent more time with them than I did with my own family. It was a period of my life when I had stopped drinking and started running. I thought this was a massive step forward at the time. In reality, I was merely replacing one addictive behaviour with another one and my loved ones continued to suffer.

The chance encounters were not wholly unpleasant. I had a long chat with one of the persons, a lovely man who I never had any issues with. Part of me regretted the way our friendship ended, but after our talk I realised there were no hard feelings on his part. He was always the wise one in the group, who tended to keep a wary distance from the more negative behaviours and conversations. Turns out he no longer runs with the others, either, although he still sees them about.

I drove past two of the ‘others’ recently. I was driving Adam to a rugby match and they were, naturally enough, running. They didn’t see me, thankfully, and I’m not proud to say that the sighting elicited less than savoury feelings within. I felt anger, bitterness and resentment towards them. I looked at then and saw nothing but arrogance and vanity on their part. I wanted nothing to do with them.

I later told Fionnuala about them. I needed to tell someone as I could still sense the encounter festering within me. It was cathartic to talk about it, a form of purging. ‘You used to be like that,’ she replied, just like that. I was initially a little taken aback although I don’t know why as my wife is nothing but frank when it comes to telling me how it is. The truth can be hard to swallow. The best medicine always goes down hardest.

Was I really that self absorbed, that much of a strutting peacock? Obsessed with appearance and personal bests as opposed to my family, the people who truly mattered? Deep down, I knew that I was. I spent my weekends away from home, on endless long runs or travelling up and down the country in pursuit of medals or ‘bling.’ ‘It’s all about the bling’ was our motto, our mantra. How wrong I was.

I wasn’t drinking, I was going to church, I was off social media and leading a clean and virtuous life. Or so I thought. But the truth was I was as bad as ever, having merely placed one flaw with another. Inside I was the same shallow, weak, insecure mess I had always been. Except now I had added hypocrisy to the host of other character traits I possessed. Blinded to the truth by shiny, worthless trinkets.

The scars remain, even to this day. My encounter with the runners proved that and I’m forever struggling to contain the resentment that lies dormant within. I still run but it’s a solitary, slower pursuit now. The days of running clubs and multiple race entries are a thing of the past. I see it for what it is now. Vacuous and meaningless. I would never go back to that lifestyle. Once bitten, forever shy.

I’m not jealous of them. But I am annoyed seeing them still produces such emotions within me. I need to feel nothing. No, that’s not quite right. I need to feel forgiveness. Towards them and towards myself. Stop beating myself up about the past and move on. For I’m only hurting myself and, again, those around me who require my unrivalled attention. They deserve better than that. I deserve better than that.

Do you still beat yourself up about the past?

Do you ever bump into ghosts from your past?

How do you move on?

I’m On The Comeback Trail….Again

After two weeks out of action with a chest infection, I ventured back onto the roads again. I also lost three weeks over New Year with a virus so this really is my last chance at making the start line for the Belfast Marathon in early May. I’m already several weeks behind in my training programme so any more setbacks would realistically scupper my chances of being ready on time.

It was a beautiful morning, mild and dry with only a light breeze. I set out on a mostly flat 6.4 mile route which took me out of the village to the shores of Lough Neagh and then back again. I purposely set off at a slow pace as my target was to complete the run in one piece with no mishaps. There were no personal bests going to be set today. Such heroics can wait until I get a few more miles under my belt.

My only company on the outward journey was the occasional cyclist who whizzed past with a wave or greeting. Rural folk tend to always do this when we meet on the roads and there is a particular camaraderie between runners and cyclists. We are all in the one boat, using our spare time to exercise and enjoy the fresh air. City folk are less friendly, but I guess that is the same wherever you go.

At the turning point I stopped for a couple of moments to catch my breath. I was trialling a new smart watch Fionnuala bought me for Valentines Day and was still coming to terms with its various buttons and settings. It sure beat running with my phone, however, which I had been doing for several months in order to record my pace and mileage. In a way, it was liberating not to worry about mile splits and overall targets.

The return leg was slightly more uphill and I caught a stiffer breeze in several sections. I focused on keeping my legs and arms pumping and not stopping, no matter how tired I felt. Thankfully my stamina held out. I was slow but comfortable and my breathing was relaxed. There were no aches or niggles and as I entered the final mile I knew there were no concerns as to me making the distance.

I made the final turn towards the house and glanced at my watch to reveal a slow, but respectable, time given it was my first outing in a fortnight. I had risked running a bit further than I probably should but lived to tell the tale. The plan is to run again tomorrow provided there is no adverse reaction to today’s exertions. Another injury or illness is my worst nightmare. Here’s hoping it doesn’t happen.

Are you planning to get outdoors this weekend?

What are you up to?

Are You Gerascophobic?

Oh good….now that I’ve got your attention I’ll begin.

Ahem…..

I’ve just finished reading ‘How To Stop Time’ by Matt Haig which I highly recommend to you all. Haig writes a lot on mental health issues but is also an acclaimed novelist. The book tells the tale of Tom Hazard, who on the surface is a very ordinary forty something History teacher leading a very ordinary life in London. Except he isn’t. Tom has an incredible secret. He is almost 500 years old.

Tom was born in 16th Century France and stopped ageing at 13 years old. Well, I say stopped but that’s not strictly true. He does age, only much more slowly than you or I. For every 10 years we age, he ages one. When he’s 300, he looks around 30, and so on. He has lived numerous lives around the globe, always staying one step ahead of suspicion and rumours regarding his youthful appearance.

Tom’s longevity means he plays the lute at the Globe Theatre when hired by William Shakespeare. He discover new lands as part of Captain Cook’s crew and parties in Paris with F. Scott Fitzgerald. He never gets ill and doesn’t have to worry about grey hairs or wrinkles. He is immune to the toll that time takes on the rest of us. He is invincible, untouchable, the nearest thing to a superhuman on the planet.

This sounds like an incredible existence except, again, it isn’t. Tom is something of a social pariah, a fugitive from society. His mother is drowned by witch hunters who suspect she has cast a spell on her son. The love of his life ages and then succumbs to the plague in Elizabethan London. He is unable to form meaningful relationships or become close to anyone. His life is a lie, a lonely lie.

The fear of growing old is called gerascophobia, derived from the Greeks words ‘gerasko’ (to grow old) and ‘phobia’ (fear). I googled that, in case you think I’m a smarty pants. But I’m glad there’s a recognised term for the condition, as I think I may suffer from it. Increasingly so, of late. I constantly feel as if my ship has sailed and I’m running out of time. It’s frustrating and more than a little frightening.

I’m 48 years old. I like to think a young 48, both physically and mentally. People tell me I don’t look my age, whatever that means. I’ve a full head of hair and (most) of my own teeth. I’m fitter than I was when I was 18, or at least was until perpetual illness plagued me since Christmas. That has put the marathon training on hold and I’ve consoled myself at the biscuit barrel.

I don’t want to be Tom Hazard. He has centuries of old age to not look forward to, but if someone offered to rewind the last 10-15 years or so, I’d more than likely jump at the chance. Or would I? Yes, I would relive those years very differently but then I wouldn’t be the person I am today. And for one who fears the sands of time then why do I continue to wish my life away when it comes to so many aspects of it?

Nobody in the history of mankind has lived a perfect life. We all have made mistakes, carry regrets and eye the future with trepidation. What lies ahead? Is it all downhill from here. We fret over our futures, and ponder over our pasts. In doing so, we forget the most important time of all. The present. For that is where we are and that is where life is lived. Live in the present. The future can wait.

Are you afraid of growing old?

Would you like to live a life like Tom Hazard?

Where is your present?

What Is Your Worst Habit?

Yesterday I wrote about my ongoing querying of literary agents and how researching their backgrounds prior to submitting your manuscript to them, is the acceptable face of online stalking. It was a tongue in cheek piece, as most of my writing is, but there was a serious message wrapped up inside the frivolity. That being, the obsessive behaviour which fuels the mind of a stalker.

I have OCD and an obsessive personality. I have no filter, no brake, no off switch. I can easily become fixated with activities and even people. This is exacerbated by a complete lack of self awareness when it comes to this particular character trait. I am unaware of my behaviour, in fact I rationalise that it is completely normal and those raising the alarm to me are the killjoys and bores.

This obsessive streak can be explained away as having a stubborn streak or being ultra single minded and determined. Which, in themselves, are admirable characteristics. You need these to run marathons. You need them to carve out a reasonably successful career in my chosen fiend. You need them to slave away at your novel for over a year until it is finally complete.

It’s a double sided coin, however. It’s not so admirable when you become obsessed with running, or paragliding, or base jumping. These activities are designed to be a release from the daily grind, as opposed to becoming the grind itself. They become destructive and counter productive when they drag you away from your core values and the people and pursuits who truly matter.

We become ensnared by these pastimes, they become our raison d’etre. They possess and consume us. They same can be said of online activity. I admit I spend far too much time online, trying to build the blog and related social media platforms. I know it is a necessary evil to pursue my writing dream, but I often need Fionnuala to remind me that I also have a wife and three kids who supersede all my other responsibilities.

This weakness has led me down all sorts of nasty rabbit holes in the past. I cultivated unhealthy online habits which damaged both myself and those I love. I became secretive and distant. Thankfully my current online incarnation is founded upon transparency and accountability. This affords me a safety net should I ever feel the urge to slip back into old habits. I’m learning to police myself again and, in doing so, trust myself again.

Any habit is hard to shake. I bite my nails, drink too much Diet Coke and the list goes on. I’ll never be a hand model but I do recycle all my empty cans and bottles. There are worse habits to have, I glibly inform people whenever I am challenged on these. And, indeed there are. But it’s a warning to always be on my guard. Old habits die hard. They are always lurking, waiting to pounce. The demon that is OCD is never far away.

I don’t smoke, I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs. I’m a boring, middle aged husband and father. I don’t attract a second glance on my daily commute to and from work. None of us do. We are normal. Oh, but if only they knew. If only they knew the dormant madness that lies within. Just waiting for it’s opportunity to be unleashed and wreak havoc on our carefully constructed worlds. If only….

What are your bad habits?

Does madness lurk within you?

Sticking Your Head Above The Parapets

I was raised on fantasy novels and this has largely continued into my supposed adult years. It began with a fascination for Middle Earth and all things Tolkien. My mind was filled with adventures accompanied by hobbits and elves, battling orcs and armies of darkness at the foot of Mount Mordor. As a teenager I was a massive Dungeons & Dragons player.

D&D was much more preferable to the realities of surviving a grammar school where bespectacled nerds were fair game for class bullies and psychotic teachers alike. I returned to my love of reading and fantasy in the last decade or so. Once again, it was a means of escape from the harsh realities of life. Except now my wounds were self inflicted ones. I was the sole architect of my demise.

Hiding between the covers of a book allowed me to regroup and lick my wounds. I binged on the sprawling, epic trilogies of Robin Hobb and Raymond E. Feist. I recall reading Feist’s ‘Magician’ at my lowest ebb. The thicker the book, the better, for such tomes were my sanctuary from what lay beyond. Eventually, however, the final words were greedily consumed and I was forced to re-emerge, squinting and blinking into the 21st Century again.

Many fantasy novels involve castles. And where there is a castle, a siege is never far away. Sieges where the beleaguered heroes are surrounded by a brutal enemy; where they face insurmountable odds and all seems lost. Our ragtag armies man the ramparts, pummelled by arrows, boulders, and anything else the opposition can hurl their way. Defeat seems inevitable. There is no way out.

Except there usually is. Reinforcements appear on the horizon at the eleventh hour, a friendly dragon swoops from above to barbecue the enemy, or an unlikely hero leads a handful of brave troops in a last ditch counter attack which sweeps all before them. Usually aided by a wizard or two. The storm clouds lift, the sun peeks through and the forces of good prevail. For good always overcomes evil, right?

Such heroics require a decision. Followed by an act of will. Someone has to take a risk, a chance. They need to raise their head and look over the castle parapets to see what is going on outside. This is a dangerous business. Lifting your head above the parapet turns you into an immediate target for eagle eyed sharp shooters on the other side. Before you know it, you’re being peppered with missiles of various shapes and sizes.

Yet, it has to be done. To invoke change, to lift the status quo, to turn the tide. It could backfire horribly and end up with you toppling over the castle walls, an arrow between your eyes, dead before you hit the ground. But what’s the alternative? Skulking, shaking, waiting for the inevitable when the enemy swarm over the ramparts unopposed and butcher every last man, woman or child? What’s it to be?

I’m at a stage of my life where I’ve made the decision to poke my head above the parapet and face the enemy squarely in the eye. And guess what? They don’t like it. Hell has been unleashed in all its many guises. I’ll continue this theme in a later post but, until then, keep your wits about you if you dare lift your head above the parapet. And more importantly, keep your head on your shoulders.

Who are your favourite fantasy authors?

What role do you think you would play in a castle siege?

Do You Believe In Yourself?

I received an e-mail earlier this week from a fellow blogger asking for advice on growing their blog. This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this question. After much frowning of brows and scratching of heads I cobbled together a reply where I talked about quality writing, consistent themes and regular interaction with fellow bloggers. Something like that. You get my drift. Etc etc.

The reality is, I haven’t a clue. When I started writing almost two years ago now, it was because Fionnuala saw a talent in my writing and encouraged (forced) me to share it with the world. I never expected it to take off like it has and I never thought I’d now be looking at a blog with almost 9000 followers. One person, my wife, believed in me at a stage in my life when I didn’t believe in myself.

I don’t consider myself a particularly gifted wordsmith. Every day I marvel at the talent of fellow bloggers who, quite frankly, knock my clumsy prose out of the ball park. They have bigger, better stories to tell than me which they do with a skill, passion and verve that I struggle to emulate. Some of you people have no idea how good you are. Seriously. You need to go away and write a NYT bestseller. This minute. Now. Go.

Sooooo….what is it I do? Well, I try to post every day. I’m present, I’m here, that annoying relative who is always the last to leave family functions, making you think they have no home to go to. That’s me. Although I try to turn the annoying dial down to the bare minimum. Some of the best feedback I get is from people saying they look forward to reading my blog every day. I’m a familiar, comfortable pair of old slippers.

I seek to reassure people. To tell them they’re not alone, and there is hope even on the most desolate, windswept nights. I want to be a light, a strong hand hauling them from whatever deep pit they have fallen down. For I’ve been there but was unfortunate enough to survive and clamber out to tell the tale. The blog is a living testimony to that. I want to help, I want to put my own many failings to good use.

I want to make you smile, think, engage, and, most of all, believe. Believe in yourself. For there is a gift within you begging to be birthed, for all to see. For if you believe in something hard enough, then it will happen. Don’t buy that? Then check out that 15 stone, hungover, miserable couch potato who used to dream of running marathons and writing books. Six years later I’m doing both.

You see, I’m nothing special. But one day, the penny dropped. Just as Fionnuala believed in me, I began to bet on my own inherent ability. Initially it was a long shot, a Hail Mary pass of ridiculous proportions. But, occasionally, the long shot romps home first past the finishing past. Occasionally the Hail Mary bobbles and bounces into the grateful hands of the wide receiver.

So, my advice to you all, whatever you are doing, is to believe in yourself. You only get one shot and you’re a long time dead. If you have a dream, pursue it. With passion and tenacity. Let your talent breathe and your hopes soar high into the sky. Live the impossible. It’s closer than you think. That new life is there for the taking. All you have to do is reach out and touch it. Written by one who knows.

Do you believe in yourself?

What makes a good blogger?

I Didn’t Want To Write Today

I didn’t want to write today.

Yet here I am, tentatively tapping at the keyboard. Feeling my way into the next sentence, fumbling through another paragraph. The words come, they always do. A hesitant trickle at first, before I relax and they flow freely. And when they flow freely, then I am free as well. From the past, from the voices that claw at my ever fragile mind. I didn’t want to write today. I had to write today.

I lost my father nine years ago today. To prostate cancer. I remember sitting in a waiting room at the hospital, as a brutish consultant dispassionately informed us there was no hope. I’ll never forget that man. He might as well have been telling us the weather forecast for the week ahead. The words meant nothing to him, yet their impact shattered us. Nothing would ever be the same again.

I rose that day. There was a funeral to arrange and I was the only son, the eldest child, the one of whom strength and courage were expected. So I donned the mask and played the role to a packed auditorium. I was the centre of attention and, sick though it may sound, part of me revelled in it. Though surrounded by death, this was my lifeline. I clung to it for all I was worth.

I revelled, but then unraveled. The bottom of a pint glass became my harbour from the storm. A temporary respite, however, for when I lifted my groggy head above the parapet, the wind and rain lashed more furiously than ever. I was adrift, askew, a mess. I struck out for shore, my compass spinning, floundering, sinking. Constant drinking. Until the day, I said no more. Until the day I stopped.

I’m battered today. Battered by sickness which has reared its ugly head again when I thought I’d shrugged it aside. Fretting over immaterial matters. Matters that don’t really matter. Marathons that aren’t being run. Books that aren’t being written. Six years ago they would have buzzed and niggled until I cracked open a beer and shooed them from my mind. But now, I write.

Battered but blessed. Looking ahead, clear headed and driven. The glass is half full these days, the wallowing no more. I want to make my father proud of me and, more than that, I want to make those still here proud. My wife and children, my friends and anyone else whose life I touch. I’ll visit my past and learn from it, grow, but no longer be held prisoner by it.

No longer consumed, obsessed, possessed. Still stressed. That is me. But blessed. Blessed that these words pour from my pen, from my soul. There’s hope, always hope. If you take nothing else away from this post, I hope you take hope. Hope that there are better times ahead, times you deserve, times which will reveal the real you, the true you, for all the world to see. Is that so hard to believe? For belief costs nothing?

Why do you write?

What do words mean to you?

Are you battered, blessed or both?

Three Rejection E-Mails Later….

It’s two weeks since I started querying literary agents with my book ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles: Skelly’s Square,’ and I said I would keep you all regularly updated, so here goes. To date I have queried 15 agents, all of whom I chose after researching them online and judging they would be a good match for both myself and the novel. This has been a sizeable piece of work in itself.

Each agent has differing submission guidelines. Some ask for attachments, others that you cut and paste into the body of the e-mail. Some ask for the first 10 pages of the book, while others want 50. Some want this, and others demand that. It is a confusing and baffling world I have entered, and on more than one occasion I’ve queried the sanity of my actions. Is this really worth all the time and effort?

Especially since, to date, all I have received is three format rejection e-mails. The first one didn’t even name me. There has no feedback, no advice, nothing. Just cold, impersonal ‘thank you but no.’ Every time I see an e-mail in my inbox now, a clammy sweat breaks out across my back. People keep telling me I only need one agent to say ‘yes’, others that you’re not a real author until you receive at least 100 rejections.

I’ve braced myself for all this, of course, but it still niggles at my fragile self belief. I’m only human, after all. Yet, I’m remaining hopeful. I know the book will see the light of day, somehow, even if I ultimately have to go down the self-publishing route. It would be nice to be taken on by an agent but, in this ultra competitive market, I know it’s not the end of the world if I don’t. I’ll keep you all updated in the weeks and months ahead.

How do you handle rejection?

An Apology To My Family

Last night my adoring wife posted a blog about our new coffee table. A very lovely addition to our house, which was positioned slap bang in the middle of the living room, patiently awaiting my return from work last night. As the kids returned from school, it was the first thing they noticed and the centre of conversation. The family waited with bated return for my entrance. And, whether or not, I would notice.

My family delight in such cruel taunting of dumb creatures such as I. New photographs are strategically placed around the house. Curtain drapes change colour overnight, furniture is repositioned at a whim. And the first thing I’m asked is ‘Do you notice anything new?’ At these dreaded words, I break into a clammy sweat and descend into panic, desperately attempting to detect the offending article.

I’m no good at this. I live in a bubble. It’s no excuse, but my OCD means I am often wrestling with unwanted thoughts and urges which, while nowhere near as bad as they used to be, still lurk at the edges of my consciousness, threatening to consume me. Last night it was food related, as I fretted and worried over calorific intake, my weight and current lack of exercise due to a head cold aka ‘manflu.’

After dinner I plonked myself on our sofa, within inches of the coffee table. I sensed something different in the room but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The fact I had, minutes before, taken the cardboard packaging the table arrived in to our outside recycling bin failed to register with me. I attempted to strike up conversation with Fionnuala but she simply looked at me, a knowing smirk on her face.

Hannah then swept into the room, enquiring ‘Has he noticed yet?’ It was then I realised there was something afoot. By day, I’m a supposedly highly trained investigator who shifts through masses of material in forensic detail so as to progress complex enquiries. When I leave the office, however, I’m an idiot. Were Godzilla to lumber through Belfast city centre, I doubt if it would evoke a flicker of recognition.

After several tortuous moments and frantic scanning of the room, I finally noticed the gleaming table, a foot in front of my nose. This sparked scenes of great hilarity amongst the other members of the Black household. Once more, I was the clown of the piece, and the butt of their jokes. Yes, I am your idiotic, non observant husband and father. Guilty as charged. Sent to amuse and entertain you as I stumble through life as awkwardly as possible.

I do my best, I truly do. But there are times I feel I’m not cut out for this whole husband and father carry on. I feel I’m continually letting the side down, neglecting my duties, struggling in a role I’m entirely unsuited to perform. I’m selfish and needy, wrapped up in my own mental maze. I blow the tiniest disagreement out of all proportion. I should be the rock of the family whereas I’m usually drowning in quicksand.

I guess we all feel like that at times. Utterly inadequate. We do the right thing 99% of the time but that one failing can bring the whole house of cards tumbling down. Life. It’s a baffling puzzle we will never master. Until then, all we can do is our very best. I’ll soldier on. Fighting my demons, internal and external. Peering ahead for the next coffee table on the horizon. I can do better. I must do better.

Are you oblivious to much of what goes around you? Do you live in a bubble of your own making?

Or are you eagle eyed? On time for every appointment? On top of every aspect of your life?

Are You Alone? Then Read This

I joined Twitter a couple of months ago to promote my (currently) non existent writing career. I used to be a bit of a whizz on Twitter back in the day. I held court on it and waxed lyrical to my army of adoring followers. My dry, yet achingly witty and intelligent, tweets won me adoration and acclaim. Usually typed when I was several sheets to the wine courtesy of my old friend, Mr. Budweiser.

But that was then, and this is now. Now I stand awkwardly in the corner of the room with my Diet Coke as all around me fellow authors, who all appear to know one another, tweet nonsense about their current work in progress and whether or not their protagonist should be written in the 1st or 3rd person. It’s a dog eat dog and me, me, me social platform. Heavens above, some of them even post selfies, an unwritten no no on WordPress.

I’ll persevere as that is where all the literary agents and publishing houses hang out. But it’s just somewhere I go to ply my trade, a 9-5 environment I’m obliged to visit on a regular basis. It’s not my home, it’s not the place I retreat to at the end of a long, tiring day. A place where I tear off the mask, slip into something more comfortable and abandon the airs and graces of social etiquette.

For that place is WordPress. It is my home and you are my people. A place where I am accepted for who I am, not who I want to be. Yes, I can be witty and intelligent if the mood takes me but I can also be honest, brutally honest if need be. Where I can bare all, safe in the knowledge I will be supported and valued. WordPress is my safe place, and you are my people. It will always be my online home.

Which brings me to the point of this rambling post. It’s great that people can be themselves on here, but it also means I see a lot of pain. I see desperation, anger, guilt, rejection, hopelessness and sorrow. I see people on the edge, one step away from toppling over the precipice and falling into a chasm of nothingness from which there is no return. But most of all, I see raw, unfiltered loneliness.

Loneliness is a silent killer. You can be in the middle of a crowded room, smiling and nodding in all the right places, but inside there is nothing but a hollow shell. Your phone rarely rings, beeps or vibrates. You have nobody to talk to, to sob and scream at. You are an island of isolation, adrift on a sea of sorrow. So you cling to the only piece of flotsam within sight, you cling to it for your very life depends on it.

You cling to WordPress. For it is the only community where you feel a semblance of self worth and acceptance. My message to you today is that you are not alone, for we are many. We need to reach out, engage and care for each other. Visit other people’s blogs, check up on the quiet ones, read between the lines and scan the skyline for rescue flares and warning beacons. They need us just as we need them.

I post every day on WordPress. I am here. Use me. Talk to me. For I’ve been there. Where you are now, as you read these words. Or talk to someone else if you think I’m the most annoying blogger on the planet. It doesn’t have to be open forum. Send an e-mail. Reach out, for there are strong hands, able and willing to pull you from the pit. Yes, you are lonely. But you need never be alone again.

Are you alone, desperate, frightened? Then reach out?

Or do you want to help others? Then reblog this post or write your own.

Let’s slay those demons.

I Have An Obsessive Personality

I have an obsessive personality.

Regular readers will know this anyway. It’s an aspect of my OCD which I have struggled with for the majority of my adult life. I don’t do things by half. When I develop a new interest or passion I must push it to the nth degree, to the point where everything else takes a back seat. When I am in this zone, my moral compass spins horribly out of control and I lose all sense of perspective.

I used to be obsessed with work, although this was often driven by a fear of failure. I would work ridiculous hours and was forever spending my weekends immersed in it, when I should have been focusing on my family. In my warped mind, this wasn’t a problem as I was doing it for them. The next promotion or pay rise. Putting bread on the table, bringing the bacon home. In reality, it was all about my ego.

When my father died, It was alcohol. I was a weekend drinker, but before long the weekends began on Thursday evening and ended on Monday morning. When our finances were tight, I always made sure there was enough for a case of beer. I drank to forget. To forget about my father’s death, to dull the intrusive thoughts and compulsive urges, to block out the mess I was making of my life.

Alcohol fuelled the Twitter years. I became obsessed with building up a legion of followers although I tweeted largely nonsense. It made me feel wanted, valued, relevant. I didn’t realise though that is was further estranging me from my loved ones, from the people who mattered. I was in the room with them, but I might as well have been a thousand miles away. I was an empty shell.

When I stopped drinking, running took over. My weekends would be spent away from my family again, at races all over the country. I became obsessed with personal bests, medals and beating the people I trained with. While my body was healthier than it had ever been, my mind was sinking further into the more. Image and appearance were everything. I was shallow and selfish.

I still run, but nowhere near the levels I used to. I now race 2-3 times a year when it used to be 2-3 times a month. I enjoy running but largely train alone now. I prefer it that way. Before I used to feel under intense pressure, both from myself and other people I ran with. I don’t want to go back to that way of living. When I run now I reap the mental as well as the physical benefits.

Passion. Drive. Ambition. Determination. These are all words which most of us would agree are positive. But there is a line and, when you cross it, you enter a whole new world. The world of the obsessive. We suck the joy out of everything like a ravenous lion sucks marrow from a bone. Except our demons feed on anxiety, fear and doubt. We lose all sense of who we are and who we want to be. It is the darkest of realms.

I don’t want to go back there, and I don’t think I will. But I must never rest on my laurels. You can’t be cured of OCD. It’s like someone saying they used to be an addict, but they’re not anymore. It is always there lurking, watching, like a dormant volcano waiting for its opportunity to unleash death upon the unsuspecting countryside. It stalks its prey, waiting to pounce and rip you apart.

Have you an obsessive personality?

Have you ever crossed the line?

How is your mental health today?

The Blind Leading The Blind

The other day I encountered an elderly blind man in the city centre. He was experiencing some difficulties as double decker buses roared past, mere feet away. I instinctively wanted to go to his aid but the introverted, socially awkward voice in my head held me back. ‘You don’t talk to strangers, Stephen. What if he spurns your offer of help, becomes offended, tells you to clear off and leave him alone?’

I stood there, watching the man, as this internal monologue raged within me. In the end, my guilty conscience outweighed the reticence. In some ways, it was a selfish as opposed to selfless act. Imagine if I turned on the news later to discover the man had been mown down in the rush hour traffic. Never mind the poor man’s family, would I ever be able to live with myself?

I took the plunge, approached the man, and politely asked did he require assistance, half expecting to be told to bugger off and mind my own business. Before the words had departed my lips, however, he gratefully grabbed hold of my forearm and thanked me, explaining where he was going. His knowledge of Belfast street names far outweighed mine, and he knew exactly where he was going.

The problem was, he had strayed a few yards off his predetermined route and lost his bearings. I carefully guided him across the street as he chatted cheerfully, before thanking me and continuing his journey with renewed confidence and purpose. He wasn’t too proud not to accept help when he found himself in a bit of bother. I headed in the opposite direction, impressed by his positive attitude and refusal to let his disability get the better of him.

I know our blog has several followers who are blind or partially sighted. Others have a range of other physical disabilities or chronic illnesses. Many have mental health problems. Blogging is our shared passion, the medium whereby we tell our stories and encourage one another. WordPress is a sanctuary of sorts to us, where we take temporary shelter from the worries of the outside world. It is our safe place, a place where we can be us.

Despite his disability, this man was not afraid to step out across a chilly Belfast on a busy weekday morning and do what he had to do. He wasn’t going to allow his disability to dictate his life for him. He refused to succumb to it and hide at home, wallowing in self pity, as I would have been tempted to do. He rose above it and, even though it was a difficult journey, he persevered. I know he reached his final destination.

He taught me a lesson. He teaches us all a lesson. We are all on a journey and, at times, we will stray off course or encounter unexpected challenges. We cannot allow those to put us off and must keep our eyes fixed on the prize. Where we falter, we should not be afraid to accept the arm of a well meaning stranger. For, while blind, the vision and passion of this man put me to shame.

I moan, I complain, I sulk and I pout. We all do. But that can only be temporary, we cannot allow transitional emotions to define who we are and deflect us from the path we were born to travel. There was a light within this man’s soul which lit up the path ahead for him, a light I have been struggling to ignite for some years now. It truly was a case of the blind leading the blind. On a freezing Belfast morning I was the one being led.

Have you ever helped a person in need on the streets?

Are you in need of spiritual direction?

We All Need To Eat More Pizza

We had friends visiting last night so treated ourselves to Dominos Pizza, given it was buy one get one free Tuesday. It was too good an offer to miss out on, so we ended up going buy three, get three free. And try saying that with a mouthful of ham and pineapple deep crust. Everyone got stuck in and I could barely move by the end of the night. Good job I went for a run earlier in the day.

Calorific intake aside, is there anyone out there who doesn’t like pizza? Certainly not at chez Black last night. The kids attacked it with their usual famished relish and, to be fair, the supposed grown ups weren’t that far behind them. There were a multitude of toppings on offer, something for even the pickiest palate. Ham, pineapple, mushroom, chicken, you name it we had it.

I came downstairs this morning to find Hannah munching happily on a cold slice. Despite our best efforts the night before, there was still loads left over. I reckon if Jesus appeared on Earth today he would be performing his ‘loaves and fishes’ miracle with a Meat Feast 12′ and sides of garlic bread. Everybody loves pizza, it has a universal appeal, right? World peace would be a dawdle if world leaders sat down and discussed it over pizza.

If only everything was that simple. Our world is so fragmented at present it feels as if nothing works. We can’t seem to agree on anything. Nations clash and politicians fail to grasp the nettle. In Northern Ireland, we have been without a functioning government for over two years. I think that’s a world record which we inherited from Belgium the other month. Or somewhere like that.

This is staggering. Even the amiable Belgians are at loggerheads with each other. When did Belgium ever start an international incident? I know they have had their differences with the Dutch down the years but they even make the Swiss look like bloodthirsty warmongers. Us Northern Irish are comparatively off the scale. 3000 dead during 30 years of our ‘Troubles’ is testimony to that.

We cannot agree on our past, our present or our future. Our politicians bicker and bluster but nothing is agreed, and we seem further away from agreement than ever before. At times it is akin to a schoolyard squabble. You feel like banging their heads together and sending them to bed with no dinner. And no cold pizza the next morning either. That would teach them a lesson they’d never forget.

Cold pizza. Cold comfort. This morning is bitter as I sit and write this, and that’s not just because Jack Frost paid our fractured land a visit overnight. Some days the zombie apocalypse doesn’t seem such a bad alternative after all. At least you know where you stand with zombies. They are as predictable as they are hungry. Although don’t try to entice them with a Hawaiian thin crust. That simply won’t work.

Back in the day it was a Noah and a flood. Today fingers hover over nuclear launch codes, and people have nightmare about Brexit, while disease and famine ravage large swathes of the globe. If we can’t agree on the small things then how on earth will we ever agree on the issues that truly matter. I just don’t know anymore. Maybe we all need to eat more pizza. A lot more pizza.

What is your favourite pizza topping?

Can your leaders agree on anything?

The Day My Dog Spoke To Me

Our dog, Charlie the border terrier, isn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Every morning I fill his bowl with fresh water, and every morning he and I enact the same routine. He pads over to the bowl, sniffs at it and then rewards me with a withering glare, before sulking in his cage for the remainder of the morning. If looks could kill then I’d be halfway to doggy heaven by now. Charlie doesn’t do tap water.

I’ve no idea why as it’s perfectly acceptable tap water. Good enough for the human members of the household. Perhaps he’s just not thirsty, I used to think. Or his sensitive canine palate will only accept Evian sparkling H20 from the purest Alpine springs. His father was a pedigree so maybe that’s where his culinary pickiness comes from. Possibly there’s a bit of corgi in his family lineage.

Given this, I was surprised the other day to find him slurping noisily from a plant pot in the back yard. It had rained heavily overnight so the saturated soil in the pot contained a good few inches of dirty rainwater. Dirty rainwater that our Charlie was gulping down at an unprecedented pace. It was as if he had just crossed the Sahara Desert and was on his last legs. Paws. Whatever.

When he was finished, he ambled past me with a smug expression on his face, his thirst quenched. Can dogs look smug? He trotted past his bowl of clean, cool tap water without a second glance. Here was a dog who knew what he liked and no dumb owner was going to stand in his way. I initially dismissed this as a one off but have since caught him a number of times lapping up muddy water from the back yard.

It doesn’t appear to have affected his health. He’s still a bouncing ball of energy and his all consuming hatred of neighbourhood cats and our amiable postman, Tony, remains undiminished. He just has a preference for al fresco dirty water. Maybe, somewhere deep within his admittedly tiny brain, it is the same primeval beast within which still makes him circle ten times before lying down.

I used to be like Charlie. I had a loving home and family, everything I needed on tap. Yet I preferred spending my nights at the bottom of a pint glass or talking online to complete strangers. I turned my nose up at the pure refreshment on offer for my soul and wallowed in self pity and shame. A physically and mentally unhealthy mess who was more interested in his Twitter followers than his wife and kids.

I’m glad that those times are behind me now. They say you should never look back but sometimes it does no harm to peek over your shoulder to see how far you have come on your journey. We often forget to reflect positively on what we have achieved, instead becoming overwhelmed by the present and what yet lies ahead of us. It is our past conquests where we attain the strength and skills to forge ahead. Our past arms us for the future.

When I get home tonight, I may sneak Charlie an extra biscuit for teaching me an important lesson today. For a dog, he has a pretty comfortable life. I’ll allow him his back yard forays to the dirty plant pot knowing that I now drink from a well of living water. Everyone has the opportunity to sip from this well, yet it remains the less traveled path to so many. I’m glad I made the right choice in the end.

Have you got a pet? What lessons do they teach you?

Have you drank dirty water in the past? Where are you now on your journey?

Today Has Been Exciting

It was with much excitement today that I submitted my first query to a literary agent in respect of my book – ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles: Skelly’s Square.’ Having checked font, submission guidelines and e-mail addresses a million times I finally summoned up the courage to hit the submit button and watch my beloved KSC fly off into the great unknown.

Seconds later I got an automated e-mail from the agent acknowledging receipt of my submission. I stamped my feet and clapped my hands like a kid on Christmas morning as Fionnuala, who was an immense help on the IT front this morning, looked on with a mixture of pride and bemusement. I’m planning to send out ten queries this weekend, all to agents who I’ve been monitoring/stalking on social media for some time.

Then it will be a matter of sitting back and waiting. I’m under no illusions as to how competitive the market is. Agents receive hundreds of submissions a week and I am but one writer trying desperately to catch their eye. But if you’re not in you can’t win and finally after almost 18 months, I’m in a position to say I’m a querying author. It’s been a long, winding, but ultimately worthwhile road.

There will now commence a period of self enforced wailing and gnashing of teeth as I await responses. I’m braced for rejection but also hopeful of more positive feedback. Responses can take from 2-12 weeks, depending on the agent. Even then agent interest doesn’t necessarily mean you will be taken on. So, it’s a waiting game. But it’s a start. I’ll continue to keep you all updated, good news or bad.

These Boots Were Made For….Squelching

Now that I’m a full time Rugby Dad, my son honoured me at Christmas by buying me a pair of Wellington boots to keep my tootsies dry and warm as I prowl up and down the touchline. He even included a pair of thermal socks which almost reach my knees. Combined with winter coat, gloves, hat and scarf I now resembled Scott of the Antarctic as I dropped him off for Saturday’s match.

Adam rewarded my sartorial elegance with probably the best match I have ever seen him play. He scored two tries (North American readers think touchdown) and played his heart out. His coach was suitably impressed while my heart burst with pride beneath the 17 layers of clothing I was wearing. I clapped and roared like a demented Eskimo as he hurtled around the pitch for 70 minutes.

All the other Rugby Dads, for we are many, were suitably impressed as well. And not just by what was happening on the pitch. One sidled over to me during the second half. ‘Nice boots,’ he remarked, glancing down in admiration at my new footwear. ‘Thanks’ I replied. ‘My son got them for me at Christmas. I guess I’m a real Rugby Dad now’ I added, clicking my muddy heels like Dorothy on her way to Oz.

‘You certainly look the part now’ he continued, before roaring at the referee about the other team being offside, a rule I’m still struggling to get my head around. Yes, I did look the part. I felt like I belonged there, that I fitted in, a sensation which for most of my life was an alien concept to me. Instead, I was a social chameleon who changed his behaviour and opinions like Lady GaGa changes clothes during a concert.

I was perfectly happy with Adam being the star of the show, the centre of attention. I may have looked faintly ridiculous but I was where I was meant to be, supporting him. Despite the early hour and the dreary conditions, it certainly beat lying in bed with a monstrous hangover, a pastime which, until several years ago, occupied the majority of my Saturday mornings.

I hope Saturday was the first of many such outings for my boots. There are many muddy fields to be traversed. And win, lose or draw at least I won’t lose any toes through frostbite. Safe in the knowledge that, as well as looking the part, I now feel the part as well. Part of a jigsaw which, when pieced together, is called family life. It’s where I’m meant to be, rather than the many other places I’ve tried to squeeze myself, desperate for attention and acceptance.

I used to be a square peg struggling to fit into a round hole. I’m still a square but much more comfortable in my own skin now. I’m where I needed to be all along, where I was meant to be, with the people who believe in me and what I am trying to achieve. I have cast off chains of self loathing and doubt, in order to reveal the real me, warts and all. I look the part because I am the part. The missing part.

Are you a social chameleon?

Do you look the part? Is it all just a show for the outside world?

Are you happy in your own skin?

What Do Bloggers Do On Sunday?

From personal experience, Sunday is the quietest day of the week on WordPress. People tend to be offline and blog traffic picks up later in the week again. For many people, Sunday is traditionally a day of rest. They have a lie in, spend the day with their family, some go to church. I also realise that others have to go to work. To some, Sunday is just another day while others treat it as special time which should be protected at all costs.

My Sunday’s follow a typical pattern. They used to start with a stinking hangover, followed by skulking around the house eating unhealthily and largely feeling sorry for myself. How times have changed. We aren’t connected to a church (loooooooong story) but friends do come to our house every Sunday morning to listen to worship music, pray and study the Bible. Today, I spoke about using the Bible as a weapon.

Now, by weapon I don’t mean literally bashing people over the head with it, although I have been sorely tempted at times. Even loooooonger story. No, the Bible can be used to protect you from unacceptable and inappropriate behaviour. I know it is not for everyone but I believe it has helped me become a better, more thoughtful, considerate person. I’m no expert and a lot of it still challenges and confuses me, but I do get a lot out of it.

Afterwards we all hung out for a while. Fionnuala baked a birthday cake for our friend, Graham. When our friends left, I ran a 5K even though I felt tired. I’m still recovering from a mystery virus I’ve been battling since before Christmas. I’m much better than I was, and back running again, but there are days when it is the furthest thing from my mind. I forced myself out there, though, and felt all the better for it.

I’m no culinary giant but promised Fionnuala last week I would cook dinner on Sunday. She suggested sausage casserole as even a walking disaster zone like yours truly could manage that one. Rebecca helped me by cutting the up carrots and onions while I peeled potatoes. We both ended up with stinging eyes from the onions but I managed not to burn anything and everyone seemed to enjoy it. It’s another dish I’ve mastered which I can add to my recipe book.

The remainder of the day will be taken up with blogging and writing an article a website has approached me about. I’ll also drop an e-mail to my editor to see how she is progressing with the book. We will hopefully get caught up on some of our shows, although Fionnuala always has a busy Sunday evening, preparing lunches and uniforms for the week ahead. So much for Sunday being a day of rest then.

Monday comes around oh so quick. Our weekends are precious times and I’m blessed that I can spend mine with family and friends, people who truly matter. I hope you do the same and are doing so now, instead of reading my rambling words. We only have so many of these days, we should make the most of them. I hope you are all having a great Sunday. Whatever you are doing today.

How do you spend your Sunday?

This Bloody Sleeve Of Mine

I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always have. I’m not one of these people who can face the world with a cheery smile, while inside said world is crumbling to a pile of acrid ash. I don’t do deadpan and if I played poker, my pile of chips would be gone after a few disastrous hands. When it comes to office politics, I can’t play the long game. I become impatient, frustrated, the emotions splashed across my face for all to see.

Take this week. Both inside and outside of work I’ve struggled and failed to remain patient. When I should have bitten my lip and counted to ten, I’ve got to about four before losing my cool and venting my ire. This, of course, has accomplished zilch, zero, nada. Situations have remained unchanged, other than me making myself look foolish and regretting having opened my big, fat mouth.

When things aren’t going my way I tend to force the issue, rather than sitting back and waiting. I’m selfish so me, me, me always trumps the bigger picture and the needs and feelings of others. I end up with egg all over my face and that’s even before the main course of humble pie is served up. I reluctantly gulp it down, resisting the urge to gag on my own bitter, acidic bile.

I wish I wasn’t like this but I am. I always have been. I’m a bull in a china shop when things aren’t going my way. I’m 48 years old but sometimes feel I stopped developing emotionally somewhere in the early 80’s. Maybe that’s the problem. Rather than remain calm and look ahead, I fret that I’ve wasted my life and achieved nothing. I always have one eye on the ticking clock.

It’s a no win situation on all sides. I don’t trust others to deliver the goods because I know best and everyone else knows nothing. I obviously don’t trust God so I turn my back in frustration and snub my nose at his ‘perfect timing.’ I also don’t, and can’t, trust myself. I roll my eyes in office meetings, fire off poorly thought out e mails, and lash out at loved ones who deserve so much better.

My writing is my sanctuary, a safe place where I can think and compose measured, rational prose. It is where I cool off and reflect on my less than perfect behaviour in the big, bad world. I used to think this was where the real me could be found, but that’s not true. Blogging Stephen is kind, thoughtful and considerate. The real Stephen struggles on all these fronts. He aspires to be better but so often fails.

When I’m muttering to myself about the injustice of it all, I’m taking my eyes off the people who need and deserve my attention. As my wise wife often reminds me ‘The world does not revolve around Stephen.’ I hate it when she says that but only because she’s struck the bullseye and spoken the truth. I gripe and groan but should be thanking my lucky stars as to how good I have it.

I’ll try again, and most probably fail, but I’ll try. I’ll hand over my problems and frustrations. To my higher power. I will trust and believe with this most fractured of faiths. I can’t do it all on my own and no amount of ranting will change that. My heart deserves better. It’s time to put it back where it belongs, rather than leave it exposed and vulnerable to the casual slings and arrows of this unforgiving and relentless world.

Do you wear your heart on your sleeve?

Are you a patient person?

How do you deal with frustration and disappointment?

Words

Words are something that we all use every day of our life

Words that are spoken in many different languages and ways be it through speech, sign language, communication boards, text messaging and writing to name but a few

Words that are loving, encouraging, beautiful, uplifting and words that are dangerous, nasty, hateful and ugly

Words can be as damaging as being physically assaulted. Those words stay in your head torturing you putting you down and make you feel hopeless, worthless and useless again and again and again. Bruises fade, cuts heal and memories can fade but the power of a spoken word can last forever in your head.

We all have the power of the spoken word within us it’s how we use it that counts. My mum brought me my brothers and sister up telling us “if you can’t say nothing nice then say nothing at all” and I can’t honestly say that I have not always put that into practice. Sometimes our mouths or our fingers on the keyboard can run away with us and before you know it you have tore somebody’s character to shreds or insulted and hurt someone who in turn will replay those words over and over again in their head because once that word is out there there is no taking it back. We can apologise and ask for forgiveness and that can done but forgetting is the hardest part.

I now tell our children “if you can’t say nothing nice say nothing at all” I’m pretty sure they don’t always practice it but I still keep telling them it because one day it could stop them from hurting someone they love more than they could ever know.

The spoken word can be very powerful but the unspoken word can be even greater.

God Bless

Fionnuala xx

I’m With The 39%

According to a poll taken yesterday, 61% of its population think the United Kingdom is in crisis. The reason? Why, Brexit of course. The ongoing saga reached new depths last night when Prime Minister Teresa May’s proposed Withdrawal Agreement was defeated by over 200 votes in Parliament. This triggered the Labour opposition calling for a vote of no confidence in her leadership.

That vote will be tonight and, no doubt, front page news tomorrow morning. The television news has almost exclusively led on Brexit for months now. It’s everywhere, you cannot escape it wherever you turn. Even Donald Trump is tweeting about it which, I guess, makes a change from building walls. Northern Ireland certainly has had its share of walls down the years, primarily to keep our opposing communities from killing each other.

Northern Ireland lies at the heart of the dilemma. If the U.K. withdraw then it causes all sorts of problems regarding the ‘invisible’ border between ourselves and the neighbouring Republic of Ireland. It’s a logistical and trade nightmare. The threat of a ‘hard border’ terrifies many. Unionists insist it will lead to a weakening of the relationship between our little country and the so called mainland.

I went for a run this afternoon. The sun was shining and I was surrounded by blue skies and mild temperatures. I ran two miles out of the city to a park where I completed two circuits of an idyllic lake, inhabited by graceful swans and inquisitive ducks. After three weeks of sickness, I was finally starting to feel healthy again. I forgot the worries of my world for an hour and focused on the next mile, the next bend in the road, the next step.

I know crisis. Often it has been self inflicted, but on other occasions it has been simply life pulling the carpet from under our feet as only life can. You’re drifting along minding your own business when BAM! Your world collapses around you. Be it bereavement, illness or financial hardship we’ve all been there at one time or another. Crisis is as much part of life as the air we breathe.

We often become desensitised to the true meaning and impact of the words we casually throw about. How many of the 61% who took that poll will sleep in a doorway tonight or worry where their next meal is coming from? How many are picking up the telephone to be informed that a loved one has been killed in a road crash or diagnosed with a terminal illness? How many?

Brexit sucks and, yes, it will impact many people. But is it really a crisis? I didn’t feel in crisis today as I ran out of the city centre. I was alive and grateful. Grateful that I could run and had a well paid job to return to afterwards. Grateful to drive home to a loving and supportive family. Grateful to have loyal friends, willing to stick with me through the good times and the bad.

I’m proud to be one of the 39%. Count your blessings and not your woes. Love your loved ones and block out your foes. I’ve spent most of my life wallowing in a half empty glass, but no more. Even if it’s only 39% full I’m going to focus on it and not the ‘what if or could have been’ culture which blinkers many of us. Brexit will come and go, just like the many other temporary storms sent to test us. Look beyond them. For there lie the blue skies.

Are you a 61% or a 39% kind of person?

Algebra Is Hard. Common Sense Is Harder.

Rebecca handed me the homework from hell yesterday evening. Algebra, no less. I initially thought it was Geography and was a study of North African nations until I realised it was Maths. Or, in order to avoid confusing our loyal North American readership….Math. Armed with a lowly ‘C’ in my O Level Mathematics back when we used chalk and slate to ‘do our sums’ I endeavoured to assist.

Algebra is HARD! How they expect a 12 year old girl to get her head around it, I don’t know. Einstein and that bloke in the bath (Archimedes) would have struggled to compute the fiendish equations devised by Rebecca’s Year 8 Maths teacher. I scratched my head, furrowed my brow and sweated profusely until tentatively arriving at the answers. How I got there I’ll never know. Although Google helped.

I’m confident Rebecca will get there, though. She has taken to Junior High School with her usual enthusiasm, throwing herself into both academic and extra curricular activities. She has a work ethic second to none and can often me found voluntarily taking on extra work or reading, in addition to her allotted school work. She sets a great example to everyone else in the household.

Algebra is an acquired skill. With study and perseverance you can get better at it, and improve your understanding. I was queuing in the village shop this morning when I heard two of the older members of staff discussing their teenage colleagues who work most of the weekend shifts. ‘They’ve brains to burn, but no common sense’ remarked one of them. The other wholeheartedly agreed before they became aware of my presence at the till.

‘My wife always says that about me, and I’m 48’ I cheerily informed them. The two ladies looked at each other, before exploding into laughter. I made my purchase and walked away from them, both still chortling at my hilarious statement. It’s not for nothing that locals call me the Oscar Wilde of the village with my witty repartee. Oh alright then, nobody says that, I made that bit up.

It’s true though. Fionnuala says I am one of the most intelligent people she has ever met, but also one of the dumbest. I’m utterly impractical and if there is an awkward, convoluted way of doing something then I can be relied upon to stumble across it. I get out of taxis backwards, stuff like that. Write a 400 page novel, run a marathon, hold down a reasonably important job? No problem. Rewire a plug or change the tyre on a car? Errrrr….

There’s a less humorous side to this. I’m an appalling judge of character and throughout my life have made terrible choices, landing myself in all sorts of hot water in the process. I can only blame OCD and excess alcohol for so much. At the end of the day, I had to realise I’m a grown man and needed to take responsibility for my decisions and their consequences. Life is a constant battle to bolster this particular Achilles heel of mine.

You can’t teach common sense, like you can algebra. But I can learn from the many harsh lessons I have rightly experienced down the years because of my foolhardy nature. Scars have their value. I bear mine as a reminder of what can go wrong, if I press the self destruct button, and bring unnecessary pain on both my loved ones and myself. I’m learning. Slowly. Algebra is hard. Common sense is harder.

Do you struggle with common sense?

How good were you at algebra?

Can someone please explain the whole Maths/Math thing to me?

The Land Is Yours

Every so often, I get a phrase in my head that won’t budge. It’s different from the million other thoughts which bounce around my head every day. Different in that I know it is not of me. It’s as if a flying saucer has landed on my cranium and a team of little green men have dumped the phrase out their landing doors. Well, they have returned. For a phrase has settled. Four little words. Or possibly four HUGE words.

The land is yours….

Yup, that’s it. As a C minus Christian with a deeply fractured faith, I want to believe that God has placed the phrase in my head for a purpose, a specific reason. And I believe this to be the case in this instance. I believe I was given the phrase for a friend of ours who has to make a big decision. Hopefully it will help him to make the correct choice. But it’s landed with such a thump on my doorstep that I feel I should share it with you all.

We all have decisions to make in life, difficult choices to take. These involve change, which can be daunting and frightening. Change can be a white knuckle ride of epic proportions. Life is about moving forward, often into the unknown. This invariably involves sacrifice and hard work. Many shy from such responsibilities, preferring the safety of the status quo as opposed to rolling the dice and seeing what numbers come up.

I was such a person for many years. I wallowed in a bubble of inertia, consumed by self pity and haunted by the ghosts of my past. My mental and physical health deteriorated. I succumbed to addictive and inappropriate behaviour. It was my security blanket, my shield. For the last thing I wanted to do was draw back the curtains and expose myself to the truth.

I reckoned nobody liked me much, for I didn’t particularly like myself. I sulked in the darkness and avoided the light at all costs. Until the penny dropped one day. I realised I was wasting my life and wasting the lives of my loved ones. I ripped up the book of excuses and chose to step forward into the destiny that had been staring me in my face all along. All I had to do was reach out and touch it.

The land was mine….

Any farmer will tell you that in order to reap the benefits of the land, you must work hard. Fields of corn don’t just sprout up overnight. You need to tend to them, put the hours in. It applies to everything. Your career, your education, your relationships. Yet, if you combine a strong work ethic with an equally strong belief, then that’s when the miraculous happens. I believe that is where God steps in and turns the impossible into the inevitable.

You might believe in God, Allah, Buddha or the man on the moon. You might believe in nothing, including yourself. If you do, then that is your prerogative. I can’t force you to change. All I can suggest is you might be wrong. Step up and step out. The land is yours and, what’s more, it’s closer than you think. Clamber over the fence or whatever barrier is holding you back from where you need to be, from where you were born to be.

The land is yours….

Start walking and, whatever you do, don’t stop and don’t look back. Keep your eyes firmly fixed on the horizon and feel the virgin earth beneath your feet. Watch as the veils of failure and defeat fall away to reveal what is meant to be. Now look around and marvel at the lush, verdant fields stretching for as far as the eye can see. There is no limit to what you can achieve. Just believe. And leave the rest to your higher power.

Is the land yours?

A Win-Win Weekend

It’s been a great start to the weekend here at chez Black. Adam’s school, Lurgan College, progressed to the 3rd round of the Schools Cup with a hard earned 13-8 win over Foyle College. It’s a big achievement for a relatively small grammar school especially as Foyle were fielding an Ulster Schools U19 player. The next round is in two weeks time against Cambridge House Grammar School.

I settled my shredded nerves afterwards by going for a run. I think I’ve finally turned the corner regarding sickness which I’ve been battling since before Christmas. Yesterday was the best I’ve felt in quite some time, and I’ve gradually been upping my distances and mileage since returning to running last week after a three week break. The long term target is the Belfast Marathon on 05 May.

Today I managed my first 10K of the year in an unspectacular, but steady time. I felt well throughout and finished strongly over a hilly final mile. 26.2 miles still seems an awfully long way off but I’m thankfully headed in the right direction. I hope the sickness has run its course as I seek to up my long run by a mile a week over the next few months. It will be my 10th marathon in my home city so I really want to make the start line.

I have no plans to stray far from the sofa for the remainder of the day, before going on call in the morning until Friday. I’m trying to rest whenever I can although my blood results came back as all clear earlier in the week. I’ve been eating healthier so maybe that is assisting my recovery. Whatever the upturn in my fortunes I’m not complaining. Here’s to more rugby and running success in ten months ahead.

How win-win is your weekend?

I Interviewed A Dying Man….

I interviewed a dying man once. I was visibly shocked when he calmly informed me that this was the case. He mentioned it as you would the weather, or how shocking the train service has been of late. It was matter of fact, making conversation, a throwaway comment. To many, that sounds as if he did not value his life, that he had given up, that he no longer cared. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

The dying man had lived a full life, an incredible life which he gradually revealed to me during the course of our interview. If I were to tell you half of it, you might raise an eyebrow but I can tell you that it is all true, having researched this man before we met l. He had squeezed every last drop out of it, and now looked back upon it as it drew to a close.

He spoke clearly to me throughout, and his eyes had a piercing intensity that suggested an iron will and steely focus. For this man, though dying, had unfinished business. Which was why he had agreed to meet me, after weeks of careful brokering via an intermediary. There was still work for him to do, and I was the conduit he had chosen to facilitate his dying wish.

I cannot tell you what that wish was, as to do so would reveal his identity and betray his trust. Other than to say, if and when it is fulfilled, it will probably feature on the front page of many newspapers. There are very few people on this planet who can work towards granting his wish, but I happen to be one of them. I feel pressure, responsibility, a burden. But it is one that I gladly accept.

The dying man told me exactly what I needed him to tell me. The baton had been passed on, the gauntlet thrown down. The ball was and is in my court now. The dying man told me he had found his faith in the depths of his despair. As such, he was prepared to meet his Maker. He believed and had spent the latter years of his life helping others as God had helped him through his own personal valley of death. He believed.

This incredibly intelligent, wildly successful man believed. Prior to meeting him, I was somewhat in awe of his achievements and reputation, I was nervous meeting him, unsure as to what to expect. Yet where I might have expected arrogance and vanity, instead I found humility and compassion. He was at peace with his circumstances and his diagnosis. Utterly confident as to what lay ahead.

Yet, I still doubt. I waver, I falter, I stumble in my faith. This great man had chosen me to assist in granting his dying wish. Am I even fit to lace his shoes? As we shook hands at the end of our meeting he said two words to me – ‘God Bless’ – and it was as if his eyes bored into my soul, stripping away all the earthly layers and seeing me for the broken earthly vessel I am. Yet still, he believes in me. He trusts me to deliver my end of the bargain.

I saw life in his eyes. Life and hope and purpose. The dying see the world in 20/20. They see the rest of us, the living, as we stumble about lost in our earthly fogs. The dying implore us to carry on, to realise their dreams and aspirations. They see that time is short, but they know the truth. I interviewed a dying man and looked into his eyes. He shared his truth with me.

Where Did It All Go Wrong?

I’m on a road trip today. Not that I particularly want to, what with this current lurgy still afflicting me. The only trip I want to take these days is up the wooden hill to my bed. But, needs must, the hatchlings require feeding and Fionnuala has cushions to buy. So I’m off to London today with work. I return late tomorrow night with a busy schedule in between. I can hardly contain myself. Hmmm.

Fun fact. Northern Ireland has two main airports. Belfast International Airport and George Best Belfast City Airport. I’m flying out of the latter, named after one of the city’s legendary sons, the Manchester United footballer. Regarded by many as the greatest footballer of all time, including the legendary Pele no less. The Spanish media christened him ‘El Beatle’, such was his fame.

Best truly had the world at his feet, such were his silky footballing skills. But he succumbed to the glamour and the glitz and his incredible talent was stunted by alcoholism and a life of excess. He died prematurely of liver failure, the world never seeing his full potential. His burial was akin to a state funeral, with thousands lining the streets to pay homage to a sporting great.

His death was all the sadder, given this unrealised potential. A European Cup winner, he left United due to his chaotic lifestyle and followed a career path which meandered and then flatlined with a number of increasingly smaller clubs. It was a life of unfulfilled potential. He could have been so much more, he should have been so much more. His legacy was ‘what could have been.’

This is a question that intermittently haunts me as I navigate life. What could have been? Could I have done better? I know I could have? Could I have done more? Most definitely. Have I spurned countless opportunities? Absolutely. Have I fulfilled my potential? Probably not. Is there still a chance I can? YES! I may be 48 years old (but a strikingly young looking 48 years old at that) but I can.

Potential is such a subjective term. The good news is that there is plenty of it around. We all have it, by the bucketful. It’s coursing through our veins. Yet it, in itself, is not enough. It can only be realised through hard work and commitment. That is where so many of us fall away. We are beguiled by the earthly trinkets of this world which tempt and distract us from our true calling on this world.

There’s a famous story about George Best. He is in a five star hotel room, cavorting with his girlfriend, a current Miss World. He is sipping champagne and the bed is covered with banknotes. He is laughing, partying, the happiest man in the world. A hotel porter enters and looks around the room. He fixes Best with a sombre expression and asks ‘So, tell me Mr. Best. Where did it all go wrong?’

Best died a legend. They named an airport after him. His face appears on our banknotes and, yes, there is now a George Best Hotel in the city centre. But, to many, his legacy is one of failure and unfulfilled potential. He achieved so much on his God given talent, but there could have been so much more. To many, he is a hero, a role model. To me, he is a warning sign. I don’t want to be another George Best. Do you?

Are you fulfilling your potential?

What more can you do with your life?

The Day The World Went Mad….Again

Happy 7th January everyone! The day the world went mad….again. Well it is in this little corner of the planet anyway. The day, all the schools return after the Christmas break and offices and businesses crank into gear once more after the limbo of last week. The trains will be packed, the roads will be gridlocked and stress levels will begin to creep up again after the festive lull.

Many New Year resolutions will already be in tatters, others teetering on the brink. We kid ourselves that this year will be different, special but 7th January suggests otherwise. We find ourselves back exactly where we started, two weeks ago when tinsel and shiny baubles blinded us from the grim reality of the 9-5 grind. It’s back to normal. Or as normal as many of us will ever be.

Grim isn’t it? Enough to make you want to pull the covers over your head and give the crazy carousel of life a miss for another day. I know that’s how I felt when the alarm clock went off this morning. Outside, it was depressingly dark and dank. I have a doctors appointment first thing, then the dreaded commute into Belfast to be greeted by an office of in boxes and in fighting. The joy, the joy.

it’s a churning sea of insanity where the waters rise, covering the last craggy outposts of what we truly want to do with our lives. So easy to be swept away, never to be reunited with our hopes and aspirations again. We cough and splutter, desperate to keep our heads above the waves, gasping for one last breath of the life we crave so badly. Sucking the oxygen of our futures into starved, raw lungs.

It is all we have, so cling on tight. Kick and thrash if you must but survive. Get through today, that’s all that matters. Reach out and cling to something, anything as long as it gets you through the tempest. It can be a person, an event, a target, a place. Reach out and pray for strong hands to pull you above the waves and onto the slippery rocks. Safe, for now, from the numbing nausea of normalcy.

The world has gone mad….again. We are the sane. The dreamers, the idealists, the head in the clouders. They mock us as naive and misguided, but we know better. We see beyond the next bend in the road, we raise our eyes and see blue skies ahead. We strive, we survive, we feel alive. Death can wait, for seasons change and the air suddenly feels fresher. We are the sane, we are the few. We choose a different path.

How mad is your world today?

What are you doing to keep your head above the waves?

A Sneak Peek For You All

A little book update for you all this morning. For it is morning in not so sunny Northern Ireland. Regular readers will know that I forwarded the 6th draft of ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’ to my editor, Laura, before Christmas. She had the audacity to take a break over the festive period (shocking, I know) but is now fully back in harness and furiously polishing the very rough manuscript that I have spent the last year toiling over.

In the meantime I haven’t been resting on my laurels. I’ve drafted a query letter for prospective literary agents in addition to a two page book synopsis. I’m quite chuffed with how well the synopsis reads but how tough is it to summarise a book into two pages. Sheesh! I’ve also ventured back into the murky world of Twitter to research/stalk prospective agents who I believe are a good fit for Kirkwood.

After looking at in excess of 500, I’ve drawn up a shortlist who I will be submitting my query letter, synopsis and sample pages to, once Laura has worked her magic. Then it’s a case of wait and see. I’m hoping an agent will pick up on it, but if not I will consider self-publishing if there is no interest. It’s a highly competitive market and there is no shame in venturing down the latter route.

So….what is ‘Skelly’s Square’ all about? I thought I’d tantalise your taste buds a little. So here’s a snippet of the synopsis:

Many books have been written about the Battle of Waterloo. Some painstakingly researched by learned historians, others penned by those who were there and survived the horrors to tell the tale. Yet, despite the millions of words, there still remains an element of mystery as to what happened amidst the mud and the smoke. There are grey areas. Some stories have never been told. This is one such story. The story of a company of men, who fought and died as one, but whose valour and courage never saw the light of day. This is the story of ‘Skelly’s Square,’ the ‘Forgotten Regiment.’ For they have returned.

Modern day Belfast, Northern Ireland. Meet Kirkwood Scott. He’s having a bad day, no make that life. He’s stuck in a dead end job, his girlfriend has just dumped him and his family have emigrated to the other side of the world. Then there are the routines, the endless routines which haunt his every waking thought. Kirkwood has OCD, a mental disorder triggered in him as a young boy following the brutal murder of his father. A murder Kirkwood feels responsible for.

Responsibility brings consequences. Ever since that day, Kirkwood has paid the price via a series of tortuous routines, ‘The 49,’ which he must perform. Failure to do can lead to all sorts of bad stuff happening. Planes crash, tower blocks collapse. And it’s all his fault. Why? Because Skelly says so. Kirkwood believes it to be nothing more than an imaginary voice, created as a child when he innocently played with his toy soldiers. But we know better, don’t we? Skelly has returned to wreak his revenge on an ungrateful world which turned its back on him.

Kirkwood is resigned to a life of quiet torment until he meets a mysterious young homeless woman, Meredith Starc. Meredith has her own problems. Traumatised by the suicide of her best friend, Emily O’Hara, indifferent parents, and callous school bullies she flees her privileged upbringing to the streets of Belfast where she survives on her wits, only interested in where the next bottle of wine is coming from. Then there’s the graffiti where Emily appears to be communicating to her from beyond the grave. Not to mention the blood drenched dreams where she is pursued by a figure very familiar to Kirkwood.

Kirkwood and Meredith join forces, slowly gaining each other’s trust and discovering that beneath the gritty reality of Belfast’s streets, a brutal battle rages between supernatural forces of good and evil, with the future of the planet at stake. Guided by a kindly tramp, Cornelius Dobson, who is not all he seems and a wheelchair bound teenager, Harley Davison, they realise they hold the key to saving mankind from a new Dark Age. But can they survive long enough to figure it out, as Skelly unleashes his army of ghost soldiers on an unsuspecting city to hunt them down?

The above is only a snippet of the story and the KSC universe. But I’d be grateful for any feedback. Feel free to comment below.

Heavy Legs, Happy Heart

Well, I did it. I survived yesterday’s run and took my first faltering steps towards the start line of the Belfast Marathon on 05 May. It was a flat route around the Titanic Quarter of the city, out over the River Lagan to the Titanic Museum and back. I had planned to run 3.5 miles but ended up doing a little more. Overall, I was pleased with my pace and stamina. I’ll rest today and then go again tomorrow, hopefully 5 miles.

I’m still not firing on all cylinders but it’s a marked improvement on how I felt over the Christmas period. I woke up this morning to take Adam to rugby training, with heavy legs but a happy heart. I know I’ve written about running two days in a row (yawn) but I just wanted to update all the well wishers from yesterday on how the run went. I really appreciate the support I received from you all.

What have you planned over the weekend?

Belfast 2019

I’ve been a bit under the weather of late, and unable to run, but it’s good to have targets so I thought I’d write about my main racing target for 2019 – the Belfast Marathon on 05 May. It seems a long way off at the minute, but for most people January marks the beginning of their marathon training programme for Belfast. Due to this sickness, I’m not quite there yet but I’m hopeful the situation will improve soon.

This will be my 4th Belfast Marathon and my 10th in total. Not bad for the out of shape wreck who first donned running shoes almost five years ago. There have also been a raft of half marathon and 10K runs for good measure. Like last year, my warm up race for Belfast will be my home town half marathon, in Omagh, on 06 April. As with Belfast, it will be my fourth time running this undulating route.

Belfast will be particularly exciting this year, as it is a new route starting at the iconic Stormont Parliament Buildings and winding its way through all parts of the city before finishing off in Ormeau Park. There are several sections of the route I’m looking forward to, areas of the city I have never run through before. What won’t be different will be the fantastic atmosphere and crowd support. Belfast is a special city.

I’m not running for a charity this year, I’m doing this one for myself. Collecting sponsorship brings its own pressures and I think I’ll have enough on my plate just getting to the start line in one piece. And as for time? Well, I’d be delighted with sub 4 hours having run the other three in 3:56, 3:33 and 3:51 respectively. I’ll have to research the new route to see if it’s as challenging as the original course was in sections.

You might be thinking to yourself, is he mad? Hasn’t he enough to be getting on with? Family life is exhausting at the best of times, not to mention work, blogging commitments and the small matter of writing and publishing a book. But I need to run, even if it’s slowly and way off the pace I’m accustomed to. That is frustrating, but nowhere near as frustrating as not running at all.

There are physical benefits of course. Running keeps me in shape and I’ve worked hard at my fitness these past few years. But more importantly, is my mental health. Running maintains me on an even keel, it detoxifies and purges a lot of the nonsense that rattles around my head on a daily basis. It focuses me. I don’t want to run, I need to run. It keeps the wolves from the door. For there are many of them.

I’m heading out for a lunchtime plod later. It won’t be pretty and I’ll not be setting any personal bests. But I’m feeling a little better and I can’t sit around on my bum any longer. The pain in my legs afterwards will be compensated by the sense of achievement. 26.2 miles seems a long, long way at the minute but I’m going to get there, one step at at time. I’ll keep you all updated as to my progress.

Don’t Tell My Wife I’ve Written This

They are legion. Breeding. Multiplying. Every time I turn my back, more of them appear. Cloning. Driving me to the depths of despair and the heights of frustration. Are they a hallucination? A figment of my overworked imagination? Is there a medical term for such a psychosis? Do I require medication, counselling, a lie down in a darkened room? No, for they are real and I am, therefore, doomed.

Cushions….

It all started innocently enough. Almost as an afterthought, Fionnuala mentioned one day last month that she had her eye on a new set of cushions for the living room. I thought nothing of it, as I leave all such interior design matters to her refined eye. I struggle to match my socks in the morning so this was a whole new world to me. A world I had no intention of setting foot upon.

I had my side of the sofa, and Fionnuala had hers. We had a cushion each, with one in the middle to act as a security buffer or sterile corridor in the event of any unwanted infractions by either party. The United Nations were on speed dial in the unlikely event that this occurred. Unlikely, but you can never be too careful where such matters are concerned. All was well with the world.

Now we have three cushions. Each. With a Great Wall further separating us. Woe betide me, if I attempt to dislodge any of them even a fraction of an inch. I used to recline and relax on our leather settee. Now I teeter on the edge of it, scared to breathe. Nothing, but nothing can be found, in this forest of fabric. Phones, Kindles, remote controls, even Rebecca disappeared for several hours over the festive period.

I thought there was a glimmer of hope as one set featured some elegant swans within a wintry backdrop. Perhaps they will be gone by Easter. But what seasonal horrors will replace them? Chicks? Bunny rabbits? The mind boggles. Either way, I am fighting a losing battle for the one domain where I thought I was safe. If a man’s home is his castle, then surely the sofa is his throne.

And there’s more. Oh, so much more. The madness has spread. To the bedroom. Never one to rest on her laurels, Fionnuala has started spring cleaning a full two months early. The cushion invasion has spread to the bedroom. I returned home yesterday to be greeted by an impenetrable barrier of the abominable objects. A Grand National winner would have struggled to hurdle them.

I have estimated that if I want to go to bed at 10:30 p.m. I will actually need to commence operations at around 9:45 p.m. in order to complete a successful excavation and reach my mattress. Any less time, will result in abject failure. There are also a myriad of Health and Safety ramifications. Do I now need to wear a hard hat when on site? Perhaps a hi-vis vest, clipboard and whistle?

If you are talking to my wife, for she occasionally blogs herself, deny all knowledge of this post. It can be our little secret, okay? For I fear the consequences if my concerns are divulged to her. Suffocated under an avalanche of cushions or battered to an unrecognisable pulp by them. Neither modus operandi particularly appeals to me. Instead, I will grit my teeth, smile, and continue to teeter.

On the brink….

Are you a lover of multiple cushions?

Or do they strike dread into your heart?

What household habits within your home drive you insane?

And So It Begins….

The grind, that is. Back on the 07:53 express train to Belfast. The platform bathed in a sickly glow, casting up the faces of my fellow commuters to me for scrutiny. The same faces as before, some new clothes and accessories, but the same faces. Wearing the same expressions. Mostly frowns, mostly down. The occasional smile, but they are few and far between. I stare at my reflection in the cracked carriage glass. I fit in effortlessly.

I wonder how many New Year Resolutions have been broken already, now we are almost 40 hours into 2019. Or, are they clinging on for dear life as the train rattles through the darkness towards the city lights? Clinging on to hopes and dreams that seemed so attainable, but two nights ago. But now, they squirm and slither through steepled fingers, for another year.

I stand my ground amongst the frowns. Wrapped in layers of woollen hope. Slick with sick but still I see the magic. I see it, eyes wide open. I pray my resolve does not dissolve, does not corrode a hole within my soul. A soul I’ve fought so hard to fill, with iron will. We go again I spoke, I wrote. I’ll practice what I preach this year. They drive me on. The doubters, mockers. I know them well.

The grind is hell to those who dwell within a world of broken dreams. I am the glue, for you, the means and the ends. I am your friend. If you will allow me. Rise up, for we know not where we are going until we take that first faltering step. Watch barriers melt and hurdle fears, go through the gears. To find the grind is but a temporal state. Berate this date. For you and I are more.

How are coping with your grind today?

2019….We Go Again

Being a full time rugby dad, I’ve heard the above phrase often over the last few years as I’ve stood on the touchline supporting Adam. When a team scores and is regrouping for the resulting kickoff it is a rallying cry for the side. Yes, we may have just scored. Yes, we may be leading. But the game isn’t won yet. There is still work to be done. We can’t afford to relax or be complacent.

We go again….

On a personal level, I achieved a lot in 2018. I wrote a book. I ran two marathons. I watched the blog grow to over 8000 followers. But, more importantly, I grew as a person. Yet, there’s still so much to do and I can’t help but feel time is not on my side. So, I go again. Despite being sidelined with illness currently, I’m still hopeful of completing my tenth marathon in May. The Belfast Marathon has a new route this year which I’m looking forward to tackling.

Then there’s the little matter of my book, ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles: Skelly’s Square.’ I’m loathe to blog about it as it’s an entirely selfish exercise, but I realise in order to promote it, I have to occasionally blow my own trumpet. I’m wary of that side of my character, but have good people around me to guide me along that particular path. I’ve even ventured back onto Twitter, which was a huge, and still weird, experience.

The book is currently with my editor, Laura, having gone through the beta reader process. When she returns it, I will be ready to start querying literary agents. I’m currently drawing up a shortlist which I’ve been researching online. I’ve also drafted my query letter and book synopsis. So, I’m standing on the cusp, the edge of submitting sample chapters to them. It’s exciting, but also terrifying.

I’m hoping to be a better husband and father in 2019. A better manager, a better employee, a better son, brother, uncle, everything really. As ever, I will strive to blog regularly and honestly, keeping you updated as to my successes and setbacks. I will also continue to battle with my fractured faith and work at keeping the beast that is my OCD, well and truly shackled in the deepest recesses of my mind.

I want to read more books, watch more movies and start work on KSC2. Ideas are starting to form in my mind as to where Kirkwood, Meredith and Harley go next. I also want to engage more with my fellow bloggers. I regard many of you as friends now, people I would miss if you dropped off my online radar. Blogging is more than just posting blogs. It’s about reading, interacting with, and supporting others. I need to do that more.

I hope you all realise your dreams and targets in the coming year.

We go again. We go together.

What are your 2019 goals?

Blessing Jar

Friends of ours have started up their own ministry.  We meet up every Sunday morning, currently it is at our house as it’s best suited to meet our family’s needs but we believe 2019 is going to bring new and bigger premises in order for it nourish and grow.  Yesterday I shared something at our meeting that Stephen thought would be good to post today so this is Fionnuala signing us off for 2018 – don’t worry normal services will be resumed tomorrow!

January is not a good month for me and at the beginning of this year I was going through a very low period where I had no interest in anything really I just felt useless and worthless. I would wake up in the morning crying and didn’t show any interest in anything other than what I had to do each day for the house and everybody else around me. I needed to find something for me to do to lift me out of the pit I was gradually burying myself in each day. I have always loved making things and last Christmas I blogged about making gifts for the children’s teachers as opposed to buying them and the girls and I enjoyed the experience.   Stephen has been telling me for along time I should start up my own craft business  – but I never listened to him.

In March I woke up one Sunday morning with a thought in my head that I should start to make crafts and sell them online or at craft fairs. I couldn’t believe why I had never thought of this before it was as if a light switch had just been switched on in my head and was flooding me with light. I got up and got on to Pinterest and got lots of ideas of things I could start making. Stephen came downstairs and when I told him about my idea he said I’ve been telling you that for years!!

This was when Rehanna Crafts came to life. I was kept very busy with orders and my mood changed and the darkness that had been descending on me had pretty much disappeared. On the run up to Christmas I felt the craft business was distracting from what I should be doing and that’s spending time before God and doing things that glorify him and low and behold a few weeks after making that decision to scale back I started getting little thoughts about making Blessing Jars for 2019.

The purpose of a Blessing Jar is to record either daily or weekly on a piece of paper something good that has happened to you. It can be an answer to prayer, a thought from God, if someone blessed you or even something that made you smile. Blessing Jars can be started at any time of the year but I thought that it would be good to start on 1st January 2019 and then on New Years Eve you can open your jar and read about how amazing your year has been.

It is important to write down these occasions because it will help us to remember and recall the blessing. We need to be reminded of God’s goodness and faithfulness throughout the year because a lot of the time we tend to focus on the negative things in our lives like the things that we don’t have rather than the things that we do have and while we are focusing on that we actually miss our blessing or forget about the good thing that did happen.

I had planned on using a small jar but something just didn’t sit right with me. I thought about recent prophetic words that our friend’s have received lately about going big and other prophetic words I have been reading online from Doug Addison about thinking bigger and changing our mindset of just settling and making do so why should these Blessing Jars be anyway different. I went into my craft boxes in the garage and found the biggest jars I had. I feel we need to be going into 2019 with big expectations because lets face it we serve a huge big God that loves us and only wants the best for us.

 

We need to move into 2019 with the glass is half full rather than half empty attitude and look more to the positive things going on with us every day rather than focusing on the negative.

To make our Blessing Jar I used a large mason jar, 4 brown postage labels, string and post it notes.  On the brown postage labels I printed off some scripture verses about blessings to encourage us throughout the year and glued them onto the labels.  I tied them all together with the string and fastened the string around the top of the jar.  I am using colourful notes to fill our jar up with so it will look lovely and cheerful as we watch it fill up with all the goodness that God sends our way throughout the year. I’ve posted pictures below.

I would just like to take this opportunity to thank you all for your love and support this year.  This year has been a difficult one for me I lost my father which came with it’s own rollercoaster of emotions but it has also been a very joyous year for us watching Hannah and Rebecca grow up and perform well at school and Adam going from strength to strength in both his academic field and on the rugby field and not to mention Stephen finally finishing writing his book – did you know he wrote a book this year lol.

2018 has been eventful but I feel 2019 is going to be even more eventful. I feel its going to be the year that Stephen is going to overcome all of his insecurities and he is going to see himself for the man that we see him as and not what the doubters and voice in his head tells him he is.

Happy New Year WordPress Family
with lots of love from
The Black Family xxxxx

All I Want For Christmas Are My Blood Results

The more eagle eyed of you may have noticed I haven’t posted a running blog in some time. Well, that’s because I haven’t been running. It’s been two weeks now due to an illness which has made climbing the stairs, let alone marathon training, an ordeal for me. I’ve been lethargic, listless, exhausted and no matter how much I sleep, have been unable to shift the symptoms. To use a medical term, I feel rubbish.

I struggled during the summer of 2017 with a similar ailment. Doctors poked and prodded me, but seemed none the wiser as to what was the cause. Two courses of antibiotics failed to clear matters up, and I routinely informed enquirers that I’d picked up some mystery bug. I resigned myself to feeling lousy and soldiering on as retiring to my bed for the remainder of the year was simply not an option.

I continued to run, but my times were a minute a mile slower than normal. In the end, my doctor took a blood sample which revealed a folic acid deficiency. This impacts upon the production of red blood cells, which we rely on to carry oxygen around our bodies. Without the sufficient levels of folic acid, the body lapses into a state of fatigue. Which was exactly how I was feeling.

I was prescribed a folic acid supplement and, within weeks, was feeling much better. It took another few months to regain my running form but by the end of 2017 it was all systems go again. Until this month, when I have been struck down with exactly the same lethargy. I told the doctor as much when I returned to the surgery on Christmas Eve but they cannot prescribe anything until fresh tests are run.

I phoned the other day to get the results. The receptionist rather cryptically informed me that they had come back clear, bar my folic acid levels, which they wanted to test again. The earliest they can see me, though, is 7th January. Until then, I remain in limbo, unsure as to what the problem is, and unable to access the medication I need to resolve the issue. To say I’m frustrated is an understatement.

My energy levels have slightly improved since Christmas but I have been taking it very easy and haven’t taxed myself. The furthest I’ve walked is to the freezer to get another bowl of honeycomb ice cream; which has bolstered my morale but also, unfortunately, my waistline. I miss the physical benefits of running, and wallowing at the bottom of a biscuit tin is not where I want to be.

The mental benefits are even more important to me. Running purges me of the negativity and ‘stinking thinking’ which used to hold court in my head. In order to maintain reasonable levels of self-belief, I need to be running. The physical exertion is painful but nothing compared to the mental anguish which distance running helps prevent within me. There’s also the small matter of my scheduled 10th marathon in May.

I received a lot of lovely gifts this Christmas, but I’m going to be greedy and ask for one more. Santa has returned to the North Pole and it’s a bit early for the Easter Bunny, so I’d appreciate your thoughts and prayers to get me through the next week so these new tests can hopefully get to the bottom of my present malaise. All I want for Christmas are my blood results. It’s not much to ask, is it?

The Days When Everything Clicks

Today was one of those days as far as Adam’s rugby went. He was selected to play for Lurgan College’s 2nd XV away to Banbridge Academy. Banbridge had won the corresponding fixture 10-7 earlier in the year, and another close contest was expected. We were missing a few players however, due to the Christmas holidays, so my hopes were tempered accordingly.

How wrong I was. From the kickoff, Lurgan tore into the opposition like teenagers possessed. I don’t know what they put in their Christmas turkey but, whatever it was, it worked. A series of surging runs, slick passing and crunching tackles in the first five minutes set the standard for the remainder of the match. Lurgan emerged 48-7 winners, with Adam scoring twice.

He was then called upon to play the last 10 minutes of the 1st XV match, due to one of our players going off injured. Showing no fear at the step up in class against bigger and older boys, he played his part in a smart passage of play which culminated in Lurgan scoring under the posts. Lurgan ended up winning 43-15. Adam, the only member of the squad who had played in two winning sides in one morning.

On the drive home Adam confided in me that there had been times earlier in the season when his spirits had been low, due to the team underperforming. Despite that, he never missed an early morning gym session; nor did he fail to attend a training session, despite the grimmest of weather. He turned up week after week, playing his heart out in under strength sides.

Today, everything clicked. All the hard work and perseverance paid off and Adam earned the reward. The Schools Cup, the biggest school’s rugby tournament in the country, starts in two weeks time. Lurgan College will be competing against the top sides in and Adam will be going toe to toe with the best schoolboy players in Northern Ireland. He was worked hard for that privilege and Fionnuala and I were very proud parents today.

Talent and natural ability can only take you so far. It counts for nothing, unless it is underpinned by hard work and determination. Often the most brilliant talents fall by the wayside, distracted by other trinkets and temptations. It’s so very easy to take your eye off the ball, your foot off the pedal; so easy to succumb to the doubters and mockers. To succeed, you need more.

Hard work. Dedication, refusing to give up whatever the obstacles and whatever hand grenades are lobbed in your direction. I often doubt my own ability as a runner and writer. I let my head drop and listen to the voice telling me that I’m not good enough, that I’ll never be good enough. Voices from my past, voices from the here and now and, who knows, voices further down this road we call life.

I always seek to set a positive example to my son, to encourage and support him no matter where his rugby career takes him. Fionnuala and I treat the girls exactly the same way. We live for them and through them. But today, Adam made me a very proud father and taught me an equally valuable lesson. Dreams can come true, but only if you are prepared to put the hard work in. That is where the best days are.

The days when everything clicks.

The 12 Blogging Questions Of Christmas – Day 6 – What Do You Believe In?

Sixteen years ago today, Fionnuala made one of the worst decisions of her life. She married me! I’m joking…..I think. Since then, we have had our ups and downs, but we are still together and facing all the world has to throw at us. We have been blessed with three wonderful kids, and I’m looking forward to finishing work today and spending five (yes five) days off, in their company.

I won’t be running over the Christmas break, due to illness, so hope to spend as much time as possible lounging on the sofa watching Christmas movies and observing the ongoing chaos all around me. I don’t deserve my wife and kids, but I have them anyway. They are always there to support me, be it in my work, my writing, or my running. They believe in me, so I must be doing something right.

Christmas is all about belief. For the kids, it can be whether or not the big guy in the red suit exists and, if so, are you on the good or naughty list. For others, it can be whether or not the Son of God arrived over 2000 Christmases ago, or is that nothing more than an elaborate fairytale. We all need to believe in something. For if we don’t believe in something, then we’ll fall for anything.

What do you believe in?

Who believes in you?

Something Has Been On My Mind.

I wrote some time ago that I was no longer going to write exclusively about Christian topics. I described myself as a Christian who blogs, as opposed to a Christian blogger. My reasons for this have been well documented so I don’t think I need to repeat them on this post. Suffice to say, I felt awkward and uncomfortable doing so, given my own fractured faith. Enough said.

At the time, I received a lot of support for my stance. From Christians and non-Christians alike. People replied that they respected my decision and the rationale behind that. Phrases like ‘refreshing honesty’ were thrown about and I felt vindicated. People understood, or at least I thought they did. I forged forward, content that all was well and I could focus on other topics close to my heart.

Very, very gradually though I began to realise that all was not as rosy as I first thought. Certain Christian bloggers stopped reading and commenting on my posts, others less and less so. It has been a trickle, as opposed to a flood, but a noticeable one, nonetheless. Like a leaky tap in the corner of the room. Barely audible but there all the same. Drip. Drip. Drip. In certain quarters, I have become somewhat of a blogging outcast.

It’s not as if I’m shouting atheism from the rooftops. I still consider myself a Christian, albeit a deeply flawed one. The majority of my posts contain a consistent Christian message. Love others. It’s just I choose not to deliver it as overtly as I used to, and as others continue to do. I don’t quote Scripture, although I still read my Bible. My faith is more private. I’m seeking to focus on my relationship with Jesus.

My daily views have dipped considerably and for a long time I was unable to put my finger on the reason for it. Or rather, I chose not to. I didn’t want to speak out loud what I’d been privately thinking for some time. Even less so, I haven’t wanted to air my thoughts. Yet, here I am, writing about it. It’s that whole ‘refreshing honesty’ thing again. I write what I see. I might be horribly mistaken. But that’s what I see.

WWJD – What Would Jesus Do, or rather think? I’m not sure what his views on social media would be. I know it can be a fantastic evangelical tool, if used properly. But I still reckon he would be old school when it came to missionary work. Walking the streets, looking the broken in the eye, loving the unlovable. Not sitting behind a keyboard, tapping merrily away. You can only do so much from there.

Don’t get me wrong. There are still a core of Christian bloggers who I read, and interact with, on a daily basis. They have always shown love in the way they support and encourage me, no matter what I write about. But I see a worrying trend amongst other Christians on WordPress to only interact with other overt Christian bloggers. Isn’t that kind of missing the point?

I saw the same thinking when I went to church. We stick to our own, we don’t reach out beyond our comfort zone. We smile politely and nod and say all the right things, but where is the integrity, the desire to get your hands dirty and mingle in the mire and the mud of the sinful. For that is where Jesus would be. Up to his knees in it. Be that on WordPress or in a doorway with an alcoholic, a drug addict, whoever needed him.

Everybody Hurts. Most of the Time

My neck hurts. This is a surefire indicator of stress. Here’s a true story. The night before I got married, I got a cramp in my neck. Since then, whenever I get stressed, I develop a dull ache in one side of my neck. Cracking it helps. A little. I have no idea if there is a physical reason for this pain, as I’ve never sought medical help. Maybe it’s all in my head. Or neck. Whatever. My neck hurts. No pain in the neck/marriage related jokes please. I’ve heard them all.

The cause of the stress? Undoubtedly the work report from hell. For there must be a hell. Otherwise, where could this report have been spawned? It is a 300 page, paper boomerang. It keeps coming back. Landing on my desk when I least expect it. Edits of edits. Ad nauseum. Maybe I’m too much of a perfectionist, maybe I should just let it go. Wash my hands of it. They know best. Did I mention that my neck hurts?

My legs hurt. Like, proper ache. At least I know the cause of this. I’ve ran the last three days and was contemplating doing likewise today. But I knew after yesterday’s 10K effort, that I needed a day off. I’m trying to run more consistently and my times have reflected that of late. Yesterday was my best 10K in many moons. It’s a great stress buster as well. My neck doesn’t hurt when I run. But now my legs do.

Swings and roundabouts. My father once said you can’t have a pain in two places at the same time. He might have had a point. So, there will be no running today. I’ll be back on it like a car bonnet tomorrow. Winter running is essential if I’m going to be anywhere near ready for my 10th marathon next year. So I grit my teeth, take the wind and rain, take the cold, take the pain, and get out there and do it.

My brain hurts. Who would have thought that the actual writing of a book was the easiest part? Now I’ve entered the murky world of seeking literary representation. I plan to query 10 of them in the New Year. That’s the shortlist. The long list I’m currently wading through nears 500 in total. From there, I’m seeking to whittle down those who I feel are best suited to my work. It’s hard work. My brain hurts.

I’m researching their likes, dislikes, blah blah blah. British, Irish, American. Male, female. Some seem lovely. Encouraging and understanding. Others less so. They portray themselves as gods and seem to delight in intimidating debut authors from their lofty literary towers. ‘If I don’t like the first line of your manuscript, then I probably won’t read anymore.’ One of them actually said that. Jaw dropping arrogance.

I’m about halfway through the long list. My short list is too long. Should I be spending more time on my query letter? Are my opening three chapters strong enough? Why am I thinking about the second book when there is still so much to do on the first? Will people get the humour? The anger? The hopelessness? I’m bracing myself for the worst, and hoping for the best. But my brain hurts.

That’s the icing on the cake. The hurt cake. Cut into it and you find all the other hurt. The worries, the frustration, the disappointment of everyday life. Family, faith, finances, friends. It goes on. Hurt is everywhere. Physical, Mental, Spiritual, it’s all there. Why bother? Why try? What’s the point? Well, here’s the point. Everybody hurts. Most of the time. But I’ll keep going. Because there is hope.

Yesterday was our daughter’s birthday. Our beautiful, brave daughter who has defied doctors and proved them all so wrong. She is worth the hurt. As are my wife and other two kids. I hurt for them. I run to keep the mental demons at bay. I work to pay the bills. I write to pave a better future for us. I hurt for them. Every day is a battle, but every day is an inch in the right direction. Proving the doubters wrong. Proving. Improving. Embrace the hurt.

Where are you hurting today?

Are you embracing the hurt?

Happy Birthday Hannah

Today marks a special day at chez Black. Our middle hatchling, Hannah, turns 15 years old. Fionnuala and I are deeply proud of the wonderful young woman she is turning into. She has her moments, don’t we all, but her kind nature, sensitive heart and bubbly personality serves as an inspiration to us all. We love her almost as much as she loves Shaun Mendes. Happy Birthday Hannah. Have a fantastic day shopping with your mummy and granny.

The Try That Never Was

Adam was involved in a very tightly contested rugby match yesterday against a much bigger Belfast school. Privately, I wasn’t expecting the boys to win but they played out of their skins, and almost did. The final score was 17-14 but the score doesn’t fully reflect the courage, skill and work ethic the team put into the contest, which was played in wet, bitterly cold conditions.

The score also doesn’t reflect an incident in the first half when Lurgan almost scored a try which would have won the match for them. A kick through was chased to the line by a Lurgan player and member of the opposing side. As the ball crossed the line, both boys dived on it. From where I was standing, it was impossible to tell who had touched the ball first.

The referee was equally unsighted and asked the boys who had grounded the ball first. The crowd, all seven of us, collectively held our breath and I crossed my fingers and toes, hoping it was a score for the home side. At which point one of the Lurgan players, a good friend of Adam’s, informed the referee that the other team touched the ball first. The referee thanked him and the game carried on. No try.

It was a gesture of sportsmanship by a teenage boy which touched me. Rugby is massive in Ireland and our little nation has arguably the best side in the world, heading into next autumn’s World Cup in Japan. It is fiercely competitive at schoolboy level and played to an incredibly high standard. The top schools players normally end up playing professionally. Think college football and the NFL.

It is also a game where the boys are taught to play hard, but fair. They put in bone shaking hits, but afterwards shake hands and applaud each other off the pitch. The referee is always referred to as ‘sir’, and his decisions are final. The game teaches discipline, self control and respect. I often I wish I could display the same restraint on the touchline as Adam and his teammates show on the field of play.

After the match, I asked Adam his thoughts on the try that never was. He replied that they were mixed. While he desperately wanted to win, he admired his friend for doing the right thing, even if it meant defeat. The school principal later tweeted about the incident, stating that he was proud of his pupil for putting honesty before victory at all costs. It represented the values of the school and what they are trying to instil in their students.

I wondered if I would have made the same call. I’m not sure I would have. I’m incredibly competitive and not the best of losers. I so wanted Adam’s team to win, but it wasn’t to be. Yet, as I walked back to the car it didn’t feel as if the team had been beaten. Instead, there was a sense of pride and vindication. I know that, somewhere down the road, the team will be rewarded for what happened on the pitch.

What would you have done? It’s a tough one, isn’t it? The desire to win versus adhering to the rules. It’s so easy for our moral compass to spin out of control when the stakes are high. Dizzy with success, but left inside with an empty feeling and a bitter taste in the mouth. But next time I’m faced with such a decision I’m going to think back to yesterday’s match and the shining example of a 16 year old boy.

What are your thoughts on the try that never was?

How competitive are you? Are you a bad loser?

Have you ever experienced somebody cheating in order to win?

Free Christian Children’s Kindle Book 10/4 – 10/5

Free Christian Children’s Kindle Book 10/4 – 10/5

Free Christian Children’s Kindle Book 10/4 – 10/5
— Read on meghanewhite.blog/2018/10/03/free-christian-childrens-kindle-book-10-4-10-5/

Please check out Meghan’s debut middle grade novel, an inspirational tale of a young boy travelling across America and finding God in the process. A great Christmas present for the kids, methinks

#pitmad #amwriting #writingcommunity #MG

Only People In The Movies Slip On Banana Skins

Have you ever watched an old black and white movie where one of the characters slips on a banana skin and then launches into mid air before coming crashing back to earth again. Cue howls of laughter. Oh stop, my aching sides. I always thought such scenes were confined to the silver screen. Surely such idiots didn’t exist in the real world. Until two days ago, that was.

I was walking through the city centre, on my way to the train station, minding my own business, when suddenly I was propelled skywards. In a scene more befitting of a slapstick version of ‘The Matrix’ I found myself experiencing a weird, out of body sensation. I realised I was in mid air and hung there, awaiting gravity to do ‘its thang’ and return me to terra firma. I didn’t have to wait long.

My right hip collided painfully with the pavement and I lay there, dazed and confused, staring at the offending article. A banana skin. I was more embarrassed than hurt. It was a busy street and I cringed, expecting howls of laughter or, at the very least, a stifled snigger. Nothing. I waited some more. Life continued on around me, as if I was invisible. Had I imagined the entire episode?

Hauling myself gingerly to my feet, I checked all was in order, desperately avoiding eye contact with any of the pedestrians hurrying past in either direction. Too late. An old man caught my eye. Oh well, at least he had the compassion to show an interest in my well being. I braced myself for an embarrassing conversation about how I was fine really, no harm done, thanks for asking anyway, etc etc.

‘You slipped on a banana skin,’ he cheerily announced, before continuing on his way, a broad smile on his face. ‘Er yes, I was aware of that,’ I sourly replied, not sure if he was extracting the urine or somehow thought I was unaware as to what had happened. An old lady then distracted me, by asking was I alright. In the the meantime, 8,473 other people had scurried past, unconcerned as to my plight.

I thanked the lady, muttering I was fine, before fleeing the scene as quickly as I could, given my aching hip and bruised pride. In hindsight, I should have disposed of the banana skin, to save somebody else a similar plight, but at that moment in time, all I wanted was for the ground to open and swallow me up. Later though, I thought about it more. Are people really that uncaring in today’s society?

Okay, I wasn’t badly hurt, but I could have been. Bar Olly Obvious and the old lady, it was as it my aerial antics had been invisible. Are city folk that conditioned nowadays to avoid interacting with other people, for fear of being stabbed, mugged or otherwise harmed? Where have all the Good Samaritans gone? Would I have ran to someone’s aid if I witnessed a similar scenario? I’d like to think I would have. Does that make me a minority of one?

Life is full of banana skins, scattered along the road we travel, just waiting to trip us up along the way. It’s inevitable we will all come a cropper one day and find ourselves flat on our backs, staring up at the sky. It’s then that we need people around who love us and will help us back onto our feet. People who will always love us, no matter what the circumstances. People who hang around, when the going gets tough.

We need those people. We also need to be those people.

Have you ever slipped on a banana skin? Or witnessed someone else? How did you feel? What did you do?

Have you the people around you, who will step up to the mark, when you need help in your life?

I’d Like To Thank My Family, My Agent….

Oh hang on I don’t have an agent. Well not yet anyway, but I’m working on that one. Yesterday, Fractured Faith passed 8000 followers, a milestone that has been looming on the horizon for some weeks now. As I have written about in previous posts, there are mixed feelings about this achievement. I won’t go over those again. Let’s just say I’m happy, but a little nervous.

I worked out yesterday if everyone bought a copy of the book when/if it’s published, I could give up my job, or at least take a career break to work on the second book. It’s a pipe dream, I know, but a nice thought all the same. The blog is the platform for the book so I’m committed to maintaining the former, in order to give the latter a chance at life. It’s swings and roundabouts, the chicken and the egg, yadda yadda.

That aside, I’d like to thank you all for your continued support and encouragement. At least once a day, I receive a comment that makes it all worthwhile. A comment that dispels the inner demons of doubt and disbelief. Here’s to the next thousand, I think. Now, unfortunately, I’m off to the day job. Needs must and all that. I’ll see you all on the other side. Thank you again, my fellow bloggers.

Where Are You God?

It was a frosty start this morning as we arose to face a dark and dreary Tuesday. The car thermometer informed us it was below freezing as Fionnuala drove me out to the train station for my daily commute to Belfast. Ahead of us was another busy day. The weekend seems a long way off, and tends to be even busier than the week itself. The Christmas break can’t come quick enough.

My local train station in the morning resembles the American evacuation of Hanoi. Utter chaos. Woefully inadequate car parking facilities mean vehicles are abandoned on the road, as school children and office workers converge on the tiny stop. The mighty minds at Northern Ireland Translink have also cut the number of carriages, meaning getting a seat is nigh on impossible.

We cram onto the train, jostling for position and breathing space. I’m convinced I will be asked one of these days to sit on the roof, more akin to Mumbai than Moira. Everyone looks suitably miserable on the journey into Belfast, the majority with their noses buried in their phones or other electronic devices. Eye contact is kept to a minimum and Heaven forbid you attempt to strike up a conversation.

When we arrive in Belfast, it’s a stampede onto the platform and every man and woman for themselves in the dash for the barriers. Where sour faced staff await us, begrudgingly inspecting our tickets before allowing us through and onto the hustle and bustle of the city centre and beyond. Despite the lights being up, I don’t think the festive spirit has gripped the city yet. I’m not sure if it ever will.

The walk to the office is equally grim. It’s as if the number of homeless people in Belfast multiplies by the day. They huddle in doorways and shopfronts, cocooned in blankets, but still shivering against the biting cold. I walk past and onwards to my warm office, where petty office political wrangles await. Want to fully expose yourself to the lowest human qualities? Greed, arrogance, deceit? Work in an open plan office for a year.

It’s at times like this I ask, where is God? For I don’t see him on my daily commute. Instead, I see a world I’m not particularly proud to be a part of, a world that seems to be spiralling out of control. God has been very quiet in our lives of late. Hopes have been dashed, prayers gone unanswered, and obstacles loom up in every direction to frustrate and restrict us. I still believe in God, but I do wonder at times. Where are you?

Then, Fionnuala pointed out the sky to me this morning. She was looking up, whereas I was glumly staring ahead. That sums up the two of us quite well. The photo below doesn’t do justice to the majestic orange and purple hue, framing a crescent moon, kept company by a lone star, blazing brilliantly over the gloomy earth below. I wonder if the Wise Men looked upon a similar sight as they journeyed to Bethlehem.

The sight gave me hope. Hope that there are better times, and that God has better plans ahead for us. It certainly doesn’t feel that way, at present, but I guess that is what faith is all about. Without hope, we are lost. We need to believe in something, otherwise life is pointless. We need guidance. A single star in a chilly morning sky might not be much. But for me, today, it was enough.

What do you believe in?

I Don’t Believe in Santa Claus But….

For the first time since the year of our Lord 2002, Santa Claus is not coming to our house this Christmas. The hatchlings are all grown up so the Big Man is going to give chez Black a miss and leave it to their long suffering parents to ‘deliver the goods’ come the 25th. He will be missing out on his mince pie and glass of Diet Coke and Rudolph will have to go elsewhere for his carrot and bowl of water.

This hasn’t impacted, however, upon the current level of excitement in the house, especially amongst the girls. I have already sat through ‘The Christmas Chronicles’ with Kurt Russell four times, and the decorations went up well over a week ago. And are still going up. Despite Fionnuala’s insistence that this would be a more low key Christmas, every time I leave the house I return to find another wreath or set of lights in situ.

On Friday night, Rebecca and her friends went to their old school for the switching on of the Christmas tree lights. As self confessed ‘big girls’ at Junior High, they sniggered knowingly when informed that Santa Claus and his elves would be there for all the younger kids. They made me drop them off down the road from the school itself, to avoid the embarrassment of being dropped off by an adult human being.

The same applied to being picked up. They phoned through a rendezvous point where I waited patiently, until they graced me with their company. As they piled into the car, giggling and nattering, I raised an eyebrow in surprise. Both of them were clutching selection boxes, yet I knew there was no shop at the school and neither of them had any money on them. Hmmmmm….

Me: ‘Where did you get the selection boxes?’

Them: ‘Santa.’

Cue further giggling. It seemed that, despite their avowed intent to no longer write Father Christmas letters, they had no problem with playing along if there was free chocolate on the table. Twelve year old girls can be brutal. Oh, to have their moral compass, I mused, as they proceeded to demolish the contents of their dubiously acquired boxes in front of me. Santa Claus had been played, and I was an unwitting accomplice to this heinous crime.

Just as I was about to clamber upon my metaphorical high horse and deliver a lecture about integrity and values, I thought to myself – ‘They’re twelve year old girls. What’s your excuse?’ How many times had I said one thing, then acted in a way that suggested the complete opposite. I stick to my principles when it suits me, then chuck them out the window when I see an opportunity that addresses my own selfish needs.

Behaving in a consistent manner is hard work. I like to think I’m solid in that respect, but the truth is I can do so much better. It might not be chocolate boxes, but it’s so easy to rip up your belief system and chuck it in the bin when you’re faced with an easier option, a more tempting alternative. And before you know it, you are surrounded by empty wrappers and your face is smeared in tell tale chocolate.

Is Santa Claus coming to your house this Christmas?

When did you last say one thing and then did the complete opposite?

How do you stick to your beliefs and values?

Can You?

Northern Ireland seems to be in a state of permanent darkness at present. When I wake up it’s dark, cold, wet and windy. I go to work and sit in an office all day. With no windows. Then I come home. It’s dark, cold, wet and windy. The only time I encounter daylight is on my lunchtime run. When it’s slightly less dark but still cold, wet and windy. Has the Arctic Circle been moved south without anyone telling us?

These conditions affect us all but at least I have a warm house to go home to at night. On my walk to and from the office I feel sad for the growing number of rough sleepers who I pass. I stopped the other day and gave a few pounds to one of my homeless friends, Inesa. She was huddled outside the train station with her dog, Poppy. Poppy is in immaculate health. Shiny coat, wet nose and well fed. Inesa, not so much.

You see, Inesa puts her dog’s health before her own. She told me she has had a flu for three weeks and her boyfriend, Vladimir, was too ill to venture down into the town from the park where they sleep at night, when they don’t have the £40 needed to stay in a bed and breakfast. Inesa is too scared to stay in a hostel because of the hassle she gets from another girl, Maria.

Maria told me a different story, of course. The truth is an evasive commodity and I have to take everything I’m told with a generous pinch of salt. I’m minded to believe Inesa, though. She is always sober, polite and humble when I see her. She never asks for anything and when I do offer to help, she always accepts it reluctantly. She once told me she felt bad taking money from me, as I have children to look after.

Inesa is on a journey, as am I, and our paths have chosen to cross on the drab streets of Belfast. The aforementioned Maria is the inspiration behind the character of Meredith Starc, in the book I’m just finished, but there’s a dash of Inesa in there as well. Meredith also has that humility and pride, despite her circumstances. I told Inesa this once and she laughed with genuine delight, that she would end up in a novel.

I was running along the Lagan Towpath yesterday, accompanied by two rowers who cut a swathe through the water to my left. All three of us were working hard. I was pumping my legs while their arms strained to propel themselves along. It was a fairly even contest. At times I was ahead of them, while on other occasions they forged into the lead. But, we were all heading in the same direction.

My prayer and hope today is that Inesa, Maria, Vladimir and all the other rough sleepers in Belfast, continue on their allotted journeys, with brighter times ahead. And if this post can prick the conscience of one person today to show kindness and love to similar folk in their own town and city, then my work is done. They deserve better and I know I can do more. Much more. Can you?

It Was Too Good To Eat….So I Ate It

I was in a coffee shop the other day and was drawn to this bad boy. A raspberry and white chocolate scone. An uber scone, a scone to end all scones. Thankfully the calorific content was nowhere to be seen, as it lured me onto the rocks of decadence. I was powerless to resist and, before I knew it, the scone was on my plate and destined for my stomach. Scones like this are the reason I run 40 miles a week.

I’m happy to report it tasted just as good as it looked although, if I’m honest, it barely touched the sides going down. I was tempted to go up to the counter for a second one, but at the last minute resisted the urge to make an utter pig of myself in public. Self control and Stephen are not normally on speaking terms, but on this occasion I reined in my baser cravings and stuck to the one serving.

I’m not very good at saying ‘no.’ I’m a creature of excess. When I drank, one or two beers wasn’t enough, I had to keep going until I passed out, making a complete idiot of myself in the process. When I took up running, I wasn’t happy at reaching 5K. I kept going until I crossed the finish line in my first marathon. And then ran another eight. So far. Number 10 is planned for next year.

The good thing about running is that I can pretty much eat what I want, within reason. My thighs might ache, but it’s worth it when you can look forward to edible treats at the end of the day. In the bad old days, I would binge eat and then crash diet, surviving on toast and Diet Coke. This behaviour was all tied into my OCD, resulting in bizarre eating habits which I found incredibly hard to shake.

Many people see OCD as a controlling mental illness and, to an extent, it is. Victims are shackled to an ever decreasing circle of unwanted obsessive thinking and irrational compulsions. We also lose control, though. Control of our lives as we succumb to the routine, always the routine. It takes control of our lives as we simultaneously lose control. It tricks, it seduces, it tears us to pieces.

OCD promises release and relief from its mental anguish if we only wave the white flag and surrender to the compulsion. The thought of even momentary escape from it, is tempting beyond belief. We are dragged, kicking and screaming, into its hungry embrace. Like my raspberry and white chocolate scone, that next pint, that next whatever my obsession of the week was, I couldn’t say no.

It was too good to eat, but I still had to eat it. The texture, the taste, it lured me to the extent where, before I know it, I’m cramming it’s sugary goodness down my throat. I cross the line, I push the button, I crave the one thing that’s bad for me, but I just have to have it. Until reality sets in. The next time I wake up with a hangover, step on the scales or fall down the OCD rabbit hole without a bottom.

I manage my OCD today through a combination of medication, having the right people around me and being transparent and accountable about it. I can never rest on my laurels, for it is a slippery and cunning enemy. All it needs is one chunk in my armour, one gap in my defences and it will pour through. It will unleash hell and I will be powerless to resist. OCD is a killer, but I’m alive today and that’s all that matters.

Do you struggle with addictive behaviour? How do you control such urges?

Where are the gaps in your defences? How do you prevent them from being breached?

It’s 23 November….Happy Christmas!

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Er….okay. I realise it’s not even December yet, but Fionnuala and I buckled to pressure from our daughters today. Hannah has already been watching Christmas movies for several weeks, and was belting out festive tunes this morning in the car. It was only a matter of time before I was dispatched to the roof space, armed only with a shaky stepladder and a wonky head torch which has seen better days.

Every January I vow to put away the Christmas decorations in an orderly, systematic manner so that the following December, or mid November, I can easily retrieve them without sustaining a hernia in the process. And every January, they get haphazardly hurled into the pitch black void and forgotten about for the next twelve months. Do I ever learn my lesson? No, I do not.

There follows the traditional sight of yours truly stumbling about in the darkness, muttering and mumbling at the grievous injustice of it all. I wrestle with artificial trees, hunt down recalcitrant Santa figures and roller skate on stray baubles, my arms flailing like windmills as I struggle to stay upright and avoid an unscheduled visit to Accident & Emergency. The joy of Christmas. No. Not ever.

This year’s frolics were enhanced by being on call. There is no more bizarre feeling than conducting high powered telephone conversations while balancing precariously ten feet off the ground in pyjama bottom, a tatty hoodie and several garlands of tinsel. Please do not tell my bosses any of the above. Christmas on the unemployment queue would not go down very well with Fionnuala and the hatchlings.

My efforts were not in vain, however. While I was lurching from one calamity to the next, Fionnuala and the kids were assembling the masterpiece below. I take no credit whatsoever for it, as my wife is undoubtedly the brains and beauty of our marriage. Her innovation and imagination when it comes to all things creative, never fails to amaze me. I can barely tie my own shoe laces.

So, Christmas has arrived at chez Black, and not before time. As ever, ours is the first tree up in the street this year. That said, Fionnuala has vowed we will be scaling down the decorations this time around. No seven foot inflatable Homer Simpson Santa’s in the front garden and NASA will not be able to see our house from space. The plus side is we won’t have a five figure electricity bill to look forward to in January.

You may share in our early festive spirits. You too, may be breaking out the mince pies and binge watching endless Christmas movies which all have the same plot; successful business type who hates Christmas returns to their home town, only to fall in love with their high school sweetheart (eventually) and, in doing so, discover the true meaning of Christmas. Tell me I’m wrong?

I promise not to blog about Christmas again until at least 01 December. Although, that may be a lie. Now excuse me while I extricate myself from the roof space. I’ve been up here for hours, my head torch is fading and I’m starting to get hungry. If I’m not back on here tomorrow can someone contact the emergency services. Or at the very least, lob a few mince pies in my direction.

When does Christmas start in your house?

Who puts the decorations up in your home?

Where is the strangest place you’ve taken a phone call?

Why do all Christmas movies have the same plot?

Happy Thanksgiving From Ireland

Happy Thanksgiving to all our American followers. Being a sad man, I looked up the number of views Fractured Faith has had this year. Of the 79,053, over 45,000 of these were from the good old U.S of A. I have no idea what you see in the ramblings of a Northern Irish man but I am thankful today for all of you. Have a great day, don’t eat too much turkey and let’s hope the Redskins beat the Cowboys!

How are you Thanksgiving Day?

I hate Guinness and I’m Irish. What national treasure do you despise?

What NFL/College team do you follow?

It Is Finished

It is finished.

The report, that is, which I’ve been fretting over these last few weeks at work. Following a final big push, it will be submitted today to they who must be obeyed. I can sit back, relax for 11.6 seconds, and then find something else to panic about, for that is who I am and that is what I do. I used to joke that I don’t meet deadlines, I beat them. Well, this one has left me feeling half dead, as well as pretty beat up.

I’m celebrating by taking a half day and going to watch Adam play a cup match against my old school, Omagh Academy. Today, though, I will be cheering on Lurgan College. Adam is returning to the team after a bout of illness. Part of me doesn’t want him to play in such a big match as he might not be 100% recovered, but I don’t think wild horses could keep him off the pitch today.

Watching my son play rugby is one of my favourite pastimes. Yes, I’ve become a ‘Rugby Dad,’ and I rarely miss a match. It’s nerve wracking watching him out there competing in such a tough, physical sport against boys two years older (and bigger) than him; but that’s the level he’s playing at now and he gives as good as he gets. He has no fear and a level of composure and concentration that I can only aspire to.

His position is tight head prop, one of the most technical and important roles in the team. He is the base of the scrum, the lynchpin if you will. If he is having an off day, then the pack cannot function as a unit, and it all starts to fall apart. I think that’s why the coaches are so keen for him to play today, in such a big match. They need him, in order for the team to perform to its full potential.

I’ve been feeling demotivated and a little jaded in work of late. Unappreciated and frustrated. But the report deadline, stressful as it was, has succeeded in making me realise, I still have a role to play in my 9-5 world. I contributed and know my boss valued my efforts. I surprised even myself with my knowledge of the subject matter and performed under pressure in order to hit the submission time on time.

I’m fortunate to have the job I do, and should never take it for granted. My family come first obviously, but publishing books and running marathons won’t happen unless the bills are paid. The job is the foundation, upon which the other dreams are built. I should be grateful for my job, not griping that it takes me away from the fun things I would rather be spending my time at. The two go hand in hand.

So, today, as I stand on the touchline, trying desperately not to embarrass my son by haranguing the referee, I will realise I’m only there because of the job. It’s a grind, it’s a pain, but it’s a blessing as well. I contribute, I make a difference, and this report is part of that. Like with Adam, the team I work in cannot function to its full potential, without my input. I’m a cog, but a crucial cog.

This deadline has breathed new life into me. It’s another corner turned, another obstacle overcome. Another step in the right direction, to where I want to be. To where I need to be. I have a plan, and I’m totally focused on getting there. I’m not going to give up now, not when I’m so close. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from playing in the games coming up. Yes, it is finished. But, in other ways, it’s only just begun.

Do you ever feel undervalued at work?

How do you handle pressure and deadlines?

Are you where you want to be in life?

Homeless Jesus

Soooooo…..

I was out for my lunchtime run today, when I was literally stopped in my tracks by a new addition to the Belfast landscape. Outside a homeless centre I regularly run past, was a statue. At first glance, it appears fairly unremarkable. It’s a bronze sculpture of a man lying beneath a blanket on a park bench. What caught my eye, however, was the name of the sculpture – ‘Homeless Jesus.’

Behind the statue was a inscribed description of the piece. It was created by a Canadian sculptor, Timothy Schmalz, and depicts Jesus as a homeless person. His face and hands are obscured by the blanket, but the crucifixion wounds on his feet reveal his true identity. The sculpture is intended as a visual translation of the words Jesus gave to his followers in Matthew 25:45.

‘As you did it to one of the least of my brothers, you did it to me.’

Over the last couple of years I have built tentative relationships with a number of rough sleepers who I regularly pass in my travels around the city centre. I’ve blogged about them in the past and one of the main characters in the book I’m currently writing is homeless. I try to help these folk the best I can, by conversing with them, helping them where I can financially, and basically treating them as human beings.

I could do so much better though. When it’s been near the end of the month and the bank account is running low, I’ve been known to actively avoid my homeless friends as I cannot afford to buy them a cup of tea. Even though very few of them ask for money and often I have to force it upon them. They are proud young men and women and are loathe to be regarded as wasters and scroungers.

The statue stopped me dead today for it pricked my conscience. I once attended a suicide in the homeless centre outside where it is now located. A tragic end to a young life, but sadly no longer a rarity amongst our urban homeless communities. The underbelly of our society which we are quick to hurry past on our way to the office, or chuck a few coins in their direction and smugly feel we have met our social and moral obligations for the day.

I can do so much more. I call myself a Christian and like to view myself as a decent person. Yet, what would Jesus make of the behaviour I’ve described in the paragraphs above? Talking the talk and walking the walk, but only when it suits me. Even if I can’t give them the coins in my pocket, I can still afford them my time and prayers. I’m not perfect and I never will be. But I can do better. Much better. Can you?

What do you make of ‘Homeless Jesus’?

Do you do enough for the homeless people in your town or city?

Cutting Corners

Life is so busy at the minute, I’ve been tempted to cut several corners. There just aren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish everything I want to cram into it. Something always has to give, which I’m loathe to do as everything seems a priority at present. It would be so easy to take a few short cuts on my way from A to an increasingly far away B. I mean, would anyone even notice if I took a teensy weensy deviation or two?

In my early running career, I ran a trail 10K over a winding forested route. I knew I was running well, but amazed when I neared the finish line to see the digital clock displaying I had slashed three minutes off my previous personal best. I was delighted….until I checked my Garmin which showed my distance as several hundred metres short of 10K. I was gutted and most annoyed with the organisers who had robbed me of my moment of glory.

I was on the verge of firing off a strongly worded e-mail when I checked the small print of the race instructions. Here, I was rather smugly informed that race distance could not be guaranteed due to the hilly topography of the area. I was left with a conundrum. Did I claim a PB (it was a 10K race after all) or just scratch a line through the event, and put it down to experience. In the end, I chose the latter.

It just didn’t feel right to claim the accolades when I hadn’t run the full distance. I had cut corners, albeit not knowingly. The race organisers were at fault, but it still felt disingenuous of me to crow about my time. I hadn’t run 10,000 metres and wasn’t comfortable claiming I had. This weird, heavy sensation settled on my chest. I think it’s called guilt, but could be mistaken.

The same applies to my work and other commitments this week. I could turn a blind eye here, and overlook dotting that ‘I’ or crossing that ‘t’. But it wouldn’t sit easily with me. I would be putting quantity ahead of quality and undoing the high standards I previously have applied to the various projects I’m working towards. Life is about the long haul, taking the rough with the smooth and battling through whatever obstacles confront you.

Short cuts lead to danger. Less traveled paths are poorly lit and full of traps and pitfalls waiting to trip up the unsuspecting hiker. There are bears, wolves and all sorts of beasties waiting to pounce. Best keeping to the wide, well lit avenues you are supposed to be on. So I’ll keep plodding along. It might not be the most exciting journey in the world but at least I know I’m on the right track. Plus you can be guaranteed one thing. You never know what is around the next corner.

Are you tempted to cut corners?

What path are you on today?

Is it the right one?

My Week’s Been Meh – How About You?

I’ve been devoid of words this week. Last night, I sat down to write a blog post. Normally, I start with an idea and just go with the flow. The words tend to follow quickly and before you know it, voila, the post is finished. I’ve gotten into a habit of posting regularly, which means I maintain a presence on WordPress, while still chipping away at editing the book. Last night was different. I had nada, nothing, zilch.

The tank was empty. The well was dry. Since starting to write again, 18 months ago, I’ve never really experienced the dreaded writers block. And I’m unable to pinpoint what has been at the heart of my current malaise. Yes, I’m tired, but then Fionnuala and I are permanently tired. We’re parents, that’s what we do. The alarm clock always goes off too early and lie-ins are a very rare luxury.

I’m also still recovering from a tooth extraction which is taking longer to heal than I thought it would. I’ve been popping painkillers every day, which undoubtedly doesn’t help with regards the prevailing feeling of lethargy. If it persists, I’m going to have to revisit the chamber of horrors, otherwise known as my dental surgery. For someone who has never had problems teeth wise, 2018 has been my annus horriblis…..er….toothus.

Work has been incredibly busy. Senior management are (literally) screaming for a 350 page report that my boss and I have been painstakingly crafting for several weeks now. They want it yesterday and we are resisting the pressure by telling them it will be ready when it is ready. We both take pride in our work and aren’t prepared to sacrifice quality and accuracy for a quick turnaround.

The report is sucking up a lot of my creative energy. After sitting at a computer screen all day writing and editing, the last thing you want to do when you go home is sit at a computer screen, writing and editing. I’ve also been helping Rebecca revise for her upcoming school tests as well as the 101 other tasks that take up your time when you step through the front door in the evening.

Progress on the book has also suffered. I’ve reached the stage where I’m sick of reading it over and over again. Every time, I discover more glaring errors and omissions that I somehow failed to detect in the preceding four edits. It’s one step forward, five steps back at times. So much so, that I’ve had to walk away from it for a few days. When is a book finished? Are you ever 100% happy with it?

I ran today for the first time this week and was very pleased with my pace and stamina. That is one area where I seem to be holding firm. I’m hoping for another 30 plus mile week. Running is great therapy for me, the mental and physical glue that holds my frayed ends together. Not having any upcoming race targets has also allowed me to relax a little and not beat myself up as much.

I’ve titled this post ‘My Week’s Been Meh’, which might be a tad theatrical but what can I say, I’m an aspiring author so claim that as my prerogative. There’s nothing wrong and things could be a billion times worse. I’m not sad, I’m not unhappy, I’m just….meh. Hopefully this post will act as a catalyst to kick start the word machine that is my brain again. It’s a start. Thanks for getting to the end of this post. Give yourself a pat on the back.

How is your week going?

When did you last feel meh?

How did you emerge from the other side?

Dreams Of My Father

I lost my father eight years ago to prostate cancer. Since then, I’ve tried to keep memories of him alive. I’ve run marathons in honour of him, written a book where his legacy is touched upon, even had his name tattooed on my forearm. But I’ve rarely dreamed of him. Which has always puzzled me, given the impact he had, and continues to have, on my life. Until last night that was.

Last night I dreamt of my father. I was on a train platform with an old man who had missed his train. I was with friends but told them to go on, and I would wait with the old man until the next train arrived. He had with him a bundle of old police files, decades old, detailing past investigations. I began to leaf through them, to pass the time, if nothing else.

You see, my father was a part time police officer when I was a young boy, growing up in the Northern Ireland ‘Troubles.’ Every night he went out to work, and we prayed he would come back to us the following morning. Many men and women didn’t. Thankfully, my father did. I grew up to become a civilian investigator involved in police oversight. I police the police, if that makes sense. So, I had an interest in these files.

As I flicked through them, I realised some of the documents referred to my father. I was excited and enthralled, keen to learn more about his police career, which I was too young to understand at the time. I looked up from the files and saw a group of men standing to my right. One of them had his back to me, but he looked familiar. As he turned slightly and I viewed him in profile, I realised it was my father.

Imagine my excitement. I summoned him over, eager to show him what I had discovered in the files, and quiz him about their contents. He sat beside me but, try as I might, I could not find the file. I rifled through the paperwork time and time again, but the section pertaining to him had vanished. My father sat patiently, not saying anything, as I grew increasingly frantic and impatient.

I was letting him down and concerned he would leave again before I had the opportunity to share with him what I had found. I had so many questions and this was my big chance, but it was slipping through my fingers. I woke up, saddened the dream had ended but glad my father had visited. It was before he fell sick, when he was a healthy, strong man. No job was too big, no task too cumbersome. He could turn his hand to anything.

Gardening, car engines, plumbing, electrical tasks. He could do it all. Whereas I can’t change a plug and don’t know one end of a carburettor from the other. He was a man’s man, whereas I’m the least practical person you could ever meet. His talents certainly didn’t rub off on me, yet in other ways we were so alike. As in my dream, there was so much I wanted to say to him before he died. But never did, for one reason or another.

One day your loved ones are there, the next they are gone. We take their presence for granted, say we will see them next week, promise to phone them, but then the business of life gets in the way. My advice? If you have to, need to say something important to a loved one today, then say it. Today. For tomorrow might be too late. Leaving you clinging to fading memories and fleeting dreams.

Do you dream of loved ones who have passed on?

Do you need to say something important to a loved one today?

Ode To OCD #4

Garrotted

Besotted

Hypnotic narcotic.

You beckon me

Threaten me

Neural dichotomy.

Tossing me

Turning me

Desperate, I yearn for thee

Obsessive

Compulsive

I yield to thee, OCD.

Never Tell A Dentist You’re Not In Pain

Well, the troublesome tooth I have grumbled about these last few months ago is no more. Yesterday morning I attended a specialist dental clinic in Belfast to have it ‘extracted.’ Apparently dentists don’t pull teeth anymore, they extract them. Ever the pessimist, I was prepared for the worst but adamant I was not going another day with the malignant molar in my mouth. Today was the day.

Upon being ushered into the treatment room by an ever so friendly dental nurse, I met the man who was going to perform the extraction. And quite the character he was. An elderly gent, he cheerily informed me that he had 35 years experience at ‘this sort of thing’ and it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘I wouldn’t even bother with sedation,’ he added breezily. ‘You’d only be wasting your money.’

By sedation, he meant gas and air. That didn’t stop him, though, from producing a gigantic needle and proceeding to inject me not once, but twice, with a mouth numbing anaesthetic. He then proceeded to tell me he spent six hours lecturing the previous day and his ‘brain was frazzled.’ ‘Not that frazzled?’ I nervously asked, whereupon he laughed and told me to open my mouth. This wasn’t going very well at all.

‘Can you feel any pain?’ he enquired, beginning to root about in my mouth with an evil steel implement he produced from nowhere. ‘Naaaarrghhhh,’ I gagged in reply, not sure what the social etiquette was in these situations. He paused and looked at me sternly. ‘Never tell a dentist you’re not in pain,’ he responded darkly, before a grin broke out across his features. Dear God, I was in the hands of a madman.

There followed thirty seconds of poking around before he rose triumphantly, holding the offending tooth aloft. I take it all back, the man was a genius. Two minutes later, he was ushering me outside, reminding me to pay at reception or he’d ‘have to put the tooth back in.’ I literally floated out of the surgery, surprising even Fionnuala with my Lazarus like recovery and babbling incoherently about my new dental hero.

I felt so chipper I was able to later take Rebecca for her check up at the ‘ordinary’ dentists where I regaled a clearly unimpressed Dr. Helen about my morning appointment. ‘Yeah well, that’s all he does. Extract teeth,’ she pithily pointed out, sidestepping the elephant in the (treatment) room that her surgery’s finest had been unable to remove the blasted molar and referred me to the Belfast practice in the first place.

Wow! Even dentists get jealous! I bit my lip and nodded sympathetically at the considerably heftier workload Dr. Helen and her kind battled with daily on the dear old National Health Service. Cleaning, fillings, implants, the list is endless. And on top of that, they’re expected to extract the little enamel blighters. The last thing they need are smug patients popping in to brag about the superior extraction techniques of their better paid colleagues in the private sector.

I won’t miss my misbehaving tooth. I woke up this morning with a dull ache down one side of my face. The day was spent popping painkillers and gargling with saltwater but what a tale I had to share with my long suffering family and friends who have endured every step of the extraction odyssey. So I thought it only fair I also update the blogging universe. And remember, people. Never tell a dentist you’re not in pain.

Would You Be Missed If You Didn’t Get Out Of Bed Today?

We woke up to vile weather this morning.

It was cold, dark, wet and windy. Standard Northern Irish weather. Which made getting up to go to work an even less pleasurable experience than normal. Yet, still we get up and stumble wearily into the day ahead. We front up to any number of monotonous, mundane tasks because…..well…..because we have no other choice. Bills need paid, households need run and kids need educated.

Imagine if we said no. Imagine if we decided to not get out of bed but, instead, burrowed beneath the covers and resolutely refused to budge. Would the world keep turning? Would Wall Street open? Would the mid-term elections still go ahead? Would the sun rise in the morning and set in the evening? Well yes, of course all these things would happen and lots more decide. Life would trundle on, with or without us.

But who would miss us? And by that, I mean miss us as opposed to what we do. Set aside our numerous responsibilities, our roles within the family unit, the workplace and wider society. Who would miss us, the person? Our corny sense of humour, our ability to always say the wrong words at exactly the right time? All the infinite list of qualities which make us the unique creations we are.

When we die, it’s all over. In this life, anyway. Most of us will have a reasonably well attended funeral where our loved ones will say their goodbyes before attempting to move on with their lives. Mourners will have their memories and opinions of us, and there’s nothing we can do to change them. They are as set in stone as the marble headstones our epitaphs are chiselled onto.

Now think back to the split second before you got out of bed this morning. Freeze your world. If you were to vanish, what would people say? ‘He was a great guy, the salt of the earth, I haven’t a bad word to say about him?’ Or maybe some of the remarks would be less complimentary. Some might be harsh, hurtful, untrue even. But others might grate on you, strike a nerve, reveal an unpleasant aspect of your character which you cannot debt.

You might agree with all, some or none of this feedback. I would imagine we are all somewhere in between, nestled in the ‘not bad, but could do better’ pile. There might be a few frowns or even a Road to Damascus revelatory moment of clarity. I’m pretty certain all but the thinnest of skins would benefit from the experiment. A 360 degree audit of who we are, what we do and where we are headed in life.

Ebeneezer Scrooge, I am not. Nobody wants to see me running down the street in a nightshirt, clutching a candle and wishing goodwill to all men. When I run, it’s an altogether less disturbing sight. Or at least I hope. But, even though it’s two months yet to Christmas, we could all benefit from taking stock of our lives. While we can. Where can we do better, improve, make more of an impact. Who are the Bob Cratchitt’s and Tiny Tim’s in our lives who we can make more of an effort with?

It’s not Christmas Day, it’s not New Years Eve, but there’s no time like the present. Think hard before your toes next hit the cold, wooden bedroom floor. Or maybe you have deep, plush carpeting. Either way, no matter how grim the weather or your current circumstances, you have a chance to change today. A chance to make an impact within your sphere of influence. Use that chance. For one day, it’s not going to be there.

Are there days you don’t want to get out of bed?

Who would miss you if you didn’t ‘show up’ today?

If you conducted an inventory of your life today, where could you improve?

I’ve Written A Book. Now What?

Yesterday I started a hard copy edit of my debut novel ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Part One – Skelly’s Square.’ Armed with my trusty red pen, I attacked the manuscript with gusto, and more than a little trepidation. What if the printer version revealed a myriad of mistakes which I had failed to detect on the laptop screen? I gritted my teeth and resigned myself to the task at hand. What would be, would be.

Fifty pages later, and I’m relieved to report the edit was a relatively pain free exercise. No major, intrusive surgery was required and Kirkwood survived, with nothing more than a few flesh wounds. These primarily relate to my obsession with the words ‘that’ and ‘had’ which had (oops) been pointed out to me by my long suffering and incredibly tactful beta readers. Removing them all will probably reduce the word count by 20,000 but it’s a small price to pay.

it’s weird holding an actual hard copy of the book in my hands. Before, as I laboured over it on the laptop screen, it was as if it wasn’t quite real, rather a figment of an over active imagination. But now it’s actually there, staring me in the face. It’s looking me up and down, before enquiring ‘Well I’m here now. What are you going to do with me?’ A question I’m not quite sure how to answer.

When do you stop editing a book? When do you set down the red pen, lean back and think ‘That’s me, I’m done? When does the moment come when you are brave enough to hit the submit button and wave goodbye to your pride and joy? Exposing it to the ravenous bear pit that is the world of literary agents and publishers? Can’t I hold onto my new born baby for just a little longer?

The answer is, of course, a resounding no. Writing a book and then not endeavouring to publish it is akin to buying a sports car and keeping it locked in your garage, for fear that it might get a scratch. The hard work is done, or at least most of it is. Now is the exciting time. Scary, yes, but ultimately exciting. The desire to know if it’s any good, outweighs the trepidation and worry which threaten to paralyse the aspiring author.

So, as the red pen cuts a swathe through the bundle of papers on my lap, I’m already thinking ahead to query letters and submission e-mails. I’ve been researching agents who might be interested in KSC and publishers who focus on YA/Urban Fantasy genres. To find that one person who falls in love with the adventures of Kirkwood Scott, Meredith Starc and Harley Davidson; who is entranced by the evil machinations of Colonel Augustus Skelly and the Forsaken.

it’s a hard old slog, but I’m seeing progress with each passing week. With that, comes confidence; confidence that this book with see the light of day in some format, be that via the publishing or self-publishing routes. The blog is but the tip of my personal writing iceberg. I just hope one day, the book I have laboured over will be revealed to you all. It’s frustrating writing about it every week when all I want to do is post the manuscript and shout ‘There it is. Tell me what you think.’

I hope that day is not far around the corner. The plan was always to start the book in 2017, finish it in 2018 and publish in 2019. So far, I’m on track with that schedule. I will keep chipping away, when and where I can, still determined this germ of an idea will see the light of day. Now I’m going to sign off and get scribbling with the red pain again. This book won’t write itself, you know.

Where are you on your writing journey?

Keep Going

My beloved Manchester United won today, coming from behind to beat Bournemouth F.C. 2-1. This was even more exciting, given the nature of the winning goal, a last gasp strike from young English striker, Marcus Rashford. United have a rich history of such last minute heroics, harking back to the 1999 Champions League final, when they scored two goals in the last two minutes to win the biggest prize in European football.

I still get goosebumps when those goals are shown. Just like the time I travelled to Old Trafford to watch them beat arch rivals Manchester City 4-3, courtesy of a 94th minute Michael Owen goal. As the ball hit the back of the net I leapt to my feet and sprinted up and down my section of the Stratford End stand, high fiving all and sundry. I was fuelled by the ecstasy of the moment, in addition to the six pints of Stella Artois I downed in the bar before the match.

The list goes on. During the 1990’s and 2000’s under the management of the legendary Sir Alex Ferguson, United were an unstoppable force in British and European football. Champions League trophies, Premiership titles, F.A. Cups. They won the lot and much more besides. The never say die attitude and attacking football philosophy of the club was epitomised in countless numbers of last second, come from behind wins. It was their trademark. You never wrote United off. Ever.

Since Ferguson’s retirement six years ago, the club has fallen on comparatively leaner times. While still one of the biggest and richest clubs in the world, success has been harder to come by on the pitch. This season has been no different as the team has struggled to find its stride and play the flowing, attractive football it is world famous for. The game today brought back memories of better times. They are a slumbering giant.

Win, lose or draw I will always support United. They are my team and I’ve followed them for over forty years, through thick and thin. Thankfully the kids have heeded me and both Adam and Rebecca also support the Red and White Army. Hannah isn’t a football fan but I reckon if put on the spot would choose United, if for no other reason than familial loyalty. Plus she would never hear the last of it from me if she did otherwise.

We should never give up on those we support. This can be applied from our favourite sports team to the special people in our lives. Loyalty is what drags them through the tough times, as well as the glory days. Life might seem horrific but it’s a little less horrific knowing there are people out there loving us and willing us on. Such love is indestructible and indefatigable in equal measure. It transcends distance and overtones all obstacles.

Such support makes us want to keep fighting to the bitter end. It makes us want to crawl over broken glass and battle through this morass we call life. For maybe, just maybe, there is a light at the end of the pitch black tunnel. Nothing more than a pinpoint at first, but growing in size and intensity as we break into a run and sprint towards it. Bursting beyond into daylight and new life. A better life, free from the shackles of our old selves.

You might not feel that way today as you read these words but I encourage you to keep going, keep fighting, right up until the final whistle. Keep going for those who are cheering you on, waiting for that special moment when everything falls into place and you score the winning goal. They believe in you, so follow their example and believe in yourself a little bit. For that is where dreams come true.

What’s the most nail biting sporting event you have ever watched?

Are you a loyal supporter? Or a fair weather fan?

Do you believe in yourself enough to fight to the final whistle?

Making Fireworks Night Every Night

The Belfast skyline will be lit up tonight with thousands of fireworks, as the city celebrates Halloween with a bang. Quite literally. Thankfully it’s a far cry from our troubled past when bomb explosions and gunfire plagued the city on a daily basis. Northern Ireland has come a long way since the 1998 Good Friday Agreement, when the warring factions agreed to put away their weapons for good.

I’ve had my fair share of fireworks down the years. We all do. It’s part and parcel of the crazy rollercoaster ride, otherwise known as life. One minute you are toddling along, minding your own business, then the next thing ‘BANG,’ your world is turned upside down. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse, but always in a manner which catches us off guard.

I’m no lover of change, like many of us I fear upheaval and embrace the status quo at every available opportunity. I’m a creature of habit and a great believer that if it ain’t broke, then don’t fix it. Sometimes situations burst into your life which you have no control over, sickness and bereavement to name but two. In these cases, we unfortunately have no choice but to roll with the punches and make the most of a bad lot.

Other incendiary devices in our lives, we do have more control over. The decisions we make and the actions we take can land us in a firefight of epic proportions. Some fireworks light the way ahead, while others blind you and lead you stumbling down paths full of snares and pitfalls. Fireworks can be exciting and enticing but they can also be confusing and disorienting. Great caution must be taken when near them.

Then there’s the Katy Perry school of fireworks. You all know the song. People who enter our lives and light up our faces like the Fourth of July. The individuals who make all the cold, dark nights that preceded them worthwhile. They fizzle and flare, making us oooooh and aaaaah as we stand open mouthed and starry eyed, bewitched as they dance across the sky. These are the fireworks we live for.

If you’re attending a fireworks display tonight I hope you wrap up warm and keep safe. I also hope you enjoy a spectacular display for nobody wants a damp squib on a night like this. We all need special people in our lives. The trick is to do everything in our power to ensure they remain there. They help us deal with the mundane. They ensure that every day of our lives is one worth celebrating.

What’s the best fireworks display you’ve ever seen?

What type of fireworks are currently in your life?

That Was The Week That Was

Well I did it. My challenge was to run 40 miles this week and I achieved it with a 7 miler this afternoon. Even more encouraging was running consistent sub 9 minute miles again. Tomorrow will be a rest day and then I’ll be back on it again come Tuesday. Thank you everyone for your continued support on this weird and wonderful running and writing journey that is my life.

How Persistent Are You?

Last night I missed an important phone call. It was my own fault as I had my mobile on silent at the time, one of my many bad habits. Thankfully the caller phoned back later in the night, waking me up but I didn’t mind, so relieved was I that they had tried again. I was able to do what needed done and the situation was resolved. I went back to bed, breathing a huge sigh of relief.

But wide awake. Hence, this (very) early morning post. What did I learn from this experience? Besides, stop being an idiot and turn your phone on when you are expecting important calls. Well, firstly I need to listen more. I have a tendency to know what’s best and ignore the sound advice of much wiser people around me. If I don’t listen, then I can’t learn. It’s as simple as that.

I’ve been told I’m a great communicator, both in and outside the workplace. That’s partially true. Yes, I can write and I also know I can be verbally eloquent when the need arises. I’m comfortable giving presentations and speaking out at meetings. But communication is a two way street and also involves listening. Which is just as, if not more important, than talking. God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.

I’m a poor listener on two fronts. Firstly I often fail to hear what is being said to me. I drift off into La La Land and have no idea what has just been said. I know how rude this appears, and frustrating to the other person. Secondly, I do take in what is being said to me but fail to act on the advice given. Imparted wisdom is precious and failing to act positively on it is foolish in the extreme. Again, I plead guilty.

I need to become an active listener, to make a conscious and sustained effort to hear the speaker and then do something about it. This involves turning up the volume on my phone and ensuring I have a signal to pick up incoming calls. Not doing so, can and will land me in a world of trouble, with only myself to blame. There’s no fool like an old fool and I’m not getting any younger, that’s for sure.

The second area I picked up on was persistence. The caller didn’t give up, they recognised that the information they held was important, so kept trying until they finally got through to me. They didn’t give up. And I, for one, was very grateful for that. Even if it meant being roused from my sleep in the process, it was a small price to pay. Wisdom is toothless unless it reaches the ears of those who need it.

As a parent, I’m constantly trying to educate our children the best I can. I don’t want them to make the same mistakes I did. I want them to be better than that. Often I’m frustrated when they don’t appear to be listening to me. But they are only kids, what’s my excuse? I’m a hypocrite and need to practice what I preach. If they don’t see me listening to others, then what sort of an example is that to set?

Secondly I need to persevere with them. Throwing my hands up in the air or losing my temper isn’t going to achieve anything. I can’t give up on them, no matter how infuriating they can be at times. Love is many things, including persistent. You don’t give up on those you love. You call them, even when it involves risk. You persevere, you endure, you hang in there, even if it’s by the fingernails at times.

Are you a good listener? Or a day dreamer life me?

How persistent are you at loving others?

When did you last miss an important phone call?

What’s The Stupidest Question A Stranger Has Ever Asked You?

Now I’m not one to pass comment but….

There I was, minding my own business yesterday, around two miles into a seven mile lunchtime run. I was happily loping along at a very respectable pace, enjoying the autumnal sun and surrounding scenery of the Lagan Towpath. This riverside walkway is always busy in the middle of the day with fellow runners, cyclists and strolling office workers. Today was no different, or so I thought.

Walking towards me were three twenty somethings, two males and a female between them. I paid them little attention, instead focusing on my pace and rhythm, like all elite distance runners do….ahem. It was therefore with some surprise that I noticed one of the men was gesturing towards me. He had something in his hand, which I couldn’t quite make out. A lost tourist, no doubt.

George R.R. Martin and that big iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland have a lot to answer for. The good people of Belfast are regularly accosted on their lunch breaks by roving gangs of octogenarian North American tourists seeking directions to the Game of Thrones studios or Titanic Museum. I know it’s done wonders for our tourist industry, but if there’s one thing I like less, it’s being asked directions mid-run. I mean, how rude!

Except, this wasn’t a holidaying pensioner, but rather a young man wearing a tracksuit and baseball cap. He wasn’t pointing a camera in my direction or waving a map of the city centre. Yes, he was holding something in his outstretched hand, but as I closed the gap between us, I realised it was none of the above tourist paraphernalia, but instead a cigarette. An unlit cigarette, for that matter.

I slowed as I approached him, and our eyes met. ‘Do you have a light?,’ he hopefully enquired. My jaw dropped to the ground as I considered my response and conducted a quick mental inventory. Nike trainers? Check. Base layer and running app. Yeah, I’ve remembered them. Packet of Benson & Hedges King Size and lighter? Darn, I knew I’d forgotten something. ‘Er….no,’ I replied as I hurtled past, a look of utter disbelief on my face.

I’ve been running for over four years and I’ve been stopped and asked some silly questions in my time. But this was a new one, even for me. I know runners who vape. I know runners who take the odd sneaky cigarette on a night out. I’ve even seen two guys standing puffing their brains out before the start of the Belfast Half Marathon, two years ago. But I’ve yet to encounter someone who would light up mid run.

My nicotine starved friend asked the question yesterday as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I’m still scratching my head about it, over 24 hours later. But it got me thinking? What’s the most pointless or inappropriate question you’ve ever been asked by a stranger? Or am I over reacting? Was my track suited friend posing an entirely reasonable request? There’s no such thing as a stupid question, right?

Post your experiences below. There’s no prize by the way. But you’ll have my undying gratitude.

Meet our guest blogger

As part of Hannah’s English coursework she had to write her autobiography so we decided to share it with our WordPress family.

My name is Hannah Catherine Black I am 14 years old. I was born on the 10th of December 2003. I was supposed to be born on Christmas Eve, but I came earlier. I was born in the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast I lived there for a year, then I moved. I now live in Aghalee in County Antrim. I have lived there since I was a year old. I live with my mum Fionnuala, my dad Stephen my brother Adam and my sister Rebecca. I also have a dog called Charlie. We got him when he was just a puppy seven years ago.

I was born with Spina bifida and Hydrocephalus which is a condition in which fluid accumulates in the brain. Spina bifida is a congenital defect of the spine in which part of the spinal cord and its meninges are exposed through a gap in the backbone. It often causes paralysis of the lower limbs which I have and sometimes learning difficulties.

I go to Fleming Fulton school in Belfast on the Malone Road. I am now in year 11/12 in school. I am in a class with girls named Leah, Kamile Jodie and Rachel I have been going to this school for 11 years. My favourite subjects are Maths and English because I like the teachers and the way they teach their subjects. But my favourite all time teacher has to be Mrs Devlin who teaches me Maths.

When I am not in school I like to sing and dance. Music is one of the many things that keep me happy, it is my passion. I have been in a few plays and singing competitions. I was once Jack’s mother in Jack and the Beanstalk. I was Cinderella in Cinderella. I also came fourth in a singing contest called Stars In Their Eyes. I was Ariana Grande.

One of my most memorable memories was when I went to Florida with my family and my great Aunt and Uncle, when I was 7. We had a pool in the back garden and my Daddy gave me and my sister dolphin rides up and down the pool.

I have made lots of friends in my school who I will love and be grateful to for the rest of my school years and beyond. My best friend is called Jodie, she is 15 years old and is in my class. We have been friends for as long as I can remember and will continue to be for the rest of my life.

Next year I am going to see one of my idols in concert. I am so excited; his name is Shawn Mendes. I absolutely love him, he is my favourite singer of all time He has inspired in me so many ways through his music and has helped me discover what I want to do in life.

When I leave school my hopes and dreams is to be a singer /songwriter and to be famous. I also want to have kids and a husband of my own one day and maybe a dog. I would also like to be able to walk so that I can be walked down the aisle on my wedding day.

Thank you for reading my story

I’m Not Writing A Book….I’ve Written A Book

Almost a year ago I took a week off work for the purpose of starting to write a book. The idea for it had been rattling around my head since the summer, but fear and self-doubt held me back from taking the plunge and putting pen to paper. Or rather, digits to keyboard. In the end, Fionnuala literally chained me to a desk and opened the laptop in from of me. Write, just write. And so, it began.

I had an idea, but no plan. No chapter by chapter breakdown, no detailed synopsis. I just wrote blindly, stumbling from page to page, usually with no idea where the story was taking me. At one surreal point, the characters took over and began to craft their own histories. I started to trust them and the path ahead formed, one step at a time. The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles were born.

Last night, I closed the lid of the laptop, having completed the fourth edit of ‘Skelly’s Square’ the first book in what I hope will be a series, charting the adventures of our eponymous hero and his friends, battling an ancient, malignant evil on the streets of modern day Belfast. The book is currently being critiqued by my trusty band of beta readers, who have provided invaluable feedback so far. You know who you are.

I know you never really finish a book. I need to digest the beta feedback and further tinker with the manuscript. But I’m now at the stage, where the cake is baked and I’m just applying the icing. It could be the worst book ever written, but it is written and they can never take that away from me, whoever ‘they’ are. I’ve already grasped the creative thread which is Part 2, and will be feeling my way into it when the dust settles from this one.

I’m increasingly tempted to research the self publishing route. The drain of completing a year’s work and then facing the gargantuan task of securing an agent and publisher might be a step too far. I don’t expect to sell millions or win awards. All I ever wanted to do was write and one day, hold a printed copy in my hand. It could take years, if ever, to achieve that via traditional publishing routes.

We will see but the horror stories coming from traditional publishing terrify me. I’m not sure I want to expose either Kirkwood or myself to that. I will mull it over in the weeks ahead as the beta feedback comes in. In the meantime I’m open to any suggestions anyone has to offer. As ever, I want to thank everyone who has supported and encouraged me on the journey. Kirkwood Scott has finally been born.

Would you read ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’?

Publishing or Self-Publishing? Thoughts?

How Did That Happen?

We passed 7500 followers yesterday. Quite the achievement for the little blog that Fionnuala encouraged me to start almost eighteen months ago. Since then, there have been almost daily posts about life, the universe and everything. I’m not quite sure why, but people continue to read and post encouraging comments. It has been both an enlightening and humbling experience which has restored my belief in the online human community.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you all.

Will You Run With Me Today?

As regular readers know, I’ve been struggling with my running of late. When I do run, my pace has been way off what I’m used to. That’s when I run. Many days, I have dug out my trainers fully intent on hitting the roads, only to sigh, shrug my shoulders and discard them. My motivation, mojo, whatever you wish to call it, has been missing. This weekend was a perfect example. Zero miles.

When I was marathon training it was tough but I always managed to get out there and get it done. One of the silver linings in that 26.2 mile cloud was that I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted, and I sure love my food. No matter how tough the conditions, there was always the prospect of a tasty treat at the end of the training session. This usually involved ice cream or chocolate. Preferably both.

The problem with my most recent blip is that, while marathon training has ground to a halt, the corresponding high calorie intake has not. If anything, it has increased, leaving me feeling sluggish and bolted. It’s an ever decreasing circle which I fear will lead nowhere but to an ever increasing waistline. The chubby schoolboy within is bursting to get out if I allow him to.

The solution to this self inflicted pity party starts this today. Although my days of marathon running may be numbered, there is no excuse for this recent malaise. So this lunchtime, I’ll be escaping the office and pounding the pavements of Belfast again. And you are all going to join me. I need to be accountable, motivated and driven when I’m out there battling the elements.

All messages of support and encouragement would be most appreciated between then and now. As my Garmin is playing up I’ll be timing the run on my phone so, in a way, you will be with me every step of the way. All eight miles of it for that’s what I’m aiming for. By documenting my runs on the blog, I know there will be no hiding place for me. Feel free to harass me if I haven’t posted a run in a while.

Running is not the most important thing in my life. Far from it. But it is important, as it assists my mental health in such a way that it overflows into so many other areas of it. Without running, I know I am more vulnerable to my ever vigilant OCD. Which nobody wants to see, believe me. So join me on my winter running adventures. I’ll post a run update later with regards today’s challenge.

Will you join me on my running challenge?

Are You A Morning Person?

In our house on weekdays, the alarm normally arouses the adults from blissful sleep at 5:45 am. Routine then kicks in and our weary bodies go onto autopilot. Fionnuala commences the Herculean act of getting a bouncing eleven year old and two zombie teenagers out of the house and on their way to school. Uniforms are ironed, lunches are packed and there is much hollering which would raise the dead, but not seemingly a sixteen year old boy.

I’m largely entrusted to get myself ready for work, although Fionnuala might have something to say about that. I stumble out of bed, wash and shave, before dressing and making my way downstairs to bedlam and my first Diet Coke of the day. Slices of toast are hurriedly shoved down throats and then we are all on our way, via bus and train, to our respective schools and workplaces.

Weekends are not much better. Yesterday Adam had a rugby match so I had to have him at his school for 8:45 am. It was worth the early start as they won 57-5 but lie ins are a rare commodity these days. Today, we all had to be up early as we have visitors calling so have to ensure the house is ship shape and ready. It’s little wonder, Fionnuala and I are ready for bed by 10 pm most nights. The all night partying is a distant memory when you’re married with three kids.

It’s fair to say, we are morning people out of necessity more than any great desire to be. If I had a choice, not that I do anymore, I’d much rather remain under the covers as the first rays of morning creep over the horizon. I often claim I’m going to arise for magnificent dawn runs which will leave me energised and inspired for the day ahead. This rarely happens, and my running gear remains untouched at the bottom of the bed.

The same goes for those people who bounce out of bed, stick on a pot of coffee and get tonnes done before the rest of the world stirs. There have been books written about how that first hour of the day can be the most productive. Sorry, that’s just not me. It takes at least an hour for both my body and brain to crank into gear. And anyway, I hate coffee, so I’ll just leave all you Perky Pete and Paula’s to it.

I’d love to be a morning person, truly I would. I could accomplish so much. Sometimes there is so much stuff to wade through that I would happily welcome a thirty hour day. I feel bad when I don’t make that early morning run, when I don’t finish the chapter I had planned to, when I overlook a task or errand that needs ticked off the list in order to keep family life trundling along like a well oiled machine.

Something always seems to have to give. Everything can’t be a priority. Why can’t I be everywhere at once, doing everything at once? Why can’t I keep all the balls in the air at the same time? It’s at times like this, I need to take a deep breath. Turn off panic mode. Shift from negative self-reflection to positive assertion. Focus on what I have achieved from day to day. The runs that did happen, the words that were written, the million and one tasks that were completed.

No, I’m not a perfect husband, father, employee or person. But at least, I recognise that. And I try every day to get the job done, to get from A to B as best I can with the skills that God blessed me with. Trying is sometimes all we can manage. Trying is trying. But it’s better than dying. Dying in a morass of mediocrity and apathy. Giving up and giving in, when there are still battles to be fought and one.

I’m going to try again this morning….

Are you a morning person?

Are you too hard on yourself?

Or can you try harder than you have been?

I’m Not A Fussy Eater But….

When it comes to food, I’ve always prided myself on being able to eat pretty much anything. I’m not a fussy diner. Place a plate of food in front of me and ten minutes later, possibly sooner as I’m a quick eater, it will be gone. I inherited that from my father, although Fionnuala has performed wonders with my table manners and eating habits in the years she has known me. I even chew my food now, before swallowing.

Yes, invite me to your home for dinner and you will not have to worry about special dietary requirements. Because I eat pretty much anything.

Er……apart from mussels. In fact, better make that most shellfish. And prawns. I don’t like prawns. I think it all harks back to an unfortunate afternoon spent eating fresh oysters in a bar in Dublin many years ago. Followed by two days of shivering uncontrollably in bed, drenched in a clammy sweat. Although that might possibly have had something to do with the eight pints of Guinness which accompanied the oysters.

But apart from that, I’m good.

Oh beetroot, I forgot beetroot. Horrible, slimy, yucky, purple beetroot. Which no matter how hard I try contaminates my otherwise perfect restaurant salad, it’s juices infiltrating every mouthful. Why did God invent beetroot? It serves no practical purpose other than to irritate me. Right up there with wasps. Don’t get me started on wasps. They don’t even produce honey. They just sting you and then die.

Olives. I can’t stomach olives. We sometimes have breakfast in the office where everyone chips in a few pounds and ‘Fast’ Eddie dishes up bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, tomatoes….and olives. I think he’s trying to impress us all but I’m not having it. They resemble alien eyeballs and I sure ain’t putting one in my mouth. They should stick to floating about in fancy dan cocktails. Not on my breakfast platter.

Brussel sprouts. The most pointless addition to the long list of Christmas traditions which will be descending on chez Black from 1st November onwards. Fionnuala is already checking out the Christmas movie channel. I am a reasonable man. It takes a lot to get me wound up. I rarely lose my temper. But the sight of a brussel sprout nestling amidst my Christmas dinner might just be the straw that broke the camels back.

Hmmmmm. This self inventory isn’t going so well is it? And that’s just the subject of food. What else do I dislike? If I sat down and took a long, hard look at my prejudices what would I unearth? On other people, their beliefs, values and morals? Their faith, culture and social norms? Am I as open minded and liberal as I like to think I am. Are any of us? For once you start to scratch beneath the surface, all sorts of nasty surprises are revealed.

Often the person we portray to the world bears no resemblance to the one we face in the mirror every morning. We slip on a mask before we open the front door and face a new day. We put on an act as we worry what others would think, if they knew the real us. Would they be disappointed, embarrassed, angry? Some of us don’t even know the real ourselves as we bury the truth beneath layers of denial and self loathing.

Be you. Recognise your flaws. Embrace them. And then, where possible, take steps to eradicate or minimise them the best you can. Because nobody is perfect, nor does anybody expect perfect. Pretending to be somebody you are not is a bit like pretending to like a food you actually despise. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it doesn’t impress anyone. Food poisoning is bad enough. But poisoning your mind and soul could have much more far reaching consequences.

Which foods can you not stomach?

Are you true to yourself and the watching world?

How often do you reflect upon your beliefs and values? Are you more prejudiced than you first thought?

Choosing Grace Over The Grave

I’m going to a leaving function after work today. I usually avoid these events like the plague but it is for two members of my team, who are moving on to other positions within the organisation. It would ‘look bad’ therefore, if I didn’t ‘show my face.’ Excitement has been building in the office all week as people look forward to an evening of laughter and frivolity. Apart from one person that is….me.

I’m dreading it and as I sit here typing this, the anxiety and tension are already unfurling within me, like a lazy cobra preparing for its next meal. In my drinking days, I would have been the first one in the pub after work today and the last to leave. And by leave, I mean stagger outside, mumbling incoherently after a night of embarrassing behaviour fuelled by alcoholic excess.

All that ended about five years ago, so most of my present colleagues have never witnessed that version of Stephen. Lucky them. I wouldn’t have wished my company on anybody. I was loud and obnoxious, but by equal measure incredibly dull. I thought I was the life and soul of the party, but would always wake up the next morning horrendously hungover, gripped by dread and fear as to who I had offended in my drunken state.

I don’t drink now. I’m Mr. Clean-Cut, Stephen Tee Total, the running bore who pounds the pavements as opposed to pounding the pints back. I take part in marathon runs, as opposed to marathon drinking binges. I’m sure some of my colleagues regard me as a bit of a wet blanket, but it was a choice I had to make five years ago in order to save my marriage, my family, my own sanity.

Alcohol used to shield me from the chronic shyness and low self-confidence I display in social settings. I am incredibly awkward and shy. Alcohol released me from all such inhibitions and allowed me to say what I wanted to whoever I wanted, oblivious to the consequences. Until the next morning, that was. Then reality would rush back in like an unstoppable tide, stripping me bare; my many inadequacies exposed like slick, jagged rocks poking about the waves.

Alcohol was a crutch. Choosing to stop has cleared my head and allowed me to see I never needed it in the first place. This is the real me. Yes, I’m still a bit of a mess at times, but at least I’m a sober mess. I’m no finished product by any means, but at least I recognise my many flaws now and can work towards improving. I’m not successful every time and there are still setbacks but at least I’m trying, as opposed to my former self who buried his head in the sand.

So this evening will be awkward. I will fret all day about it. I’m running at lunchtime which will help and I also have a busy day work-wise to take my mind off what lies ahead. I intensely dislike being around drunk people, which is ironic given the amount of time I spent in my own inebriated company. But I will muddle through, engage in small talk and smile in all the right places. For that is what I do.

Tonight I will be the first to leave the bar and tomorrow I will be the freshest person in a sea of bloodshot eyes and throbbing headaches. I won’t display any smugness for that was me and could so easily be me again, were it not for the grace of God. It was the easiest choice of my life in the end, choosing grace over the grave. It was the only choice. I need to keep making it every day.

Are you socially awkward?

What are your coping mechanisms?

Do you shun social events?

The Winning Ticket – Part Two

Earlier today I wrote about purchasing a monthly train ticket for the princely sum of £138. Since then I have been commuting to and from Belfast, constantly checking my wallet to satisfy myself it was where it was meant to be. I would produce and stare at it longingly like Frodo Baggins on his way to Mordor with the one ring to rule them all. Thankfully, minus the annoyingly protective Samwise Gamgee at my side.

The good news is that I have managed to navigate the first half of October without losing said ticket. It remains in pristine condition, safe and sound in its plastic sleeve, less wrinkles than a botoxed socialite. I proudly wave it at the conductor every morning, mentally calculating how much money I have saved since abandoning my previous policy of buying daily tickets.

I guard it with my life. It is indeed my precious. All £138 of it. If only I treated all the precious commodities in my life with such care. Physically I ‘try’ to eat healthily and run regularly. I’d like to think I’m in decent shape for a man of my venerable years. Mentally, I take my happy pill every morning which wards off the slumbering monster called OCD which lurks in the darker recesses of my mind.

But what about my soul? I’ve always thought there is something beyond life. This can’t be everything, at least that’s my take on it. Call me naive but I believe in an afterlife and how you conduct yourself in this existence, determines where you’re going to end up when you trundle off this mortal coil. When that happens I won’t have to worry about my weight or cholesterol levels. But I will have to worry about my soul.

It’s worth a tad more than £138 but I often neglect the most important commodity I will ever possess. I need to be kinder, humbler and more loving. I need to put others before myself, give generously of my time and energy. There is so much I need to do better and more often. And yet I so often neglect what’s staring me straight in the eye, jumping up and down and stamping its feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Tomorrow is another working day. I’ll brave the packed Belfast Express, clinging on to my ticket for all I’m worth. But I’m learning to cling even more tightly to the wisdom and guidance I so desperately need to traverse this minefield we call life. It’s involved a lot of tentative steps but I’m hopeful I’m headed in the right direction. For this is one journey where a one way ticket is all that I’ll require.

Do you believe in the afterlife?

Why I Love Being Rubbish

I upped my distance to eight miles yesterday. A very slow eight miles, but eight miles nonetheless. It was a beautiful autumn day, a total contrast to the heavy rain and high winds which swept across Northern Ireland on Saturday. I’m nowhere near the level I was running at, even six months ago. A couple of gears have disappeared, but I’m just grateful I’m out there at all. I’ve missed running.

The old me would have been disgusted with yesterday’s effort. For the old me was all about getting faster and stronger. This was the fuel which fed a ravenous ego, a vanity which was out of control. The old me was all about personal bests, losing weight and impressing people. I was all about image and self. At the time I thought I was coolness personified. Looking back now, Mr. Cool just leaves me cold.

I was running two races a month then, always pushing. Races ended with inane grins for mindless selfies, which were posted straight onto my Instagram account. It was the most shallow of existences. On the surface I pretended that all was well, but beneath the cracks were deepening and widening. My body was becoming leaner and stronger, but my soul was withering away to nothing.

I remember running a half marathon a few years ago, where I posted a personal best, my fastest time ever. I should have been ecstatic. But I hated every step of the run, as I raced pedal to the medal, oblivious to the cheering crowds, unable to soak up any of the carnival atmosphere. All I cared about were my mile splits and getting to the finish line as quickly as possible. It was a means to an end, nothing else.

As I crossed the line, there was no sense of joy or achievement. There was nobody there to greet me. I collected my medal, took the statutory selfie, got in the car and drove home. For I was furious. Furious that a rival of mine had run a quicker time. My life revolved around comparing myself to others and straining to be bigger and better than them. Pathetic thoughts from a pathetic mind.

I was the healthiest I had ever been. I used to brag that I was in the best shape of my life, as fit as a fiddle. I was running like the wind, and alcohol free. Yet there was a different poison coursing through my veins. A poison as deadly as the strongest alcohol. I was consumed by it, it blinded me to the truth and led me down paths I never dreamed I would ever travel. Paths of shame, pain and destruction.

My ego still lurks beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest whiff of an opportunity. If I allow it out of its cell, if I allow it to run unchecked it will wreak havoc, destroying all in its path. It is a battle which I must win, there is no other option available to me. It must remain shackled and chained, deep inside the dungeon of my subconscious. It sulks and pouts. It waits and watches. I must be ever vigilant.

So I run, and continue to reap the physical and mental benefits of an activity which has been such an integral part of my life in recent years. But I run slowly, far from the cheering crowds and shiny medals. They mean nothing to me. I’m running some of the slowest times I’ve ever clocked in recent times. There are no selfies, no personal bests. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder than I did after my eight mile plod yesterday.

How do you control your ego?

God Remembers – Part One

Zacharias prayed every day. Which wasn’t peculiar, in itself, given his status as a high ranking priest within the order of Abijah. He was a man of some status, a descendant of Aaron, who had devoted his life to serving God. He was respected by the people, a man viewed as righteous and blameless in the eyes of God. He was humble, preferring to live a modest life in the city of Hebron, as opposed to the more glamorous surroundings of Jerusalem or Jericho.

Zacharias did everything by the book. He married the daughter of a fellow priest, as was expected of a man of his standing. Her name was Elizabeth, a God fearing and obedient woman who shared her husband’s righteous ways. He served for two weeks of the year in the temple, as was required of him, performing the relevant ceremonial duties. On the surface, he and his wife led exemplary lives.

Or did they? You see there was something not quite right about them, for they had no children. Which, in first century Palestine, was a social no no. A childless marriage was viewed as something as a social pariah. Many thought such couples had offended God and were being punished accordingly. What shameful secret were they hiding beneath their perfect lives to have merited the wrath of God?

Zacharias would have been well within his rights to divorce Elizabeth, given she was unable to bear him a son, to continue the family lineage. Nobody would have batted an eyelid had he ‘traded her in’ for a younger wife who would have given him the family befitting of a man who walked in such close alignment with God. Yet Zacharias did not. Why? Well, because he loved Elizabeth of course.

Instead he prayed. Day after day, month after month, year after year. For a family, a son. But now, as they entered their sixties, it appeared that boat had sailed. There was no child, and his prayers remained unanswered. People still gossiped and whispered behind their backs about the honourable priest and his childless wife. Zacharias could have turned his back on it all, his faith and his wife. But he didn’t. Instead he continued to love Elizabeth, pray diligently and serve at the temple.

Today was no ordinary day. No, it was the Day of Atonement, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. The day, when the nation of Israel offered up prayers of repentance and forgiveness. A very special day. And the most important part of the day was when a hand picked priest would enter the inner sanctum of the temple, the ‘Holy of Holies’. Today, that priest was Zacharias, the childless priest from the barren Judean Mountains.

His job? To carry a fire censer, laden with coals taken from the altar, into the ‘Holy of Holies’ which contained the Ark of the Covenant itself. Zacharias would stand in the presence of God and sprinkle incense on the coals and waft them, allowing a pleasing aroma to rise up to Heaven. It symbolised the prayers of the people, the hopes of a nation. It was most likely the pinnacle of his priestly career.

I’m sure he must have been nervous. His hands were probably shaking as he moved the fire censer from side to side, every last iota of his concentration focused on this most prestigious task. Outside the prayers of thousands of worshippers were rising in volume and intensity. The ceremony was reaching a crescendo and Zacharias stood at the centre of it all. It didn’t get much bigger than this.

Then it ended. He sighed with relief, mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t fluffed his lines, and exited the holy place. The greatest day of his life had peaked. He could relax now, rest and prepare for the long journey home to Hebron. Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t anywhere near over. For God had other plans for Zacharias. The old man who had given his life to God was about to embark on a new adventure; a life he thought was meandering to a mundane end.

Waiting for Zacharias outside was an angel. A most senior angel, as it happens, by the name of Gabriel. Who had a message for the elderly man of God which was going to turn his world upside down. God had been listening to his prayers and now was the time to reveal the plan he had been preparing all along for Zacharias and Elizabeth. For they were to have a son. A very special son. Who would be the spark that would set the known world on fire.

To be continued….

Zacharias – the Greek spelling of Zachariah, meaning ‘The Lord has remembered.’

You can read the story of Zacharias and Elizabeth in Luke Chapter 1.

Do you feel life has passed you by?

That God hasn’t heard your prayers?

Don’t give up hope. God remembers. But we must also remember him.

Unsung Heroes

Our weekends seem to be getting busier and busier as the kids get older. Today has been no exception. Adam had a rugby game in Belfast, prior to starting his part time job at 3pm. In the middle of all that, Hannah had a lunchtime birthday party to attend. As we only have one car, this has meant frantic driving to and from various locations. The icing on the cake has been the constant downpour and ridiculous traffic jams.

Fionnuala has performed heroics ferrying us all around, as ever sacrificing her own day for the rest of us. I often describe our family as a beautiful swan, gliding serenely across a glasslike lake. Beneath the surface, however, it paddles frantically to keep afloat. Fionnuala is the engine room who keeps us moving forward. Without her, we would sink without a trace.

She is an unsung hero and none of us thank her as often as we should for what she does for the family. Today she was so busy that she forgot to eat, until I insisted we pull over at a filling station so she could buy a sandwich. She constantly puts the needs of others before her own. Without her, there would be no rugby matches, birthday parties or part time jobs. Everything would grind to a halt.

So I just want to take this opportunity to thank her. We have guests tomorrow so I’m meant to be cleaning the bathroom so please don’t tell her I’m skiving….I mean blogging. We all love her very much. Sometimes, it’s worth stopping for a second and reflecting on everything the unsung heroes in your life do for you. They give their all, so that our lives run smoothly. We should never take them for granted.

Who are the unsung heroes in your life?

Getting Back On The Horse Again

Storm Callum hit Northern Ireland with a vengeance yesterday. About half a mile into my comeback run to be precise. I have run very little since the Causeway Coast Marathon at the end of September, but vowed yesterday to get my running shoes on and pound the pavements again. Which sounded like a great idea. Until I ran straight into Callum. What followed was one man’s largely losing battle with the elements.

Within a mile I was drenched, but thankful I had chosen to wear a base layer underneath my running top. I might drown but at least hypothermia would be averted. The same could not be said, unfortunately, for my sodden feet. My thighs were also turning bright red but I plodded on into a strong headwind, no matter what direction I turned. It’s character building, I lied to myself, as I lurched on into Mile 2.

The route I take from the office out along the Lagan Towpath is usually teeming with fellow lunchtime runners. They were few and far between yesterday, however. Anyone with an ounce of sense was firmly ensconced in their cosy, dry workplaces. Only the truly dedicated, and by dedicated I mean stark raving mad, athlete was taking to the streets today. I largely had the towpath to myself, bar the occasional bedraggled dog walker.

I nervously eyed the river as I ran alongside it, mindful of how high the waters looked. Much higher and I was in danger of having to swim back once I reached the halfway point of the run, where I turned and retraced my steps back into the city centre. I’m far from the world’s best swimmer and the triathlon will never be on my list of challenges. Plus, nobody wants to see me in swimwear, not my best look I can guarantee you.

By halfway, the initial misery had passed, to be replaced by a perverse euphoria. I was running, I was actually running. Running very slowly, well below my normal pace, but still running. I could sense my rock bottom confidence rising with every soggy step. Despite being battered on all sides by the wind and rain, despite resembling a deranged, fluorescent escapee from the lunatic asylum, I was doing it.

When I eventually finished I looked as if I had been dragged through several hedges and a car wash backwards. But the sense of achievement far outweighed the aching limbs. I was a runner again. Several unwanted demons had been slain en route and I’d proven to myself that I wasn’t the utter waste of space I previously thought. Which could not have been more timely, given the busy schedule I have ahead of me over the coming months.

I’ll not be setting Personal Bests any time soon, if ever, and I have no races planned. But at least I can get out there and work at regaining the physical fitness I’ve spent years working on. I can also mentally detox and run the intrusive thoughts and unwanted images out of me. OCD is a thought based illness. It cannot function when I’m too tired to think. I sweat it out of me, a drop at a time. It has no control over me when I run. I become my own master.

There’s also the small matter of a book to finish. I haven’t been near ‘The Kirkwood Scott’ Chronicles in the best part of two weeks but hope to start work on it again over the weekend. I’m hopeful that Version 4.0 will be finished by next weekend at the latest. Then it’s time to start researching and harassing potential agents. It’s a big challenge but I feel I’m ready to get back on the horse again. All bad things must come to an end.

How do you get back on the horse again?

Is Your Glass Half Empty Or Half Full?

I’m going to run today. That might not sound like the most earth shattering statement, but for me it’s a fairly big deal. After the disastrous Causeway Coast marathon a few weeks ago, I fell out of love with running for a while. I huffed, I sulked and I briefly considered packing it in altogether. I felt like a failure, it had beaten me up and left me, literally, lying in a painful heap on the roadside.

When it comes to throwing a pity party, I’m in a league of my own. Moping around comes second nature to me and were navel gazing an Olympic sport, I’m pretty sure I would be a medal contender. You may have picked up on this in some of my recent posts. For that, I can only apologise. Nobody deserves Sulky Stephen, be that in the flesh or in writing. That all changes today, I hope.

When I wallow, I eat. A lot. And allllllll the wrong foods. Which plays right into the hands of the voice in my head. Telling me I’m a failure, that I’m a fraud, that the weight is creeping back on and in the blink of an eye I’ll be 15 stone again, four years of hard work gone in a puff of smoke. That’s what the voice does best. It needles and niggles until I raise the white flag and admit defeat. It is relentless.

I cannot allow that to happen. I’ve worked too hard for one bad experience to wash away everything I have achieved so far. So today, I run. Not for personal bests or fancy medals, but for my own piece of mind. I need to run for my mental health. It dulls the voice and fills me with a self belief and worth that I desperately need in order to function as a reasonably normal member of the human race. It keeps me sane.

I have no targets in mind, no big race plans ahead. I just want to retain a level of physical and mental health that can then permeate other areas of my life. When I run, I’m a better husband and father; I’m a better employee; I’m a better writer. I’m not going to worry about the time and I know this first run back won’t be pretty. There will be sweat and quite possibly tears. But, hopefully no blood. Unless I collapse in a blubbering heap at the end.

As ever, my family have inspired me. Fionnuala has encouraged me to get back out there. Adam’s never say die attitude every time he steps out onto the rugby pitch; Hannah’s ultra positive outlook on life and Rebecca’s infectious enthusiasm. They have all contributed towards evaporating the gloom which has settled over me these last few weeks. The gloom that seeks to consume and devour me.

I’m no world beater when it comes to times, but I won’t let the world beat me when it comes to my mental health. There is too much at stake, too much to lose. I’ve come too far, to slip back into the abyss now. This not only refers to my running, but other things as well. My family, faith, work and writing. People are relying on my, they have invested their time, love and prayers in me. To turn my back on that now, would be incredibly selfish.

Finally, I want to thank all my fellow bloggers who have supported me of late. Those who have written kind comments and prayed for me. I am incredibly grateful, a subject we all neglect and which Fionnuala reinforced in a blog she posted yesterday. She has inspired me to adopt a ‘half full’ mentality as of today, as of now. It’s time to stand up, step up, rise up. It’s time to run 7 miles at a spectacularly average pace.

Is your glass half empty or half full today?

Separate your needs from your greeds

Thankful-Grateful-Blessed.jpg

October is Spina Bifida Awareness Month and as most of you know we have been blessed with our very own Spina Bifida Warrior Princess Hannah.  You can read our story about finding out about Hannah’s diagnosis in The Butterfly which was actually my first ever blog.  We of course love everything about Hannah and wouldn’t change anything about her and we are and will be forever be grateful for having her in our lives and are thankful that she continues to defy her original diagnosis.

Gratefulness is a word that has been popping into my head a lot of late.  So many of us always look at our lives as a glass half empty rather than half full and never look at the bigger picture.  We are never happy with what we have and crave for something else be it loosing weight, a car like so and so down the street, marriage, friendship, promotion the list can go on and on.

I once found myself moaning and complaining about the kids acting up and misbehaving in front of a couple who have had major difficulties in getting pregnant and weren’t able to have kids and I when I caught myself on I just wanted the ground to open up and swallow me I was so embarrassed and ashamed of myself.  From then on I have always tried to think before I speak and be thankful for the things that I have.

A few years back I decided that I was going to try and go back to work, which I did for 15 months before I wised up and resigned.  In those 15 months I discovered exactly what was right under my nose and I couldn’t see it.  I had a husband, three amazing children and a home that needed my attention.  I had been selfish and had put my own needs before that of my family.

My mum has a saying “separate your needs from your greeds” I don’t often like to admit when my mum is right but when you think of it it is true.  We always want something else what we have is never enough.

At the weekend I set a challenge on my Facebook page for people to list something in their lives that they are grateful for and not one person commented.  Why aren’t we happy with what we have?

I am thankful for the life that I have it is not perfect but I am thankful for it anyway.

Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.       1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 16

What are you thankful for today?

Where Is The God Of My Father?

Where is the God of my Father

Who rescued the lame and the blind?

Where is the God of my Father

Who poured healing oil on my mind?

Kill the will

Take the pill

Numb the thrill

Make me still.

Synaptic relapse

Serotonin collapse

Raging impasse

Stifling morass.

So taste the drill

Run the mill

Surgeons skill

Make me still.

Where is the God of my Father

Now that I’m naked and numb?

Where is the God of my Father

Alone on a slab, splayed and shunned?

Living with an OCD Sufferer

This morning as I was working my way through my busy daily routine I got this thought in my head saying “Fionnuala you should write a blog about caring for somebody with OCD “. It was a thought that really stopped me in my tracks and got me thinking about something that I’ve never thought of before. I actually do care for somebody with OCD. I don’t look at myself as a carer even though I am. I take care of my daughter who has physical disabilities but I do that out of love and as a mummy any mother would right? But I also care for my husband who suffers from OCD.

These kind of thoughts I call my God thoughts. A few years back Stephen and I went through one of the toughest and testing periods of our marriage and thankfully we came through it and on the back of that this blog was birthed which also came from a thought I woke up with one morning.

The purpose of this blog is to help others through our own personal experiences and to date Stephen has wrote about OCD and how it affects him as a sufferer but we’ve never touched on how it affects other family members around him.

I’ve mentioned thoughts a lot so far and I am going somewhere with it. I get thoughts popping up in my head some are good but sometimes I get bad thoughts we all do but the majority of people that get a bad thought forget about it as fast as it arrived. For somebody with OCD that gets a bad or nasty thought it doesn’t go away it runs on a loop round and round in that person’s head until they either act on it or take a panic attack and break down. That is the type of OCD that my husband has and that’s the OCD my children and I live with.

Living with somebody that suffers with OCD isn’t an easy one. OCD is a horrible nasty illness. Stephen once described our youngest Rebecca as a Tsunami because you could follow her trail right round the house! OCD is the exact same when it’s been acted on and it’s always left to the loved ones around the sufferer to clean up the wreck and devastation that it leaves behind.

To live with someone with OCD you always have to try and be three steps ahead of it:

Step one – keep a look out for something or somebody new that has captured their attention.

Step two – think of what dangers they could get themselves into and the repercussions it could have

Step three – keep a look out for warning signs of said mentioned dangers.

In step three you need to be careful with what you do because if you talk to the sufferer about your concerns out love to try and nip something in the butt it can actually start a thought process that will snowball out of control and backfire on you. That has happened to me many times so now I just keep quiet, pray for guidance and step in before things get out of control.

I hate OCD for me OCD is a mistress that takes control of my husbands mind and robs my children and I of his time and attention. Sometimes the children and I would be talking to Stephen and we get no response. He is there in body right in front of us but in his head he is a thousand miles away deep in thought fighting a battle in his mind that none of us know anything about.

Some people see me not as a carer but as a control freak because I have to keep a close eye on what Stephen does. At times I think it’s because I have trust issues with him and other people think that too but I’ve realised over the last few weeks as I’ve prayed and drew closer to God that it isn’t Stephen I don’t trust it’s the control that OCD has on him that I don’t trust and I can’t trust. I have to control some of things that he does because the repercussions affect not just Stephen but the children and myself so I don’t see it as control I see it as love and protection.

On the times that Stephen has acted on his OCD thoughts and I’m standing face to face with it starring down at me I don’t see my husband anymore he’s not there. Yes it may look like him but I can see in his eyes that something else is controlling him and that’s OCD. I’m the type of person that would get hurt or crumble if somebody came against me but say anything to my family and there is nothing that will stop me from fighting to protect them no matter how scary or frightening it looks.

I watch as the panic sets in the lies start to come out and continually asks questions until the truth comes out and Stephen reappears then it’s time to clean up the devastation left behind.

It’s not easy to care for someone with OCD it is hard work but I do it out of love for my husband and my family. Family and friends have came and went throughout our lives and can’t understand why I’ve stayed with Stephen and forgiven them. They have thought that have just took the easy the route and stayed with Stephen for the kids. This is all nonsense. If somebody you loved had an illness would you throw them out on the street? If they were diagnosed with cancer would you tell them right you are on your own now I don’t want to know? In my opinion the form of OCD Stephen has plants cancerous thoughts in his head to kill everything good that he has achieved in his life and what is coming to him.

I really hope this blog helps anybody that also cares for a loved one with OCD. If you do I’d love to hear how you cope with being their light in the darkness.

Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

My hiatus from novel writing and running has allowed me to re-evaluate and focus on more important areas of life – namely my faith and family. A few days ago I asked for suggestions as to which book of the Bible I could feature in a future study on the blog. I was inundated with responses. Thank you very much to those who took the time to respond. I ended up with dozens of selections.

So much so, that I decided to pick two books, from the Old and New Testaments respectively. The ‘winners’, for want of a better word, were Psalms and Luke. I hope to post weekly blogs focusing on these studies, starting with one on Zachariah, the father of John the Baptist, this coming weekend. I hope they will prove of some worth to you as I now have more time to study, and reflect upon, this neglected area of my life.

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