For Robin Williams, who lost the fight, and for the rest of us, who are still fighting.

It's been a long time since I managed to write anything here. Yesterday, I woke up to the news that Robin Williams was dead, by suicide. I didn't want to believe it, but like everyone else I had no choice.

My Facebook news feed was flooded all day with RIP messages, and peppered with words of sympathy reaching out to those who feel suicidal and/or who are depressed to talk to someone, anyone, that they're not alone, and to seek help. There were also some expressions of confusion - how could someone so successful, who laughs all the time, such a people person, be moved to commit suicide?

I'm going to say a few things now that might offend some of those well-meaning people, so before I do, let me say this: I mean to educate others using an insider's perspective.

For perspective: I have battled depression since childhood. Along the way, I have had my own near-suicidal experiences. No, I don't want pity. There's no point to it, so put it back where it came from. This is just for those of you who would say 'How would you know?'.

The thing about suicide is that it's very easy to argue against it, if you're in your right mind. Therein lies the problem, of course. It's a well-known fact that suicidal people are not in their right mind - nowhere near it. You can argue against suicide all you like, but if you're trying to talk someone out of suicide, I can only say one thing: good luck.

I've experienced two types of near-suicide, which I've named 'suicidal phase' and 'suicidal impulse'. I found the first to be incomparable misery, and the second utterly terrifying.

Suicidal Phase: I can best describe this as a period of time in which the sufferer has such a 'low mood' [doctors, nurses, psychologists, fellow depressives, you know what I mean] that they cannot see a light at the end of the tunnel. There is no hope, no light, no joy, no bliss, no happiness; it is unending misery, loneliness, a dull ache that takes over your entire being and threatens to swallow you whole that no painkiller in existence could ease. There is no escape, except to make it stop.

Key word: escape. If the sufferer uses this word in their description of how they feel, psychotherapy and counselling should be able to help them get through this incredibly dire time. Talking things through may well reduce the severity of this episode, although it may not remove it.

Suicidal Impulse: I can't decide on a way to adequately describe this one. Imagine it as an almost physical compulsion. It comes on and you feel compelled to follow it. The sufferer might not be in a suicidal phase at the time, and they may even be doing very well psychiatrically, psychologically, and physically; or they could be in the throes of a nasty bout of depression, symptoms flaring like a fireworks festival, even within a suicidal phase perhaps. In the one case it seems to come out of nowhere, spontaneous, a great big shocking surprise; in the other, it seems like a natural progression. Either way, this case is the most immediately dangerous, because the sufferer has to control the impulse using mind over matter - and when you're already fraying at the edges, it can unravel you. You're driving along and out of nowhere, you want - need - to drive into a wall at full speed; you're walking along a high place, and out of nowhere, you want - need - to fall; you're doing sweet fanny adams at home, and out of nowhere, you want - need - to take all the pills in your medicine cabinet.

Key word: impulse.

It doesn't matter that the impulse hits - it matters that the impulse is overcome. Robin Williams killed himself last night - and countless others too, no doubt. How many times did they have to fight off the quasi-compulsion? And what toll did those fights take on their overall health? And why, oh why, do we get these moments and phases? Psychiatrists haven't found the answers to those questions yet, and I live in the hope that they'll find them soon.

So. There it is. Being cheerful, happy, full of laughter, in love with the world, in love with someone, glad to be alive, enjoying life, and all the good things possible, just aren't enough to stop an impulse hitting; and occasionally, they're not enough to save you when it does. No amount of seeking help will stop you at that moment in time if the impulse hits too strongly for you to fight it off, unless there's someone right next to you who realises what's going on and physically intervenes - and even then, it's a risky chance.

Obviously I can't speak about actual suicide, because I'm still here.

Robin Williams cheered me up to no end as a child, and captured my imagination through his films the way only books had previously. I'm going to toast him tonight, because he did his best to be a light in the darkness for others in many ways, and a particularly effective one as he was well acquainted with the abyss itself. If I do nothing else with my life, if someday I myself lose to such an impulse, I pray - as well as an agnostic can - that I will have been a light for others too. That's the best any of us can strive to be, I think. It doesn't matter how we end, what matters is how we live.

Sincerely,

Macs

Notes from Paris

In 2012, I went to Paris with one of my oldest and dearest friends, Erika. Heck, having gone to the same school and been in the same class for almost 12 years, we're practically sisters. Here are my journal entries from my first two nights there.

'3rd October 2012

There is a man standing across the street from my window. I had seen him when we first arrived outside our lodging, and took him for a tramp. When I saw him now, I stopped to watch what he was doing at 10:30pm outside, worried for a second that he was up to no good.

It became clear that he was watching something intently, and I wondered if I was about to witness something criminal. I followed his gaze to long bundles on the ground. He is watching two people sleeping on the street, a street of wonderful Paris. He is ever vigilant, or so it feels, watching over his friends or family while they sleep on the street. I wonder, in fact I hope, that perhaps he too will sleep when one wakes and relieves him of his post; a changing of the guard, the homeless guard.'

---

'4th October 2012'

Montmarte, with its many shops and the one humongous church, was our first sightseeing endeavour. No lover of architecture, masonry, glasswork, sculpture, giltwork, frescoes, or carpentry should leave Paris without paying Sacre Coeur a visit. Spiritual folk, on the other hand, needn't bother.

Even I, 'faithless' heathen that I am, must admit a sense of other when entering a church, or in fact any place that is sacred to people. This is not such a place. It is a monument whose purpose is forgotten to the modern man. It stands, instead, as a reminder of a once exuberantly aesthetic ideal peoplekind had; it stands, and international hordes flock to see it. Vultures abound, selling whatever gewgaw they can, badgering tourists to see, see, beautiful lady, listen, buy for 10 Euro, a bargain. This once holy place has now become a courtesan of capitalism's god, Money.

But to the lovers of aesthetic, I urge you: visit. See Sacre Coeur from streets away, glowing cleanly in the distance above buildings six, seven, eight storeys high. Marvel at its height before you ever lay eyes on the ten flights of stairs that torment you, making your goal tantalisingly far and close simultaneously. Relish that moment of peaceful bliss given by the gracefully tall trees surrounding you on your ascent to the pristine structure. Take in the unique script chiselled into the stones above the entrances, the majesty of the dome, the intricacy involved in every single object housed within.

Erika giggled quietly at a woman trying to catch something ahead of us, when I looked up at the inside of the dome to see four simple, gigantic, beautiful winged angels sculpted into the ceiling. As a feather floats lazily down, I think how splendid that it happened just then. Remembering Erika's giggle, I turn and point out the feather, just as a thought settles into place... "Qed nidhak 'habba r-rix tal-hamiema go knisja!"* she explains with a grin, confirming my thought. In a church where cameras are clucked angrily at and machine gun soldiers patrol threateningly, a pigeon finds its way into the dome, to redecorate with feathers and guano at will.

After much traipsing around Montmartre, our bodies finally deliver the bill for a day spent walking, lugging cumbersome baggage about, and heading up the wrong - and long - main street. My hip gives in, my feet are on fire, Erika's feet stab her with every step, and we both suffer cramped blueish fingers from all the carrying. Having hobbled to our lodging, we collapse at either end of the sofa, grit our teeth as the shoes are pulled off, and end up near-comatose watching a Steven Seagal movie in French.

I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.'

*Translation: "I'm laughing because there are pigeon feathers inside a church!"

---

Sadly, that's all I wrote about my visit to Paris. As you can imagine, we visited several other places, and ended up far more exhausted than we had been after our trip to Montmartre. I will say this about Paris: if you want to visit lots of cultural attractions, take a whole week and for the love of god people, don't skimp on train or bus tickets!

Sincerely,

Macs

The Secret to Writing

Writing is hard. Writing is easy. Mostly, I find statements about writing ignore the action’s purpose: exorcism. Ejaculation. Ejection. Expunging. Expulsion. Eviction.

I could go on. Really. I earned the title Walking Dictionary well before I turned 12; a BA and a third through a MA later, you can rest assured I’ve graduated to Flapping Thesaurus.

What’s my point? Oh yes. Writing.

The thing, the real thing, about writing is that it’s a personal action. It doesn’t matter what medium you use, what form or genre you write, it doesn’t matter – in the end – how you do it. The real ‘thing’ about writing is that no-one else can do it for you.

… Ah, I hear a few readers snarking. Yes, you could tell someone what to write and they would then write it for you, but they’re not in your head. You have to dictate. You have to enunciate your thoughts to them. Jackass!

… As I was saying. If you don’t communicate that idea in your head and transform it into an artefact – visual or audio – then it stays in your head, doomed to gather dust, stagnate, or go to the place all unvoiced thoughts go to die. THAT, my friends, is the real problem with writing.

The ones we talk about all the time, like writer’s block? Poppycock. I’ve used an old word that sounds ridiculous because the idea of writer’s block is ridiculous. You do not have writer’s block. You have fatigue, possibly; a lack of ideas, maybe; an aversion to thinking your way out of that wall you say you’ve hit, quite probably. But writer’s block, an inability to begin, continue, or finish writing something? No. And I’ll tell you why:

Assuming, that is, that you are a writer, and possess the language fluency and linguistic acrobatics required to write well, then saying you have writer’s block is an insult to yourself and your abilities. It means that you think you’re not good enough to write what you want to write – you’re essentially saying that you’re not a writer. For the love of whatever you hold dear, don’t call it writer’s block. Describe your problem, talk it out, and you’ll find a way out of that box you constructed in your head.

You want to know the secret to getting down to writing? It’s the conviction that you can write. That’s how we all started out, and that’s how we all continue. We believe, to the point of knowing, that we can write and therefore will write, until eventually we actually write. We have the ego that says we are writers and will brook no argument to the contrary, teachers and critics and readers be damned.

A powerful concoction of conviction and ego. That’s it, folks. That’s the big secret.

Sincerely,

Macs

Singing in the rain

I had the mother of all bad ideas today.  What did I do? I bought groceries on a rainy day.  On foot.

Malta.  An island that doesn't have winter so much as 3 months of flash floods.  It is actually possible for the town most notorious for flooding to flood a foot in 15 minutes - at least, it did when I used to work there [and I'm actually willing to bet on a shorter time-frame].  It is also possible for a tiny hilltop village, my current home town, to flood 3 inches in 15 minutes.

But I didn't know that before I headed out to a local grocer.

I am drenched.  I may have changed out of my sopping, soaking, sodden clothes and squelching shoes and into warm dry ones, but I can't shake the feeling of having walked through a thin waterfall.  If I had known this would happen, I wouldn't have bothered showering before I left.  Or washing my hair last night.

Did I mention my jacket's zip broke? Haha! Haha! Ha!

NEVER AGAIN.  Somebody get me a cup of tea and a hair drier.  And for the love of god, folks, avoid going outside when it's raining hard in Malta.

Steaming by the heater,

Sincerely,

Macs