ISOLATION

ISOLATION

Where were you on that day? The eternal question. I had seen only four summers as I stood in front of the television, bemused. My father walked in and out of the room muttering "Yanks, bloody Yanks, lunatics". My grandfather shook his head from side to side, slowly, saying nothing. My sister, who was eleven and had come home from school for lunch was in tears. My mother just carried on with the dishes, seemingly oblivious. Emotions were all around me and I knew not why. The Julius Caesar of the modern world was dead and it was the first day of my life. My first recollectable thought.

I sat by the holly bush in the front garden and realised that I existed. I was a person. How odd. Not me, surely ?. I guess my lack of confidence started right there. Not enough self belief in my very existence. Underestimating my abilities became, from then on, my best skill. Living in the shadow of my older sister, I became more and more sensitive to the harsh words that seemed to rain down on me from the great vocabulary storm in my head.

"You’d be such a nice chap if only would smile, and don’t park your damn bike on my hedge". "Your sister was an angel, but you are a horrible little boy!" This was a result of one of only two fights I had at primary school. So I stuck the guy’s head down the toilet. I won – he cry babied – I lost. The spelling test was one I remember like it was yesterday. I scored 28/30 and got told off by my father because I spelt ‘business’ and ‘ridiculous’ incorrectly. How ironic!

Oh yeah, the other guy I had a fight with was Leslie Donald. I wouldn’t punch him because he wore glasses. We called it a draw. Two years later, he killed himself in his dad’s garage. Not, I hasten to add because he was depressed at losing a fight to yours truly. Just depressed. He was a really good runner and was the only kid at school who had a pair of track shoes with spikes. I wish I had punched him. He might have been different, alive, maybe.

I grew up wanting to be part of something, a group where I could hold my own. I used to go to watch the boys play golf. I wasn’t good enough to play with them. I used to watch the rugby team play. A spectator, craving recognition. I wanted to be in the family. I loved them, I hated them. It seemed like my sister and my grandfather got all the attention. When my grandmother and great aunts came around to play cards, I would crawl under the table and swap all their shoes around so that they would notice I was there. If they didn’t, at least they would fall over.

I desperately needed to be a winner, to be successful, but I never won anything really. Even when I did, people said it was a fluke. Oh, what it is to be second best. Not having the guts to be number one. Captain of the 2^nd XV, the guy who gives away penalties in the 1^st XV.

Alcohol – my greatest discovery. My ticket to attention, my great excuse for life, my antidote for the pain of living, my downfall, my catch 22, my friend, my enemy. I have made friends and thrown them away because I am too insecure to have people close to me. I have had women who have loved me and who I have loved, I thought. I just needed a crutch because I was too scared to walk myself. That group, that elusive group that represents honour, respect, truth and love.

I have given my word to people and taken it back, brought someone into the world and turned my back on him because I was too scared – of the one thing I craved – a family. As I sit in un-splendid isolation at the end of the world, I have lost it all again. The group, the respect, the truth, the hope, the love. So much to offer, too scared to give it. It’s a rainy day today, but I’ll keep it all for another.