I don't want to talk about it

A couple of people have dropped me a note on this topic, and it happens to be somewhat of a specialism of mine.

What do you do when someone is clearly struggling and sinking but shuts everyone out?

This is different, of course, from the times when someone is clearly struggling and doesn't ask for help but would accept it if offered.  Or indeed, from the times when someone is clearly struggling and is acting out until someone intervenes.

If I could offer an answer to that pain-filled question 'what do I do to help?', then I would.  But I'm not sure I can.  Some things do pop to mind; like be careful of impromptu plans and changes, and don't set a deep and meaningful in motion as this can cause frustration at the sheer lack of words available and a feeling of failure.

But instead of my usual abstract (but oh so helpful) lists, I decided to write to myself (add that to the list of things I may need to seek counselling over...).  I hope it helps;


If only I could crawl into your skin and make you feel less alone.  Those breaths that seem so shallow, they will deepen again.  

And yes, life seems so hard at the moment.  It is.  It's not your imagination or your weakness that makes it so.  It is hard for you.  It is ok that you feel that.  So stop being hard on yourself for what you feel, there is enough to be getting on with.

And if you could just cry, maybe it would make some space for the air to move around and ease the burden of each breath.  There is nothing to be gained in holding back.

You feel unworthy of anyone's help as though everyone else has 'proper' problems to deal with.  But what would you say to someone who had been ill like you have - would you honestly think they'd used up all their support quota?  Would you get fed up of them?  Well as you already think everyone else is better than you; follow that thought through and assume they're more patient and more loving and let them show you their kindness.

There will be a time soon when the words of others will no longer crash into your splintering head with such overwhelming potency that you feel you might fall apart at your already strained seams.  Don't dwell in the silence too long, go and find the songs around you even if they sting at first.

You're right, no one can say anything that might help and you can't yet describe what you feel.  If you can't face talking to anyone, write to them.  Ask them to write to you.  Send up the silent flare and let them know you don't know what you need but you're feeling empty.  Just them knowing will help.  

Accept the gifts people leave on your doorstep, metaphorically and otherwise.  You will find strength to be on the other side - being the one giving - another day.  

You're going to feel out of control for a little while.  There isn't enough time in the world for you to get yourself together to face the surprises and spontaneous changes launched at you, so dwell in the chaos and mess.  Let it swirl around you until you're ready to join the pace again.  You must not hide for long.  

You will not feel like this for much longer.  See it through.  Keep doing the small things, they're big enough for now.  Save the world another time.  

And Lau, it'll all be ok.  You're doing ok.

Twice as much

We're back to the day to day.  No mad trips to plan or challenges to feel guilty about not training for or bags to pack.

I find the hum drum of the ordinary to be the most threatening rhythm in which to function.  Give me pressure and distraction and variety anytime - I may have my ups and downs but I prefer the multicolour to the uniform beige.

And this fear of being dragged into the fog is possibly what led me to accidentally get another puppy...

Druna was too irresistible.  I went to a meeting, I came back with a Springerdoradoodle (Springer/Labrador x Mini Poodle).  Mabel is warming to the idea of being a big sister now she's over the shock.

Clearly I'm both turning into a crazy dog lady and consciously letting myself in for a few months of more poop, training and twice as much canine loopiness.  So why?

I find it easier to look after myself if there's something I need to look after myself for.  Owning dogs obviously is a selfish act; they are to enhance my own lifestyle and make me healthier.  I need them as much as they need me, and that is a very positive thing at the moment.

When the hum drum of the daily grind gets to me I have two creatures at different parts of their discovery and dependence to remind me of the joys to be found each day.  I have the innocent vulnerability of a snoring 9 week old to show me that beauty can be found in weakness.  My prancing 2 year old puppy demonstrates the simplicity of loyalty and gratefulness.

The rhythm of the ordinary can be joined by phrases of everyday adventure and notes of humble happiness.

And of course my dogs are pretty cute.

How did I do THAT?

I've been a long way.  And come back again.

It's safe to say that I haven't hidden just how nervous I have been about the cycle challenge my Dad and I took on this year.  It's been quite the palaver and I've been on the verge of backing out on more occasions than I care to admit.

Here's us at the start line:

Here's us at the finish line:


















Four days, three countries, three hundred miles.  And I rode every single one of them.  WHAT?!?!?

So being that I made quite the meal of it all, I wouldn't blame anyone for asking 'how exactly did I manage it?!'

Honestly?  I don't know.

But I have a few ideas;

- I didn't want to let my dad down.  That was worse than the thought of hating it.

- I didn't want to have to tell everyone I backed out or gave up.

- The more I did, the more I surprised myself.  The more I achieved, the more I wanted to know how much further I could go.  The further I got, the more I could do...

- It was rarefied air; all I had to do each day was get on a bike.  That's it.  Just keep said bike moving forward.  And that seemed a lot more manageable than normal life.

They say that people get to the end of these challenges and feel sad that it's over and I confess that sounded like utter tosh a week ago.  But come Saturday and the final 10 miles and I got it.  Partly because of the high of making it, the beauty of the scenery and the uplifting support from home.  But for me, I wanted to stay in the bubble, where all I needed to do was get on a bike.

My trusty steed.

In my last post I mentioned that carrying baggage is part of life.  I took mine all the way to Brussels.  And I wasn't the only one.  It was clear that we'd all been carrying some hefty weight with us for the trip.  Yet no one was shouting about theirs or opening it up for show and tell.  Trips like these are utter escapism and in the bubble you get to focus on something far easier than what you're carrying.

It was a privilege to travel with the weary and the burdened, quietly and positively.  The father raising money for the Teenage Cancer Trust because his son has cancer.  The gentle man going through a divorce.  The funny northerner who had a suspected heart attack a few weeks ago.  I only caught glimpses of the baggage we each held to our chests but it was a breath of fresh air to both silently acknowledge and overcome it all if only for a few days.

I want to keep cycling if only to keep up some fitness and balance out my biscuit habit.  And I also want to seek out some rarefied air occasionally.  I think it might help to readjust the load and look at the scenery for a few moments.  I need days where all I need to do is get on a bike, so that when I step back out of the bubble I can be that little bit fitter.

p.s. you can still sponsor us

Fear and padded shorts.

On Sunday I preached on Matthew 16:21-28.  If you've not picked it up from my previous blogs, it's worth knowing that I'm not feeling much at the moment, it's a numb trudging through treacle type time.

When I first approached this text my heart sunk - here we go again, another passage that is interpreted in a number of ways; not all of which are particularly helpful.  There it was ready to thwack me about the head; pick up your cross and carry your burdens.  Some people add 'these things are sent to try us' or 'give everything up because then you'll be rich in heaven'.

Here's what I saw.

Jesus lived a life, and it can't have passed him by that most humans picked up a fair bit of baggage on the way.  Surely Jesus was inviting us burdened folk to pick it all up and come on the journey with him.  Maybe Jesus was essentially saying 'your baggage doesn't exclude you, bring it with you, you can use it, we can find hope within it.'

Blessed are the cracked; for they will let in the light.

I feel like I'm carrying a heavy load at the moment and it makes me want to give up, a lot.  I'm often like a child silently whimpering 'please don't make me go.'  But that load doesn't exclude me from moving forward and interacting with the world around me - not despite the brokenness but through it.

Tomorrow I travel to my childhood home for the last time before my parents leave that side of the country, and embark on simply the hardest thing I've ever attempted.  It sounds so silly in a world of serious stories and conflict, but my 300 mile charity cycle ride is a big deal at this moment in my life.

If I make it to the start line, I will have overcome the anxiety that makes it hard to leave my flat.  If I manage to ride most of the route each day I will have overcome my lack of fitness.  If I do the whole challenge I will be exceeding my own expectations.  But pulling out or giving up is not an option - I won't deal well with letting anyone down or having another failure on my books.

Whatever happens I will be carrying my burdens and my brokenness with me, all the way to Brussels, because they are part of my journey and there is hope within them.