The Blindboy Podcast - Ten Foot Hen Bending

Episode Date: April 14, 2020

I read my short story "Ten Foot Hen Bending" Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

yum yum you savoury customers welcome to the blind boy podcast how have you been i hope you're filling your time with whatever it is that gives you a sense of meaning and that can be whatever the fuck it is whatever whatever you want it to be, alright, we're all currently in coronavirus lockdown, so don't be worrying if your friends will say, are using their time to bake magnificent looking sourdough loaves, or if they're getting into a bit of painting and you are not doing these things just be mindful that you don't feel under pressure this lockdown is not a productivity contest not everyone is going to get their sense of personal meaning from productivity people who are creatively inclined will get meaning from that but some people aren't

creatively inclined that's absolutely fine they have other skills and talents so if your sense of personal meaning is catching up on a box set or if it's arranging your sock drawer fantastically like you're not going to arrange your fucking sock door and and have it looking amazing with color-coded socks and then upload that to instagram and say look what i did all day i have all my mauve socks in one drawer you pricks no one's going to put that on instagram but if you bake a class looking flowery sourdough loaf then that's Instagram worthy so whatever gives you a meaning

is okay sock drawers fucking painting walls do you know what I've started doing I found an old bag of marbles in the attic of the gaff that I'm in, they're not my marbles, they're marbles belonging to a child, well they're not a child anymore, they're an adult now,

but whoever the fuck was living in this gaff years ago, when they were a child, they left their marbles in the attic in a pouch and now I have them so I've got a bag of marbles and what I've started doing is clearing the furniture in the living room right and then getting the biggest marble and putting it in the center of the room right and like that marble is the sun and then I've been getting smaller marbles right I've been going like 12 feet away

and I'm rolling the marbles across the carpet to try and get as close to the central marble as possible but then I started to make it more complex the game I'm trying to replicate the solar system

but as a game so you've got the big marble in the middle is the sun and then the other marbles, the smaller ones represent the planets and I try and roll the marble so that each one, let's just say I've got

like fucking Mercury Mercury is the next planet to the sun so that each one let's just say I've got like fucking Mercury Mercury is the next planet to the sun so when I'm rolling Mercury across the floor it like I have to get that really close to the central marble which represents the sun

but then when I'm rolling Earth that has to be third in line so that's what I've been doing with my time in quarantine and I'm the art. That has to be third in line. So that's what I've been doing. With my time in quarantine. And I'm the better man for it. That gives me personal meaning. I've also been putting. Great effort into.

Preparing. My streaming set up. Two weeks ago I announced. That I'm going to start getting into live streaming video live streaming and I have most of my equipment and I've been practicing it and doing dry runs for the past two weeks

because you want to make sure like I don't want to just go straight into fucking streaming I want to do a bunch of practice so that I don't want to just go straight into fucking streaming I want to do a bunch of practice so that I don't know if any colossal fuck ups happen I want them to happen in the dry run rather than it being live because

streaming's a bit complicated there's many different pieces of equipment that have to talk to each other so I want to know what can go wrong first especially with the fucking camera my camera's been breaking my heart camera's been breaking my heart

I don't want to live stream with just a shitty webcam I want to use a proper camera DSLR but the camera that I have it has an auto shut off function.

So it shuts down like every three minutes unless I press record. And when I press record, it live streams with a big red recording sign in the right hand corner, which isn't aesthetically pleasing. so yeah I was trying to hack the brains of the camera by introducing third party software into the fucking camera

hacking it far beyond my abilities so I just caved in and I ordered a new fucking camera because I'm I'm not hacking camera territory

that's not where I'm at in terms of my skills and abilities so I have a new camera coming in That's not where I'm at in terms of my skills and abilities. So I have a new camera coming in the post. I have a second monitor. Coming in the post. I have a few different bits of equipment.

And. What I'm going to start doing. I'm going to be using Twitch. Most likely. Which is a live streaming website. Like currently. Like where I'm talking to you now this is my podcast studio which if you've been listening to this podcast from the start you know that I have it decked out quite nicely

with sound panels and LED lights it's got a kind of a Blade Runner-ish aesthetic so that'll be the backdrop to my live stream and another thing too right, so as you know I wear a plastic bag on my head, okay

but when I'm doing this podcast like if you see me in a live setting when I do a live podcast I have a plastic bag on when you listen to my live podcast you can hear blind boys wearing a plastic bag

and you can hear the rustle of the bag in the microphone on the live podcast in studio I don't wear the plastic bag what I have right now I have a woolen bag it says Tesco and it's made out of wool. And this is what I wear when I'm doing the podcast in the studio.

Because you can't hear it. You can hear me rubbing it there, but you can't hear plastic rustle. I wouldn't wear a plastic bag doing a podcast in this studio setting. Because all you'd hear is the rustle of the bag. So I'm presented now with a unique issue when it comes to doing the live streaming because obviously that's video i don't want to wear my knitted bag because it sounds great but look shit it's just a white balaclava basically with tesco on it but if i wear my plastic bag first off a stream is like two three hours long right possibly

the plastic bag is uncomfortable for that amount of time sitting down it's very sweaty and uncomfortable after three hours secondly if i'm wearing my plastic bag on the live stream you'll just hear the rustling noise and I can't fucking stand the rustling noise of that bag over a decent microphone so what I've done is I've consulted a friend

who they work in like costume and stuff for film so I'm having a new custom plastic bag made that isn't made out of plastic it's made out of it looks

exactly like my plastic bag but it's made out of a fabric that doesn't rustle like plastic so I'm waiting for that too so that's what I've been doing the camera thing was breaking my fucking heart and it was streaming has been occupying my thoughts

as well because I'm very focused on making sure it's right and making sure I get it done properly when I do start doing it also thinking about you know what am I going to do when I start live streaming

obviously I'm going to do a little bit of video games because I have an Xbox and as you know I play the Xbox, but what I was thinking of doing, like a game like Red Dead Redemption 2, beautifully detailed world set in the wild west of america when i play red dead redemption 2 a lot of the time i'm not even shooting people like i like just walking around and minding my own business and looking at the architecture so i might do live streams of me playing Red Dead Redemption Red Dead Redemption 2 but I don't know walking around early 20th century New Orleans

and talking about history and talking about architecture I might do a bit of that I was considering I don't know maybe using Google Maps on a live stream like a lot of museums like the British Museum and shit I don't know, maybe using Google Maps on a live stream. Like a lot of museums, like the British Museum and shit, you can do virtual tours in there,

maybe virtual museum tours I might do on a live stream. What I've been considering too, and I'm just trying to figure out the technical side of this. Like, I have... This podcast studio is also a fully functional music studio and like i write i write like two songs a week just for fun just as as a way to relax i sit down at my studio and i write a song i don't release them i don't do anything with them i will write music because i like doing it so i would love to have a live stream with video where maybe once a week i write like write a song live write record produce a song live based on suggestions from whoever's watching at the time so i don't know you could be watching me on twitch and it's in my studio and you say i say to you

right what key do you want me to start this song in you say c sharp minor and then we decide a tempo and i begin and write a fucking song live i'd love to do that it's what i'm doing anyway so why not fucking live stream it another thing that this would be more down the line but i i love painting right i fucking love painting and now I haven't painted in over 10 years because music just got in the way painting is very time consuming I just

I love painting but I just let it go and I haven't touched a canvas in over 10 years and I was thinking it would mean ordering some stuff online, either ordering some paints and a few canvases, why the fuck not, why don't I rediscover

oil painting live you know I'm gonna be, I'm not gonna be as good as I once was, cause I haven't practiced, but wouldn't it be lovely to rediscover fucking painting live

I'd love to do that because it'll bring it all back for me as well, it'll bring back everything that I used to love about painting so those are the kind of thoughts and ideas that I have for doing this live stream on Twitch when it's up and running i can't tell you exactly when sometime in the next few weeks again getting deliveries is shitty at the moment

because of coronavirus so a few key pieces of equipment in particular a second monitor i need a second computer monitor and i bought one but i'm just waiting i'm waiting about nearly 14 days for that to be delivered now so i'm really looking forward to that i'm really excited about it about the live streaming when it does happen um so this week i have a treat for you i have a nice little escapist treat i haven't i haven't read out one of my short stories in a long time um so what i've done is i've out one of my short stories in a long time. So what I've done is I've gotten one of the short stories from my first book, my first collection of short stories. Which is called The Gospel According to Blind Boy, which is a name that I hate for the book.

But the name of the story, which I do enjoy the name of the story, the story is called is called 10 foot hen bending so I'm going to read that out for you and I also I made a little soundtrack for it I made a little ambient soundscape which supports the story and adds

dramatic effect to it I suppose because I've got lots of time on my hands. Before I do that, before we go into the story, the story is nearly an hour long. We'll get our little ocarina pause out of the way. Where's my ocarina? This is so... How many, how long are we there?

18 minutes. We're 18 minutes in, so I'm going to put an advert now and the ocarina pause and an advert's going to go in. Is this the shitty ocarina, is it? On April 5th, you must be very careful, Margaret. It's a girl. Witness the birth. Bad things will start to happen. It's the girl. Witness the birth.

Bad things will start to happen. Evil things of evil. It's all for you. No, no, don't. The first omen. I believe the girl is to be the mother. Mother of what? Is the most terrifying.

Six, six, six. It's the mark of the devil. Hey! Movie of the year. It's not real. It's not real. What's not real? Who said that? The first omen. Only in theaters April 5th. Rock City, you're the best fans in the league, bar none. Tickets are on sale now for Fan Appreciation Night on Saturday, April 13th

when the Toronto Rock host the Rochester Nighthawks at First Ontario Centre in Hamilton at 7.30pm. You can also lock in your playoff pack right now to guarantee the same seats for every postseason game, and you'll only pay as we play. Come along for the ride and punch your ticket to Rock City at torontorock.com. Where's the fucking good one? Bollocks.

I can't find my good ocarina. That lovely blue ceramic ocarina. It escapes me. Instead I've got this dud. Monotonous clay prick. Nah. So that was the ocarina pause. So before I get into the short story just to give you my

weekly and passionate plea for you to support this podcast via the patreon page um as i've just mentioned i've essentially lost my job for the foreseeable future for a long time um i can't do any live gigs i can't do live gigs i can't do television work i i've lost a huge um part of my income and the thing is in i'd imagine gigs and shit like that are going to be the last things they lift as they start to ease off on the social distancing and return to normality shit like gigs is going to be the last thing so i'm out of work for a long time also i postponed a sold out gig in london and as a result of that was heavily penalized and accrued some rather large significant debts because boris johnson is a tory prick so my sole source of income is the patreon it's this podcast so please if you get enjoyment from this podcast patreon.com forward slash the

blind by podcast and become a patron of the podcast for the price of a pint or a cup of coffee once a month that's all it is that's nothing for four one hour long podcasts a month price of a cup of coffee once a month that's all it is that's nothing for four one hour long podcasts a month price of a cup of coffee and just think of i don't know if you go to the shop for your fucking things and you buy a few extra tubes of pringles give them to all blind by here let blind by suck on the the teat of your Pringle tube, so yeah, if you can afford that, and you're liking the podcast, please support me, if you can't afford it, you don't have to, you can still listen for free, alright, that deal still stands, I'm saying this to the people who can. Thank you. The short story I'm going to read out now. Is called 10 foot hen bending.

And I would have written this in 2017, 2016. From my first book of short stories. I don't have any content warnings for it. The story is about. It's about a girl of about 19 or 20 and her experiences with anxiety. There's one passing mention of self-harm. That's it.

Even though the story is about anxiety and depression, I don't think it's going to be triggering for anyone. And I base this on feedback I've received from people who've actually read the read the book and read the story when I wrote this story it was very cathartic for me because I'm I was like yes it's a character but I use a technique called on the body writing whereby I try and bring as many of my own emotional and physical experiences to the page so that I can write about them authentically. So a lot of the experiences of anxiety are mine, even though it's a character. And it was very cathartic for me.

And I know from people who've read the story that they experience a similar catharsis so this might actually might be of help it might be soothing for your mental health so give it a whack this is 10 foot hen bending and i'm going to chat to you next week dog bless week. Dog bless. I feel a trepid power, like I'm riding on the back of an angry wild bull. I hadn't left my room in the evenings in 105 days. The time before that, it was 78 days. The weird thing with anxiety is you create this map in your head that keeps tabs over where you can and can't go. It helps you gain a sense of control.

For me, it started a couple of years ago in first year, during a lecture on early medieval history. Our lecturer, Susan, was going over a slide about the economics of feudalism, when all of a sudden, I just felt this belt across my face, and then a sensation of having a thin layer of clothing ripped off me in one go, like a medical gown. I didn't feel naked or anything, just like, imagine you were in a public place wearing a long gown and then it just got pulled off. That feeling, of being vulnerable and tiny, with everyone looking on in disgust. Worse than disgust, looking on in pity. Feeling relief that they weren't in the position you were in,

exposed in the middle of O'Connell Street, with everyone examining and judging and finding out. No escape. That's what it felt like for me in that lecture theatre. I was five seats in on the seventh row. Everyone around me was just carrying on, listening to the lecture while my face dripped cold. My heart was belting in my ribs.

I was like a cat trapped in a coal bunker trying to get out. I couldn't breathe. I was drowning in people, suffocating in how okay they were with the universe. My thoughts dangled over a fantasy of humiliating myself, raw, uncooked, exposed, dirty, public. What if I got up and tried to escape? I needed to run from the feeling, but if I did that, would they all stare and think that I was mad?

I could taste the bland, oozing saliva rushing around my tongue and convince myself I was ready to puke on everyone I just focused on that saliva relish and imagined puking uncontrollably on everyone sitting around me down Conor's collar on the nice fringe of that girl who listens to Jeff Buckley who I've never even spoken to and then everyone would jump up startled, horrified,

and it would just be me in the spotlight, sitting like a freak on my own. They'd be almost sick themselves, because they'd be inundated in my puke, the private, intimate contents of my stomach, and their faces would be so disgusted, because my chunder and bile would be on them. In their hair and eyes they'd look at me, me like a rabbit in their headlights, with that disgust, that offence and horrified anger that you direct at someone who's guilty. This shit just played out in my head as real as if it was happening. It felt as it was.

as if it was happening. It felt as it was. I felt sheer and utter terror, terrified that I'd just lose control and paralysed that I was trapped in that lecture theatre, rubbing my palms together, scared that the person beside me could hear my breaths. Then it just kind of faded. As quick as it came, for no reason, it just went away.

And I went back to normal, with this great sense of faded. As quick as it came, for no reason, it just went away. And I went back to normal, with this great sense of relief. It was so horrifying, I just pushed it away. By the time it had passed, the lecture was over. I left with Ella and Cian as if nothing had happened. We went to lunch. They spoke about being out in Costolo's the night before. Who drank what? How much? Who shifted who? And we laughed. I didn't think about what had happened in the lecture theatre. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't really want to acknowledge in my own thoughts that it had happened. I went home that evening to my mum and dad. I drank tea. I watched a good documentary about the Aztecs on Discovery. That feeling crept back though.

The next week, I was in Susan's lecture again. She recapped on some of the bits about feudalism. Her computer for the lecture had this loud fan. And that's what set it off. Not the same turn of events. But the memories of terror. Of sitting in that room. And never ever wanting to feel that feeling again. Low key PTSD. Of course. Then I started worrying. Oh no. What if it's going to happen here again? The exact same thing. The sweats,

the breaths, the pictures in my mind. It came from nowhere. I did not control it. And that was when shit got nasty. It's not the panic attacks that fuck your life up. It's the fear of when and where the next one will happen. So I stopped going to Susan's lectures. My terror was drawing out the mental map of where I could and couldn't go. I stopped going to that lecture theatre. If I stayed away from there, I was safe. Or so I thought. Until it happened in Boots, when I was buying deodorant.

A bad one. I don't know what triggered it. I think it was the smell of lavender. But it was the same experience. I got the fuck out of Boots. I ran down the street and found a strong, solid wall to lean against. When your brain is on a roll like that, crowds are the worst. You cannot control your mind.

Every idea is paralysing. Your brain reboots itself over and over and over. Each time it sucks breath from your lungs and blood from your knees. Resting against the wall, I started to scan the buckets of people at Limerick City Centre. I pained to contemplate how each one of them had their own thoughts, and how they all had families who also had thoughts, and how I couldn't possibly fathom how all these people were all thinking thoughts when I was there trying to control my own thoughts. Their faces were smudged, unrecognisable by the fingers in my head. All their thoughts jumping out of their ears like wifi signals, their eyes blinking lights everywhere.

All this activity trying to drown me in the notion ocean. There's no unbothered spaces. Their thinking climbed down my neck leather and filled my insides like I'm a sleeping bag. A hand grabbed my arm really hard. It was the security guard from Boots. Where the fuck are you going with that? he screamed. I looked down and saw that I had accidentally ran out of the shop with the lavender bottle of Dove deodorant. Lots of people on the street stopped

to watch me getting caught shoplifting. I tried opening my mouth to let them know it was an accident, but I couldn't form words. I don't mean to be insensitive, but I sounded like a deaf person sounds when they tried to talk. Ma, ma, ma, oo, oo, urr. All these faces, whispering, judging. She's been shoplifting. Then to my right, there was this older lady with dyed black hair. And she looked so disgusted with me, so disapproving, like I'd hurt her. That's when I felt that light just wave across my face and I went out like I was on a vet's slab.

The rest after that is so hazy. I was in the security office of Boots. I think the security guard had his arm around me and took me back there but I can't be sure. They were really nice, the security lad and the manager. My dad came in to collect me. I felt really safe then but also fairly useless. I got into my dad's car and asked if he'd get me some nice cakes, Black Forest or something, and he did. And that evening I was back in my room with my smells and my things, my TV, my laptop, my bed, my beanbag, my books. And if a panic attack happened, at least I know I could do it here on my own.

And my parents would be downstairs all the time if I needed an ambulance or anything. I asked my mum and my dad if I could take a few weeks out of college and they said yeah, because they were really scared about what had happened in Boots. But they didn't ask what the problem was. I felt so safe in my room, so controlled. It was like a big womb that had no expectations of me. I began to stay in my room so controlled it was like a big womb that had no expectations of me I began to stay in my room as much as possible I enjoy my own time anyway but the more I did that

the more threatening and frightening the outside became I never ever wanted to feel that way the way that I felt at the outside never again that feeling was the worst I'd ever felt hands down I felt powerless I felt incapable and useless. I didn't feel 19, I felt like a baby, not an adult. That feeling burled itself onto my brain so bad that not leaving the house felt normal. On the occasions when I did have to leave the house, I'd focus only on my breathing.

I'd breathe deep into my nose and feel it expand in my lower stomach like a ball. That's how you get the most oxygen to your brain. If there's lots of oxygen, then the bad chemicals like adrenaline and carcinogen can't cause the fear to attack. I bought a little digital metronome. It keeps this tempo beat with a click-clack sound. It's for piano players to learn rhythm. I'd put earphones in the metronome when I left the house and timed my breathing, deep, measured and rhythmic. I wore big baddie hoodies to hide my body and to stick my hands inside to hug myself. I began walking with my head down, looking only at the ground.

I couldn't risk looking up and meeting someone's eye. I'd cry if that happened. I wasn't ready for the cameras in their eyes. I wasn't ready to see all their thoughts when I was struggling to control my own. When you get that far down with anxiety, you grow angry and bitter. You want everyone to go, to leave you alone. You pray someone won't try and talk to you. You hate them for their ability to walk down the street

without needing a metronome to breathe. For their happiness. It's because they're stupid. They can't see the pain and complexity I see in the universe. If they could, they'd be overwhelmed by it too. That's what I told myself at least. It's tiring. It was so tiring.

I'd venture to town only to get a book or a DVD. Some piece of art that I could scurry back to my room and enjoy there in that warm hug of safety. You don't notice how much breathing takes out of you when it's autonomous. But when you breathe deep to a metronome, you're fit to collapse at the day's end. The farther into this lifestyle I slipped, the more shame I felt. I felt shame for being a freak, for not being normal. Connor or Eimear would ask me to go out on Tuesdays, where the normal thing to do was to get yoked up and dance.

But I'd make so many excuses. I have work to do. I think the dog is sick. I think I'm getting a chest infection. I'm giving up drink because my uncle was an alcoholic and I've been told to watch it. It's genetic. I don't like using the Jackson nightclubs because there's an African lady in there to dry my hands and it makes me feel racist. Ah, lies. My friends just thought I hated them. Eimear in particular took it very personally.

She'd heard about the time at Boots. Her sister knew the security guard. Eimear told people in college that I was always stealing and that I stole pearl jewellery from her room and that I used her bathroom once. That totally wasn't true. And it fucking hurt real bad. OK, maybe it was true.

Sometimes I steal things, I don't know why, I just do. But I wasn't letting anyone else know that. But I didn't hate my friends, not them. I hated their ability to go out and enjoy themselves with the lads. And here I was, a baby, a toddler, useless, worthless, freak with no possibility of having a future. The shame hits hard. The shame of being incapable, and then the sadness comes on. It starts off like this pang of regret, which feels like something

really disappointing has happened but you can't think of what it is, and that makes you even more sad, because you feel sorry for yourself, that you're this sad, but can't think of the rationale for being sad. I'd cry for no reason. Cry for what was inside me. Cry for not being able to feel. Cry for what wasn't inside me. Crying for feeling too much, but not being able to label whatever it was I was feeling.

I'd see my shadow cast on the wall and get confused that I wasn't able to tell the difference between me and my shadow. I'd stare at my hands, and they wouldn't feel like they were part of me, they'd feel like they belonged to someone else. So I'd hide my hands behind my back in case I saw them, and this caused me to cry too. As weeks passed, that sadness took everything. Worst of all, it took my enjoyment. My island of pleasure, my room, my books, my music. It took my ability to enjoy these things. It took any plans for the future. Every morning I'd wake up and my first thought was this little hopeful glimmer for just a moment. Then it was smothered by the blackness and smashed

with that morbid hammer. It became impossible to imagine ever having that blackness. I forgot what happiness felt like. I forgot the reasons why I ever felt happy before. I lashed out at my parents. I slept a lot. Sleep was all I had. With sleep you could switch off and rest. Thank fuck I had sleep. Because some others don't have that, but I did.

No matter how bad it got, I never wanted to end myself. I'd think about it. But there was this little vice of preservation inside me that said, no, ride it out, stick with it. That's what I did. I thought about cutting my ankles with a razor when I got real numb, to feel something, but I didn't, because it would have hurt my poor dad too much if he knew.

No matter what, I knew my ma and my dad really loved me. That they weren't lying, I truly believed that, and it's what got me through. One night I just exploded in tears. I cried and I hugged them in the kitchen. I begged them to help me. Please do something to help, my life is so painful. And they did. They arranged for me to see the counsellor in my college, whose name was Alan.

He was really kind, and he looked like a poodle. He just asked questions, he didn't talk. Which felt great, because I was finding my own answers to his questions. He'd ask me what the anxiety felt like, to describe it in detail. What's it like to be frightened like that? He'd enquire. He'd never ask anything that had a yes or no answer and he didn't give me advice either. I'd go through it all, the thoughts, the feelings, that time in boots. It felt safe to think about it and to hear myself talk about it out loud. That room was safe. Sometimes we'd even laugh. We laughed about how I spoke like a deaf person when

I got caught shoplifting. I hadn't laughed in so long. I didn't tell him that I'd deliberately stalled at the ordering though. Each week we'd go deeper. I'd talk about my childhood and we'd go further and further still. You mentioned feeling useless and like a baby. Can you speak about why you'd feel this way? That was another one. And I'd rant. I'd answer these questions and he'd just smile and listen with no judgment. Every session I'd have a revelation about myself, about my feelings, and it would give me such hope. I'd feel normal for like a day. Then the blackness would come back. But I knew, because I felt better after sessions with Alan, then the blackness would come back. But I knew, because I felt better after sessions with Alan, that the blackness wasn't permanent. This made it

a lot easier and less devastating. Alan wrote to my tutors and explained my troubles, which really helped with project deadlines. I was beginning to feel like me again. In summer, we had to wrap up the therapy after the semester ended, but I was free to return in September. The great insight that I had gained was that I was scared of standing on my own two feet. I didn't feel capable of being a proper adult who could rent a house and drive a car or get a job or a boyfriend. Adam had a hunch and probed me about my childhood.

I had an older brother who died when he was four, Gus. I don't think about it much to be honest. He's just this picture of a smiley little boy with curly hair and fat fingers waving with a red ball under his other arm that's always been above the mental piece. He died when he drank a bottle of caustic soda in the garden shed that my dad had left in a 7-Up bottle for cleaning drains. I don't remember, Gus. But I know from speaking to my neighbours that it hurt my parents bad. My dad blamed himself and my mother blamed herself.

I was only two. But that was my earliest experience. The adults in my life were in deep grief and regret when I was just a tiny baby. Babies don't understand this stuff but we pick up emotions and fears. We learn how to react to threats through these early years. Babies have huge empathy and we learn our emotional boundaries from how our parents react to things like like big sponges, and sometimes the water is dirty. That's how Alan put it. My parents both over-parented me after Gus died. Everything was a potential danger that could hurt or kill me. I wasn't allowed to get a

bicycle in case I fell. I wasn't allowed to leave the house in case I got hit by a car. If I wanted to go on a school trip I was talked out of it but my parents would do something really nice like buy me tons of books or video games or make up for it. As I got older it was the same for energizer teen discos in Mungerit. I couldn't go but my dad would buy me something cool in HMV which made it okay. I wasn't unhappy, I was very happy but I slowly began to learn that I needed protecting all the time. That I couldn't risk doing what the other children did in case it killed me. The older you get, the greater the impact of that message. Particularly

when you get to 14 or 15, when you should be taking risks and testing boundaries. I never did. I was always made to feel completely safe, so long as it never took any risks. When that's the lesson handed to you by your parents, you just accept that reality. The problem for me was that when I hit 19, when I went to college, my friends were renting, cooking their own meals and talking about going on J1 visas and getting summer jobs in California. And it threatened the fuck out of me. It was too far from where I was at emotionally. I didn't know that it threatened me.

Instead, it threatened me unconsciously. When the unconscious is threatened, it finds a strange way to act out. For me, it was anxiety attacks. I understand that now. But just like a sponge that gets soaked in dirty water, I can squeeze it all out and soak up new clear water now that I'm an adult. Aaron introduced me to cognitive behavioural therapy. It's a type of self-help that taught me that my thoughts influence my emotions, which then influence

my behaviour. Basically, my anxiety and depression aren't caused by lecture theatres or going to boots. They exist because the way I think about these things is flawed. The way I think about myself, my future and the world is flawed. It's flawed because my autonomous reaction is fear, which is what I've learned and isn't objective reality. If I can change my thoughts around these things, from flawed to rational, I can be happy. If I get a negative thought around my future or my capability, I treat that thought like a scientist would.

If Connor from college goes to Tesco and buys carrots and meat to make a stew, I don't say to myself, God, I could never do that. I need ma for that. That's so adult of him. I say to myself where's the evidence that I can't do that? There's none. Just because I've never done it doesn't mean I can't. Then I quietly go to Tesco and buy carrots and meat and I cook my own dinner to prove to myself that I can. That I'm normal and capable. I identify my negative thoughts, my belief that I'm weak. Then I test it with my behaviour. That's what I'm doing right now on this bus. I'm nervous as fuck.

I'm regulating my breathing. And I'm fucking terrified of getting a panic attack. This is the first bus I've ever been on on my own. Yeah, I know, I'm 21 in August. But public transport is a real trigger for me. Because there's nowhere to hide. I'm here, on a packed bus, and I've handed all control over to some driver that I don't know. The thoughts jump into my head. What if I puke up? What if I just start screaming and everyone stares? This time, I don't tell myself how awful it would be. I say to myself myself so what if that happens, so fucking what

yeah there's a small chance I might get sick on myself or on someone else or maybe get a leg cramp and have to stand up and walk up and down the aisle and draw attention to myself but so what maybe I might even have a panic attack

but it will pass it won't be nice, but it will pass. What's the worst that can happen? Some strangers will look. Some might feel sorry for me. And may even help me, but that's it. I can handle it. On the slight chance it happens,

I can clean sick off myself. Maybe buy a new t-shirt. It wouldn't be pleasant, but it's not death either. The idea that it would be this horrible, shameful, life-threatening ordeal is not reality. That's my earliest childhood memories talking and they don't define my reality because I'm an adult now and I have complete responsibility over how I react to my environment. And with these thoughts, this rational thinking process, my fear subsides. Then my fists clench and I feel power. I feel like I've just stood up to a bully and they're

back down. That's what anxiety is. It's a bully. It's the bully in your head that knows exactly how to hurt you the most. Well, fuck that. I deserve happiness because I'm a good person. This is what it feels like to grow. I'm a flower reaching towards the sun, and that sun is the best version of me possible. The bus rumbles on out past the Two Mile Inn Hotel, a poorly designed 1970s structure in the shape of a pyramid bent in the direction of Shannon Airport. I press my forehead against the cold glass and watch the summer grass and hedgerows blur past in a collective olive smudge. I grip my teeth to feel the vibrations of the engine and the road shaking inside my skull. so worn I can feel my arse bone my back stiff against the rest

a slightly wet sweaty patch in the centre making my t-shirt stick to my skin all chilly it'll dry off in the sun my feet are firmly on the floor I feel them solid while knowing that unseen underneath is passing tarmac that would rip my skin from my bones

if I were to grade off it at this speed. I'm okay with this. This is a grounding exercise. It helps with the feelings of depersonalization that I get with anxiety. The feeling that my body isn't mine. That I'm not in control. This exercise keeps my body, emotions and thoughts rooted in the present moment. And reminds me that only I am in control. My breathing

is slow and deep through my nose. For the first time in a year I feel calm, confident and bloody happy. We move past Dirty Nelly's pub in Bunratty. It's a gorgeous little thatched tavern, mainly used by American tourists, but it's not tacky. It's painted bright pink and has this cute river beside it with jumping trout over a little weir. Dad used to take me there for Sundays. Ice cream's in the car park. Behind 30 Nellies I can see my destination, Bunratty Castle, towering above. The bus takes a right and settles alongside the other coaches, underneath the shade of some sycamore trees with fat June leaves. I get off. I feel resilient. I feel normal.

My posture changes. I can't fucking believe that I've just made it ten miles outside Limerick City on my own. Just me. No help. I press my return ticket into the back pocket, like an adult would do, taking note that I have five hours to explore the castle grounds. The weather is mighty, not a cloud in the sky, and that dry heat that bounces up off the tarmac and hits your chest, this is ice cream weather for sure.

Bonratty Castle is one of the most well-preserved medieval structures in Ireland. It looms above me, with its ancient grey stone and yellow-white lichen growth that's probably ordered from my parents. Each stone hand-cut, with the most basic of tools. I'm given serious thought to focusing on the castle and surrounding cultures for my second year dissertation, and I've come here to survey it myself on my own. for my second year dissertation and I've come here to survey it myself on my own. The castle as it is today dates to the 15th century

but there have been Viking settlements here as far back as the 10th century which were raided by Brian Barrow. It's thought that a wooden Mott and Bailey structure was built sometime around 1250 when the Normans arrived. That's the shit that really excites me.

To stand in an area with so much history and culture. To stand in a place that has been settled by so many different people, speaking in languages we wouldn't even understand today. Even when this castle was occupied by English speakers in the 15th century, the English they spoke would be alien to our ears. The Gaelic spoken in the surrounding hills would be unrecognisable too. How would a 13th century serf from Cradlow handle a panic attack? Did they even get anxiety or depression? They had real reason to be afraid. They could be killed in their sleep by the O'Briens. Even about a food poisoning could end them in a weekend. They had real

fear and danger in their daily lives. Did this give their life emotional sustenance? Or was being miserable just how life was then and we're the lucky ones? It's this possibility of empathy across time that thrills me about history. That gives me a real feeling of meaning and purpose. I start to remember why I fell in love with it again. I join a tour group. Our guide is Laura. She's about 26 and is so passionate, even though she probably does this tour about eight times a day. She leads us up the drawbridge to the castle gates and through the main entrance. As we enter, Laura points up at the murder hall. This makes everyone quite uncomfortable. Laura points up at the murder hall this makes everyone quite uncomfortable

if you were a raiding party who had made it this far you'd be dead by now above you is the murder hall through which boiling hot grease was poured on any intruders who were trapped in this hallway with no escape any remaining survivors were stabbed

their heads impaled on poles at the gates as a warning to other intruders she says I know this of course this is junior short stuff impaled on poles at the gates as a warning to other intruders, she says. I know this, of course. This is junior short stuff. But Laura explains it with such passion that I may as well be hearing it for the first time. I fantasise about having her job.

Maybe next summer. Getting the bus out every day. Packing my own lunch. Speaking to German tourists about history. Slowly, and in plain English, at their service, being a real adult. That thought makes me feel very happy. We move forward into the main hall, which is the next section of the tour. The tall walls are whitewashed in line and the temperature instantly drops as we enter.

The acoustics make the smallest whisper boom loudly in the space designed for harp players. Incredible to think that the builders had that in mind hundreds of years ago. A massive oak table stands against the east side. In the centre is a metal grated fire with magnificent cast iron work that twists black. The smoke rises up to the ceiling and out of a hole which fills the room with the uncomfortable aroma of burning turf. While Lara speaks about the antlers of an Irish elk that hang on the wall, I notice a second tour group who are being spoken to in Italian.

My attention drifts as I observe their enthralled faces. I wonder if the guide is telling the Italians the same stuff that Laura is telling us, or if their tour is slightly edited to suit cultural differences. The architecture of Italy in the medieval era was much more advanced. Ireland in the 1500s was nothing compared to Venice or Florence. As I ponder this, I notice a familiar face. Standing amongst the humble group of Italian tourists is a late middle-aged man. He is wearing tight cornflower blue shorts above his knees, and an orange t-shirt. On his feet are blue low-top Converse sneakers.

His hair is dyed blonde and spiked up. As I look more intently, I realise that it is none other than Hollywood actor Sam Neill, or at least an Italian man who looks exactly like him. My face must look ridiculous. I'm not shocked, more bemused. Either this is an old Italian dude dressed like Bart Simpson, or the famous actor Sam Neill is in Bunratty Castle

dressed like Bart Simpson with a lot of Italian people. I direct my attention back to Laura who was speaking enthusiastically about a tapestry that was commissioned by the Lord of Tormund Thomas de Clare in 1278.

It depicts eight greyhounds chasing a peasant and each greyhound's tail is tucked between their legs. I try to admire the tapestry, but I can't hold my focus. I stare again at the Italian man. I walk closer to his group, feigning interest in some 14th century ash beams. From this distance I begin to examine the lines on the man's face, his soft expression and the glint behind his eyes that frame a permanent smile.

This is most definitely the man who played the role of Dr. Alan Grant in Jurassic Park. As I make this realisation, he pipes up and with an exaggerated American accent says, The Greyhound's tails look like their fucking cocks, ha ha ha ha, while pointing at the declared tapestry. The Italians are confused. My group shuffles, silent and uncomfortable. I laugh pretty loud. Everyone turns to look at me. Normally, this would cause me to go very red and freak the hell out, but not today, cos fucking Sam Neill is dressed like Bart Simpson in Bunratty Castle. What the actual fuck?

Laura beckons our group towards a tiny stone door that leads up a steep stone winding stair. Now I'll take you to the ornate bedchambers. It's very very important that you don't touch the exhibit she says. I stall back and walk over to the man.

Sam, I say. That's me, kiddo, he replies. I get fucking stupidly nervous and don't know what to say. Ah, Jesus, man, I love Jurassic Park. Not just that, I know you've done more, but like, Jurassic Park was my favourite thing as a kid.

And Peaky Blinders, I saw you in an episode of that. You were a nerdy orange man. Your accent was spot on. Killian Murphy is such a ride too, my God. Sam stares in silence. I feel like a bit of a dickhead. I have this tendency to talk like a fucking bimbo to everyone, especially lads, and I hate it. Killian Murphy is my enemy, he retorts. Oh, sorry, I say. Sam laughs loud and takes out a cigarette which he then lights with a match.

I don't know what to say. You most definitely are not supposed to smoke in here. Both tour groups have gone upstairs. It's just Sam and I in the medieval hall. He trounces around slowly and coolly like he owns the place with the cigarette hanging from his lip.

The rubber of his converse pitter-patter on the stone floor, amplified by the magnificent acoustics of the space. Want to see something cool, kid? When he asks this, I feel kind of uncomfortable. Every bone in my body saying no. I can't tell if it's a rational fear, or just my regular chicken-shit inner voice that I'm trying so hard to combat. But before I over if it's a rational fear or just my regular chicken shit inner voice that I'm trying so hard to combat. But before I overthink it, I say, yes Sam, I'd like to

see something cool. I think I say this out of anger. Anger at myself. For never taking risks. Today I'm taking a risk. And looking at the cool thing that Sam Neill has to show me. He stubs the cigarette out and says nothing as he walks towards the west wall. I follow him. By the door that the two tour groups have taken is another smaller entrance that has a clear red rope barrier. It is not for visitors, but employees. Sam lifts this rope and ushers me in.

We climb a metal ladder that has been recently built down a utility tunnel that leads to a corridor that has mace and arrow slits. Look through there, says Sam. It's the tour groups in the next room, looking at a bedpost that belonged to the Declare family. We can see them, they can't see us. Sam crouches beside me with the look of a passionate mischief in his eyes.

He reaches deep into his mouth and pulls out a full set of false teeth that he displays in the palm of his left hand. I look at the teeth, pooled in saliva, then look up at Sam's gummy smile and mad eyes. He presses his palm hard against the limestone floor, cracking his teeth into the constituent parts. It sounds like Rice Krispies. About fourteen acrylic teeth lie on the ground, shining like pearls I stole from Eilmer's

bedroom. Sam Neill produces a wooden slingshot from his back pocket, just like Bart Simpson would have, and he hands it to me. He doesn't tell me what to do, because I know what he wants me to do. I pick up one of the iridescent teat from the floor, place it in the leather sling receptacle and fire it through the arrow slit, directly at the face of a fat Italian woman in the next room. Mamma mia, she yelps, holding her face. Sam and I try hard not to be heard laughing.

My turn, he whispers. Two men have gathered around the Italian woman to see what her problem is. One places the tooth into his pocket, which is a bit of an odd thing to do with a worthless tooth. Bam! Sam fires a lasher at one of the men's faces, hitting him just above the lip. I grab the sling and let fly another, real hard and close at an old Irish woman who was near the mason's slit. It bounces off her forehead and leaves a mark. There is panic in the room and I feel alive. Now I am in control. I control their reactions and they don't know what is happening. Their fear and confusion washes away my inner trepidation and my heart beats in a predatory way.

Hurry before someone narcs on us, Sam says into my ear. We run out of the castle into the car park, giggling like fuck. Sam takes out a penknife and I keep watch while he slashes the tyres of the Italian's big fancy bus. I can do one better, I roar at him, taking the penknife from him. I use the blunt end of the handle and smash one of the side windows on the couch. Boost me up, you old prick, I say to Sam. That's my girl, he replies. I climb on Sam Neill's shoulder

and clamber in through the broken window the glass sticks into my hands but it's that type that's supposed to smash into little blunt bits so it's grand I begin to rifle through all the Italian handbags taking money and passports money goes in my pocket and I pile all the passports up on the back seat

I flick through their faces and names Mad names Amatore Enzo Amos Lalo Urbano Cherico Rafael Lazzone Alessandro Gorelli Giocondo Passarelli

They sound like a menu No looking, Sam. I take down my jeans, squat and piss all over the pile of Italian passports. The heat of the piss rises up and warms my arse. I feel very much alive. I feel like I have purpose. I am in control. Come on, you dork! Shouts Sam.

We race each other to the side of Bonratty Castle and enter the folk park. It is a recreation of a medieval farm and village with thatched cottages and the strong smell of turf smoke. Sam throws a leg over the wattle and daub fence into a muddy enclosure full of goats. The goats, used to tourists, are not startled. Give me that money you took from the purses, kid! I reach into my left pocket and give him half, easily 500 euro in 20s and 50s. Sam grabs it all in one fist and attempts to mount a large billy goat with long grey fur and eyes like a snake.

He is unsuccessful in staying upright and lays across the goat's back as it attempts to jock him off. The younger goats are disturbed and begin to make distressing barking noises. Sam stuffs the money into the goat's mouth as it bites down on his fist, drawing blood. Look at me! Woohoo! I'm Killian Murphy! Look at me, Sam says. A woman who works at the park sticks her head out of the gift shop to see what the commotion is. I tell her to fuck off, that this is serious business and she wouldn't understand. She goes back in like a turtle. I feel in control. I run to the next enclosure and begin bothering peacocks with a sweeping brush. next enclosure and begin bothering peacocks with a sweeping brush. All the tourists watch, in fucking disgust, staring at me, disapproving. I have flashbacks to the wall outside Boots

when I nick the deodorant and I pick one woman. A middle-aged bint who looks like that bitch who started staring at me that day with the dyed black hair. I march up to her, stare her right in the eye and slap her across the face as hard as I can. So hard she's knocked back and holds her mouth. I stand over her and scream. She looks terrified. They're going to call the cops, kid, says Sam. He's probably right.

So we walk out of the folk park like roosters, me and Sam Neil, but the police don't come. We cross over the car park to Dirty Nellie's. I use the money I have left in my pocket to get us both giant 99 ice creams and a large glass of straight vodka from the bar. Sam has no teeth and he laughs loudly as he gums the 99 and downs his vodka. Why are you here Sam? What are you doing in Bunratty? Why are you dressed like Bart Simpson? I ask him. Because I live in the present moment bucko. I picked this place at random. I just booked the tickets for the plane last night and arrived. I dressed like the Simpson kid to feel young. You ask too many questions. What's your story?

I tell him about my anxiety, my depression. I tell him about therapy. I tell him that I got on that bus and faced my fear. I tell him about my parents and my dead brother Gus. He tells me that heaven and hell are a choice. Hell is when your mind lives in yesterday or tomorrow. Heaven is when you live today in the here and now. He struggles to remove his tight t-shirt and without warning he bounds towards a picnic table of women enjoying the sun and jumps up kicking their drinks all over the car park. He stumbles to the tarmac, quickly getting

to his feet and runs out towards the busy motorway. You see this kid? He screams. If I take this traffic in the present moment, I'm invincible. If I think about what could happen or what might have happened, I'm a dead man. With a steady pace, he runs freely across the motorway, back and forth, never stopping, never thinking. The cars, the buses, the motorbikes, the trucks,

they all move around him or run into the hard shoulder, but Sam never reacts. Sam just takes each step in the here and now as he races around the motorway. Sam controls danger, he controls risk. This is art. I join him. We both run around that motorway in an intense, meditative calm as traffic dodges us. The drivers panic but we don't. We sit down by the hard shoulder, exhausted. Sam takes a softer tone. He looks at me and he says,

You need to let go of your little brother, kid. You were too young to be around that grief. You're carrying a pain that's too hungry for your soul to feed. I feel the weakness come on. My power leaves. I am no longer in the present moment and I cry really loudly like a baby. I cry deep for Gus. I cry for my brother that I never knew.

That tiny little toddler who drank poison. I imagine how happy he was to think that he had found seven up. I imagine his fear and pain as his throat burned. I cry for my da who blamed himself and my ma who tried to hold in her resentment for his carelessness while still loving him. Sam is reaching into a ditch and tugging at long strands of dry hay that he is forming into a crude shape. He hands it to me. It is a little straw man. This is your brother Gus, he says as he pints at the stone bridge near Dartley Nellies.

He doesn't tell me what to do because I know what he wants me to do. I cradle straw Gus in my arms, as I walk in a straight, steady line towards the bridge. I gently toss him into the slow ebb of the river and let him go. I let him float and watch him drift off. Gus and what happened to him is not in my control. I turn back to the motorway and Sam Neill is gone. The sky is getting pink. I reach into my arse pocket to feel my ticket and walk towards

the car park to mount my bus back to Limerick where the Italians are all huddled around their smashed up coach looking upset and confused. I fumble at my collar to finger through Eimear's pearl necklace but it must have fallen off in the castle. Thank you. Rock City, you're the best fans in the league bar none tickets are on sale now for fan appreciation night on saturday april 13th when the toronto rock hosts the rochester nighthawks at first ontario center in hamilton at 7 30 p.m you can also lock in your playoff pack right now to guarantee the same seats for every postseason game, and you'll only pay as we play. Come along for the ride and punch your ticket to Rock City at torontorock.com. Thank you.