A Place in the Sun

They say creation comes when you are at your most emotional. But, really ? Does it ever? Many have written about writer's block, too. And that muse abandons them when they are going through difficult times. The pendulum swings either way, it seems. The last few months have been far from easy. I have swung from being crazily busy to being rendered inactive after falling off my bicycle, just before the pandemic had us in semi-lock-down. I spent all of my time during this period wearing a knee-brace, and a good chunk of that having to use crutches. I would have thought this was something that would throw me - as would being confined and forced to stay away from socialising. In reality I was healing, healing from a huge gaping hole that was caused by living with someone who had addiction and bestowing on him different kinds of love. What started off as love among equals soon turned to be, for me, a love that provided support and resolved itself, perhaps, into the son I should have ha

And so you move on. It is not some 'namaste' revelation, nor is it some hopeful journey. Or at least, not right away. Succumbing to addiction creates victims, not only in the addict themselves but in the sufferers who have to reap the damage sowed by the loved one who is an addict. Relationships are burned away - indeed, trust is burned away and depending on how bad the damage done, the harm might be irreparable.  There could very well be trauma involved - has there been violence of sorts? fraud? Violation of trust, of one's safe haven, of one's home ? These are all considerations that the community remains comfortably unaware of. It is considered that now that the addict has recognised his or her wrongs and, or gone into rehab, things will look up but this is most often not the case. And so society moves on, unaware of the underworld that is in recovery. It could be argued that even the support services are unaware: there is much weeping and gnashing of teeth

I remember my first tricycle, when I was three years old, and not only would I chase up and down the garden path we had (was paved) but we used to go down to Raffles ground and spend hours running around with it. When I was about 4 or 5, my parents got me a lovely black and yellow bicycle and my red tricycle went to my sister (although I still secretly liked it). At first we had side-wheels, and then they were gradually taken off. A few years later, we got a red Tomahawk, which I still winder the fate of today. We graduated to using the bikes not only in Luxol but other areas where they could be taken for a good old spin. This was most Sundays. At some point, we also used to cycle in the small street / alleyway next door and go round and round the block. Since I lived (still do) on a main road, commuting here and there was not much of an option and I was into windsurfing with my dad and his best friend. and ballet more than anything else. Eventually I moved on the

Living with addiction is no joke. Whether or not you are an addict, whether or not you are seeking to recover, or perhaps you might be living with someone who is contending with addiction, there are the traumas, the underlying issues, and the proverbial hole in your back pocket. This expression hit me during various discussions at recovery meetings. Recovering alcoholics will tell you how money seemed to vanish (though it would sometimes mysteriously appear instead) during their life as an addict.  They would have spent too much on alcohol for themselves, rounds for others, stocking up their cupboards for those long nights. With that, there is probably an alleviation of guilt somewhere. You break your car irreparably, drunk-driving. You fix it, not because it's worth doing so, but to atone for your sins. Someone makes financial demands on you and because when you last were pissed you made a fool of yourself, you pay up. It's never-ending. The outflow never seems to stop.