The Weight of Words

Picture a baby elephant. Grey rough skin, big beautiful eyes, two tusks and a trunk. Picture four grey stumpy legs and around one of which is a heavy metal cuff with a chain attached to a spike in the ground; the spike being almost the height of baby elephant itself. It is too small to break free from the chain, too slight to pull the spike from the ground. 

Picture now another elephant, this time fully grown. All of the same features as baby elephant before, including the chain and spike. This time, however, our elephant towers over the spike and could pull it from the ground if he so wished. Only he doesn’t, this elephant doesn’t even try.
 

These are both the one elephant. In adult form there is no attempt made to act out and free itself because he has learnt from a young age that there is no point. Having spent long enough being constricted he fails to see that in adult life he now has the power to break out and overpower his shackles; just as we do as humans. 

As has been heavily documented, the education system we follow is one which fails many and praises memory. We follow an education system crafted during the 19^th Century which favours subjects and fields which cater most for the demands laid down at the time of the industrial revolution, placing maths and science highest, humanities second and arts at the bottom. We spend 12-14 years indoctrinated into the belief that memorising textbooks for tests and getting right answers will set us up best for life as adults. We are discouraged from speaking out, asking the wrong question or thinking independently and where does that leave us? In the current climate, with few places to go if we followed the school path step by step. It is a known and accepted fact that in our failing economy those who thrive the most are those able to create their own opportunities but this can only be done with creative thinking and bravery. No surprise then that some of the world’s most innovative entrepreneurs are also school leavers: Bill Gates, Josephine Fairley, Richard Branson, Jenny Craig, Steve Jobs, Alan Sugar and even Thomas Edison amongst others. 

What then is so different about the mind-set of these successful people who thrived and succeeded without mainstream education?

Their inner monologue.

 Rather than reinforcing the reprimands of schoolteachers these people reminded themselves of their strengths and ability to succeed. Even more importantly they were not afraid not failure, refusing to accept the commonly told mistruth that we shouldn’t make mistakes and we are bad if we do so. They know that the only stupid question is the one we never asked. The language with which they speak to themselves is empowering, encouraging and strength building- it focuses solely on the potential.

The importance of the words which we use, whether to speak to others or ourselves should not be underestimated; as the saying goes ‘our thoughts becomes our words, our words become our actions’. Our thoughts are already physical things within the universe before they exit our mouth; at the point in which we vocalise them we are cementing even further into our truth. If we picture something, if we speak about it then we have already engaged in a commitment to the physical realisation of that idea. In this way, we both command and demand that our life path and the universe with it become what we want it to be- either negative or positive.

Dr. Maya Angelou says the following: “Words are things I’m convinced. You must be careful about the words you use or the words you allow to be used in your house. Words are things. We must be careful. Careful about calling people put of their names; using racial pejoratives and sexual pejoratives and all that ignorance. Don’t do that. Someday we’ll be able to measure the power of words. I think they are things, I think they get on the walls, they get in your wallpaper, they get in your rugs and your upholstery and your clothes and finally into you”.

In fact, she has been known to put people out of her house for telling racist jokes, unafraid to disrupt a room in the process, referring to this type of language as a ‘little murder’. In an interview from December 2000, she explains how when people use language about us which is in some way demeaning what they are engaging in is a cowardly assassination attempt at our character. However, it is even more than this. Stating how all air around us is made of sounds and images, negative language fills more than just the mind, but also the spirit and the energy of the surrounding area; “I'm convinced that the negative has power. It lives. And if you allow it to perch in your house, in your mind, in your life, it can take you over. So when the rude or cruel thing is said—the lambasting, the gay bashing, the hate—I say, "Take it all out of my house!" Those negative words climb into the woodwork and into the furniture, and the next thing you know they'll be on my skin.”

Carrying negativity is our decision. It is a weight which no-one forces us to carry. There will be times when it will be more difficult to shake off the shackles of this weight but it one which we, and only we, have the power to do. While it is important to express our feelings and let go of negativity instead of bottling it, making a concerted effort to use only the most positive language we can makes a huge impact upon our mind-set; our ability to make brave decisions, to bounce back from failure and lead much more contented lives overall. Our choice of language has a knock on effect on which path we choose to walk in life and who we choose to accompany us on those paths. Ultimately, it is life-changing. The best part about it is that it is right within our control; the redemptive power of choice is ours for the taking. The chains are ours to remove.

It's a . . .Woman

Congratulations to Kate and William on the birth of their new baby boy; a day old child already wealthier than or you may ever hope to be.  I don’t begrudge the most likeable segment of the royals their new found happiness, I’m delighted for any couple who have been lucky enough to have a child and have no doubt they’ll be lovely parents. However, you'll have to forgive me for being yet another tax payer watching their money pay for another fanciful occasion which could have been paid for privately. Furthermore, let us not forget in all the hype the many children born on the same day who we won’t be celebrating the birth of en masse, let us not lose sight of the 100,000 children in Northern Ireland currently living in poverty. Not one of these things is going to make the news now that Ms Middleton has done the unimaginable and secured a bloodline. Stop the press, a woman of childbearing age has given birth after 9 months of pregnancy. Each month lasted approximately 4 weeks.

 The birth of this child bears as much relevance to current society as the storyline to Game of Thrones. Society’s obsession with this child is certainly as medieval as the series setting. Ever since the 2011 wedding, the media have been restraining themselves from climbing inside the Duchess to check if she is pregnant and rallying the troops through the red-tops to get everyone to join in the same fervour. Here we have an intelligent woman reduced to A) Princess Bride and now B) Doting Mummy. She may end all personal aims now, her key life goals have been completed; what more could a woman want than a ball gown, a prince and a sparkly ring? Only a baby to make the item a family. Are we really so dated? This rings of little more than the obsession England garnered for the many wives of Henry VIII; each one their life value weighed upon their breeding ability. Like a farmyard animal. 

On a side note, it should be worth noting that recent studies show Henry to have been a likely sufferer of Kell’s disease- an illness which would have made his wives able to carry one child to full term but any others would be likely to die either before birth or shortly afterwards. A theory which matches well to the pregnancies of each of his wives and his later physical deterioration with correlating symptoms. Of course no-one would possibly have considered the issue lay with his biological make-up and each wife became reduced to a disposable body.

Times have changed in many ways since the Tudor reign, particularly for women, and yet here we are still with all night campers enjoying lying on the pavement awaiting news of a birth and the succession of an outdated Royal lineage.  We have still knocked Kate’s personality out of our minds replacing her with ‘Womb Middleton: Britain’s dream of future’. Had she and her husband decided against having children the world would be aghast, surely women cannot live happy lives without giving birth? Let me state, I love children, I am not of the camp who believe that having children means a woman’s life is over. Someday I hope to be a mother myself but that is not all that I will be, and certainly not all that I will be defined by. This week I await the birth of one of my best friend’s first child; she will still be a women with two honours degrees and a passion for Star Wars. Despite the rumours and misheld belief, giving birth will not diminish the importance of her intellect or personality- similarly neither would a life without giving birth, as is the route of life many other women go on. 

It’s 2013 and this is still a man’s world. Despite what Beyoncé may invite you to believe, girls do not yet run the world. In fact, research by the UN reveal that not only are less than 10% of world leaders women, so too are only 1 in 5 members of parliament. 

 

This week, British political leader David Cameron has made the news regarding his new campaign to block pornography from households unless they elect otherwise. This may potentially be the first Nanny state action which my generation have had to face and while this may be, to some, only a positive move forward I question whether or not it is. Firstly, in the situation of families, it is suggesting that it is no longer the role of parents and guardians to guide children wisely, but the internet. An idea I certainly don’t encourage. Furthermore, if Cameron is so keen to protect young eyes and fight the battle against the degradation of women then surely he must question his tight relationship with Rupert Murdoch- the man responsible for Page 3. As The Guardian’s Polly Toynbee rightly described “The cascade of revelations of the intimacy between the Cameron entourage and the Murdoch empire saps the government’s authority. That’s the ‘shadow of sleaze’.” Surely, a friendly word in his chum’s ear could explain how accessible his fleet of newspapers with topless women are to young eyes and how these images do little to improve women’s place in society- points well made in his pornography banning argument. As D.C is obviously well aware, such a culture only serves to see women defined as a walking, talking pair of breasts. (Until the point they are defined as a walking, talking womb.)

So, as we offer our congratulations to ‘The Cambridges’ on the birth of their new child, let us not forget the woman who bore that child. A business woman with a keen eye for art who, as too few know, previously wrote a paper on Lewis Carroll’s Photographic Interpretation of Childhood. The only royal document I’d be keen to get my hands on, not a birth certificate to find out which name they have chosen, as is the current obsession of global curiosity.

Maybe they’ll surprise us all, give in to 2013 and pick a random Coca Cola bottle. 

Mental Wealth

Year 10, Technology & Design, Mr McNicholl’s room. I’m sitting beside my friend Lisa as one of our classmates talks about the morning’s assembly. That morning we were spoken to about the effects of bullying, how we never know the full details of another student’s life, something which we should never take for granted. Here I was listening to a girl in my year tell me how this was instigated by her; she had been called names by another girl and that must be what inspired this talk. 

I sit, I smile, I say nothing. The week previous I had found myself sitting in the office of a senior teacher searching the world for the words to explain the deep, raw, self-inflicted scars which ran up and down my arms. Here I was now with a long sleeved blouse and jumper with classmates who were none the wiser. If she knew so little about me I could only imagine how many other girls at my school were having a tough time. Even our year head only knew about the cases which had been brought to her attention. 

When I reflect upon my past I am only ever filled with gratitude for my introduction to theatre. At that point in my life I was truly foraging my way through the bottom; a naturally bright girl uncharcateristically unable to strike any connection or passion with schoolwork with few friends in a traditional all girls convent school- with all the traditional catty girls that come with it. Lonely and misunderstood I failed to make sense of my own being, carrying a weight of sadness from a life of confusing events and hurt. The only pathway to self-soothing I knew of consisted of using knives, scissors and razor blades to cut and carve away at my own skin. 

Until I went to my first drama class. A fairly late bloomer compared to some actors who had well established child star status by the time I was merely dipping my toes in theatrical waters I was unsure of the move. I had always read at school assemblys and did one school show in primary school but a bigger part of me believed the girls who told me I wasn’t good enough because I never took speech and drama grades. Amazingly and unpredictably, it was the defining point in my life. For the first time I felt full; a fully formed human being where every atom mattered and had a purpose. 

Every experience which had previously made me someone embarrassingly oversensitive could now be channelled- that sensitivity now being what could assist in the creation of truthful theatre. After some time I settled an agreement in my head; there was no way at this point that I could let anything else win, there was something inside too big to compress. Even if it took me the best part of fifty years I had the potential to make a huge impact on Irish theatre, all I had to do was stick it out long enough. I had found my reason for living. It’s something that still fuels my determination today, I owe it to my former self to achieve brilliance.

But what if I hadn’t discovered theatre? I come from a city dubiously known by some since the mid-nineties as ‘suicide city’ with an alarmingly high rate of depression and suicide; a city of people who rely upon the diligence and speed of both Foyle Search & Rescue and alert taxi drivers. I’m not suggesting I would necessarily have gone down this route myself, suicide and self-harm are different, not everyone who is suicidal self harms and not every self harmer is suicidal. In fact, many modern psychologists argue that suicide is the last thing self harmers aim for, what they are seeking is peace and a way to feel better, not a way to end it all. I may not have taken my body away from this world, but I was certainly robbing them of my spirit. 

These days I am still sensitive, but as one of my former acting coaches at The Actor’s Temple in London pointed out to me, it’s essentially my job. If I can’t access emotions to the nth degree within seconds then I’m limiting how well I can do my job. I simply take it as part of who I am. I also still have marks on my arms. Some are there every day of the year, some show up when it’s too hot or too cold- the scar tissue turning a different colour from the rest of my skin in extreme weather. I’m not ashamed of those either. In some ways they’re a mark of hope, a reminder of the potential positivity around the corner. The person who left these permanent scars on my body didn’t see the theatre reviews, the awards, the published work, the drama school scholarship- just as the present me doesn’t yet see the accomplishments the 30 year old me will have achieved. There is always a new tomorrow. 

Of course, I had things a lot easier than most. I found a calling which was cathartic and encouraged self-expression. I was also a girl. At an all girl’s school it’s not uncommon to cry, every teacher has had a student do it in their class and every class has one teacher who’s made some of them do it. Not only do I dread to imagine my life without theatre, I dread to imagine my life as a boy. Boys aren’t allowed to cry, it goes against all the alpha male qualities we impress upon our society. It is, wrongly, deemed weak and not something to be admired let alone replicated. In Ireland, statistics of depression in young males is alarmingly high with suicide being the most common cause of death in young males in their early twenties. Indeed, Derry City holds statistics of suicide in young men which are 38% higher than any other region in the North West. 

Having watched this week’s documentary “Footballs’ Suicide Secret” presented by Clark Carlisle, some of the much needed light is starting to be shed on this topic. In admirable bravery, Carlisle both shares his personal story and investigates that of fellow footballers who have had to face their own mental health demons. Through his interview with Lesley Speed, the sister of the late Gary Speed, we are reminded that this is a secret which held to oneself for too long could prove fatal. The resounding call from all these young men is the guilt they felt for being depressed. Young, strong men shouldn’t feel this way, especially not those who are lucky enough to have a dream vocation with such an enviable pay packet.

Too often society forgets that depression can happen to anyone, male or female, regardless of their job, level of intelligence or wealth. The failure to recognise this leaves men and women in a position where they are fighting both an illness and the stigma attached. Depression is simply an imbalance which can affect anyone. As Clark Carlisle himself has said “I have a very strong body. I do all the work to make it strong yet it can still break down and my mind is exactly the same; I have an incredibly strong mind but that mind can get ill or break down. Depression, in my opinion, is a mental injury that needs diagnosing, treating and then you’re back on track again.”

When I look back to my time at Thornhill, in that senior teacher’s room, I’m appalled at the stigma which floated around my being there. My form teacher held me back after class and walked me up to the office like a stranger with a contagious disease before leaving me in a room with a teacher who may have been at the school longer but was held no great qualification in supporting vulnerable young people and barely knew my name. It seemed there were egg shells around me and I was a walking taboo; I was even told that day that I was only doing it because I saw it on TV. All of these things were wrong. I was suffering and unsure of how to help myself, I was vulnerable and needed support- not another attack from people who fail to understand the complexities of the human brain. 

In recent years when I have mentioned this issue I have faced the ignorance of a person who told me I should never speak about it, instead I should consider what people would think of me. I imagine what people will think of me is none of my business. I’ve come through a dark place and have found my own personal well of strength. I’ve wanted to speak about this before but couldn’t summon the courage, unable to bear the thought of people writing me off as mad I simply mentioned in interviews that I was bullied. While I do have memories of some girls in my year promising they’d ‘rip my head off my effing shoulders’ while huddled around me in a corridor corner, this isn’t the important part of my story. Taunts and jeers were an easy load compared to the cage I locked myself inside mentally.

It is my duty to those going through that place currently to help shake off this unnecessary taboo, to remind others that the future is not here yet and has the potential to change everything. The moment when you have least inspiration to continue is the most vital, it is then that you need to charge your energy into holding on for one more moment, after that there’ll be a new one. One small step at a time is all that anyone needs to take- that is progress in itself. What’s most essential is the ability to talk, be it on a phoneline, to a family member, a friend or a teacher- there is no need to be alone and suffer in silence. There is no need to assume you’re the only person who has experienced what you have. You’re not abnormal. 

I’m very lucky. I found a lifeline to hold on to and carry me through until I was back at shore and have been able to make a career out of that lifeline. I’m surrounded by good people, supportive siblings and good friends who I can turn to when I need to release. I’m in a strong relationship with someone who inspires me and supports my every step for whom I’m able to offer the same. Over a decade since Mr McNicholl’s room and the senior office, I’m a different person. It wasn’t an overnight change but I got there. One day at a time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQ7iZ-cxyA0



To watch Clark Carlisle's documentary 'Football's Suicide Secrets', please click the following link:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b036x8d2/Footballs_Suicide_Secret/

For further advice or if you or someone you know seeks help, please explore the following websites:
http://http://www.samaritans.org
http://http://www.aware-ni.org.uk/
http://www.mind.org.uk/