Heartbreak on the Road & Loving Angels Instead

I'm of the opinion that you need to make your own mistakes in life to truly learn. This could not be more true when it comes to my van purchase. Driving deep into Europe to escape your traumas and deep seated mental baggage will never work in the long run. It'll distract you for a while, but you'll carry those issues with you, and sure enough they'll return to the forefront until confronted head on. Buying a van merely added 'financial pressure' to that list of burdens taking up headspace, as well as making me withdraw at the very time I needed to be an extrovert. Anyone could have told me this in July, but as I say, sometimes reason doesn't suffice. Sometimes you need to suffer the aftermath of your own poor decisions.

Trauma numero uno was a biggie: heartbreak. I left Ireland just when my relationship, which had been far from breezy up until now, felt as though it was being delicately rekindled. To the outsider looking in, I boarded that ferry to England to fulfil some crazy personal mission to see the world in a campervan. Really it was just a poorly executed attempt to 'beat the system' and evade the crippling rent I'd encountered since moving to the island to be with my girlfriend. My theory followed that that if I were more financially secure, we could alleviate the stresses that were hindering our relationship. Patching up the underlying issues with money is, of course, not a wise, nor advisable solution, but again, sometimes you just won't be told.

Imagine for a moment, sharing one of the best days of your life with someone. I don't know what that would look like for you, but for me it involves doing something active in a beautiful natural environment, meeting around a table to share great food, connecting on a physical and spiritual level. Imagine then if you will, waking up like Adam Sandler in that film '50 First Dates', where the person you shared the experience with has seemingly forgotten it, along with the connection you shared. Suddenly they want nothing to do with you, despite your best efforts to remind them how you are in fact the next Bonny and Clyde or Pam and Mick (I aim to give the reader a broad range of references here), pleading with them to stay. Providing they didn't actually have a brain injury, you'd feel betrayed and deceived. You may even begin to question your own judgement, or your own sense of worth as a result.

So the van, in it's defense, wasn't so much the source of my misery and self pity, more a confounding of the misery that was already present. I'd lost everything I held dear in the pursuit of the plan, so I figured I may as well follow through and embark upon one massive European adventure. If I take a few smiley photos in a few stunning locations, at least I'll look ok from the outside. To be fair that trip gave me memories that will last a lifetime, and instilled in me a clarity of mind with which I can write about these feelings today. I didn't however, find the answers to my problems in a trendy tapas bar, or amongst the bohemian crowds of the motorhome parking lot. If you're naturally solitary as a person, you need commitments that anchor you to others and force you to integrate, otherwise you'll find yourself becoming more and more isolated, with less and less points of reference by which to find connection with the people you meet. You'll withdraw into yourself, and if one thing is certain, it's that becoming too absorbed in yourself is bound to make you depressed.

With so much choice nowadays, with the world seemingly your oyster, you leave all your options open, viewing life through the lenses of a tourist. You let yourself off the hook for not integrating more in social settings, you figure you'll move on soon anyway, these aren't my people, my people reside in the next place on my list - where the grass is greener and there exists a utopia, in which you will build meaningful relationships with a close knit network of friends.

I have no family unit as such. My friends are scarce and scattered, often as a result of neglect, or from having lived multiple different lives in the space of my 20s. I say this not for pity, but to explain the following: I asked too much of my past relationships, in that I sought to fill the void created by the absence of these things, through the relationship itself. This is not necessarily the wrong thing to do, so long as you're aware of the vulnerability it opens you up to, should the fairytale not play out as planned.

As hopeless romantics, reared on Hollywood happy endings, we fancy our chances in that fairytale, despite what the odds may suggest. Twice now I have been forced to reflect upon my own identity, to mull over the existential angst of what I bring to the world, all because I went all in on my girlfriend, leaving my other cups empty - so to speak. I wanted my 'other-half' needy, obsessed, and you best believe I'd cross borders and make the grandest of gestures to receive that adoration. I crave the unconditional love that is lacking elsewhere; I lust after the power to manipulate, because I tend to view my past through the lens of a victim. It didn't take an obscure Freudian theory to reach that conclusion. As much as we like to believe we are unique and complicated, in fact we are pathetically simple beings.

I'm sure you'll be familiar with someone who has been played for a fool at some point in their life - their desperate need for love used maliciously against them. It's easy to see them as a mug, the bloke who's sunk his savings to give his wayward partner the lifestyle she demands, the woman who's downtrodden, basing every decision on the would-be reaction of an emotionally-insecure gaslighter. I always possessed enough self-esteem to rationalise: I would never be the victim in that scenario. But, there I was sailing back to Ireland, tricking even myself that I was going back to race a cross-country season, when in fact all I wanted was that familiar embrace, the intimacy of the only person to have seen all sides of me and, at one point in time, love me regardless. Of course, it was never going to be the Love Actually scene I foresaw, but I repeat: there is no way one can know this in the moment, swept up in a painful cocktail of emotion.

I also never thought I was the person to contemplate, at times fixate, upon not waking up tomorrow. I guess no one ever does - at least you never see it in anyone's Instagram bio. Neither was I the happy-go-lucky type, but I always had so much passion and drive to offset the cynicism, things I wanted to get done, things I wanted experience. So the first time I pondered on the most painless way to end it, it shocked me. I told myself to snap out of it, to avoid that dark road at all costs. But then the thoughts return, and they return more frequently. The modern-day crisis of male suicide has (thankfully) been brought into the conversation, so much so that you'd be forgiven for feeling indifferent around the subject. It's just one of life's inevitables, like global warming, genocide or Mariah Carey at Christmas. Truth be told before this year I'd never stopped to think about how much pain and internal despair a person has to be in, to think that death is the better option. Mortality is probably the thing that petrifies people the most; how tragic is it that so many see fit to inflict it upon themselves, so as to find a way out of the long drawn out pain of existence.

I am lucky in that I found angels on my return to Ireland. Truly selfless people that listened to me without judgement, and cared about my existence when it felt like no one else did. I still wrestle daily with self worth and ponder on the shortcomings that made me so disposable, which to a man seeking to provide, is the knee-jerk reaction. That said, hearing the words 'you make my life better' from a friend stuck with me, and took the edge off the mental anguish, so strong it would manifest as physical pain in the pit of my stomach. Whether they voice it or not, I guarantee someone feels this way about you, not necessarily because of the things you do, but as a result of your existence here.

I guess that's the point of this post. Otherwise, I'm merely wallowing in self-pity for everyone to see. If you resonate or have ever resonated with a sentiment in these paragraphs, just know that you do make someone's life better. That is enough. That's reason enough to live and it's reason enough to make yourself happy. Also, for the people who think they are burdening their network with pain that isn't justified, there is no objective scale by which your story is somehow less than someone else's. We are all human and we can all identify with what it is to be so, specifically with the emotions that ring true amongst the nuisances of individual experience. It's hard to accept help, especially if you already feel inadequate or inconvenient in the world. Accept it nonetheless, on the condition that it be reciprocated further down the line. In turn, be the angel that someone else was for you, but for Christ's sake, tell them not to buy a campervan...