“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”

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— Thomas Mann

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When I first began this blog, in 2009, it provided for me as a young teenager a way to connect with a world beyond the confines of my own. I was 15, running scared, yet going nowhere. Words fell naturally from my conscious onto the pages of my blog; I bled without any inhibition and found at least temporary release. Connecting with an audience – of only a few hundred initially – liberated me, and was my first experience of interacting with a reality which challenged my sense of isolation. I was discovering the music of Bruce Springsteen amidst the ongoing tragedy of my childhood, and although at school I was ostracised and at home abused, through a combination of Springsteen’s music, my developing ability to write, and the audience who began responding to my first literary heartbeat, I began to forge an identity beyond that which I had previously known. For the first time, I was defining myself as being worth more than the product of a broken family.

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As time progressed, and with my life taking increasingly exciting – and, at times, tragic – turns, my writing became more prolific. My audience grew from hundreds to thousands, and then on to tens of thousands. For a time, nothing beyond writing felt at all natural. Whereas before I was merely the shadow of my potential, after finding my inner voice – so profoundly lead by the music of a man and band I was only beginning to discover – I was realising my potential, proudly, and fostering an ability to stand against the adversity which for years had crippled me.

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Previous readers of this blog will have come to know the story of my childhood; it was the number one earthly reason for my writing. One of the most overwhelming experiences I’ve ever had was receiving not the notifications of increased readership, but more importantly the communication I received from those readers. I was a teenager living a life in which I did not recognise myself, and in which I was not recognised by others, and yet my perceptions and observations were resonating with strangers the world over. I began receiving comments and emails from adults, sometimes decades my senior, telling me that my writing had affected them, moved them, inspired them. I didn’t consider myself as anything other than what I was – an insignificant child writing about the world, my perceptions, and discussing my human experience; a human experience which, although unique in context, lead to feelings which were mutual & which connected me to people who were almost entirely anonymous.

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With the support for my writing increasing, I kept on producing content which both entertained and compelled an audience, whilst providing me with a release and a means to cope with an intolerable combination of grief, depression, and responsibility. I wrote everything as though only I would ever read it; as I am doing now. My posts were not so much articles as letters to myself, and those who could see in my words a reflection of themselves. These are the people for whom I continued to post on my blog, and to whom I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude. I wish I had kept the momentum of my blog going strong, but as life progressed my situation changed beyond recognition, and since then it has been harder than I ever would have imagined to take the knife to my heart and bleed in the form of word.

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Like anyone who attempts to create – writers, painters, sculptors, musicians – I had my detractors; I continued to write in spite of them, and never for them. The same is true to this day. It always dumfounded me that a small minority of adults many years older than me would attempt to disparage my work, and more perversely, attack the young teenager who created it. This deviant behaviour provided a darker introduction to my experience of adulthood, beyond that of my own family, and just like the experience of teachers who bullied, ‘friends’ who ostracised, only strengthened my resolve to proudly and originally walk a path which only I define.

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This path has not been easy. From the day, 7 years ago, when my Dad died violently at the foot of my bedroom door, I was destined not to connect with the world around me. I continue to live with a sense of disconnect to what I witness; consumerism, capitalism, cronyism. I experienced as a 13 year old boy a violent and immediate introduction to the dark side of adulthood, and once that darkness took its grip, it pulled me beyond any hint of innocence or optimism usually synonymous with childhood. From that moment, my capacity to engage with the majority of what was expected of a 13 year old was compromised. I struggled immensely to associate with my classmates at school, and very quickly began to question the legitimacy of the world around me. School work became extraordinarily trivial, and the drama of teenagers who – rightly – had experienced nothing close to real pain drove me to the point of insanity.

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To experience alcoholism in not one, but both parents, to be neglected and abused, shouted at and, on occasion, physically assaulted; to have a violent altercation with my Dad – wherein my only defence was to tell him that I ‘hated’ him – and then the following day discover him to have taken his own life by accidental overdose of prescription medication, feet from where I slept; and then, for years, to be forced to care for my depressed, alcoholic Mum, protect my vulnerable younger sister, while simultaneously trying to hide the despair from the world in fear of judgement, and then live my own life… To live such an experience changes the very fabric of one’s being, and although I am grateful for the strength, resilience & mind which I have as a consequence of my childhood, I continue to recognise and be challenged by the effect which my childhood experience has had on me.

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The brutalising effect of trauma in childhood is as complex a human experience as it is possible to have. As psychological studies prove, the occurrence of trauma in youth & adolescence can change the very biological structure of that child’s brain. As such, whereas I can cope easily and intelligently with trauma & emergency, travel abroad freely and without inhibition, engage with serious intellectual thinking, deal with violence and depravity, care for people who are dangerously self-destructive, and cope with situations which are potentially life threatening; conversely, I found it immensely challenging to attend school, it took me years to find the confidence to make table-reservations over the phone, I find it physically uncomfortable to get my hair cut, couldn’t maintain friendships with people of my own age, have been unable to move beyond feeling entirely responsible for my family, and live with an often paralysing level of self-criticism.

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These issues, and more, have been the subject of 5 years of therapy. Whereas amongst many young men, there is a profound embarrassment and even shame associated with seeking help, I proudly advocate for people engaging with mental health services; had it not been for my psychologist & EMDR therapist, the teacher to whom I first opened up, along with the music which, and friends whom I came to love, I have no doubt that I would not be here today. In the latter months of 2009, at the depth of my depression and dealing with suicidal ideations, I had to make a choice; either I would give up then and there, or I would fight. I made a promise to myself that, contrary to how hard things could potentially be, I would never again consider suicide. Although the black dog of depression rears its ugly head on occasion, to this day, and although it can still bring with it the echoes of the darkest, haunting sentiment, I know that my purpose in this life along with the investment I’ve received from others compels me to never again entertain such thoughts.

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I have spent hundreds of hours in therapy; most of which occurred while I was still a teenager. To this day I maintain contact with my psychologist, and we continue to meet every three months. The transformation of my character from my first meeting to now is one of extraordinary evolution. I began on the road as a kid barely able to make it from one day to the next, whereas I sit here now as a young adult with profound ambition and desire.

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Once one has made such a dedication, as I did to keep my life and cultivate ambition and resilience, the process of reconciliation must begin. I knew that, despite the tormented experience of my childhood, I had to find peace with my Mum and Dad in order to transcend the legacy of my experience. The shadows and the echoes of my past are a permanent fixture of who I am, and although I am proud of my conviction and resolve, I continue to experience the after-shock of situations which defined my teenage years.

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February 14th, 2015, marked 7 years since my Dad died. Growing up without a Dad has created a profound void in my heart and soul, and with each passing anniversary I find a new perspective to that pain. Grief comes in waves, and whereas at times I feel entirely unaffected by his absence, on occasion I feel like I am going to drown in the pain of missing him. Developing maturity with each passing year, I am learning that rather than notice his absence less, I am feeling it more. With hindsight I recognise that on the day my Dad died, my family died too.

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The initial event was met with drama; paramedics, doctors, police, coroners, undertakers. For a moment, the world stood still, and the people in my family’s life stood still also. There was a near constant flow of support offered, but within weeks people lost interest. The dust settled and the world had moved forwards. 7 years on, and only a couple of my friends even remembered the significance of the date. Perhaps the most recondite observation I can make is that, in the wake of such an incident, a part of one’s own soul & being stands still as the world does, but unlike the world, it never moves again. A part of who I am continues to stand shuddering over the cold and blue body of my Father; a 13 year old who couldn’t begin to appreciate the enormity of the situation, or see that the world around him had crumbled. There stands a part of oneself, suspended in reality; a permanently open window to a world that no longer exists.

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However, what defines us is not in recognising this fact, but rather in finding a way to transcend it.

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Since my Dad’s death, I’ve also experienced the loss of my Mother and Sister. They are alive, but separated from me. Try as I might to understand the reasons for this separation, this estrangement, far better men than me have gone mad trying to understand less. This past year, between February 2014 and February 2015, has been nearly entirely devoted to the experience of trying to reconcile with my past, whilst dealing with the ripples of my history which continue to manifest in the present.

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I would be lying if I said that the experience of losing my family, to death and despair, wasn’t the most heartbreaking experience of my life. I would be lying if I said that, for all my espousing about things happening ‘for a reason’, I didn’t wish that I could undo the loss of my Dad. I would also be lying, however, if I said that I would allow this to stop me from living my life.

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Few men have influenced me like Bruce Springsteen has. A glance at blogposts past will confirm the connection which I – and so many others – feel with his music. Through his music, Bruce provides an intangible beauty which offers narrative and definition to experiences which would otherwise remain beyond explanation. From the first moment I heard his 1980 album, “The River”, I have been attached to a body of work which connected with me on such an ethereal level that, in less than 3 years, I travelled 3 continents and 10 countries seeing him live in concert. I even had the pleasure of writing for his official website and Backstreets Magazine, and even more importantly than that; I made friends to last a lifetime.

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One of the most poignant statements which Bruce ever made was delivered as part of the behind the scenes video to the filming of “The Wrestler”, in which Springsteen states;

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“You can find your identity in the damage that’s been done to you. You find your identity in your wounds, in your scars, in the places where you’ve been beat up and you turn them into a medal. And it’s a very dangerous thing to do. We all wear the things we’ve survived with some honour, but the real honour is also in transcending them.” 

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As I look to the future, I realise that the next element to my evolution will be in transcending that which I have written about today; and everything which cannot be defined by words alone. The wounds and scars which cover me, which once offered my sole definition & identity, provide a medal which I can wear with pride. The medal proves that rather than become a victim of my life, I chose to accept the unacceptable, reconcile with the irreconcilable, and forgive the unforgivable. One chapter of my life is now closing, and without much idea where the start of the next chapter will be, what I know for certain is that no longer will my future lie in the shadow of my past.

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In the words of Charles Bukowski;

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“We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”

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To be continued.

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P.S: I have lost access to connorkirkpatrick(.)com for the time being, so if you do share this blog – thank you if you do! – please use this address: connorkirkpatrick.wordpress.com.