Chris Brown; The New John Lennon?

I was feeling insecure, you might not love me anymore 
                                                        -Jealous Guy, John Lennon

Artists have both a born gift and ( an often relentless) motivation to create. I'm of the belief that the greatest artists among us are acutely emotionally sensitive and perceptive to life and the world around them.

What, Dean, does any of this self aggrandizing twaddle have to do with your over-inflammatory title to this blog? 

Well, quite simply. I think I'm a hypocrite. You see, even though I look at  artists as talented, often tortured souls, I have trouble setting the same standards to different artists. 

In 2009 R&B sensation Chris brown hit the headlines globally for battering his R&B megastar girlfriend Rihanna. It was so graphic and so public that one would assume his career would be stained and hindered by it (Look at the ongoing reputations of Ike Turner and Sonny Bono, famous for getting off the ground the careers of and severely beating Tina Turner and Cher respectively). Angry young men with short fuses in the public eye have hit women in the past and it's a phenomenon that I fear we haven't seen the last of. I come from a background where my father used to beat my mother, I was too young to remember and grew up in a home without him, however the subject of domestic abuse is something I've always had an ear for. Despite how high emotions have gotten in the past, I've never felt the urge or need to hit any of my sisters, girlfriends or mother. I may still yet prove to be a damaged and angry young man but no-one has felt my wrath as of yet. So what made him do it? Will we ever know? CAN we ever know? Is it really anyones business but Chris and Riahnna's? I'm not sure. But is it right for me to judge his art because of his actions. 

As of now I've never really been into R&B. I was far too white, non-conformist and into Rock music in my mid/late teens to catch the early 2000's wave of R&B artists when the lines really started getting blurry between Hip Hop, R&B and Pop music. However approaching my mid-20's my attitude has softened somewhat. I still have rebellious (?) long hair, plus get me drunk enough when Beyonce's Single Ladies comes on and I'll take you to infinity and beyond. Chris Brown only really enters my conscious brain after the Rihanna incident. Much like the tragic story of Oscar Pistorius, the famous Paralympion who shot dead his wife Reeva Steenkamp earlier this year, a lot of emphasis was put onto how beautiful the victim was. I remember conversations very much in the vein of "If I was hitting that, I wouldn't be ungrateful enough to beat the shit out of her". So the uneducated, less attractive house-wife living in rural-anywheresville being abused by her partener would be less outrageous? No. How beautiful the victim is is of little matter, what we should all be taking from it is how wrong it was.  He was to blame, he was immature and violent. end of. 

Please don't judge me, and I won't judge you. and if you love me, let it be beautiful 
                                                  -Don't Judge Me, Chris Brown

  A flatmate of mine earlier this year kept singing the same line from Chris Brown's "Fine China" as he walked around the living room. I wasn't even sure who the artist was, he would just walk around singing softly under his voice "I'm not dangerous, cos you're mine". Now, anyone that knows me will tell you I'm generally a pussy cat. I'm a big dude who does silly accents. Laid back (dare I say, sometimes funny?). However Living with friends would sometimes bring out the worst in me, I could be a little snappy and overly sarcastic, so when I flipped at his singing I was really out of order and in my inane asshole-ness after finding out it was Chris Brown I laid into my friend about how much of a dick Brown is, also that it's disgusting how he still has such success and such a huge following and fanbase after beating the shit out of his girlfriend. How his fans seem  to gloss over the fact he was a thug. I argued that he didn't deserve the second/third/fourth chances he was being given and certainly didn't deserve to be taken back by Rihanna. Only recently upon a slight mind drift and meditation on that conversation did I see a new context to what I said.

Enter The Beatle. 

I recalled reading or watching something on John Lennon some time ago, I'm quite a fan. Imagine is very near to being an Atheist National anthem. The song "God" slips out of the mouth of any young atheist very easily, it's little more than a list of things John Lennon didn't believe in (literally). But the reason my thought train drifted to this after Chris Brown was that I remember reading that it was rather well known that he had a history of violence toward women. Reports from his first girlfriend, His first wife and even Yoko Ono. The song "Jealous Guy" was supposedly written while Lennon and Ono were on a break and just screams of a man deeply ashamed of what he's done. Not just "dreaming of the past" but also "feeling insecure" and "losing control".  The more I read about Lennon and the older I get, the more I get a little disillusioned with him. There are reports of him funding IRA and The Black Panthers, was he the true visionary,  leader for the left, prophet of the 20th century? 

Or was he a hippy Contrarian? 

It's true that he could be a little of both. Much like Che Guevara, Gandhi or Abraham Lincoln, once an established "legend" around a persons life takes foothold their early life has very little bearing on their eventual legacy. But the fact still remains. They both domestically abused their partners while being famous recording artists. Lennon had the benefit of global acclaim for over a decade before his actions came to light. Also that he was emerging from  a time where a common attitude to violence against women was "she probably deserved it" changes the context slightly from contemporary standards.

I still listen to John Lennon now, I think his song-writing ability stands alone from his actions in private life. Though Lennon's actions were  something I didn't dwell on, why was I so quick to criticize Brown solely based on his discretion's (though as I'm writing this he is in legal trouble due to hitting a photographer in the face. old habits?). 

And this is where my true dilemma lies. If I can't forgive Brown for his actions, and jointly criticized them with his body of work, do I need to apply the same logic to Lennon? If so, do I throw out the Beatles too? also, do we need to hold all artists with violent backgrounds to that standard? 'Be a perfect human being or your work becomes nullified'? I'd hate to live in a world like that.

I was wrong to criticize Chris Browns work because of his actions external to it. I was also wrong to not even consider icons of mine doing the same. Is it ever OK to blame the fans for making someone famous? I don't think it is. I mean for Christs sake, I grew up watching Jackass. We made early 20-somethings famous by watching them shove cars up their ass, smash wood over each others heads and jumping into sewage, We'd scoff at adults  calling it immature by saying they just "didn't get it". Chris Brown is young and very talented. He has a long and successful career ahead of him, he's my age and he's accomplished far more than I ever will because of a healthy mixture of talent, luck and effort. John Lennon was much the same, his was a life cut tragically short by a mentally ill person who wanted to be famous. Perhaps for dying so young Lennon solidified only the latter, nicer "power to the people" side to his persona as his legacy, when there we many  murkier, more violent truths lying beneath. 

But of course music is subjective. You may love one. both, or neither of these artists but you won't be able to deny their profound influence on culture, music and the world. Only time will tell if Brown will be a legend but time has already told us that Lennon is one, whatever he did in the past. 

I liked Lennon's music, I'm not sure if I would have liked him. The major difference between the two from what I've observed is that Brown seems to have a young (largely female) fanbase rabidly defending him and his actions, telling everyone one flippantly to "get over it". While Lennon's seem blissfully ignorant to his transactions. 

I'm going to keep listening to Lennon, his music intrigues me too much to let him slip. I won't forgive,  condone or defend his actions, but I'll enjoy his creation. Also, much to my friends delight, I now have Chris Brown on my ipod... 

I'm not dangerous 
                                                   -Chris Brown

Instant Karma's gonna get you 
                                                                        -John Lennon 

Daddy Issues

(Please note, when I refer to the initials of someone's name, it is to protect the identity of those I'm referring to. )

What is a father?

That isn't something hypothetical, some deep "hey think about this" tactic a blogger may deploy on occasion, it's a question I genuinely don't know how to answer. To create a child with a woman a man need only supply one ingredient, but that equates to the title "sperm donor". I don't know or understand what a father is. 

 I can't remember when I was told this information, but what I'm about to tell you is just a given fact, something that has no real emotion attached to it because it's just a part of who I am. The sky is blue, 1+1 = 2, and my father threw me against a wall when I was two years old. It's just a fact, I don't get upset or angry when I type or speak that to people. I also remember various tales of him beating the absolute shit out of my mum. Growing up my mum was very provocative in arguments, knowing all the right buttons to push to just piss you off and she would use them with often little to no provocation. I would never use that as an excuse to bring her physical harm (though in my teenage years, I'm ashamed to say it came close) I can see how a man with a short fuse partnered with such a provokateur could have explosive results. The bizzare, if not, depressing  result of this one was that I don't think my mum ever fully fell OUT of love with my father despite what he did to me, to her, and to my younger sister (who she had been carrying when the notion took hold of him to beat his pregnant girlfriend).  

I spent my earliest years with my mum and my grandparents (who we would live with on occasion). All I knew about my father was that he was in prison because he had "hit somebody". That was all I was told until the age of around 10. Although I remember a few of my mums boyfriends growing up, I still remember in the ages of around 4-7 going to see my dad in prison. Me and my younger sister would go and play with some toys in the corner of this expansive hall. I can remember the toys being old and the lighting being dim and depressing. I remember all the prisoners wearing light blue shirts, and I'm not sure if it's memory or an imprint from movies whether or not I saw the prisoners wearing coloured bibs. I can also remember seeing my mum kiss my dad, on the mouth, passionately (mixed messages?). Me and my sister would be sent away to play so they could "talk". The details of the amount of time and frequency of these visits I must confess is a complete  blank to me and I don't care to ask my mum for the details. But I bring them up here because that was pretty much the only memory I had of my dad growing up.

I can remember other kids at school would talk about their dad and what they did or were going to do at the weekend or in the evening. I just had no concept of what they were talking about. I can remember being round friends houses and how the presence of a man always put me a little on guard. Around Christmas and a few of my birthdays me and my sister would receive a phone call from daddy. I can't tell you a single thing about any of the conversations we had but I can probably assume it was very general chit chat to the effect of "you ok? how's mum? are you behaving yourself? good boy". Sometimes we'd receive hand-drawn pictures. I'm not sure how many but I do remember being really impressed with this picture of sonic he'd sent, also a jewellery box he'd hand made of match sticks. I can remember bits and bobs of these interactions with the man who was my "father" yet, I still have no idea what a father IS.  

After the phone calls (I have very, very vague memories of this but my mum has filled me in over the years) I would turn violent. Violent toward my sister and generally aggressive toward anyone else. A degree in psychology isn't necessary to see that that little blonde boy expressing such aggression was just a sign of a scared and confused child. Looking back, I think it was all just too strange to comprehend, I didn't "get it".(as if I do now?)

One of the later of mums boyfriends, an old friend of hers sort of moved in with us was kind enough to help my mum give me the gift of two more beautiful younger twin sisters S & K. But as my mums luck with men struck again, the relationship went foul before they were born. Toward the end of the pregnancy my mum got close to DM . He was only about 10 years older than me at the time. A cocky, blue eyed 18 year old who was a school friend of my uncle. Shortly after S & K were born their biological father committed suicide, which left DM an opportunity to slip right in and become a father to S & K, but not quite to me. 

DM was a saint. He loved football, 80's movies (which were a little before his time) and attractive women. A pretty good companion for a lost young man. My mum wasn't an easy woman to live with, she was demanding and a little lazy, she would always mean well and be sincere with her excuses as to why she couldn't help "tidy up more" but all the same, not much gets done on her initiative. So growing up, whenever DM would have a day off work, when I came home from work the house would be spotless, the music would be playing or the football would be on and the council estate maisonette we lived in would really feel like a home. DM gave me more than I can ever thank him for, he was kind and patient with me. We always got along, even, when reaching my teens, I genuinely despised watching/listening to/ talking about football, giving up my team (Tottenham Hotspur) in favour of rock music and Playstaion. We'd still go to the cinema and he would still be a great shoulder to cry on. He was so generous and giving that though he could be emotionally distant, he was always warm and friendly with very frank and often stern advice always ready to dispense. He did a lot for me growing up but... Maybe it's an age thing, maybe it's because I always used his first name instead of "Dad" (which he was always fine with) but he was never my "dad" or my "father". He was more of a brother figure. A fucking good one. He gave me something very key to my understanding of my real father too. I'm just sorry him and my mum couldn't work things out and still be together. He was good for her. 

I can remember around the age of 10, I overheard DM and my mum saying something to the effect of "he needs to know" and my mum submitted "fine", and didn't seem happy about it. Up until this point (and pretty much ever since) my mum had painted my dad in quite a positive light. What I was shown by DM that afternoon (I picture myself in school uniform, but I could be wrong) was a womens magazine "Take a Break" or "That's Life" or something like that. A cheap, trashy women's magazine not unlike the ones my mum to this day has around the house. In them, readers send in their personal tales of woe including plastic surgery accidents, rapes, life threatening incidents (usually to do with domestic abuse) etc. and they receive money for their story once printed. One such story (the one I was allowed to read that day) was one of a woman, her baby, and her boyfriend. The boyfriend living with her was not the child's father. The baby's name was Jack, and as I remember the story, this lady who had a flat above a shop went out to get some shopping one day. As she was walking back she could hear her baby crying. Crying really loudly, and then suddenly... not crying at all. She rushed back to the flat. I don't remember if the baby was in the boyfriends arms or whether he had been put back in his cot, either way, he wasn't moving. 

The baby was not dead. He was, in fact  severely brain damaged. The type of brain damage one acquires from being shaken by a full grown man. The man. The boyfriend. My father. One of the most important and freeing things DM gave me was that real, solid insight into who my father really was. What he had done, and why he had been in prison.

So, how about grandad? The loving, gentle man who was my Nans second husband (therefore not my biological grandfather at all) who I love with the entirety of my heart? Was he my "Father"? I'm not sure. he would always take me and my sister to school, walk to the shop for us (mum didn't work or anything but if she can get someone else to do something for her, she's ok with it going down that way) and he would always sit and listen. But after I reached the age of around 11-13 I came to the realization that he just couldn't offer me the kind of emotional support and guidance I perhaps needed. I really don't want to come across as thinking myself better or smarter than any of my family (as I sincerely believe that not to be the case) but I started taking interests in science, news and religion and no-one (including my mum and grandparents) could really engage with me on any meaningful level on those subjects. They were always talking about  the council, the lives and affairs of other people on the estate, lots of "he said/she said" banter about other people in the extended family. I have always felt loved, but just not engaged in a way I needed. I love my Grandfather.

With this mish-mash of "sort of" male adult figures and insight to my real father, I got on with life. I never once stopped to feel sorry for myself. As the years rolled on those things were just facts, I didn't brag about them or use them to emotionally blackmail people. Many a friend has heard me say "my father threw me against a wall when I was two" but it's not said with malice. Just as a fact. Let's go to the age of 16, and as a semi-adult I meet my father face to face for the first time. He was friends with a family that live two doors down from my grandparents and was helping his friend fix his van. I had said since his release from prison "I think I wouldn't mind talking to him". I'm not sure what I wanted from any conversation but... I don't know, I think I had this urge to come face to face with him. 

The build up:

The description I had of my father was thus; He was a tall, muscular man with long, dark brown, slightly curly hair. he had dark skin for a white guy (as do my mum and sister. I'm Casper the easily sunburnt ghost). He was the kind of guy that wore size twelve boots (one of which he once stomped on my back, I actually remember reading a police file to verify that) and that he was a funny, smart, charming guy. 

Who did I meet standing by a tool box? 

A bald, goatee'd chubby guy with 5 gold ring piercings in each ear, even at 16 years old I looked over him ( I was probably around 6"2 foot at the time). He spoke like a real London boy, a lager and football loving "geezer". He was absolutely not what I pictured at all. All through my childhood, family friends and my mum would be very quick to say "you look so much like him" "you're the spitting image of your father" "your dad used to do/say that" "don't do that, you look like your father". I Saw it. I saw it around the eyes, I saw the shape of his nose and mouth, the very same ones I see in the mirror. I also saw my sister. but I did not see ME

.My heart was pumping like you wouldn't believe. At this time I'd started to question things my mum had told me over the years, I'd heard her tell different versions of events to people where I was THERE for the event and knew she'd distorted the truth or remembered the details incorrectly. So I thought it'd be fair to ask for his side. We talked for a while, I can't remember the bulk of the conversation but I remember mum, and later DM walking by behind me and into my Nans house. Mum asked if I was ok, I don't remember turning to look at her. I can remember DM saying "everything alright?" and I reply that it was, and P, my father, talking to me once DM had left asking, agressively "what's he gonna do?". I replied

"he's only trying to help"

The bit of the conversation I can remember is P saying to me "you're not going to listen to me, you've got your mums side of the story so you don't want to hear mine". I had expressly said I did. We talked for a while about how tough mum is to live with, about how hard it is talking to her, we even cracked a joke or two, but I concluded saying "I don't hate you. But I don't love you, and I really don't feel as if I need you in my life". I'd gotten by without a "Dad" for so long that I really didn't need him. Especially knowing all that I did. The conversation finished and we shook hands. He looked me in the eye and told me how proud he was and to look after my mum. I took no pride in watching, from my Nans window, him lean onto his friends car and weep. It gave me no satisfaction, but it didn't inspire sympathy either. This was the bed he made because he couldn't control his temper. 

I lived in fear for a few years worrying I was going to turn into my father. He was 15 when I was conceived  and 16 when I was born. My mum was 23. I try not to pass judgement on the age gap because I don't know any of the contextual or emotional circumstances around it. I know that growing up, when the age of 15-16 were far, far away that it seemed like that would be the turning point when I would become this monster. He became the Mr Hyde to my Dr Jekyll. It took another 5 years or so for me to come to the conclusion:

 I'm now in my twenties and I'm a pretty decent guy.

 I'm sometimes quick to anger but as my friends will attest, I become a bit of a sarcastic nob, but I hurt with my mouth. Not my hands. Also I'm very quick to over-think and apologise. P has fathered 6 children that I know of, and because he is on the child offenders register isn't allowed to see his youngest two (after prison he gave me something I wanted for years. A little brother. 20 years my junior. Whom I may never meet) without adult supervision. This led to a break-down in the relationship with the kids mother, I work with the kids grandfather and he's told me of how P likes to play the victim And how nothing is ever "his fault". I've spoken to mutual friends a family members, people who know him, and that really does seem be the consensus. He can never see when he is in the wrong and he's currently going from girlfriend to girlfriend doing his thing. His facebook page has a little part in the "about me" section saying he's tired of being the bad guy and is trying to be good. Trying to move on. 

The child he gave brain damaged to died some years ago. I hold the personal philosophy that hatred requires giving energy equal to love to someone you don't really like, I really tend not to hate anybody. He will not get my efforts, my emotion or my energy. But as far as I'm concerned, there's a mother out there without her little boy. A mother whose last years with her son were with him in a wheelchair, in and out of hospital. 

Try to imagine my anger and surprise when I found out about 2 years ago that my sister had made contact with my father and that she, he, and my mother had been having the odd catch up. I told my sister she was an adult so I wouldn't tell her how to live her life, but that I didn't like the situation. I could have spent years insulting him, spreading lies and rumours or... hell, spreading truths to try and convince her he was no good. But true to form, he did that for me. He hardly calls now and she seems to be persistently annoyed with him. I'd rather she cut contact completely but I'll take her having a general dislike for him over an adoration for him, which she bordered on.

Sub-consciously, who knows where a life not knowing who my father was is going to get me. Has it affected me at all? I don't know. Based on my last relationship it was revealed to myself that I seem to have quite a phobia of commitment, I could love and laugh with this woman but I have/had no urgency or want to have children or get married. Is that dad's fault? mum's? I don't know, but I'm working on it.

Consciously, how do I view my sperm donor? He lost his mum when he was 13 so, to an extent I give him some leeway on how his anger manifests. Perhaps he's still a scared lonely and angry child. Apparently his father was really strict and authoritative but his mother was a saint. A sweet, kind lady, whom from the sound of things, would have been an amazing Nan. Does any of this excuse his actions? toward me, my mum, sister, the lady who's child he stole away? The two children he's left to grow up fatherless like me? 

No 

He's an adult. He has made decisions along the way, and he still hasn't learned what the right and what the wrong ones are. Whoever he is, or whoever he thinks he is, I hope he finds a way to contribute in some way toward the children he has left a little broken. By that I mean the literal children. I think I'm doing ok.

Whatever I do in the future, and whoever I become I know one thing's for sure. I'm not my father. 

Losing "The One"

In my infrequent posts to this blog, I often speak of atheism as if my every waking days consist of not believing in god and justifying non-religion over religion. it's not so. The very truth of the matter is that it isn't actually that important. Sure there are big questions to be asked in the context to what faith has to say on the subjects of creation, existence, ethics, conciousness and love etc, what actually happens for atheists, theists and whatever-ists alike is that we're all trying to earn a crust. Day to day working life means we prioritise putting a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, and that's the way it should be. So please, as I go on to talk about loss, I want to convey that I know people find comfort in their faith, and while I disagree with you, I can respect that, and this isn't meant to be inflammatory or insulting.

The Break Up.

The truth is, no-one really reads my blog so I'm going to give writing about my break up, 6 months ago! A try to see if it helps the healing process.

The woman I broke up with was the first woman I ever truly loved. We fell in love at the tender age of 17 while volunteering at an Oxfam Charity shop, I was 7 months out of my very first relationship, which had ended with my girlfriend cheating on me. As I look back on my first relationship, the less I'm inclined to call her my first "love". when we met, I was 15, she had a vagina. PERFECT MATCH! But the second one. The second girlfriend (and as of right now, last girlfriend to date) was about as close to being described as "the one" as you can get. I could reel off the list of ticked boxes like "beautiful, funny, quirky, smart" but I feel when we talk of "the one" that goes without saying. What she had was a fundamental understanding of me. She looked deeper than anyone else has and stayed with me. It didn't matter that I hadn't attended university, it didn't matter that I was overweight, we met at the tender age of 17, and we fell in love. (I don't believe love to be any mythic force, I don't believe it is the will of angels or controllable through voodoo dolls, it is a few emotional triggers and chemical reactions in your brain. One of the many things we should be so glad we have as human beings.)

We fell in love and we just kept falling. After just a few months, us love struck teens had to face a problem: Her father, a North Cyprus-born chap had decided to move his whole family back to his homeland. Our relationship was a secret, so he didn't address his teenage daughters feelings about leaving the man she loved (or lusted, we were 17 turning 18, who knows at that age?) but it didn't matter. You see, in many Turkish house-holds (arguably, many households globally) what daddy says, goes, so off they went.

4 and a half years.

4 and a half years we waited. Retrospectively, and I'm sure she won't mind me saying this, it was an insane idea. She would fly back to London a couple of times a year and we would secretly meet up and travel into the centre of the city of London, meet my friends  meet her friends  we would try and squeeze as much "coupley" stuff in as possible, were we living a lie? we were dreaming? Probably. but every second with her was gold. She hadn't really courted, or romanced anyone before me, and unlike some of the girls in my social group, love wasn't something to be cynical about for her. She would appreciate every loving gesture I offered; a single red rose, a packet of her favourite flavour crisps ( Salt & vinegar, I would constantly try new brands) or very amateur poetry. She absorbed any and all the love I would expell, and send it back ten-fold. she would look at me with eyes that couldn't see enough, her eyes were hungry and when my eyes met hers, I was happy to be eaten, consumed and absorbed by her. I don't think worshipped would be the right word, but she really looked at me with a sgaze that wanted to see nothing else. I miss it.

So, our occasional "summer lovings" would have to do until the "one day" we often spoke of (over Windows Live MSN chat or skype) would come. We would speak of our dream house, of dream holiday destinations, how we were going to do things to, and for one-another until forever and beyond. The only things that ever really caused any kind of upheaval (however slight) was

-Her family, and how they would react if they knew, and
-Religion.

Now the first part, I addressed in my mind at the time by turning her dad into every disproving Rom Com dad ever, he would be displeased by his daughters choice but ultimately my love for his daughter (his eldest child) and cheeky charm would win him over. I'm seriously not kidding you, that's the sort of imagery I had in my mind.

The second part, one of faith, was tough. We never, in the 5 and a half years we shared, EVER had raised voices, angry words or any kind of spite between us, but religious (and in most cases, more specifically, cultural) differences caused a rift. The best example of this is the debate over circumcising young boys. I disagree with it, forgetting how the practice has it's roots solidly in religious traditions, it's also the completely pointless removal of someone else's body part, and I don't feel I have the right to do it to my, or anyone elses son. Now at this point, her parents still didn't know about us and she lived 3000 miles away, so it may seem moot to speak of a house and kids, but as all couples do over time, you talk about the future. And this particular topic was something we never really found a satisfactory compromise to. We ended up just never really talking about it, when we tried, she would cry and I hated myself. I felt she was torn between what she "owed" her family and her culture (born and raised in Britain, but very close to her Cypriot heritage) and how much she cared for my feelings. I don't think I ever told her this but I always felt she wasn't aware it was a choice. For Turks (not necessarily Muslims) you just GET YOUR SON CIRCUMCISED .I'm generalising of course,  I haven't met every single Turk OR Muslim, but certainly all of the one's I've come across in my social life seem to corroborate this viewpoint.

However, even if I think the practice is cruel, barbaric and dangerous, I don't believe a parent has ever inflicted it on their child with intention to harm them.
She never thought about it, she wasn't allowed to. I don't mean in an over patriarchal religious environment like Saudi Arabia, but the idea of questioning tradition simply WAS NOT DONE. Critical thought can't developed healthily in an environment of "what would nan think?". But she loved her family, and wanted to show them all the respect she could. She was a good daughter. (I really shouldn't even talk as if my opinions here have any merit, I'm often very, very wrong when it comes to reading people in this way)

Reconciliation 

Time went by, and over 4 and a half years, living mostly apart, we did plenty of growing up. But our plans always involved the other. Despite the long nights with me online, she studied hard and got her university degree in psychology. I got a job in a supermarket. (yeah Dean, put those two sentences next to each-other  great idea).

I managed to move out into a house with a couple of friends, so when she got her scholarship and moved to London, we were able to actually live a dream. She lived in a very eastern part of London  I lived in the north, so we did travelling a-plenty, but an hour train ride over 6 hour flight was a huge leap forward. In the time she was here we really loved. Deep-rooted, raw emotion exposed to the other on occasion.

What I'm about to tell you is wrapped in emotional barbs for me, so I won't go into great detail, but it features better in this context than to simply omit if completely.

On one occasion, my mother attempted to take her own life, now my relationship with my mum is a long and rather sordid tale,  and will probably the subject of a future post, but all that matters now is what she did. The girl I love.
She had grown up in a home with two, married parents. I did not. She knew who her father was. I did not (I knew my fathers name, but I didn't *KNOW* him). She grew up in a home paid for by her parents earned wage. I grew up on a council estate and my mother hadn't worked for as long as I could remember. Her mum was a doting house-wife who cooked cleaned and took pride in looking after her family (I was fortunate enough to meet her mother, as a friend of-course, and she really is a sweet, kind and loving woman). She came from an absolutely, fundamentally different background to me, so when I'm angrily trying to express my feelings about what just happened to my mum, she said

"I don't know what to say". 

She put her hands on my face, she looked me in the eye. She couldn't understand what I was going through, and she didn't pretend to. That meant more to me than all the "sorry to hear about what happens" from all of my closest friends combined. She didn't smother me in bullshit advice. She didn't  use an example from her very different upbringing to force a comparison. She simply loved me when it was the best time to do so, and for that, she will forever have my respect.

In the year she was here, we shared so much. We sometimes spent days in each-others company, literally 24 hours. and we never argued. We got bored and cranky, but never angry.

I was thankful for every chemical reaction our relationship triggered in my brain. I was grateful for every psychological mechanism that caused my infatuation with her. I was appreciative for all the love she gave me.

We broke up because we didn't know how to tell her parents. Because we couldn't figure out how to align our beliefs and our wants. we broke up because she was moving back to Cyprus after graduating and we "didn't want to go through the long distance again". We broke up because....

I could write a million things here. All the things we spoke about, and I still couldn't reach one, or any combination that actually explains why. We just did.

It was the single most excruciating thing I have ever faced. 

Not right away though. After she moved back, I had recently moved again, still with a guy I'd lived with before, and I'd somehow also managed to lose a little bit of weight (going from a XXXL to and XL. and for a 6"4 guy, that's good going) My ego was boosted, I figured

 "hey, I'm single for the first time in 5 and a half years, I'm feeling good, let's see if we can't get some action".

So clubs, pubs, house parties, one after another I went. I talked to girls. But...

Nothing happened, I'd like to think it was like some Rom Com where the guilt and the love-loss seep into my actions so I sabotage myself from finding love again, but, it's probably more to do with the fact that I'm still no Casanova,  I'm still not an "ideal catch". As attracted as I was to other girls though, I did still feel like I was in a relationship. I would talk to her online, but getting a smartphone you carry in your pocket, and speaking to the love of your life (who is no-longer in your life) daily, really wasn't healthy, I went through a phase after she left feeling numb. She visited in the November (2 months after she'd flown out of my life) and seeing her again smashed through the floodgate. I cried a lot. there's a good argument that I cried more in the last few months than I had in the 10 years previous. I just kept feeling like I had made a mistake. that I was missing her because we just shouldn't have parted, I cried because we should still have been together. I cried because not being with her physically brought me pain.

Losing that love has taken a piece of me. Being realistic, It's possible (Probable?) I'll find a connection with someone again, I know that. In the concious side of my mind I know that that's the cold hard truth, but the simple  fact that I had such a close bond, and have lost it, causes such great pain still.

She was, is, an amazing woman. She occupies so much of my heart still that I can never truly be without her. she's comes back to London at the end of this month for a short stay and wants to meet up. I often have fantasies of kisses and embraces. I know it's wrong. I know it makes things worse, but giving in to that part of my imagination makes me forget the pain for a while, only to bring it crashing back again. I have a long way to go before I'm over my life's greatest love so far. But I'm grateful now that I know her, and that she's in my life in some capacity. We haven't spoken much as I suggested we limit our interactions. I did it because talking to her, but not seeing her caused me such anguish. She honoured my wish even though talking to me had been a great deal of help for her. She is and always was more than I deserve.

It's a long climb ahead, but even the highest mountain has a peak.

Your favourite Atheist Asshole,

DD