Under the early morning sunshine of a deep blue Claddagh sky, Paddy and I chat about what he needs to do to my car, Joey SX.
We have a good manly laugh about inconsequential nonsense, and then I walk down the hill towards the river.
Oh my sweet lordy, this is truly a lovely day.
The vivid green of the grass on the piers sings come hither to my eyes, so I wander over, stare at lobster pots, faze out to the rush and spritz of the mighty Corrib, and then accidentally sun-dazzle my eyes, by staring up to see if I can spot a cloud anywhere at all.
It’s 9:15 and Paddy said 2 was the earliest he’d have the car ready for me.
Splendid. Several hours of ‘me time’ ahead, as Life Coachy types might say.
With my back to the city and that cold easterly wind, I call my mum and listen to her tales of London life, as I stare across today’s calm silvery water on Galway Bay, over to the purple hills of Clare.
We talk for ages, and I hear myself laugh on at least two occasions. Being under the influence of a depression doesn’t mean I’m unable to giggle.
Each dose is different, presenting new challenges, upsides and inabilities. Despite this being one of the most powerful funks I’ve ever encountered, I’m delighted that it has not robbed me of my vital energy.
Usually it’s impossible for me to say which comes first: the depression or the lack of desire to go for a walk. Sometimes I only realise I’m depressed after I notice I haven’t walked for three days.
Thankfully during this nasty bout I’ve wanted to walk and have walked. Beyond all the prozac and mindfulness in the world, putting one foot in front of the other is my most powerful mental medicine.
Now in Week Three, you probably wouldn’t notice if you met me on the street. Those who insist on putting a label on everything could describe me right now as a High Functioning Depressive, able to smile and socialise.
Thankfully my teaching remains a pleasure; my passion intact as ever. There seems to be little limit to what I can do, yet I cannot stop the tears rolling out of the sides of my eyes. The wrapping paper is shiny but inside it’s a different story.
Inside I am filled with darkness and dread. My own brain is tempting me to visit mental places that will do me harm.
After a lifetime of this malarkey, I’ve learned to spot these thought patterns, acknowledge them and decide not to go there.
Whatever happens, I intend to enjoy this gorgeous Spring morning, free to lurk in quiet pubs, drinking tea, reading endless newspapers.
First stop: a leisurely Full Irish at the Galway Arms.
Later, if I feel strong enough, my spirit fortified by food and solitude, I’ll head out into the world and maybe even chat to someone.
Galway City however has other ideas.
Evidently town doesn’t trust me to be on my own this morning.
Crossing Dominick Street I bump into local filmmaker, creator of Galway’s Super 8 Shots Film Festival and all round good guy, Julien Dorgere. We chat for a while and I enjoy his company, but by the time he heads off I’m gasping for a cuppa.
I make pace to PJ’s place, but look, walking towards me is Peter Connolly of the formidable Claddagh clan.
Peter and I have been friends for years, ever since I became a massive fan of the Claddagh Boatmen - Bádóirí an Cladaig. I haven’t seen him for ages, so when he suggests joining me for breakfast, I’m delighted.
Sadly my blancmange of a brainbox can’t take in the news about those who strive to keep Galway’s marine tradition alive and thriving.
As we munch our eggs and bacon, Peter shares intriguing news updates, but where there was once grey matter, there is at the moment only goo. Long ago, The Ramones explained it thus:
"Now I guess I'll have to tell 'em / That I got no cerebellum!"
Taking their advice I explain my mental condition to Peter, encouraging him to continue with his news, while I do my best to assimilate information.
Peter has a wealth of fact and detail at his disposal. I admire him and share his passion for Galway‘s unique boats, but today all I can distinguish is that the Hookers are the sugar bowl, the salt cellar is the City Council, the pepper pot is the people in Hong Kong who have fallen in love with the boats, and the teapot is … what, sorry mate, what was the teapot again?
Having thoroughly enjoyed his company I leave Peter feeling frustrated that my brain proved so useless.
I very much want to hear it again, so if you’re reading this, Peter, please forgive me and get in touch.
Then I’m verbally yanked over to The Waistcoat, playing his bodhrán at Johnny Massacre Corner, and unable to reply, I stand and listen to him.
Finally, I grab a few minutes alone with a mug of tea outside tigh Neachtain, but ah, here’s Matty, always a pleasure mate, and Rob, long time no see, and here’s a handshake from fellow columnist Dick Byrne, and there’s a
“How the hell are ya, hoss?” from Dalooney.
As arranged ,Whispering Blue also arrives, and then, just as the party is made complete by the arrival of The Body, Paddy calls to say my car is ready.
Today Galway is in charge. My chaperone, my therapist, my hiding place and playground, this city knows best. These cobbled streets have seen it all.
Thanks Galway, for showing me how far from alone I am.
I’m not able to feel it right now, but I know I’m a lucky man.
©Charlie Adley
21.03.2018
No comments:
Post a Comment