Tag Archive | Chigwell School

Suicide is Strength

As everyone in the world has no doubt become aware, Robin Williams the great thespian and comedian passed away yesterday.  The media and vicariously, the public, has been informed that his death was caused by suicide by asphyxiation, which has prompted me along with a rough evening involving a “Russian duck” and some opera tickets, to write this brief post about suicide and Williams, but what I hope this post discusses mainly is strength.

Williams was married three times and had just as many children yet despite being able to leave such a warm and poignant legacy to the world in terms of his work and family, he struggled in life with alcohol and cocaine and problems with his heart.  Much like other celebrities (Kenneth Williams and Jimmy Clitheroe spring to mind) known for being funny to the public eye, in private Williams evidently had a painful and difficult-to-bear existence.  I cannot claim to know more facts that any concerning his death, or his career and personal life for that matter having only seen Popeye, Aladdin, Mrs Doubtfire, Jumanji, Aladdin & the King of Thieves, Flubber, Bicentennial Man, Man of the Year, Night at the Museum, License to Wed and Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian (actually, that’s quite a chunk of his filmography having listed them!).  However, my viewing activity aside, he was a respected man and actor and I can only assume having read what his daughter Zelda has posted over the past twenty-four hours, that he was a greatly loved husband and father.

Robin McLaurin Williams (July 21, 1951 - August 11, 2014)

Robin McLaurin Williams (July 21, 1951 – August 11, 2014)

His life achievements make me wonder if the desire to screw everything and end it all ever goes away.  I mean to say, I go on and on about how much I need there to be a family of my own in my future for my life to truly begin and be worth all the suffering I have endured, am enduring currently and anticipate until I become a mother, but Robin Williams’ death does make me stop and think about whether that will be enough or if it will fulfill me in the moment but leave that deep obsession with quitting the world where too much hurt and pain and war exists still scratching away at my synapses.  The man was a much sought-after, successful actor in Hollywood, a terrific father and a man who managed to attract three women (more than I’ve ever accomplished) and yet what life gave him and potentially had in store for him was not sufficient to keep him alive.  His suicide meant that a future of grandchildren, growing old(er…), seeing his kids live their lives and continuing to have a thriving career was not enough future and unguaranteed happiness to outweigh the sadness and morbid thinking that must have been percolating in his mind prior to his decision to hang himself.  That is what worries me the most.

Nothing in the future is certain, I’m astute enough to understand that fact and that at any given moment I may get an ovarian cyst that will eliminate the possibility of biological children, or a terrorist will manage to blow Essex up in a cloud of orange fake tan and vajazzling glitter.  The world is a place of chance and it is not a given that just because I’ve had some rotten luck in my personal and love life so far the scales will even out and there will be definitely be happiness in my future.  It is completely by chance that I went to a brilliant school, was taught by impressive and inspirational teachers, found an extended family in my friends and ended up at the University of Exeter.  I am well aware that others aren’t so lucky in this bleak (yet beautiful!) world of ours!  

It takes a certain type of strength to survive and even more to blossom in the 21st century but it also takes a different ilk of strength to leave it behind.  Many perceive suicide as giving up and as a display of cowardice, but I hold a different opinion.  I believe suicide is a high form of bravery.  It is an emotional, drastic and committed expression of the depravity or the depression or the disappointment of life (hopefully not all three simultaneously!).  This – naturally – is a biased opinion from one who has dwelt on suicide for more hours than there are in a day and attempted it on no less than five occasions, committing self-harm more often in practice and I do invite you to disagree and argue with me in the comments section, but nevertheless, I am fully entitled to have this opinion.  Just so you understand that I am not only someone who thinks about killing themselves, I will disclose that (to my knowledge) one relative and one acquaintance have committed suicide in my lifetime and thus I have been affected by the suicides of others in my life too.  Obviously, I am not dead, so what you might have inferred is that I have bottled it five times when trying to kill myself.  Some have attributed these failures to the need to attract attention, others comprehend them as actions the basic, human, primal instinct to survive has averted.  I have another opinion.  I am a weak human being right down to the core.  I struggle with change, I live most of my life alone and beyond the world of the real and living and I speak to my nan (deceased) way too much for it to be healthy.  This weakness never lets me go all the way and leave.  It never lets me find an iota of peace far away from Earth as it crumbles.  It is a weakness that I am still trying to overcome, though with the help of my pills, the desire to try is dwindling, so maybe one day it will disappear entirely…

I realise that this post seems morbid and definitively negative, however, I would just like to share with you one final thought before I go and get some sleep.  Whilst it might be a lack of strength or attention seeking that keeps me alive, I’ll tell you truly that on my good days I disagree utterly with both those explanations.  I believe that it is hope that stays my hand, hope that the future will bear all the fruit that I hope it will, that I will be able to have children of my own and that the world will not blow itself to smithereens in some terrible nuclear holocaust (please, God, no…).  This hope that was left in Pandora’s jar will see me through to my graduation, to America, to becoming a fabulous teacher, to motherhood, to grandmotherhood and finally to death at its right, proper and God-appointed time.

LaBellaBorgia Speaks,

P. Mistry-Norman

12-08-2014

O Godbrother, Where Art Thou?

This post has been a long time coming but it’s one that I felt truly compelled to get spot on, so I’ve waited for the right mood to strike, the most opportune moment and the most creative inspiration to come to me.  I realise in the early hours of this morning as I sit writing this introductory paragraph that I’ll be waiting forever if I languish about just waiting for the right words to appear to me – I’m not Shakespeare, after all.  What I am going to write about today will involve my godbrother, my old school, regret, the desire to create something in this world and passion.  I will just say that while you are perusing this article, I would press play on the clip above and listen to my godbrother speak as you read.  It will make the article come alive much more than just breathing in my two-dimensional words.  Anyway, I’ll stop procrastinating and let you get on reading – I’d probably better get on writing this article too – and I really hope you’ll appreciate this article for the labour of love that I feel it is not only for my godbrother and his family, including the best godparents a problem person like me could wish for, but also for the school that helped us be the people we are.

Before I get down to the knitty-gritty, I just ought to give an incredibly brief bio of my godbrother, the speaker, Michael Pruss.  He attended Chigwell School in Essex before going to university at Royal Holloway, London where he attained a 1st class degree.  That achievement led him to cross the pond and study for a Masters at Chapman University.  He has worked for numerous production companies and directors, including Spielberg and Indian Paintbrush, but he is currently employed by Sir Ridley Scott in his production company,  Scott Free, living in Pasadena with his wife and their two precious daughters.

Sitting in the church and the marquee at Chigwell School Speech Day is always a hugely moving experience for me as I truly miss being a pupil there and being immersed in the fast-paced life of the school that became my home almost instantly.  Each time I have taken my place in the pews at the front of St. Mary’s Church, Chigwell since I left school in 2011 and watch as the choir forms up and the brass group tunes up, I have to work hard to staunch the tears that beg to be let free.  I feel in those moments that I am still sitting on the wrong side of the church and that where I used to be entrenched on the inside looking outwards, now I am merely an observer and a has-been in every sense of the word witnessing sadly as others leave behind what I had and the staff (some of whom I consider family) who taught us all.  It is my hope that one day I will teach at Chigwell School and be home again but even though  people mock me for being unable to fly the Chigwell coop and disparage my need to persistently return to the school and see my true home and family again, I will never apologise for wanting to end my story where it truly began.

“Recognition of a shared history…the reverberations of a past that had – I think – led to two different presents.” –

Mike talks about living with curiosity and passion for your career or a particular hobby that might be ‘your thing’ and how a friend of his from Chigwell School gave up his vocation.  In his speech, I recall that this was the first moment when tears came to my eyes.  It wasn’t the concept of meeting an old friend again after a long separation or realising that one iota of difference in a person’s upbringing can make or break their dreams that brought me to tears.  Instead, it was how suddenly it dawned on me that I am that other person, the person who is serendipitously met by O.C.’s and pitied for not having the naus to succeed in life or be loyal to your passions and live life curiously.  Due to my depression, I often feel too sad to venture out and infect the rest of the unexpecting populace with my affliction.  On account of the mythomania, I alienate people through lying that I cannot control.  Thirdly, thanks to the overwhelming social anxiety, not only do I find it nigh on impossible to connect with people and appeal to them, but I have also discerned that this makes others find me tiresome and unapproachable.  I am not particularly led by my family’s wishes in anything if I am quite honest but ‘my thing’ is nonexistent.  I am not sure that I have one thing or a series of things that I am sufficiently passionate about or excel at to be considered successful in life.  I suppose that’s why a lot of people who suffer from depression, myself included, kill themselves or at the very least attempt to – because they believe themselves incapable and undeserving of a good future and the passion of a curious life.

Maybe as a depressed person who missed out on the excitements and usual hype of childhood, all I really covet is familiarity and the stable sense of love that has eluded me my whole life and that is precisely what I found in Mike’s speech that caused me to cry.  The Clan Pruss as a unit has always been that for me: a family that loves each other through thick and thin and has such stability in the love of Mary and Tony that the love in the subsequent two generations is strong and unwavering and something that more than anything else I wish I was part of.  Despite losing an integral and irreplaceable member far too early on, the bond that keeps them close across a vast ocean is still adamantium-strong.  In fact, I’ll share a brief anecdote with you all, since Speech Day at Chigwell, I have been to stay with my godparents and during the sojourn, Mike and his family video called his parents.  It was great seeing them again but all too soon, I found myself overcome by tears again and I couldn’t bear to be in the room to witness anymore of the unwaning love that is shared around the Pruss family.  I will never stop hoping – a pipe dream though it indubitably is – that my own group of relatives (for I’ll never feel that we can share the same noun as the Prusses) will get to experience that kind of beautiful love before it’s too late.

Myself and Michael Pruss

The 'God-Family' (Michael,  Hilary, Tony, Mary and the children)

The ‘God-Family’ (Michael, Hilary, Tony, Mary and the children)

I will finish by asking the first question I asked: O Godbrother, Where Art Thou?  The answer that I give to that question is: in Los Angeles, with an amazing family and a luminous career, living my dream.  The last part in particular is the best answer to the question I can imagine.  If I could live my dream and be so lucky as to get even a small portion of what I want from life, I would never let it go.  Initially, I thought I was green with jealousy but upon reflection, I’m not.  I am staunchly proud that someone I know can have that kind of future because as a sufferer from mental health issues and a few physical ailments, not to mention constantly feeling hopeless and utterly overwrought, it brightens my most miserable moments to think that somewhere across the pond (or for that matter wherever he is!) Mike is succeeding in life.  It is that that provides the hope for the future, not pipe dreams or wishful thinking, but a real person doing real things and getting real achievements.  That is how you reinvigorate someone like me: you get on with your life and show us – even though we don’t want to admit or see it most of the time – that the world can be lived in and great things can happen to people in it.  So, thank you, Mike for being my friend, my godbrother, for receiving and replying to my emails at God knows when (time differences baffle me!) and for talking with me about films and TV and art.  Thank you for making my story more interesting by starring in it!

LaBellaBorgia Speaks,

P. Mistry-Norman

05-08-2014

 

Two Tragedies in Life

“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart’s desire. The other is to gain it.” ~ George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman

I realise that this is a bit out there but I get the impression that this blog has a fairly loyal following so I feel at ease asking this.

Basically, from 01 July until 01 October this year I am giving up alcohol in an effort to raise some money for a charity of which I am a trustee (to see more please go to the links page).  One of the projects we help is a school in an impoverished region in Tamil Nadu that is named in memory of my godbrother, Tim Pruss, who died suddenly and tragically at the age of eighteen just after leaving Chigwell School, which I also attended.

I am aspiring to raise at least £500 for this worthy cause and it would mean so much to me if this blog, which has helped me so much in the past months, could be responsible for generating some donations.  There is no minimum donation amount and whether you feel able to give £1-£100, I will be eternally grateful for any amount that you can spare.

https://www.justgiving.com/TPMemoriam/

Please click on the link above to be taken to the Justgiving page for my fundraising.

LaBellaBorgia Speaks,

P. Mistry-Norman

20-07-2014

The Worst Side of Me

I have written ad nauseam about my delusions, my social anxiety, my depression and everything else I face on a daily basis at the same time as having to face my lecturers and tutors at university, but the one thing that I have only alluded to and claimed to suffer from is my mythomania.  This I will remedy today.

Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “I’m not upset that you lied to me, I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you.”  Though he was arguably one of the smartest men of the 19th century, I can guarantee he knew no one who had to live with mythomania…  It is one of the mental disorders I have lived with for longest, outliving even the depression.

Lying and bending the truth is such a commonplace thing in today’s society (don’t worry I’m not turning this into a treatise on deception!) and most of you will have heard at some time or another, the terms ‘pathological lying’ and ‘compulsive lying’.  I have looked into both of these things and what I have comprehended from my gander on the Internet is that compulsive liars need lies to protect their egos and regret the deceit, but pathological liars lie to obtain their goals and have no qualms about doing so.

Now, I can tell you that I fit into neither category and thus can only be defined as a mythomaniac because I do feel guilt – of the most painful and devastating ilk – and it is not always a conscious decision to tell a lie.  Don’t get me wrong: a lot of the time I am responsible for the utter crap that comes out of my mouth and I openly and willingly acknowledge that, but at other times, I most certainly am not!

I had a very memorable and humbling experience when I was seven years old during my first year at the school that was my home until I was eighteen which I believe I can hold responsible for the conception of mythomania in my young, virgin head.  I won’t describe it in too much detail, even though I recall it as though it was yesterday, because I am currently on a bit of a roll mentally and I don’t want to have a nightmare about it tonight and relapse, but I’ll give you the cliff notes!

One of my friends, whom I knew because she lived in the same village as me, told me after a (what turned out to be fake!) phone call to her mother that her brother had died in tragic circumstances.  I believed her – seven year old that she was then too – and commiserated with her and went with her to the Head’s office and all that jazz.  Before I knew what was going on, I was being called in to all sorts of offices myself and being asked where I was at the time of the telephone call and what I had said.  I had no clue what was happening, but the teachers seemed to think I had informed ‘my friend’ that her brother had copped it.  That was not all, for when I claimed innocence, still no one believed me, not even my own parents.  Eventually, the true perpetrator confessed all and then I was apologised to profusely, but that couldn’t undo what had already been done.  In those couple of days, the days when I was known throughout the lower school as the very worst kind of person: a liar and a loner, I had been shown that deceit and an honest look could achieve things and bear fruit.  I know I did not consciously decide to start lying but I do truly think that this incident forced that concept into my brain and before I could eradicate it, off I went lying and bending truths.  Needless to say, that was the end of little, innocent me…

All through my formative years I lied.  I didn’t always get caught.  I didn’t always know I had told a lie until after I had spoken the words.  Sometimes – if I was answering a question or just filling in a silence – there would be nothing to prevent me from being honest, but instinctively a lie would fall from my lips and then I couldn’t go back.  Have you ever seen a web of lies?  No, course you haven’t, because they’re metaphorical!  But, I have been trapped in them for so long that the spiders have invited friends over to partake in the delight is me because there was no escape for me.  Certain doom was in my future and I couldn’t flee from it no matter what I did.

At school, you would have thought someone would have noticed and called me on it, but this did not happen.  Of course, people noticed that I lied most of the time but sadly, I was enabled by their infinite understanding.  My school was both the best and the worst place for me.  It was great because it furnished me with the home-from-home that I needed and craved because I loathed and suffered in my familial home but all the extra consideration and leniency I merited because of my dire domestic situation worked against me in terms of my mythomania because instead of punishing me for its presentations, I was let off the hook.

Now that I am at university and am receiving a king’s ransom’s worth of help from various campus medical, academic and administrative services, I still find that I lie to people about various things and I get away with it, just because so few people are aware of it and even less aware that I suffer from it.  Just as a sidenote, isn’t it an interesting thing to say: I suffer from it?  It implies I’m the one who truly suffers from mythomania, and in some ways, I guess I really do, but with that particular ingredient in my cocktail of mental problems, it’s probably everyone I lie to who suffers the most.  That realisation is making my heart heavier even as I write but it is true.  How despicable I must be that I’m only realising that now!  Of course, I knew I was hurting people with every word but I always thought of myself as the one and only victim.  You can all call me stupid now if you like because that is precisely how I’m feeling now.  To quote Sherlock: “Off piste a bit, back now, phew!”, and in doing so I return to the topic of awareness of mythomania because I truly believe that if someone during my pubescent years at school would have called me out on it or just realised that it was present, I might have been able to get some help sooner and possibly, just maybe I might have been able to hit it on its proverbial head.  As it is now, now that I’m as much of an adult as I am ever likely to be, it feels distinctly like I’ve missed the opportunity.  So the moral of this particular paragraph is: don’t enable people who lie because there maybe something more behind it than just artless fibbing.

As I said earlier, this blog is my only completely and entirely point blank honest mode of communicating.  That does not mean that everything else I say is false, but I lie in my personal journal, I lie in life, I will most likely discover a rather witty way to lie in death, but I do not lie in blog!  Just thought I’d reaffirm that now…seemed like the most prudent thing to do.

On the subject of coming clean and confessing to lies, which is something I have done in the past in order to wipe the slate clean, though it did turn out that all the slate needed was a clean so there was more space to fill with new lies, I would just like to tell you about a bit of a harrowing mini-episode in my life that happened during my sixth form years (I forget which one).

I spent a week truly loathing myself and wallowing in self-pity and pondering my sorry lot and bewailing my existence but at its conclusion I decided that I would come clean and disclose all the untruths I had told in the past ten or so years to all my friends and acquaintances via a Facebook status.  Don’t I just wish that somebody, anybody had been aware of my plan so that they could have convinced me not to do such a tomfool thing.  Sadly, I don’t have the luxury of a guardian angel – I don’t deserve one – and I let myself in for a world of hurt.

Most people just crucified me on Facebook and let it be online but not bring it up in person, which I was able to cope with as I find trolling and Facebook and/or Youtube and/or Fanfiction.net insults and negative comments fine to cope with as there is no tangible person associated in my mind with the words.  There were, however, as there always are in these types of situation, a select few who thought I needed to suffer a bit more.  That was a bit more gruelling but the odd, offhand comment calling me a liar walking to and from classes and at breaks wasn’t unbearable – I just hid from people but as a socially anxious person, that was quite agreeable to me.  The worst moment which has stuck in my memory and will permanently be plastered there occurred during one of my French lessons while the teacher was absent.  Our French AS level (I’ve remembered!) class was only small, consisting of approximately 7-8 people.  A guy who was in my house and whom I knew relatively well decided to reference my mythomania and my revelation just in a dull and unrelated conversation and I swear – slightly hyperbolically – that the shock nearly killed me.  At the very least, I was seconds away from a conniption fit when it happened.  I froze.  I ceased to exist.  I went to my happy place, if you will.  I would have completely lost control of my nervous system had one of my best friends at the time not just stood up for me and rebutted that I was actually quite brave in my actions and caused my attacker to shut the hell up quickly.  I will never forget the gratitude and shock and relief at that precise moment.  It remains one of the few occasions in my life where a man – or anyone else – has stood up for me and not left me out to dry by myself.  The funny thing is: when I thanked him for his chivalry later, he had completely forgotten that he had done it.  Just goes to show…

The best thing about university is that although classes can – in select modules – be that size, people respect each other.  For, I do my best to appear unapproachable in lecture halls and classrooms because I cannot even contemplate speaking to a stranger without feeling physically sick but everyone is mature enough, respectful enough and more crucially, insightful enough to see and understand that, and then give me a wide berth.  That is the great thing about university.  People are different, can be different and can be allowed to be different.

Hope today’s post proved insightful and hopefully, educational, for you.

LaBellaBorgia Speaks,

P. Mistry-Norman

11-02-2014