Shadows of hope.

 

The moments of light that shine through the darkness are real and wonderful, but sporadic.

"You seem to still be ticking off a lot of crags/routes on your list. Good work."

...said Biscuit. Oh how social media lies, even if you don't use cuntstagram. Show a few half-decent shots, write a couple of blog posts, celebrate the occasional success, and it all looks fine on the surface. People can assume it's representative, that it's all going well, a general trend of success and satisfaction. The bigger picture is of course bigger, and sometimes blander, and sometimes bleaker. 

The reality is ticking off very few routes of my list, and even fewer of the most inspiring and challenging ones. The shown successes are also real, but circumstance and self-timer means a disproportionate amount of showing off. There's not really a hidden iceberg of further successes beneath the photographic tip, instead it's a dark pool swirling with depression, disorganisation, de-confidence. 

Funnily enough this is not the sort of DMac style depression that gets you running up Ben Nevis on rest days. I've never encountered that sort of depression, I'd love to get hold of some. Okay so no amount of mental bleakness is going to overcome fluid mechanics and get me fell-running by pure magic, but obsessive training / physical activity depression?? Much better than the common-or-garden hiding-under-the-duvet-hoping-either-the-world-fucks-off-or-you-do depression. The latter really doesn't get you fit nor strong for climbing. And interval timer shots of someone staring at their phone for hours, desperately trying to summon up the courage to get in contact with someone or make a plan to get away, doesn't get you many "likes" on FB....

"It IS supposed to be fun, climbing...." 

...said Reeve. And indeed it is fun. Lots of fun. Type 1 or below fun (even if it sometimes takes a bit of Type 1.5 to overcome to get there), that's why I go on Red Walls and The Range, not hanging off bolts at The Tor, nor winter fucking mountaineering (the latter being Type 3 fun - the only pleasure coming from finally stopping it and forgetting the horror).

The problem comes when a lot of fun comes from the challenge, and the challenge is is a huge motivator and also big and scary and that's quite off-putting for the mind, and when the mind is as dysfunctional as mine can be, well, the mental processes are Not Fun - trying to get to grips with the fun is not fun. The desire is very strong and very authentic and gets proven so on the rare occasions I get to grips with those challenges and pull through them. Almost inevitably no matter how daunting the prospect or tortuous and convoluted the process to get there, the actual climbs and experiences that I've somehow ended up fixating on are really wonderful. But fuck me it would be easier if they were easier.... But then I wouldn't want to do them as much. FFS.

So this somewhat tedious post (yes, I'd much rather be writing about sandy troughs, but I am allowed to express these issues, just as you're allowed to "smash" the back button on your browser so quickly it counts as fast twitch muscle training, at any rate I'm hoping that expelling some of this discordant mental shit will be as relieving as when my bowels expel their discordant bacterial shit at higher and scarcely less readable velocity) bookends the summer with the more positive glimmers of hope I initially felt. It's been up and down, there's definitely been some good stuff, and definitely some bad stuff, most of it inside my head. I'm just keeping plodding on, trying to stay focused when I can, trying to stay accepting when I can't, trying to keep moving because that all adds up in the end.