mostly david ephgrave

I need to turn my head to new thoughts and a different direction before my narrative becomes so weighted in the past that I become trapped in the role of a toxic person's definition of me and tied to their disordered expectations. The damage a narcissist causes is too complex to sum up in a few words and seeps into any space you let it. And the truth seldom plays a part in your dialogue, nor is there any recognition for your previous actions or character traits. It's all projection and recrimination in the hope they'll provoke a reaction that's big enough to deflect from their own behaviour; it's the bully who pushes you over, then tries to blame your decision to obey gravity for you hitting the ground. But while I'm still coming to terms with our toxic relationship, I recognise it's wholly down to me to remove the validity of their critique. Every so often, I remember the times I begged them to treat me fairly like it was down to me to make a case for it. A

Compiling my records in time for the now-extended self-assessment deadline over the past week was emotionally hard for many reasons. The fact the 2019/20 tax year crossed two cancelled Edinburgh Fringe runs - both outside of my control - was bound to make for grim reading, even outside of me losing my dad that year too. It's strange noting the mundane transactions leading up to his death and remembering what was happening then and what would follow. Every aspect was tough, with the pain multiplied by my mum's stonewalling behind the scenes that only worsened when I asked if I could buy her out of the house that we'd joint-inherited so I could live there instead of putting it on the market. And when I asked if we could at least draw up a temporary agreement to cover the month I went to Scotland so that her share wouldn't automatically fall to the person she'd secretly married a few months earlier without telling my dad, should anything bad happen while I was away - i

I'll breathe a sigh of relief when Trump leaves the White House tomorrow (presumably throwing a handful of smoke pellets to the floor so he can sneak out before Biden's Inauguration).  My heart sank when he won the 2016 election. I was staying at Center Parcs on the day they announced it, so my pretty surroundings at least cushioned the blow, though I couldn't look the bald eagle in the eye at the bird of prey demonstration I attended that afternoon. Four years yawned ahead like a tetanus-fuelled bout of lockjaw while my face resembled a cross between Edvard Munch's The Scream and Macauley Culkin after applying aftershave in Home Alone. It's hard to imagine a person less suited to the job of President; something that only played out during his time in office, to be compounded by the storming of Capitol Hill that his outright lies stoked last week. The only person Donald J Trump cares about is Donald J Trump; that's very J evident. But that's only a fraction

While I'm slowly coming to terms with the abuse I suffered within a toxic family relationship and am learning tactics to cope with it, it's still hard to counteract the mental burnout. I'm dealing with many layers at once. Firstly, I'm receiving therapy for narcissistic abuse, which has specific and nuanced characteristics. One of the most painful aspects of recovery is learning you'll never rationalise with a narcissist. They'll never empathise, acknowledge or apologise for their behaviour. They can't be wrong. And they deliberately create drama to feed off; hurting you has an impact, and that's the best retaliation to hand if they can't compete with the truth (though if they can distract and deflect from their actions in the process, that's a bonus). And they have little autobiographical memory and endless double standards; it's one rule for you and another for them. On top of this, I'm gradually accepting that the person I thought they

While the vast majority of world events are pretty grim at the moment, the other day I did step on a floorboard that sounded like Roger Moore. In these days of doom-scrolling, you need to take your light relief where you can get it. And if that's from an ill-fitting plank of wood creaking in the style of a dead, tinted-spec-wearing Bond star then so be it - though I can't help but wonder which of the two would be more mahogany-glazed (not to mention wooden). If you're wondering which 'Saint trait' the squeaky floorboard was emulating, I'd best describe it as the noise he made if you'd reached a point of mutual understanding. That, or if a woman emerged unexpectedly from the depths of his bubble-filled bathtub with her modesty barely protected by some well-positioned suds. A ll in a day's work for our Rog; one of the only men I know of to be born at a fully-formed fifty.

The last few days have been a strange mix of being pencilled for a job shooting* in South Africa at the end of January, trying to speed through a passport application in time to get a visa to do it and feeling rough enough to have a COVID-19 test too. Thankfully, I received the good news that I haven't got the virus this morning, which was a relief. The trip to Africa's southernmost point, however, fell through on Friday. And while the job would have been a great way to start the new year (particularly when work's so scarce), I must admit I'm a bit relieved; now's not exactly the time to explore far-off lands, even if I'd hoped to kickstart a collaboration with Ladysmith Black Mambazo. The passport situation was stressful. My old one expired on the 31st December and I'd only just applied for a replacement a few days earlier when the request for a self-tape for the job came through. As soon as my agent told me about the pencil, I was on the case trying to fas

I had a small flash of inspiration this morning regarding this blog and how to reframe my writer's block. As someone with a tradition for self-judgement, my recent dropoff from posting regular content here has been a source of genuine frustration. When I started this blog eight years ago, the intention was to find a way through my depression by giving myself a daily deadline, with one eye on the metaphorical rearview mirror at writing standup material too. For that first twelve months, I never missed a day, and while plenty of my posts were flawed, there was still a sense of a forward trajectory and improvement (in both my writing ability and my mood). Retrospectively, I'd say my expectations were too punishing. What had started as a motivational tool quickly became another reason to flay myself if I didn't keep up my productivity. Consequently, I'd be up late at night trying to finish blogs that were going nowhere due to tiredness and frustration. And while this daily

As we sprint past the finish line of such a challenging year, it can be hard to find positivity.  Sometimes it takes a little focus shift or a zooming-in on the finer-detail to locate it. There's an exercise I occasionally practise called the ten-finger gratitude meditation that positively reinforces this, and as such, is an appropriate way to start 2021. The crux of it is to find the time, usually at the end of the day, to list ten things you're grateful for. They can be big or small, and should you want to approach the task more mindfully, you could trace the outline of each hand with a finger as you do it; running it along the edge as you concentrate on the physical sensation, stopping at each fingertip for a moment as you state each point to yourself. The task may seem trite, but it's hugely beneficial in a world where we tend to hold onto the negative while dismissing the positive out of hand. This trait could take a lifetime to unlearn, or you may be unaware you even