Growing Around Grief

I woke up this morning with the intention of writing. 

I had a cup of coffee, watched some crappy reality TV, and decided to start cleaning.

But, as is what happens to everyone, cleaning and tidying means coming upon things and getting distracted by reading and remembering.

The below is not in any way, shape, or form what I had intended to write.

***

I have this closet in my apartment.

If it was tidy, you could step in and take things from shelves and store everything very easily.

Unfortunately, it is not tidy.

It is rammed full of old clothes I can't bear to get rid of, boxes I keep in case I need to move again (I grew up with hoarders so I was always going to end up like this), my ex's box of porn (I've offered it back to him numerous times because... eh, I'm fine thanks. Not entirely sure why I am still allowing this to take up space in my home...), and a massive suitcase full of "treasures" from my life.

I took a notion to begin the deep-clean by venturing into this closet.

First mistake.

This is essentially a room of distraction and I fell at the first hurdle.

My dad's camera.

***

My dad passed away on the 12th of January 2018, 5 years ago, but I think based on the nature of our relationship and how often I used to get to see him (twice a year because of circumstances), it feels so mush more recent (Why am I justifying my feelings yet again!? That's essentially my therapist's voice in my head there).

It still feels like a missed phone-call. That's the best way I can describe it. So it's like a constant new realisation when I pick up something that makes me think of him or something happens that I really need to tell him... I find myself right back in that January, boarding the plane to see him laying in coffin and bringing home an urn to bury.

Fun.

I've grieved before. Too many times. Family whose time it was to go but I didn't want them to. Friends who unalived themselves because life and the world can be too cruel. Friends who in a simple twist of fate died doing what they loved.

You can never prepare yourself for permanent goodbyes. Try grieving for someone living with Dementia or Alzheimers. They're still alive but gone. 

It doesn't work. It just takes longer. With the same inevitable end.

I digress.

Most of the time, I'm ok. I can remember and smile and think only of the good times.

Then there are those days where it feels like my heart is trying to strangle itself.

Seeing your father's will for the first time, arriving announced into your email, while sitting on a bus to work; there is no way to prepare for that. Even if it happens 4 years after he's gone.

Anyway, I shouldn't have said "grieved"; past tense. It's never past. Once faced with grief, you're always grieving. It just becomes easier to cope with.

I worry I talk about my dad too much. Do I talk him more now that he's gone? Am I making people feel uncomfortable by bringing him up? Am I being dramatic? Am I obsessed with death? Do I let this define me?

Lack of self-worth, a large helping of depression and a dollop of anxiety has made this all the more difficult to make peace with and understand.

I did find a great infographic that has helped though.

I am not weird because I grieve and fall headfirst into the awful process from time to time.

Contrary to what so many people say or believe, the grief doesn't get smaller. It stays the same. 

This horrible solid ball of loss that hardens and softens all at once.

That rattles around with you, hitting you when you're not ready to catch it.

That makes you want to talk about it and not talk about it.

That makes you feel like you're broken because you're still in it.

You will learn to adapt to a life without them and that doesn't mean it won't hurt anymore. The only reason it doesn't consume you is because you grow.

And I didn't realise this for a very long time.

I felt guilty for grieving and I felt guilty for living (that could just be because of my own mental health battles but to me, guilt and grief nearly always go hand in hand).

The moments where you break happen less often and then you've got to come to terms that you are doing what they would want. Growing, coping, living.

I still think back on my first loss and I break. I was 17 and he helped shape who I am today. I can still hear his voice and mostly, this makes me smile. But come his birthday or when I wake up randomly at 2am after a bad dream, I find myself back home, sitting on that old broken trailer, being told he was gone... And as I write that, I realise that next March will make it 20 years since we said goodbye.

Twenty years and I still cry over him.

***

My dad's camera caught me off guard today. I'd looked through the photos a couple months after he passed. Not really taking much in because that was a time where I could barely remember my own name and my Grandpa passed away just after him so everything that I knew was safe and certain was gone. Tailspin doesn't even begin to cover it.

I sat down to take the photos off the camera, save them, and share them with his loved ones who were in them. His partner, my brothers, his best friend.

I was completely unprepared for how I would feel going through them... Especially after a Christmas alone (by choice! Ish).

It was like an assault on my memory.

And how does one even cope with seeing a photo of their father leaning on what would become his grave!?!

Answer: You don't. You let the tears flow. You lean into it any way you can. And eventually you'll become too dehydrated to cry any more.

I've stopped crying enough to take a step back, and think, and write. I'll run a hot bath (but have to remember to keep my right arm out of it because new tattoos and baths don't go well together) and have a glass of wine.

***

I'm writing this mostly to exorcise my own demons, I guess. I never know what my intentions really are when I post on here. I think maybe I'm a little more honest and little less bleak than when I attempt to journal. My diaries became a whole lot less funny after the age of 18.

I don't know how to even end this splurge of thoughts and feeeeeeeeeeeelings so I'm not even going to try. 

Let this hang there, just like grief.

Reading this post most likely did not make you feel amazing but maybe if you're in the midst of a moment where grief has caught up on you, you won't feel so alone or like what you're going through is wrong.

You aren't.

It isn't.

You're just here.

***

I'll clean my apartment tomorrow.

Rogue Theatre presents 'Seminar' - Review

Every now and then, theatre goers have the opportunity to attend a production that can only be described as a masterclass in how to stage a show.

Rogue Theatre achieved this with their interpretation of Theresa Rebeck’s ‘Seminar’.

‘Seminar’ tells the story of 4 aspiring (and very different) novelists attending private classes with a renowned ‘celebrity’ author. That’s it in a nutshell.

However, this fast-paced, witty, very real story delights, engages, and raises all kinds of emotions from the audience.

Running this week in the Players’ Theatre in Trinity, Rogue Theatre, under the direction of Corinna Reichle, became those writers we all know (and some of us are).

You enter the theatre and you’re already in the living room of a plush Manhattan apartment. Props to the set designer! Their choices of furnishings ensure the audience felt like they were in on something, a part of something, and maybe watching things they shouldn’t be watch.

Andre Callanan is superb in his role of the pretentious writer, Douglas, who knows everything and delves far too deep into his content. “Is the interiority or the exteriority?” garnering a good laugh from an audience all too familiar with this sort of person. His movements and pacing meant your eye was on him and you were ready to be irritated by the next thing this “whoarish” writer said.

Sorcha Herlihy becomes Izzy; the boobs first, questions later erotic novelist. Her comedic timing is on point; when she’s not speaking, she’s reacting and Issy’s sexual prowess is there for all to see… Literally, sometimes. A powerhouse of actor, Herlihy is a spot on casting choice for this role and brings so much humour, wit and sex appeal to every scene she is in.

Jane Tuohy as Kate is a central cog in the success of this production. Her New York accent is flawless and every single thing she does on that stage has purpose, meaning, and captures the audience’s attention. The put-upon Kate has been working on her piece for 6 years and Tuohy embodies the stress and indignation of a writer who expected a better critique. She’s fun, she’s witty, and, by God, does she nail this role.

Greg Freegrove plays Martin, the rejected writer who’s actually got talent. He is in love with Izzy and Freegrove’s chemistry with Herlihy is both enjoyable and bloody hilarious with even a not so subtle attempt at a romp behind the couch on stage. Freegrove’s Martin remains upstage for most of the writing seminars, judging, taking in everything that’s happening, all while being too fearful to share his work as the rejections are too much. He is the catalyst to the inhibitor that is John Lawler’s Leonard.

John Lawler fully embodies the role of contemptuous and beaten down teacher Leonard. He owns the stage when he is on it. Each character drawn to him different ways and all, despite denying it, wanting his praise and approval. His condescension puts men off and turns women on. It would be remiss of me not to mention Lawler’s incredible performance of Leonard’s monologue detailing his career. The audience were quieted and some brought to tears and this is a testament to the ability and craft of Lawler honed by Reichle’s direction.

While this may read like a love letter to a production, I stand by every word. Sure, there were some initial opening night nerves at the start but within 5 minutes, each actor had fully relaxed and immersed themselves into their roles and the story.

‘Seminar’ is now completely sold out so to those of you without tickets… I’m sorry but you’ve missed something special.

Congratulations to all the cast and crew because, and especially for a first production, it was seamless, beautiful, funny and had all the heart you expect when you go to the theatre.

Look up

It's been a while since I even felt like I could update this blog. I've focused so much on writing poetry to pull the thoughts out of my head that I have felt drained and like I don't really have anything to say apart from my moments (that's what I call my poems).

I haven't written here since December 2020 and I kind of forgot to how to be honest in "blog" form and, well, I was just wrapped up in surviving and trying to keep my head above water; much like most of the population of the world throughout this whole pandemic.

This post will be mainly just a blah because I'm trying to break the seal and get back on here. I don't even really know what to say, to be honest.

Over the last 14 months, I've met some amazing new people online and in person who have changed my life in ways I didn't think possible...

It started with a man on New Year's day. 

A stranger walking the same path as me in Glasnevin Cemetery. 

He had a cup of soup and stopped to chat for a while. I can't remember everything we talked about but I remember him telling me how he moved to England when he was 14 to find work. He couldn't read or write. He fell in love. He got married. She passed away very young. He moved back to Ireland when he was 65 and now at the age of 70 he has started buying second hand copies of primary school reading and writing exercise books so he can learn properly. 

I can't help but smile every time I think about him. 

We spoke for about 45 minutes, until his soup was gone and he wanted to go to the "new" cemetery to say a quick hello to Luke Kelly.

One thing that has stayed with me from this completely random interaction is when he said "Getting older means you begin to really see". 

And yes, he did mean it as poetically as that.

I think about this a lot. Especially on those really tough days where I feel like I can't get out of bed because I think there is no point.

I'm afraid of getting old because I don't think I've achieved everything I need to. Don't get me wrong I've done a lot but there are some core values that I have ingrained in me that I'm trying to work on letting go of because... Really? They weren't mine to begin with.

I'm nearly 37 and that scares the absolute crap out of me. If I was to disappear tomorrow, what would my legacy be? What would my daughter say about me? These are the dramatic thoughts of an anxious mind who always wants to do more. Find that thing that makes her happy but it's impossible to do so because when I get or do the things that make me happy, I've added to the wish list.

I'm trying to learn to see and for me, it starts with looking up.

Try it. 

Have a look at those upstairs windows of the taller buildings when you're walking the streets.

Have a look up while you're taking a sip coffee.

Have a look up when you're sitting at the bus stop and, maybe, smile at  stranger.

Have a look up when you're on that top deck of a bus and admire the moon and sun being visible at the same time.

Just look up...

And that's where I am going to stop this stream of consciousness before I get too philosophical and in my own head.

Thanks for reading!

First Dates

Yesterday I binge watched various romantic films. Some good. Some horrendous. But whatever, I love terrible movies. Especially terrible romantic holiday films.

I love love. Always have, always will (despite my heart begging me to quit it).

I've had various relationships over the years; long term, short term, "fun" friends. Heck I've even been the unknowing "other" woman. Still, no matter how many times I get hurt, I bounce back up again and hope.

I used to believe that my life would be complete once I met "the one". I dunno if I necessarily believe in "the one" anymore but I do believe in love. And most of all, I believe in first dates.

I am grinning as I write this. 

First dates... My first ever first date was when I was 28. I'd been on dates before but they were always after a stolen kiss in the nightclub (I am writing that to sound way more romantic that the reality).

That first date was wonderful. He was gent who had a great sense of humour. We had some drinks, we played some pool and he kissed me at the end of the evening. A great kiss. We ended up seeing each other for a few months after that and even though it ended, I still think back on that time and smile.

The power of the first date.

The nerves as you get ready.

The fantasies that you try to push back so as not to get your hopes up.

The trying to figure out how not to be the first one there or to be the first one there so you can be set for when they arrive.

The do you hug or kiss on the cheek or maintain a distance.

The opening strains of conversation.

It's all good up to here.

Then obviously the date can go one of two ways. Great or bad (I include meh dates and the "we're better as friends" dates here; you don't date to make friends). 

I'm going to focus on the good because I'm sticking to the positive today.

As I sit here just typing what comes into my head, all of these amazing memories are making me stupidly warm and cuddly.

There was the first date where we went up the Dublin mountains on cold night with flasks of tea to watch the lights of the city.

There was the first date where we went to a Mexican restaurant and I accidentally ordered a whole chicken for dinner and he had to cut my food for me because after I attempted to dice that chicken I sent black beans flying all over the place.

There was the first date where we didn't want the conversation to end so we went back at his place and he sang Damien Rice to me (sounds cringe but I can assure you that if the person is talented, you go with it and you melt).

No matter how these relationships ended, it nice to focus on their beginnings and remember why you were drawn to that person in the first place.

That first kiss. The one where you're trying to suss out whether or not they want to kiss you. Should you let them make the move? Should you make the move?

And then before you know it, they have placed their hands on the sides of your face, hooked them under your ears, looked into your eyes, and leaned in...

I really, really miss good first dates...

Anyway, I could go on but it would turn into the most ridiculous romantic drivel so I'll stop there and hope that you can look back on some of your first dates and smile.

2018; it was what it was

I've tried to start this post numerous times at this point but I'm rusty and emotional but I feel the urge to do it as I need to sign off on 2018 and move on.

I started the year like any other year with the usual "new year, new me" bull. I was going to go to the gym more, I was going to quit vaping, I was going to drink less, I was stop giving Pizza Dog a huge chunk of my salary... But in the space of a 90 second phone call all my plans meant nothing.

My dad passed away on January 12th. That's a sentence I find hard to say. I have to keep repeating it to myself to make it real... And yet, I'm not sure it ever will be.

He wasn't sick. He was only 52. He had plans for the future.

It didn't make sense and it still doesn't.

Due to circumstances, I grew up with my grandparents but my dad was a constant. He was in the US Air Force and so travelled a lot but the Saturday phone calls were a highlight. And every Christmas, my brothers and I would wait at the dining room window to wait for him to come home. Christmas was the one time of year where I was guaranteed to see him. To me, he was Santa.

Dad was clever, funny, kind, generous, loving, and always there. He may not have been great for the "emotional rub down" (as he put it) but he was there and would listen. I want to write more about him but I can't find the right words. I'm not sure I could ever encapsulate just how amazing he was and how much he meant to me.

My dad was my hero. I long for the day where I can allow myself to think enough to feel the ghost of his protective arm around my shoulders.

In March, my beloved Grandpa passed away. Not many people get the chance to know their grandparents in the way I did and I'm so grateful I got to spend as much time as I did with them.

My Grandpa was a massive influence on my life. The only person in my whole life who could really get my temper to kick off. He would wind me up and then sit back smiling when I would go on my rampage (we lived in the middle of nowhere so it really was a case of finding fun wherever you
could!).

He idolised my grandmother and my fondest memories are watching the Rose of Tralee with him and him changing the name "Mary" to "Bridie" and giving me a cheeky grin afterwards.

Such tiny moments in time that bring me such needed joy now.

You know when you're a kid and your parents are telling you to turn off the TV or to go to bed and all you can say is "Just 5 more minutes!"? That's how I feel. Just five more minutes to say what I wish I had said. Just 300 seconds to immerse myself in them, fully breathe in their scents so I don't forget, get the music of their voices stuck in my head so that I never forget their melody, wrap myself in the protection of their arms so tightly that my body will remember even when my mind doesn't.

Five more minutes.

But as my dad always sang at me "You can't always get what you want". Infuriatingly true.

I am lucky though. I have a wonderful mother in Julie, a beautiful family, and a circle of friends who bring me back to life even in my darkest moments.

I spent most of this year trying not to feel. All of the emotions filed away to only be looked at another day; another day which I'd hoped would never come.

I thought I was doing a good job of it. Fully immersing myself in the safety of work, I was fine... Until I wasn't.

I took part in the Dublin marathon for the 3rd time this year and I thought this would be the chance to
let the filing cabinet burst open. The previous two times I did the marathon, everything I had gone through came out and I cried and the relief... Oh the relief. This year, however, I crossed that line listening to the Rocky soundtrack (my dad trained for the Air Force to this) holding my dad's dog tags and I felt... nothing. I was numb. There was no moment of joy at having beaten my previous times, there was no crying, there was no relief.

I got home and that's when I broke.

Sitting in a bath, I broke and cried out everything I had been keeping it (this image is either extremely poetic or extremely pathetic...).

I couldn't fight it anymore. I was too tired to fight it. I went to therapy and, for the first time, I was honest about everything. I opened up for real and let it all out; getting out of bed is difficult, I can't find my joy, the dark thoughts... everything.

I was signed off work for two weeks by my doctor and I have never felt so weak. I am great with mental health when it comes to other people but me? Depressed? Never!

Not being able to get out of bed is just being lazy. Breaking down crying is just being dramatic. Not wanting to see people is just being selfish. Cancelling things that have been committed to is the worst thing a person can do. Taking time off work means any effort put in to rise up was all for nothing.

Yeah. All of the things you would never say to anyone else if they were going through it.

Before I hit this particular bottom of the barrel, I did something without thinking. I had gone for a run and while I was in the shower afterwards I realised just how much I miss the stage. I got out of the shower and booked a venue before I could talk myself out of it.

So there was I was, signed off work for two weeks, stressed about everything and anything, and I had added this other thing to worry about.  But it wasn't worrying me as much as I thought it would. The stress of the stage is exhilarating. I realised that this was giving me my life back.

I had always wanted to be a performer but I was constantly being told that I needed to have a "back up" plan. Well, you know what? I've been living the back up plan without ever even have tried the original plan.

On the 27th of November, I performed my one woman stand up show. I was terrified and nervous. I've never done stand up before and improv is not one of my strong points but I did it. People laughed. People didn't leave (even though I went way over my original estimate of 90 mins). It was one of the greatest experiences of my whole life.

I forgot about everything. Nothing mattered except the warmth of the stage and, I may be grossly
overestimating how the show went, but I'm not done. I'm squishing down the fears and putting myself out there. I refuse to simply exist, I am going to live.

2018 has been the biggest test I have ever had to endure. I'm ready to put it in a box and move forward.

I miss my father and my grandfather more and more every day and that will never change but what I need to do now is be grateful to them. They will live on in my memories and someday I'll be able to think back on them and smile rather than be consumed by pain.

2019 will be my year of doing what makes me feel like me... And figuring out who that me is (which should probably be the first thing I do). Small steps to bigger, better things.

So 2018, I'm ready to wave you off because, fuck me, you have been a shit! But you have taught me that I have the strength to keep getting back up even when I think I can't.

The Back Story of Why I Run

I was walking to work this morning and I saw a woman running. Every time I see someone running no matter what shape or size they are, how fast they’re going or what they’re wearing I smile to myself because I get it. Just as the smile was about to spread over my face I heard two girls behind me talking about this woman.

“What is she wearing?”

Sept 2011 - Sept 2016

“I know! Look at the sweat patches on her back!”

“Surely it’s not healthy for someone that size to be running?”

The lady paused in her run to walk.

“She’s not fit enough for running.”

“Maybe she should be on a treadmill.”

“I’d be mortified running in public if I was that size!”

I actually stopped to turn and glare at them at this point.

I can’t even tell you what they themselves looked like or what they were wearing because it doesn’t matter. How dare they judge someone who was brave enough to put themselves out there! I don’t know if this woman was running to get fit, lose weight or just to get that wonderful high from endorphins. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she is out there and she is doing it.

I remember 6 years ago when I decided I wanted to try to lose weight. I had an 8 month old baby, I was just back in work after maternity leave and a lady I worked with said that she was going to join WeightWatchers as her New Year’s resolution. I said I’d join her.

I will never for the rest of my life forget standing on the scales that first day. Seeing my weight be as close to 16 stone as possible and hearing the WeightWatcher’s leader say “Oh! We’ll have to take it slow with you…” I could feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Suddenly I felt bigger than I had ever felt in my whole life. I felt like I waddled back to my seat. I tried to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room. The seat felt tiny when I sat down. I imagined rolls of fat resting on the table when I pulled my chair up to it…

In that moment I vowed to change.

Sure, I had been to slimming classes before, I had followed crazy diets, and I’d exercised to the point of making myself ill but none of these things had ever stuck before. This was when I had my “snap” moment.

I started off just following the points system… to the point of obsession. The weight slowly began to shift. Pound by pound each week. And while my number on the scales was steadily getting lower, I still wasn’t happy. Counting calories or points or whatever label you want to put on it isn’t healthy.

Age 15

One evening, I decided to go for a run. I figured this would be easy because I played basketball at least twice a week. Totally the same, right?

Ermm…

I got about half a kilometer from my house before I broke and had to limp my way home.

The only thing that saved my shame that evening was that it was dark and no one could see the tears of frustration rolling down my face. All I could do was berate myself.

“You f*cking idiot! What made you think you could actually go for a run!?”

“Just go home and stuff your face. It’s what you’re good at.”

“You are worthless and this is never going to work so why bother!?”

I went home, put my daughter to bed, and cried myself to sleep.

About a week later, I was sat on the couch on a Saturday morning and ‘The Biggest Loser’ came on TV. I’d never watched it before but because of my food obsession I wanted to watch anything to do with weightloss. Sure, it's tacky reality TV and the contestant’s weightloss was achieved in an unrealistic way. We can’t all take 3 months and have meals prepared for us and work out for 6 hours a day with personal trainers. I knew all this but I couldn’t stop watching it.

The next morning, I turned on another episode while my daughter napped and I felt the urge to do something while I watched it. I put on some gym clothes and I started to jog on the spot in the sitting

room.

No one could see me sweat.

No one could hear me pant.

But best of all, no one could see me fail.

I kept going.

This became my routine.

Port Tunnel Run, 2012

Four times a week for two months I would turn on an episode of ‘The Biggest Loser’ and I would run in my house for two hours. I began running with cans of beans in my hands as weights. I would run a little longer and a little faster each time. I started to extend my distance by going all over the house. Suddenly the house felt too small and the feeling of accomplishment grew more and more.

It was time to brave the outdoors.

I was still going to WeightWatchers every week. I was still counting points. I was still losing weight. Afterall, they had set me a goal and I’ll be damned if I was going to quit before I reached it. However, I was more satisfied after every in-house run I did than seeing the scales say a lower number.

I bought new running shoes. I bought a new sports bra. I bought running leggings.  I set up a playlist with what I considered inspirational music at the time (‘What Makes You Beautiful’ being one of the more shameful songs included).

I was going to force myself out the door.

I remember standing at the gate of my house and the negative feelings starting to creep back in. Somehow I managed to push them to the back of my head and take that first step, then a second, then a third… And keep going.

I ran 5km that evening. In public.

Samsung Night Run, 2013 (I look insane,,,)

I began to sweat after 2 minutes, I began to lose control of my breathing after 4 minutes. I began to feel my heart pound after 5 minutes. I stopped numerous times.

But I did it.

I walked back into my house and I cried. Happy tears.

Food and weight was at the back of my mind. All I could feel was the glow of pride.

Riding on the back of that high, I registered for the Women’s Mini Marathon in June 2012. I walked 70% of it.

Then I registered for the Port Tunnel 10km run in August, I ran 80% of it.

Then I registered for the MoRun in November.

MoRun 2014

Every organized race is an experience and each comes with a different atmosphere and motivation. As I was new to the race circuit I had no idea of what to expect. I didn’t know the Phoenix Park routes at the time (always pray for turning left on Chesterfield Avenue…).

I got to the park far too early. It was bloody freezing. I was on my own (I’m not good at not having someone to talk to…). I wandered around and took in everything that was happening around me. There were people with fake moustaches, people in costumes, families waiting together to take part in the 5km… The atmosphere! I can’t tell you enough about how positive it felt there. I had never felt like I was a part of the ‘race community’ before but something was magical there.

I stepped over the start line at 10.14 with David Guetta blaring in my ears (please do not judge me…).

And I ran.

And ran.

And ran.

MoRun 2015

8km in and I thought I couldn’t do it anymore. I could see this GINORMOUS (at the time it seemed to be) hill right in front of me and I was ready to stop and have a break. Out of nowhere, as if they had seen me slow down, a man in an Elvis costume gave me a pat on the back, nodded me on, and zipped off.

I kept going.

Finally, there it was.

The finish line.

I was about to do it.

Run ten full kilometers.

Now I’ve mentioned crying a lot in this already so you know what’s coming.

When I crossed that finish line, I bawled my eyes out. I had never felt a satisfaction and pride like that before. I had worked so hard. I went from running on the spot in my sitting room to running at night so no one could see me to running a full ten kilometers on a Saturday morning in Phoenix Park.

I hugged the woman who handed me my medal. I smiled the whole way home. I finished that race in 1:06:16 but I felt like I had won the race and, in a way, I had.

Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon 2015

That feeling has never left me. No matter what race I take part in or how far I run on my own, I will always go back to that moment in front of that hill with Elvis and keep on going.

Since that race in 2012, I have run the Women’s Mini Marathon every year, the Spar Great Ireland Run, 3 Rock ‘n’ Roll Half marathons, 3 Dublin City Half marathons, taken part in obstacle runs, rainbow runs and countless other 5km and 10km races… Basically I’ve spent a fortune on race entries.

Running started out as a means to a weightloss end for me (P.S. Totally hit my WeightWatchers goal in 2013 but yeah… I still really like pizza) but it became so much more than that. I always tell people I run to stay ‘even’. I can solve all my problems without even thinking about them by getting those shoes on and taking those first steps that I have done every time.

Every single November, I line up at the MoRun to celebrate me, to soak up the atmosphere to get me through another year of running, and to be a part of something special.

This year I will be taking part in the Dublin Marathon (very, very slowly…) and raising money for my friend’s brother’s rehabilitation (More info here - https://www.gofundme.com/2j47rik ).

And even though this year’s Dublin MoRun is the week after the marathon, I will be lining up and crossing that finish line.

More info on MoRunning can be found here - https://www.mo-running.com/dublin.

See you there?

The Book of Condolences - Review

“The Book of Condolences”:

In a story of unconventional friendships,

framed by love, loss and acceptance,

there is an empty coffin.

Who will lie in that coffin?

That’s the tale to be told.

Cast:

The Grim Reaper: Aislinn Ni Uallachain

Tom/ Napoleon: Owen O’Gorman

Margo/ the Fairy Godmother: Louise Dunne

Paul: Daniel O’Brien

Sarah: Suzanne Cooper

Director: Vincent Smith

Producer: Jillian Connolly

Writer: Kieron Connolly

Monaincha Theatre was established in 2015 with the intention of providing a forum for new talent by allowing them to showcase their skills in a supportive and innovative environment.

“The Book of Condolences” (the debut play of novelist Kieron Connolly, directed by Vincent Smith) acts as the launch for Monaincha Theatre and runs from the 22nd February 2016 to the 27th February 2016 in Teatre@26, The Teachers Club.

A story of unconventional friendships, love, loss and acceptance it is centered around 5 eccentric characters who are each struggling with their own pasts and working to find their own meanings.

The play is set in a funeral home, complete with empty coffin, but the question from the outset is who exactly is the coffin for?

Is it for Paul (played by Daniel O’Brien), a struggling talent agent who is trying to come to terms with lost love? Or is it for Tom (Owen O’Gorman) or Margo (Louise Dunne), struggling actors with traumatic pasts?

Don’t let the synopsis fool you however. “The Book of Condolences” is warm, funny, passionate, a little bit mental and utterly gripping.

O’Brien’s portrayal of Paul is captivating and raw. He opens the show and sets the pace. His interactions with O’Gorman’s Tom and Dunne’s Margo are wonderful and altogether believable but it is the scene in which he speaks to Sarah (Suzanne Cooper), the woman who broke his heart, which will grip an audience. The heartbreak and confusion are so effortlessly conveyed that it is impossible not to feel for his character as he struggles to let go of his past relationship.

The dynamic and chemistry between O’Gorman and Dunne’s respective characters is beyond wonderful to witness. The comedy was natural and the friendship between the two was warm and inviting. It was through this dynamic that I fell for their characters and became fully invested in them.  The Grim Reaper (played by Aislinn Ni Uallachain) also joins in on the mayhem of the story to aid characters to come to their final realisations.

Fast paced interactions, some slapstick comedy and excellent staging all add to this show’s likability but if I, as a reviewer, was to pick out this show’s most redeeming quality it would have to be Louise Dunne.

Dunne’s Margo was magnificent, from her zany entrance as the singing fairy godmother to the end of the story, she entertained. She made me laugh, she made me cry. I found myself wanting her to speak more, I wanted to know everything about her. She commanded the stage with every movement and she should be commended for this performance.

I cannot recommend this show highly enough; original theatre from a new theatre group that deserves to be seen. Don’t miss it!

Running until Saturday 27th February, tickets are available here.