Success Of The Saved.


Today I want to talk about how we perceive success, because it’s becoming quickly apparent that it isn’t a mutually shared feeling and differs between individuals. I started University only seven days ago and it’s been a roller-coaster of feelings already, from the depths of my darkest depressive episodes to the highs of brand new socialising with brand new people, it should be a loved and honourable experience but instead the events of my life leading up to this are playing heavily on my mind, all the nights my mother made me feel worthless, the day my father left because of her, the sense of homelessness I felt for a long time afterwards, I was always in search of a new home rather than just a house. These events have become a part of me and I don’t know how to rid myself of them, I envy those who can simple ‘leave the past behind’, though I doubt they actually do, the anxiety of a previous life coming to bite you on the ass is a real and formidable fear.

But since being in this magical place of Manchester I’ve witnessed fights, drug taking and the kindest people I’ve ever met (and that’s only in my shared house). My issue resides in my room, the moment I spend any time in here all of the past memories of terror and fear creep out from under my head and drill themselves into my head, ready to reek havoc through out the long nights and husky mornings. What I want from this is at least an inkling of how to get over the things that have happened to me, my body is only now processing them as I believe I’ve spent the last three years in a shell of my former self, trying to protect the core aspects of my personality and sanity and that I was in a sense just surviving, now however, with the opportunity to prosper my mind and body have rejected it, almost like a heroin addict when they switch to methadone. Which I understand is quite a statement but it’s just the one that has a literal feel to the metaphorical situation.

So when will things look up? Next week when I get my teeth into Zoology undergrad? Or ever? I honestly don’t know. What I can say is that I’m not giving up, my body can repulse and convulse if it feels the need to do so, I will make the most of my time in this place, this place where dreams are made and come true, this place where people come to better themselves, this place where teacher and student are more equal then ever before. This is a safe place, far away from the issues and confines of my old home but unfortunately I will just have to learn to live with the throbbing scars left by them because I’ve yet to find a way to resolve them.

This has been another depressing instalment on Aran The Entomologists blog, hope you’ve enjoyed it and that you never feel the same way. I’ll keep you updated as this new adventure powers on.



Isn’t funny, maternity? It’s this invisible thing that is supposed to keep a mother and child connected, but in my experience it is just that, invisible. It’s non-existent. In the many years that i’ve watched my mother destroy herself there have been a few occasions that have really stuck out, this night was one of them, another would be the time I held her bedroom door closed from the outside for 3 straight hours, because she had a large knife and was jabbing it towards me and my father. But that is preferable compared to what has just unfolded. Tonight was the last night I saw the women in my home as my mother. She sits there day in and day out, drinking, slurring and swearing. She’s driven my father out of the country and broken my spirit. She is solely responsible for my trifector of mental disease and the damaged person I am today, all the tears, all the cuts, all the pain. She is responsible. I wouldn’t be able to publicly announce this unless what just happened, happened.

Tonight, Monday 8th September 2014 7:28pm, marks the night I lost my mother, though she isn’t dead, she may as well be. We came to such a calm agreement that once I move to Uni in 5 days we will cease what’s left of our relationship. This is one of those time where everything doesn’t seem quite real, but the pain was very real, crying didn’t convey the emotions that had torn through me like a hot blade, cutting my wrist didn’t show the true slashes that disfigured blade of a women left on me, scars don’t highlight the true damage left by her sharp and relentless abuse. But they do say that i’m broken, I struggled with that word because I didn’t want to believe it. But, low and behold, I am. And unfortunately no manner of kings men can ever put me back together. So if this is last I write of my mother, remember this, I am, who I am, because she never loved me, never cared for me, never wanted me. I have truly become my mothers son.

Blog at

Up ↑