The Rest of My Life: Thoughts on looking at mum and dad's wedding photograph.

            When my father was the age I am now - 66 - he became homeless for the first time.  He was living on the streets.  It was around this time of year, too, with the summer coming and the weather getting warmer.  That at least made it easier for him.  'Easier' isn't the right word (but I've written it now, so it stays).  It implies that there are levels of being homeless that are harder, when everything about being homeless is hard. That's why it angers me when I hear people say things like "They should just get a job", or "They should just pull their socks up."  These are the same people who are always quick to judge on matters they've no direct experience of themselves.  Anyway, at 66 and in the depths of the alcoholism that finally took him, dad was far from capable of sustaining work.  He could pull his socks up.  But only to cover his legs better.

            It was a difficult time for us all - mum, dad, me.  I'd recently split from a girlfriend and was back living at home temporarily, which was at least some support for mum.  She'd had years of it with dad - the drinking, the inevitable debts - and through attending Al-Anon meetings regularly (the group for the families - the other victims of alcoholism) she'd developed the courage to finally say enough was enough. Dad had an ultimatum: stop drinking, or leave. He made his choice. He was too far gone with the disease. He didn't want to stop.

            So he left.

            I don't want to paint a bad picture of dad. He was, at heart, a good, kind and loving man. Very sensitive. He was never violent (though non-violent abuse does terrible damage, as any victim of it knows). And there are always stories behind these things - the stories that writers can and should tell.

            Dad was brought up in difficult circumstances, in the south London of the 1930s.  The second eldest of six, he inadvertently became the 'man' of the household at 13, when his own father's alcoholism (he was a violent alcoholic) was at it's worst.  Dad's older brother had already joined the navy at this time, so dad - being the next in line - became a kind of protector for the family. He'd nick food from Tooting Market to put on the table when there was nothing else. He'd stay home from school and do jobs to help his mum - including looking after his younger brothers and sister. As a result, he lost out on a lot of education. They all grew up to do better in life: get good jobs, make money, have nice homes. It always hung over dad. He always felt like the 'failure' of the family. He could have made up for things, of course. But circumstances - and his head - took him another way.

            At 17, he lied about his age to join the army. It was in the army, mum always said, that he learned to drink. I know what she meant. But it wasn't the case. I don't think he 'learned' to drink so much as found a way to nurture and grow the latent seed. There's an established genetic component with alcoholism, and it's been in the male line in my family for many generations, going back decades and centuries (as a cousin of mine later discovered through research). I'm certain dad had it. And I'm certain he passed it to me, too. Fortunately, I also had passed to me the genes of my mother, who came from a long line of hardy folk.  In saying this, I don't mean to imply that there are 'weaker' genes and 'stronger' genes (though there are), and that some people are therefore more predisposed for survival than others - even, again, if that may be the case. There are many factors involved in the making up of a person. Nature and nurture. Heredity and environment. That's why there's always more to these things than meets the eye. But I think, inheriting this particular set of genes, that I have what I call the 'yin and yang' of me: dad's self-destructive side, mum's self-preservation side. The 'dad' side has pulled me close to the edge several times in my life, and I myself have - and therefore understand - those insecurities he must have felt. But the 'mum' side has usually pulled me back again. The 'dad' side sees little hope, so what's the point? The 'mum' side sees that there's always hope, so it's always worth striving for. The old 'fate' versus 'free will' argument, if you like.

            Another condition that has a strong genetic component is autism. I remember, when I was first investigating whether it could be at the root of many of the problems I'd had in life, I discussed a lot of it with mum (it was she, indeed, who came with me to my diagnostic interview to give an account of my childhood).  "I'm like that," she said to a lot of things. "I do that, too." And for a long time, I thought it could well have come down the maternal line to me. But looking at it now, I'm more inclined to think it was on dad's side. One of his brothers, my godfather Uncle Ed, had very definite traits. He was always seen as the 'odd' one. The 'black sheep'. His life was ruled by routines, and he could become abnormally and disproportionately (so it seemed) angry if they were disrupted. But then there was dad, too. He suffered from chronic anxiety all his life (partly the 'environment' thing, I've no doubt). And alcohol was a ready cure for that. He and his brother were both very sociable - 'life and soul of the party' types.  But alcohol was always behind that for both of them. And outside of that situation, they were quite 'solitary' in their ways. Quite different in spirit, too. Brooding. Given to being moody and intolerant. During my childhood, dad would often disappear for days on end - sleeping in the cab of the lorry he drove, or the bus, or some other shelter he'd find. I think he just wanted to be alone.  They were both very sociable men. But - and this is the crucial difference, I think - they weren't 'social'. Very much like I am. I can engage and be the bon vivant in certain situations (though I don't like parties or other such gatherings, and need 'Dutch Courage' to help me through them).  But I'm not social. I can happily spend days on end without seeing another person, and it doesn't bother me in the least.

            Maybe, though, it came to me from both sides. Maybe there were elements of it in both my mum and dad, and they came together in me - like two colours being mixed to make a third. The black and white of the 'yin' and 'yang', if you like.  The grey area in between.

            Whatever the case, I have my diagnosis now. And through it, I have a greater understanding of myself and my life. And that understanding helps me to get through. It's like a guide that I can always refer to whenever I get lost. Which I still do, from time to time. Sometimes I enter a mist, and can't see too far ahead. But I have an internal compass that helps me to keep on the right track - one step at a time.

            I still have a roof over my head, too, and am relatively secure. I have much to be thankful for - though little in financial or material terms.  Those things have never bothered or motivated me, though. They often come with stresses and insecurities of their own.  They're largely socially-driven, I think.  Signifiers to others of status, power... success, within narrow definitions of the term. Not really essential, though. They clutter the spirit.  I prefer simplicity in all senses.

            I think I have the balance about right.

           And I have both mum and dad, I think, to thank for the person I am.