Within our own Haunted Internal Darks

If you define a phobia as an irrational terror of a simple thing, my extreme dread at having to set foot in a hospital is not phobic. The terror is not irrational. Hospitals are cemented in my mind as places of death and unquiet ghosts. The arena in which monsters called heart failure; leukaemia and age pummel those you love with unrestrained cruelty.

My fear began young. Dragged behind Aunt Vilma for a visit as her mother’s body imploded under the terrible gravity of cancer. We saw her lying in bed, loosened flesh folded over fragile bones, skin tainted by the chemical smell I will forever associate with chemotherapy. Even at the five, I knew she would not get better, would never leave hospital.

The next year, unable to breath, I was pulled on a trolley through the midnight corridors of Southend General. Held down on my back, I saw a new disorientating landscape of white ceilings and bright lights rush above me. Plastic sheets and doors parted with emergency crash, punctuating the journey. My mother let go of my hand, unable either to keep up with the dash or to follow where I was going. The panic grew.

I was not scared because I was ill, because each breath was weaker, the oxygen consumed by the fire in my lungs. I was scared because I was in hospital and this was where bad things happened. Where despite whatever promises were made, you might never get to go home. Even the outside of Southend General engendered alarm in my brain. If the building was a good place why was it painted with a multi-storey mural of snake or dragon? It was obviously a site of monstrous happenings.

Life of course has a way of providing evidence for your inner fears. The thermoplastic of the universe will flow into shapes manifested from within our own haunted internal darks. The expected, dreaded outcome too often becomes reality.

This has meant my relationship with hospitals retains the same dynamics of fear it had in childhood. They induce terror. Bad things happen there. This is why, as pain cracks across my chest denying me all hope of sleep, I will not do the sensible thing and go to the hospital.

Witchfinder General

I grew up in a place called Hadleigh. During my childhood, this particular bit of Estuary Essex was still undergoing the deep shock of having gone from a large village to small town in less than two decades. Ancient woodland still bristled with resentment of its reduced circumstances due to the encroachment of new housing. The 13th century walls of the local castle, already ruined and robbed of dignity by landslides and the Salvation Army stone thieves, faced the final insult of becoming a delight for clambering children.

Surviving the savage assault of supermarkets and seventies concrete, the spirits of Hadleigh still skulked in its shadows. For more than 500 years, the place had been known for producing witches and cunning men, crow doctors and wind stealers. As a boy I walked through a landscape where folklore stalked you. There were magicians buried in the boneyard of St. James the Less, old cottages with moon gardens and at least one tree-lined shortcut with rumours of a whispering black shade.

One thing I learned from voracious childhood reading at the local library was that the people of Hadleigh liked their witches. In 1646, Matthew Hopkins, the self-styled Witchfinder General, turned up to ply his vile trade of persecution for profit. Having tortured his way across most of the east of England, he must have thought he would get rich pickings in Hadleigh, rumoured to be the home to several witch families.

However, as he approached the village he was met with a large crowd. Having heard of his planned hunt for their cunning folk, the village turned out en masse. When he refused to leave them in peace, the villagers began to stone Hopkins and his entourage of witch-prickers.

This little bit of knowledge taught me a lot as child. The idea that confronting fear mongers and bullies was always possible resonated across the years. It was a perfect lesson on the effectiveness of both direct and group action; inspiring me to believe that the average person could be more brave and tolerant than usually portrayed. Beyond that, I became proud of Hadleigh. Here was a place that at least once in its history showed the answer to exploitative hatred is an absolute refusal to tolerate it.

I have been thinking a lot about witchfinders recently due to Sarah Palin. Having seen the video of her speech thanking Thomas Muthee, a Kenyan preacher and witchfinder associated with her church, my dislike of the woman has soared to a new level. In June she praised his ‘Very very powerful invocation’ which she claimed helped get her elected. Beyond finding this an ironic choice of words given she was talking about a smiter of witchcraft, the revelation strips much of the humour from the satirists portraying her as ‘witch-burner’.

Justin Webb, the BBC’s North America editor who writes a rather fine blog, usually gets it right. However, when he complained that ‘anti-Palin stuff in comments on recent postings has gone way over the top’ because they suggested she was supporter of a ‘dark witch-burning retreat into superstition and irrationality’ he missed the point. If she was a member of an Aryan church that advocated persecuting Jews, there would be no tolerance, no language too strong. We should never accept persecution of any faith. We should decry anyone standing for office who is a friend of those who perpetrate such villainy. Anyone who backs those advocating a gospel of hunting for witches deserves to be met Hadleigh style.

Fading To Black

The last few nights have been blighted by asthma. Lying on the floor, each breath has been a hot, hard struggle. I have become reacquainted with the ragged gulps of air that are never enough to fill my lungs, the sensation of fire crawling across my upper back.

The asthma transports me back the seventies even more than my Nanna’s black and white television, circa 1971 gas stove and choice of brown upholstery fabrics. It was my childhood asthma that extinguished any boyish dreams of sporting glory. I was always cowered by the knowledge too much exertion on the pitch could lead me back to the isolation and oxygen tents I first experienced as a six-year-old.

The fear of asthma putting me back in hospital was nothing compared to the terror that would actually consume me during an attack. As the sense I was suffocating grew stronger, I would find myself fighting not just for breath, but against an irresistible panic. It was not some adult inspired existential dread designed to make children wary of ‘strange men’, it was total locked-in-blazing-building-hammering-on-the-doors-and-screaming panic. Sometimes when the fire of asthma raged in my chest burning up all the oxygen, I would begin to pass out with no certainty of coming back.

During one attack, when no Ventolin inhaler or adult was around, I found myself on the floor, fading to black as each breath was incinerated by the inferno inside. On the hazy edge of consciousness, I encountered a glimpse of self. Even though my lungs felt as is they were being blistered by smoke, my own calm voice was clear: ‘Everything will be OK.’ At that point, my fear was alchemised.

Right now, when panic about other areas could so easily engulf me again, I need to hear that voice. Need emotional alchemy. Need the growing black dog growl to turn to white light hope. Things will be better in London; it is my crucible.