Some scrambled thoughts

On secrets, sleep and the sadness of the system...

When I was in Tokyo, we caught an ear-popping lift up 46 floors, until we were 230 metres off the ground. I don’t know how to explain 230 metres to you, maybe I don’t need to and, unlike me, you understand basic metrics.

I just know we could see all of Tokyo from this rooftop, and, from there, I was finally confronted by just how huge (so huge, I don’t even think huge is the right word for it) the city is. The density of it. How far it streeeeeetched. The population of Tokyo is 38 million. All those people below me, all facing their unique days. The overlapping of streets, the conflict of feelings, opinions, lives. All scrambled below me.

That’s how I feel right now. Like a Shibuya Scramble. It’s what I thought this building was called, and I keep muttering to myself “you’re all Shibuyu scrambled” each time I feel overwhelmed, or like there isn’t enough air for me to breathe. Each time the density and weight of the world rushes at me, as I become aware of just how much life can come speeding towards us all, so fast it can leave us feeling weightless.

Up there I was so high up, and oh-so-aware of the terror and the tragedy of life, but also captivated by the beauty of it all. I felt the fragile safety of my own skin, the rigidness of my bones and how upright they held me, but also how ready they were to disintegrate. How easily they could crumble.

It’s not actually called the Shibuyu Scramble. I learned that just now. It’s called Shibuyu Sky, and it’s on top of Shibuyu Scramble Square. Shibuyu Sky makes more sense, as it is, literally, in the sky. There’s even a helicopter pad up there. I lay back on the manufactured green turf, and saw nothing but blue… But it will always be Shibuyu Scramble to me, and for now, I shall remain Shibuyu Scrambled.

My SS state is why I’m going to do this newsletter in parts. I’ve done this before (read here) when my brain isn’t quite up to piecing thoughts all together and making them into something neat. But I still want to talk to you! Share what I’m feeling, and maybe hear from you, on what you’ve heard or thought about this week? So, here’s some things I’ve been thinking about/doing and trying to learn from…

The places we won’t go…

There are some things we just won’t say. Even in the longest, most loving relationships. In fact, largely in those long, loving relationships. History cements secrets inside of us.

If you read this newsletter a lot then you’ll know that I am an over sharer, I process things by talking about them, sometimes in circles, for hours. I write, often publicly, to unpick my past, having absolutely no idea where I’m going to end up, or what I’m going to reveal. I’m an honest person… but I’m also a deeply dishonest person. There are many conversations I won’t have with others, or even have with myself. Sometimes out of protecting them, other times out of self-preservation. We all do this. I don’t believe anyone is truly honest with the people they love, or with themselves. I don’t think it’s possible. There are parts of ourselves that we instinctively need to hide from…

I was thinking about all the things I’ve never said, while listening to two episodes of This American Life* both of which told the stories what happens when the unspoken becomes spoken. Once these thoughts and feelings were out there, everyone felt better. Long held assumptions were cleared up and the love these people held for each other flourished even more vibrantly. But, I noticed, no one said “I wish we’d spoken sooner.” I think they knew that they couldn’t. That these conversations had to happen when everyone was ready, whether that was a conscious or subconscious feeling. They had to speak, in that very moment. This was exactly how it was meant to be. Any other time and it could have gone very differently.

I’m not saying: “HOORAY FAMILY SECRETS, LET’S ALL LIE TO ONE ANOTHER.” I believe in voicing our thoughts and fears. We don’t have the space inside of us for too much cement. What I’m trying to say, in my Shibuya Scrambled way, is that there’s a lot, in our oversaturated, therapy speak online world that tells us to confront things head on, to have the hard conversations – both with ourselves and those around us. I’ve found, in the past, that this attitude can make me feel like I’m failing. I can feel guilty and ashamed of my inability to carve out my “very best self” as there are still so many things I refuse to deal with or confront. But there are demons that I don’t want to invite to dance. There are demons that remain hidden within caves inside of me that refuse to come out to dance.

I think that’s OK, I’ll deal with them when I’m ready. Or maybe I won’t. This doesn’t mean that I am clueless about who I am, or that my relationships are hollow, as things were skirted around and there were moments that we didn’t ever confront. I think the internet tries to trick us into thinking that we can become fully realised beings, when really all we’re doing is muddling along, learning and trying our best.

I’ll see you in my dreams

When I was at university, one of my flatmates said to me: “you sleep way too much, it’s not good for you.” I’d never had my sleep patterns commented on, or judged before. It stayed with me and I’d sneak off to sleep at 9pm, as if I was sneaking a forbidden man back to my room, or bottle of whisky. This vague sleep shame stayed with me, long after graduation, as I came to work during the girl bossing, side hustle era of the 2010s. It still lingers, a little, but now I’ve come to recognise my capacity for sleep as a superpower.

When I’m stressed, ill or have a lot on my mind, it’s as if my body just switches itself off. It then, with the company of a cuddly stoned turtle and my fluffy bellied cat, recharges itself. I used to think of myself as lazy but I now think it’s just something my body needs a lot of, and I’m lucky that my life circumstances, and brain, allows me it. Today my sleep shame is more to do with not wanting to admit how much sleep I get, as I don’t want to appear braggy… I’d love to be able to gift some of my sleepy superpower to the parents and insomniacs in my life. I’m just letting you know now (admittedly, after a nap) in case you’re someone, like me, who feels some residual shame about sleeping, or you’re going through something which means you must sleep a lot and you’re worried about that. I’m no doctor, and obviously if your sleeping is completely overtaking your life, then perhaps it’s not so good, but mostly I think: sleep away. Your body obviously needs it, let it charge for a while.

Grieving for strangers, grieving for the system

Here I am. I won’t go away. Here I am. Praying for a better day.

Here I am. Will you stand with me? Here I am. Together we will be free.

We said these words**, in a cross between a chant and a hymn, after each collection of names. We then listened to tributes, absorbing the life stories behind some of the names. We didn’t just hear of their trauma. Their lives were not a tragedy. They loved, and were loved, and we heard about that. They were acknowledged in their fullness, each person was complex, with a life that was, at times, chaotic. Their deaths were early… and unfair.

On Thursday, I attended a service of commemoration, for people who have been homeless and who lost their lives this year. After the tribute, we – row by row – went to the front to collect a card to take away, and carry with us, to remember each individual lost. Some had names on them, others didn’t. As walked up, Gavin Bryars’ Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet*** echoed around the walls of the church.

Research by the charity Museum of Homelessness shows that the number of homeless people that died in 2022 was 1,313. Up 85%. The average age of death for people experiencing homelessness is 45 for men, and 43 for women. I attended the service the week Suella Braverman called homelessness a “lifestyle choice.”

There were people in the church who knew those whose names were read out. They were saying goodbye. I attended because I volunteer with Showerbox****, a charity who provides showers and hygiene essentials, each Saturday, in London, to those experiencing homelessness. There’s a community there, a community I’ve grown to feel a part of, and my friends there had lost someone. I went for them, but also because it felt important to honour those whose lives are so often dismissed.

It’s why I felt like I wasn’t just grieving each name, each loss, but grieving a loss of… I’m not sure the right word. Humanity came to mind. But that’s because the words ‘have we lost our humanity?’ have been shared a lot on my social media this week, accompanied by each new, shattering headline from the Middle East and the disregard being shown for human life. They were also shared when Braverman said the “lifestyle choice” comment and when tents were destroyed in Camden as a result.

There’s a lot of horror out there, but – and perhaps you may think I’m being optimistically naïve – I don’t believe that we, as a collective, have lost our humanity. Some individuals have, hypnotised by greed, swapping their empathy and kindness for power and cash. The majority of people I see? They feel lost, scared and heartbroken at what’s going on in our world, whether personally connected or not. They want things to change, desperately so, and they’re flailing about, terrified and trying to find some control, however they can. So no, ‘humanity’ isn’t the right word. But… something has been lost. Trust in the system? Trust in a safety net? Whatever the right word is, I’m too Shibuya Scrambled to find it. I just know that it feels like something has been lost… but that doesn’t mean it can’t be found again.

Thank you for reading my scrambled thoughts. Please let me know your own scrambled thoughts, either on the above or anything else you’d like to talk about. And, if you enjoyed, please share with friends and encourage them to become subscribers! I’ve handed in a big project I was working on, so I am pledging to get more organised. There’s a brilliant guest post coming next week, about friendship, and more planned. If there’s anything you’d like me to explore, or write about, please do let me know.

* It was this episode, and this one. If you listen to the Places We Don’t Go episode, pleaaaaseee talk to me about what you think of the song story. Was he just a spectacularly unlucky person? Or was he too focused on his bad luck? Or has that song actually cursed him?!

** Alastair Murray

*** A beautiful, eerie piece of music, orchestrated around the loop of an unnamed homeless man, taken from a 1971 documentary. It’s been called ‘the closest we have in this country to an underground national hymn.’ You can listen to a little bit of it here.

**** You can read about Showerbox’s work here. And we currently have a wish list, where everything you order goes to one of our guests (just add things from the wish list to your basket, and when you check out an address appears for Kate Young, one of our volunteers).