Reflections on Peace, Philosophy, and Life
Before I started my psychology degree, I worked for six months as a porter at the Maudsley Hospital in London.
Part of the job was accompanying patients to and from ECT. Electroconvulsive therapy. A machine, a treatment, a protocol. Very efficient. Very clinical.
What I remember most clearly is what happened after.
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Forgiveness is a word we use easily, yet it points to something profoundly difficult. People often say, “You must forgive,” as though forgiveness were a simple decision, something one can just do and then get on with life. But real forgiveness is nothing like that. It is not quick. It is not tidy. And it certainly cannot be forced.
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Who am I?
I’m a man.
I’m a boy.
I’m a child.
I’m a son, a father, a brother, a cousin, a grandfather, a grandson.
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Some people move through life on the surface, while others live much of their existence inwardly—quietly, deeply, and often alone. Both ways of being are human. Both have their strengths. But when these two types meet, the relationship can become a terrain of misunderstanding, disappointment, and quiet longing. I know this from experience.
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We usually reserve the word self-harm for the clinical realm. It describes a person who, in one way or another, knowingly damages their own wellbeing. They may cut themselves, refuse care, or pursue behaviours that worsen their suffering. The defining feature is awareness: they know the behaviour is harmful, but they do it anyway.
I often think this term belongs not only in psychiatry textbooks, but on the desks of whole governments.
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