Back in those heady, bygone days of 2014, the BBC – still not a swear word – produced an 8 part series entitled ‘The Missing’.
Starring Derren Nesbitt, what was not to like?
And I remember settling down with a drink and a chunk of cheese to enjoy the latest drama from the national broadcaster.
However, as soon as the premise of the series became clear, the disappearance of a pre-teenage boy, I had to stop, and didn’t watch any more of the first series, thus missing the nation’s introduction to Tcheky Karyo as Julien Baptiste – the most perfect imperfect character.
But I digress.
The reason that I stopped watching was very simple and straightforward. The disappearance of a son had been on and off, a nightmare that I had endured ever since my own son was born.
At the time that the series was shown he was 23, so there was no obvious logic to my inability to continue watching, but what it did do was begin to reveal broader change that had become a part of my life.
I had always been prone to emotional response, although after a clinical depression diagnosis at the age of 16, I had worked for many years to develop recognition and coping mechanisms to retain some control and concealment of the extremes that were inside.
And, as my son, amongst others, will attest, I have been known as a bit of a sniveller with films, TV, and his public dramatic performances.
It was, looking back, a useful means of releasing small amounts of emotion in a comparatively safe way, as well as providing others with some amusement.
Coincidently, the release of series 1 of ‘The Missing’ was around the same time that I had reached the bottom of a very deep hole, and was dragged up from that by the best, and longest hug of my life.
From then, whether gaining momentum to climb up out of the hole from the drop down, or most probably from the unconditional empathy of a, then, total stranger, I have also realised that emotions are not only extremely useful measures and indicators of where and how you are, but a release and a relief for the soul.
The reason for this pontificating?
I watched an episode of a series about the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916, which included the death of an 11 year old boy.
And I continued to watch, albeit with tears in my eyes.
And I am glad that I continue to show how I feel, because it’s good for my soul.
And it reminds me, every day, for I usually blink away tears at least once a day, that a hug can be so much more than a hug.
And my son will always be the best person I know.
And that too was typed through tears, and a sniff.
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