Tag Archives: ptsd

Goals, Targets, and Other Things I Don’t Care About.

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Do you set personal goals for yourself?

Ah, goals.

Those things we’re apparently supposed to set ourselves so we can become more productive, more successful, and generally a better version of ourselves.

You know the sort of thing.

Attend a motivational seminar, buy a rather expensive notebook, write down your five-year plan, and spend the next twelve months feeling guilty because life got in the way.

Yeah… I’ve never really gone in for all that.

Don’t get me wrong, I admire people who set themselves goals and work hard to achieve them. If that’s your thing, crack on. Good for you.

It’s just never really been my cup of tea.

I’ve never been particularly interested in turning my life into a spreadsheet, complete with targets, deadlines, and little boxes to tick.

I’m a poet, a photographer, and a professional rambler. I spend a good deal of my time scribbling words, taking photographs, and generally following whatever creative rabbit hole happens to catch my attention.

And honestly?

I quite like it that way.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to grow.

Of course I do.

I’d love to see my poetry reach more people. I’d love for my photography to find its way in front of a few more pairs of eyes. I’d love for the things I create to connect with somebody, somewhere, who might need them.

Who wouldn’t?

There’s something rather lovely about putting a little piece of yourself out into the world and discovering that somebody, somewhere, has connected with it.

Especially when that little piece of yourself started life as a few scribbles in your head.

But I’ve never felt the need to turn that desire into some grand, all-singing, all-dancing personal development programme.

No five-year plan.

No motivational posters telling me I can achieve anything if I just believe hard enough.

And absolutely no standing in front of a mirror at six in the morning, telling myself I’m going to conquer the world.

The neighbours would probably worry.

Besides, I’ve come to realise that life doesn’t always work according to plan. Sometimes things go brilliantly, sometimes they go spectacularly pear-shaped, and sometimes you spend an afternoon wondering what on earth you went into the kitchen for.

That’s life.

So, do I have a goal?

Well, I suppose I do.

Although calling it a goal might be stretching the definition somewhat.

At the end of every month, I have a little look at the number of interactions my creative work has received.

That’s it.

Nothing complicated.

My goal, if you can call it that, is simply to do as well as I did the previous month.

Not necessarily better.

Just the same would do nicely.

If the numbers go up, which they usually do, then that’s a lovely little bonus.

If they don’t?

I’m not going to beat myself up because a particular post didn’t reach as many people as the one before it.

Nor am I going to decide that my work has somehow become less valuable because an algorithm has had a funny five minutes.

After all, numbers can tell you how many people interacted with something.

They can’t always tell you what it meant to them.

And that’s an important distinction.

Because somewhere out there, somebody might read a poem of mine and feel a little less alone.

Somebody might look at a photograph and see something beautiful in an otherwise ordinary day.

Somebody might read one of these ramblings, have a little chuckle, or find a thought that stays with them long after they’ve closed the page.

I’ll probably never know about most of those moments.

And that’s okay.

I don’t need to.

If something I’ve created makes a difference to even one person, then there’s value in that which no monthly statistic can properly measure.

Perhaps that’s the thing about creativity.

You can spend hours worrying about reach, engagement, followers, likes, shares, and all the other things the internet has taught us we’re supposed to care about.

Or you can get on with creating things because you enjoy doing it, because you have something to say, or because sometimes putting words on a page is simply how you make sense of the world.

Personally, I’ll take the second option.

I’ll keep writing.

I’ll keep taking photographs.

I’ll keep sharing whatever happens to fall out of my head and onto the page.

And if more people find their way here along the way, then that’s wonderful.

But I’m not going to spend my life chasing a number.

Life’s a journey, after all.

And I’d rather enjoy the scenery than spend the entire trip staring at the satnav, worrying whether I’m getting there quickly enough.

Which brings me to something I really do want to say.

To those of you on the other side of this screen…

Thank you. Genuinely.

Whether you’ve been reading my scribbles for years or you’ve only stumbled across one of my ramblings today, I’m grateful you’re here.

Every comment, every like, every share, every message, and every moment you’ve taken out of your day to read something I’ve written means more than you probably realise.

I know the internet is a busy place. There’s an almost endless supply of things demanding our attention, and yet you’ve chosen to spend a little of your time here.

With me.

And that genuinely touches me.

I started writing because I had things I needed to get out of my head. Over the years, those scribbles have grown into something much bigger than I ever expected.

And the fact that other people have found something in them?

Well, that’s a rather lovely bonus, isn’t it?

So, no, I don’t have a grand plan for world domination.

I’m not aiming to become the next big thing.

I’m not sitting here plotting how to turn every waking moment into an opportunity for personal growth.

I’m just Bob.

An old soul with a head full of thoughts, a camera, a keyboard, and an apparently endless supply of things to ramble about.

I’ll keep doing what I do.

Creating, and keep putting my work out into the world.

And at the end of each month, I’ll have a little look at those numbers and see how things are going.

If they’re up, I’ll do an extra happy dance.

If they’re the same, I’ll be very happy.

And if they’re down?

Well, there’s always next month.

Because perhaps the point isn’t to keep setting bigger and bigger goals until we’re so busy chasing the next achievement that we forget to appreciate what we’ve already got.

Perhaps it’s about enjoying what we’re doing, appreciating the people who come along for the ride, and being grateful that we get to do it in the first place.

At least, that’s how I see it.

And once again, to everyone who reads, shares, comments, or simply stops by for a little while…

Thank you.

You’re appreciated more than you know.

Stay safe,

Bc

Still Dreaming, Still Learning

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What’s something you’ve done that you never thought you could?

This one is very easy to answer.

In fact, I reckon I could probably give you two answers. Funny how life works out sometimes, isn’t it?

Around twenty years ago, I started writing poetry.

Well, poetry is probably what we’ll call it. Back then, I referred to them as my scribbles, and if I’m honest, that’s still a pretty good description of some of them.

I didn’t start writing because I wanted to be a poet. I wasn’t dreaming of seeing my name in magazines, winning awards, or having people read my words.

Nope.

I started writing because I needed to get the stuff in my head out of it.

My mental health was in a pretty rough place, and I needed a way to process the thoughts, emotions, and general chaos that I was struggling to make sense of. Writing became a form of therapy, a pressure valve, and eventually a way of understanding myself a little better.

It was never about being good enough for anyone else.

It was about trying to be okay.

As I kept writing, something unexpected happened. People started taking an interest in my words. I wrote a poem for a family member’s naming ceremony, and people began asking where I’d got it from.

When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed rather surprised.

Truth be told, so was I!

Perhaps there was something in this poetry malarkey after all.

Fast-forward twenty years, and I’ve had my work published in magazines and books, written six books of my own, and even picked up awards for my poetry.

For a bloke who started writing just to try and keep his head above water never imagined that his words would find their way into print, let alone receive recognition.

I certainly didn’t set out with any of that in mind.

I was just trying to make sense of life, one scribble at a time.

And yet, somewhere along the way, those scribbles became something more.

They became my voice.

Then there’s the camera…

The second answer would obviously be photography.

I’ve always enjoyed taking pictures, but it was never something I thought of as a talent. When I got my first camera phone, I started snapping away at whatever caught my eye.

A bird. A landscape. Something interesting on a walk. Whatever took my fancy, really.

I wasn’t following some grand artistic vision. I wasn’t studying photography or worrying about aperture, shutter speeds, focal lengths, or any of those other technical things that proper photographers seem to know about.

I just liked taking pictures.

Still do, actually.

The difference is that people started noticing them.

Some of my photographs have been shared by local news outlets, which is something I certainly never expected when I first started pointing a phone at things and pressing a button.

And then there was the opportunity to photograph an event featuring Howard Jones.

Yes, THAT Howard Jones!

Genuine 80s pop royalty.

If you’d told me years ago that one day I’d be taking photographs at an event with someone whose music helped soundtrack an era, I’d probably have looked at you as though you’d been at the cooking sherry.

But it happened.

And that’s the thing about life. Sometimes you stumble into opportunities that you never even knew were possible, simply because you followed something you enjoyed.

No master plan. No five-year strategy. No carefully mapped-out career.

Just a bloke with a camera, taking pictures of things that caught his eye.

So what have I learned

I suppose the biggest lesson is that you don’t always need to know where something is going before you start.

Sometimes, you just need to begin.

You don’t have to be brilliant at something on day one. You don’t need qualifications, a grand ambition, or even the confidence to call yourself good at what you do.

Sometimes, you just need to give yourself permission to have a go.

For me, poetry started as a way of looking after my mental health. Photography started as a bit of fun.

Neither began with the intention of achieving anything spectacular.

And yet both have taken me places I never expected to go.

My poetry has been published, recognised, and awarded. My photographs have reached audiences I never imagined, and I’ve had opportunities that the younger version of me would probably have thought were beyond his reach.

Am I some sort of literary genius or photographic wizard?

Absolutely not.

I’m still learning. I’m still experimenting. I still write things that need a fair bit of work, and I still take photographs that don’t quite turn out the way I imagined.

But I keep going.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last twenty years, it’s that you never really know what might come from doing something that makes you feel a little more like yourself.

Sometimes, the thing you start doing simply to survive becomes the thing that helps you thrive.

And sometimes, the hobby you pick up without a second thought turns into an opportunity you could never have dreamed of.

So, if you’re sitting there wondering whether you should give something a go, perhaps this is your nudge.

Write the poem.

Take the photograph.

Pick up the paintbrush.

Try the thing that’s been sitting at the back of your mind.

You don’t have to know where it will lead.

You just have to start.

Because twenty years ago, I was a bloke scribbling words to help make sense of his own head and taking pictures because something caught his eye.

I never imagined either would lead to the things they have.

And honestly?

I’m rather glad I gave them a go.

Stay safe.

BC

Strong Enough to Fight, Wise Enough not to

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What does it mean to be a good person?

Ask ten people and you’ll probably get ten different answers. For me, it comes down to something rather simple: helping others, treating strangers with kindness, and trying to leave the world a little better than I found it.

Nothing revolutionary, is it? Although, given the state of the bloody world sometimes, you’d think kindness was a rare and endangered species.

But here’s the thing. Kindness isn’t weakness, and peace isn’t an inability to fight.

You can be compassionate without being a pushover. You can stand up for yourself and those you love without making aggression your default setting.

It’s why the idea of a demon hand and a Buddha heart resonates with me. Strength tempered by compassion. The ability to confront darkness without allowing it to dictate who you become.

I’ve been trained for war, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend my life fighting. Quite the opposite.

There’s a difference between being unable to hurt someone and having the capability to do so but choosing not to. One is a limitation. The other is restraint.

And restraint, in my opinion, takes a fair bit of strength.

We all have anger, pride and darker impulses. The question isn’t whether those feelings exist, but whether we allow them to control our actions. Just because somebody insults us doesn’t mean we have to respond. Just because we can win an argument doesn’t mean we should have it.

Sometimes, walking away is the strongest thing you can do. Not because you’re frightened, but because your peace of mind is worth more than having the last bloody word.

So, what makes someone a good person?

Not perfection. I’ve yet to meet anyone who has that particular trick figured out.

It’s about trying. Helping when you can. Admitting when you’re wrong. Apologising when you’ve hurt someone. Standing up for those who need it, setting boundaries when necessary, and having the courage to change your mind when life proves you wrong.

We can’t control how others behave, but we can take responsibility for how we respond.

For me, that’s the balance:

It’s known as Demon hand, Buddha heart. Strength without cruelty. Compassion without helplessness. Peace without pretending the world is always peaceful.

I don’t have to be harmless to be kind, weak to be gentle, or blind to the world’s darkness to choose not to add to it.

I can walk a path of peace while being prepared for war. But above all, I can choose to lead with my heart.

Will that change the world overnight? Probably not. I’m not that bloody optimistic.

But if we all made a little more effort to choose kindness over contempt, restraint over retaliation, and understanding over hatred, perhaps we’d make this place a little easier to live in.

Not perfect. Not without conflict.

Just a little kinder.

And honestly? I’d settle for that.

Stay safe,

BC

The Car Stopped, I didn’t.

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The accident was three seconds long.

Three seconds.

That’s all it took
to turn a road
into a place my body still remembers.

People asked if I was hurt.

I said no.

Because I could walk.
Because nothing was broken.
Because the blood belonged to somebody else’s panic
and the bruises faded
like they had somewhere better to be.

But nobody asks the nervous system
what it thinks happened.

Nobody tells your hands
that they’re allowed to stop shaking.

Nobody explains to your heart
that the car is no longer spinning.

So now—

every sudden brake light
is a memory with headlights.

Every tyre screech
is a door opening
to the same three seconds.

I flinch at roundabouts.

I count cars.

I sit in the passenger seat
and press my foot into the floor
as if I can find a brake pedal
that isn’t there.

Sometimes I hear the crash
when the room is completely silent.

And that is the cruelest part.

The world looks at me
and sees someone who survived.

I look at the world
and see potential impact.

They told me I was lucky.

I know they meant it kindly.

But luck is a strange word
when your body survives
and your mind becomes the crime scene.

There are no stitches for this.

No plaster cast.

No X-ray that says,

Here.
This is where it hurts.

So I learned to carry an invisible injury
through visible places.

I laugh.

I go to work.

I answer questions.

I say I’m fine
because “I’m remembering the moment I almost died”
is not considered (or socially) appropriate small talk.

And sometimes I wonder
if healing is supposed to feel like forgetting.

I hope not.

Because I don’t want to forget.

I just want to remember
without fucking reliving it.

I want a red light
to become just a red light again.

I want the sound of tyres
to belong to the road
instead of my nightmares.

I want my body
to understand what my mind keeps refusing to believe:

The crash is over.

The car stopped.

I survived.

And this time,

when I close my eyes,

I want the darkness
to be nothing more
than darkness.

(c)BobChristian

Anyone Who Needs to Be Heard

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Who would you like to talk to soon?

I don’t really have anyone I’d like to talk to, unless this hypothetical offer went beyond the veil, then I’d talk to Mrs Bob’s father, as I never met the man responsible for the woman I adore.

Otherwise.

Honestly?

Anyone who needs to be heard.

Not the polished version of them either.
Not the “I’m fine” version.
Not the social media highlight reel.

I mean the exhausted version.

The bloke sat in his car for ten extra minutes because he can’t face walking into the house carrying another day on his back.

The father who hasn’t slept properly in months.

The husband who feels emotionally disconnected but doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding weak.

The businessman who calls burnout “being busy” because that sounds more acceptable.

The friend who makes everybody laugh while quietly falling apart in private.

Those people.

Because the truth is, there are a lot of men walking around carrying invisible weight while pretending it’s manageable.

And society is still incredibly good at rewarding the performance.

The bills get paid.
The shifts get worked.
The family gets looked after.
The jokes still land at the pub.
The smile still appears on cue.

Meanwhile inside?

Some men are absolutely drowning.

The dangerous part is that many don’t even recognise it anymore because struggle has become normal. Exhaustion becomes personality. Emotional shutdown becomes “just how men are.” Isolation gets dressed up as independence.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, one phrase still echoes louder than it should:

“Man up.”

It sounds harmless to some people. Motivational even. Like tough love.

But for a lot of men, what they actually hear is:

Don’t feel.
Don’t break.
Don’t talk.
Don’t let anyone see what’s happening inside you.

That’s where the damage starts.

Because many men were raised on survival before self-awareness. Responsibility before vulnerability. We learned how to endure pressure long before we learned how to process emotion.

So when life caves in — grief, divorce, redundancy, addiction, anxiety, loneliness, depression — many men don’t have the language for it.

They don’t say:

“I’m struggling.”

They disappear into silence instead.

And silence is dangerous.

Far too many good men have convinced themselves that asking for help somehow makes them less dependable, less masculine, less strong.

Personally?

I think honesty takes far more courage than pretending ever will.

It takes guts for a father to admit he’s overwhelmed.
It takes strength for a husband to say he feels disconnected.
It takes bravery for a man to ring a friend and simply say:

“I’m not doing great.”

That’s not weakness.

That’s self-awareness.

We desperately need healthier versions of masculinity now. Not softer men necessarily — just more honest ones.

Because healthy masculinity was never supposed to mean emotional suppression.

A strong man can still be disciplined.
Still dependable.
Still protective.
Still resilient.

But he should also be allowed to be human.

Allowed to feel grief without shame.
Allowed to ask for help without embarrassment.
Allowed to admit when the weight gets too heavy.

A strong man is not a man who never breaks.

A strong man is a man who stops lying about being broken.

That’s the difference.

And maybe that’s what “man up” should mean now.

Not:

“Hide your pain.”

But:

“Face your truth.”

Because too many men have spent years hearing the same message:

Be useful.
Be tough.
Be quiet.

That silence has cost lives.

The reality is painfully simple:

Before provider.
Before protector.
Before husband.
Before father.
Before leader.

Men are human beings first.

And human beings need connection. Support. Purpose. Rest. Honesty. Sometimes help.

So if you ask me who I’d like to talk to?

Anyone who needs to be heard.

Even if they don’t yet know how to say the words.

Stay safe
Bc