Hal's Site

Mother fumbles in the glove box for mints, that if it wasn’t for their packaging would form a singular white entity bound by heat and sugar, insisting I take one. Exhaling sharply into my palms, the unmistakable scent of tobacco ricochets backwards, forcing me to oblige. Again, she recounts a story, nothing of great importance; a wedding, a guest at said wedding’s weight, the origin of a popular character, a television show premise (though she remarks on her lack of time to watch television), surprised I’ve heard it all before. The radio splutters eighties pop music as patches of service flitter through the winding countryside. Occasionally, confectionery clacks against the back of my teeth with a swift gulp of mint saliva, saving me from an answer that my mother and her husband disprove of.

We burst from clusters of trees, revealing a patchwork quilt of fields dotted with livestock, bright yellow squares of rapeseed flowers contrast the dull beige of wheat. Clouds appear painted, flat and low, sluggishly crawling across the sky. From the “cheap seats” I observe my mother adjust herself, her expression pained in the sun-visor mirror, “I didn’t think, especially with what I’ve gone through, you’d pick up smoking.”

Though my mother quit years ago, the scent reminds me of her. Calming me down as a child, she’d knock on my bedroom door to sit beside me. Vapour from two tea cups rolled up the walls by the dressing table. I told myself I could never pursue music or art as a career. My teeth are crooked and tea stained, nose like a strawberry, deep pores and all. I would be a deterrent on a CD case, not a selling point. However, when my mother was close, our noses the same, cups steaming beside one other, my place on this earth felt deliberate. Her breath hot with tea and strong with the scent of Rothman’s Blue or Richmond Kings. I wasn’t queasy, I was comfortable. My mental state so destructive as a child that she allowed me to destroy every fragile thing she’d poured her heart into. Closing the door, then opening it again to observe the aftermath. Never a time where I wasn’t at the centre, voice haggard with a scarlet face. As an adult, I know there is no such thing as a bad child, but I hesitate to admit that the statement applies to me. After that, I refused to ever be the bomb again. There are only so many times you could see someone you love pick up the pieces. In no way am I justifying nicotine addiction, but as my lips purse around a Vogue, smoke making my eyes water, I think of my mother and every time her shirt was damp from my tears.

Call it coincidence or disregard it completely, but every time someone around me is ill, negative, deceitful or close to death, I witness crows. Death could be the ending of a cycle, not a life. As a child, even with my disability, I had the overwhelming urge to run away. The weather couldn’t decide to blanket the town in darkness or offer patches of sunshine. I left in my socks, no shoes, and ran past the reservoir, straight down the long strip of road lined with horse chestnut trees to the motorway. Memories were tied to the reservoir. When the Gideons group, an evangelical Christian association visited our school, they offered Bibles for free with the assumption that the teachings would be available to students who may be seeking hope or a change in their lives. One of the tallest boys in my class threw his copy off the stone bridge into those murky waters. It broke the surface with a satisfying splash, a little red book surrounded by algae and minnows. A pang of guilt washed over me violently, I thought the lapping water and dense mat of sago pondweed would drag me to the depths along with the Bible. Spikes from conker shells ripped my socks and skin on that particular escape. For me, my feet were damned regardless, it wouldn’t have mattered if I wore them to stubs as long as I could get out of there. With hindsight, running to the woodlands would have made for better survival, but I wanted to be nowhere near home.

Megan was a friend from school who I looked up to, despite my mothers destain. Maths was never my strongest subject, so she asked the teacher if we could use the bathroom at the same time. We left together, and she proceeded to whisk me to a bathroom on the other side of school, standing on the sink to light a cigarette and blow smoke from the tiny slit of the window. She offered me strawberry bubblegum, of which she chewed a piece of her own, exhaling the cigarette into the bubble to watch a puff of smoke pop in a satisfying circle when the gum over-expanded. The idea hit me in the adrenaline rush of escape to visit Megan. Never in my life, even since then, have I seen so many crows clustered in one place. Megan’s mother had called my parents, mortified that a grubby child with unkempt hair and bloodied feet had requested for her daughter to play outside. She wasn’t much of a looker herself, doubled over with a strain of thin silver hair dripping over her chest. Crone-like and weathered with the waft of deep-fat cooking oil, presumably for chips, blaring through the crack of the front door. Soon enough my mother and (at the time) stepfather hoisted me by the collar, a police car pulled up beside them. I remember the officer standing with his arms crossed, leaning one foot against the door of the BMW. No words were spoken during the drive home.

Eventually, the cycle repeated itself. Tea, the smell of smoke, yet this time a plate accompanied with a statement, “I thought you might be hungry.”

“I just want you to be my Happy H-. Just eat half for me, okay? One more mouthful. Sometimes I wonder where my Happy H- has gone.”

I wonder if she sees that part of me in the rear-view mirror. Something wild and thrashing in me was slaughtered years ago. Too unruly and unpredictable, it was easier for me to nod along and stay silent. No longer could the rot bleed out from my pores and affect people and environments around me. We don’t look in the eyes much. I’m afraid she’ll turn pale looking a ghost in the face. It was a memorable death. After that I never tried. Grades began slipping, interests faded, I tried to keep myself out of the spotlight. Next thing you know you’re in a therapy room sectioned by glass brick windows with a therapist who is more interested in offering biscuits from a tin than coping techniques for depression and generalised anxiety disorder (GAD). My mother showed me an article in the local newspaper. My high-school therapist fired and charged for animal neglect. I could have seen that a mile off. Put a shivering prickly animal in a chair, watch it bear fangs and your response is to feed it stale shortbread.

Originally this document was meant to accompany me into the New Year as a structured reference guide, though it shall function as a diary in part whilst the year continues. It can be useful to plot the ebb and flow of time and circumstances. Currently it is December the 15th 2025. A myriad of ups and downs have occurred this year. Previously I worked (albeit miserably) as a call centre operative in the automotive industry for almost two years. Daily I would strive to give the highest possible standard in customer service. Personal problems evaporated the moment a telephone call came through. What did seep through the cracks, distracted by the back-to-back calls (when a call ended ten seconds of wrap-up time was issued before another began) was impossible to notice at first. A blip on the windscreen, pun fully intentional. Burnout crept up over time. First you think you’re exhausted because of a particularly stressful interaction, high call volumes (handling over one-hundred phone calls a day), eye strain from computers, two fifteen minute breaks a day, diet consisting of unhealthy food from a snack van or store brought that can be eaten somewhat silently in case the telephone rings, etcetera. Looking back at an earlier photograph of myself, then staring bleakly into my grubby wardrobe mirror when working from home, I realised what I had become. Ugly. The photo and I were two different people. Medication was partly to blame for hair loss and showering had become an arduous task, my hair clogging the drain every time, regardless of product, temperature or duration. Greasy skin and acne due to the poor eating habits and stress dotted my face, neck, chest and shoulders. My calm telephone manner hadn’t changed, even to the point where one gentleman told me I should create an ASMR channel due to my voice (customers found me incredibly relaxing and easy to speak to, which made their experience pleasant) but I found myself cussing in-between calls, snapping pens in tense frustration when writing notes, my anger bubbling over to the point where self harm, something I hadn’t done for years was back on the cards. Locking myself in the office bathroom to patch myself up and continue shifts with a default smile on my face. I couldn’t spend my downtime tending to wounds like a cat, covering myself up in summertime and unable to take the customer service mask off. I wrote myself a note in Sharpie pen, telling myself that I cannot possibly solve everyone’s problems and this is just a job. I’ll be out of here soon, but the money and my families approval of a “real job” kept me clocking in. A since deleted diary post on my website linked dysphoria, masking and mental health to the end result.

There was no chance at job progression either, as much as the company boasted that incentive on their application. A “happy-go-lucky” man such as myself was a pushover, readily training new employees without the trainer position under my belt, working the holidays (my New Years Day of 2025 consisted of me staying at home with a headset on, though I did sneakily watch the entire first season of Dan-Da-Dan) and agreeing to additional overtime, even without time-and-a-half pay. Unless you were in the management teams best friends club, you were not getting a promotion. This was evident when the supervisor position became available. Everyone at the company urged me to apply, including two of the “friends club” members. My coworker, affectionately known to me as Auntie due to our workplace chats and coworker rapport, also applied for the role. No surprise that the supervisor role was given to one of the best friends club members. That was the final straw. I had nice co-workers, many of them had left. C (ommiting names here), an elderly woman that shared tea and biscuits with me who was a delightful conversationalist. L, the football lad from Newcastle with a fantastic sense of humour and despite our differences included me in office chats and events. Auntie, who is still with the company to this day, with her blunt honesty, reciting stories from MumsNet who dropped me back from the Christmas party in her rusted Fiat Panda.

Superficial as it may be, when I looked in the mirror and saw the man I had become, not the budding artist with wide eyes, rather the dull pudgy office worker who lacked self care, the promotion gave me the spiritual kick up the arse to leave. My goal seemed far too childlike. An ex-supervisor the best friends club didn’t favour, which by proxy put her higher on my ranks, named Je- would ask me to put myself on management time so we could have catch-up sessions and talk about art. Before she changed roles to work as head of the validations team, she would encourage me to chase after my dreams of being an artist. Je-, along with my mother found a college that did night classes so I could attempt my maths grade, something I ultimately didn’t pass again. She found me a place that offered life drawing classes and said any time I created something, she wanted to see it. When I opened up to her in one “management meeting” she looked at me with a sigh, her face dropping as I spoke, “You know what I think? I think you’re very lonely.”

Another coworker who made space for me was a soft-spoken woman named Ju-. She seemed like the kind of person you could trust. Information stayed with her rather than being flung around the office. She attempted to encourage me to dance to Luther Vandross at the most recent “works do”, but I hadn’t had anything to drink. Our company had recently let go of a larger call centre that helped when we were overflowing, which was quite often since our office including complaints, validations and operatives consisted of around thirty people. It was announced that our services, including online chat (that was staff operated) would be streamlined with AI. When a customer would call, they would listen to an automated voice and have to click through options on the telephone keypad, rather then pressing for an operative. It saved the company money. Though people on the line, especially the elderly would exclaim how thankful they were to be speaking with a real person after cycling through options. At the time I was researching AI, tech companies, capitalism, sensations like “McMindfulness”, and the reasons why offices were purposefully hostile environments. I was looking into anarchy and reading Marxist authors like Shoshanna Zuboff in the workplace, covering my copy of Surveillance Capitalism with wrapping paper. Back home I looked at my Sharpie note and realised that I couldn’t see myself at this company for three, five or ten years. I began writing my notice. The next day I slipped it to the new supervisor. On my last week of work, I was particularly upset. Ju- noticed right away and whisked me into the empty conference room. Nobody knew I was leaving other than management. I broke down and told her that I had no idea who I wanted to be, but what I loved was slipping away from me. I was under the impression that what I was good at and enjoyed was worth persisting. I needed to do something with my art. Art, an important backbone in my life, was something that could be found flowing through everything on earth, and could not be reduced to a mere “side hustle”.

One thing I have neglected to mention; I was back in therapy again. The therapist assigned to me said, “you speak like a man who has had therapy before”, additionally stating I had great understanding of myself and how thought patterns and behaviours form. I took unpaid absence and used holiday days to attend therapy as their hours were between nine in the morning until five in the evening. A session would take roughly an hour. When the therapist gave me a test, of which I scored highly (for once!) I was then put on a waiting list. My therapy was changed from the typical CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) therapy I had done multiple times before, to DBT (dialectical behaviour therapy), a therapy I was advised is better suited to people on the autism spectrum. Difference being, according to non-profit mental health treatment organisation Skyline Trail, “CBT seeks to give patients the ability to recognise when their thoughts might become troublesome, and gives them techniques to redirect those thoughts. DBT helps patients find ways to accept themselves, feel safe, and manage their emotions to help regulate potentially destructive or harmful behaviours.” The high score was for autism and ADHD. Whilst waiting, the NHS set up zoom meetings for other adults suspected to be neurodivergent, and to my surprise I was one of the youngest attendees there. It was extremely helpful to learn terminology, coping mechanisms and research so I could navigate life easier, studying and conversing with like-minded people. Back at work, despite their supposed advocacy for mental health, the new “best friend club” supervisor asked if she could speak to me about attending therapy. When I opened up about therapy, tests and positive benefits of the neurodivergent wait list group, she looked confused. It was hard not to feel ashamed when she said, “What’s that actually going to do for you? My son has autism. These things won’t change your life. Carry on as normal.” Therapy was important to note, as it helped give me the footing to speak for myself, giving me the push to hand my notice in with everything that was going on.

It was brought up rather nonchalantly. Never a grand ordeal like the movies or a conversation unravelled beneath a sea of trees on park benches. Back at the hideout, before the crew had to move, Heavy found himself watching television. Unlike Jakob, he couldn’t view absent-mindedly. Superpowers this, on-the-run that, we will update the good citizens of Saint Cleese and pursue this grave issue further. A loud slurp of instant ramen ceased the clacking of laptop keys beside Heavy. The plastic cup clicked to the coaster, teetering on the edge.

“Man, it feels rather cruel to call you Heavy or Seven, don’t you think?” The voice had it’s mouth full. A dull crack emitted from Jakob’s joints as he stretched upwards, fingers interlocked. Instinctively he reached for the remote to lower the volume, understanding Heavy would have a difficult time focusing on more than a singular conversation.

There was no avoiding a question aimed casually enough. As a distraction, Heavy began to rub the lace of his skirt between his thumb and forefinger, the fabric much more soothing than surgery gowns, “No. Heavy is what they call me. The seventh experiment is what I am.”

“Well you’re on a winning streak with choosing what suits you best, why stop now?” Remarked Jakob, opening tabs with his trackpad. The air hung dry other than the low muttering of the television, Heavy slowed his hand movements attempting to catch bumps where the pattern of the delicate lace opened into small purposeful holes. His nails traced the net structure as he closed his eyes, trying to figure out if the pattern formed hearts or diamonds.

“Can it go on like this? Me choosing what I want?” Guilt seised him then, as it had done previously without remorse. The first time he’d disobeyed orders, going against what others expected him to be, it led him here. Here meant being surrounded by a rag-tag bunch of humans who constantly expanded their own understanding and training, using their gifts for the greater good rather than pursuit of intimidation and ruling power, even to their own detriment. Maybe this wasn’t a trap for once. Still, the idea of wanting betterment for oneself contorted into the negative belief of being vain and egotistical. Of course that idea was concocted by the laboratory, but their conditioning caused the belief to linger like a phantom of the past.

“The past is over. We can learn from it but sometimes a new name is a symbol of renewal.” Jakob was no psychic. Despite this he managed to intercept Heavy’s thoughts.

“Re-new-al?”

“Uh, starting fresh. Clean slate. Trying again. Do-over. Giving it another go.” The man spoke with his hands enthusiastically, making the motion of brushing something aside. Heavy fluttered his eyes open to watch. By cocking his head the plastic of his earrings tapped melodically. His mouth scrunched, as if he was chewing new information, deep in thought.

After mulling over, a clear response was emitted, “Right. Understood.”

“You don’t have to wait for a special day or permission, Heav.”

“How do you name yourself?” His head whipped back to the television. The news broadcast of the groups fight became frosted glass as his eyes unfocused. Increasing the pressure, Heavy kneaded the lace harshly, his body becoming stiff. Slowly, a hand gently pressed to his shoulders, pushing them from their heightened spot by his ears to comfortably align with his collarbones. The back of the hand pressed to his cheek, refreshingly cool to the touch.

“You feeling alright? I don’t want you running a fever. I think we’ve got some painkillers but they never said if you have an allergy, big man.”

“I'm okay.” Heavy’s voice was automatic, “Tell me how I do it.”

“Why don’t you think of a couple and we can make a list. Then try saying them aloud and see how you feel.” Jakob withdrew his hand, poised at the keyboard. Adjusting his posture to straighten his back and neck resulted in another click, “oh, and buddy this can stay between us, but there’s no shame in it.”

Shame. The feeling made it’s presence known at the announcement of the word, dissipating when it’s arrival was warded off by Jakob. Perhaps something that begins with the same letter to bridge the gap, Heavy’s mind began to race. What the group were doing despite outrage was a good thing, exposing harsh truths to reveal clarity. New name, same flesh, this time adorned with soft fabrics. His lips quivered, short splutters of breath caught the air. He paid close attention to his physical form. Usually the heroes size caused him to fold in on himself, the physical pain resulting in a hunch regardless, “Hiro?"

“Oh, like superhero?”

“On my donors list there was a boy named Hiromi. They called him, Hiro. I never met him.” The man spelt out the name, hearing the keyboard click as each letter rung out. Jakob rotated his laptop. Hiromi, generous beauty.

“What a wonderful name. Let’s try it together.” Jakob’s smile reflected warmly in the laptop screen, a wide encompassing smile, “would you like that, Hiromi?”

“Hi-ro-mi.” His voice was pleasantly soft, the grip of the lace loosened. It felt different than the hard 'H' and strong 'V' of his old label. Hiromi was rounder, a sound that didn't require him to grit his teeth to finish, “say it again.”

“Hiromi. Says here anyone can use it. That name really suits you.”

“Do you think he’ll mind? I feel awful using someone else’s name.”

“Nonsense! Do you know how many people are called Jakob? Me neither, too many! When my friends call it out, I still turn my head around and acknowledge them, because that’s my name!” Demystifying the naming process with the commonality of his name, Jakob placed a hand above his friends, “now tell me, who’s hand am I holding?”

“Mine.”

“I love these bracelets, did you make these yourself?” Jakob watched the man beside him nod, sporting a weak smile. Their eyes locked in brief acknowledgement of vulnerability. Breaking his hand away, Heavy began picking at the beads, lost in shape and colour again, “What’s your name?”

A gulp cut the air, the twang of bracelet elastic hitting his wrist repeatedly. Generous beauty in a time of great uncertainty. Something that belonged to him with some semblance of control. His hair shielded a low whisper, “Hiromi.”