Far From The Madding Crowd

Stefan possessed a smile that could defuse even the worst of situations he meandered into. It was a smile that made your gut churn ever so softly, pleasantly; a smile that could ease irritable bowels, loosen the taught grip of aching heads, soothe aggravated joints, somehow decompress hardened muscle, if only for a moment, that moment he smiled at you. In a moment where you felt like the only person in the world.

His eyes shone, shared some deep understanding, a smile of generosity, a smile so completely genuine he instantly seemed more trustworthy, likeable. Eyes warm, exuding rays of ambiance that had softened many hearts and allowed him the mistakes and behaviours that would otherwise not be forgiven unless you took the time to fathom a persons past to find the possible reasons for these, but even then it could not be total forgiveness, complete understanding or allowance for the hurt they created would still remain.

With this smile, and he used it sparingly, for he hadn’t much to smile about truth be told, he drifted through life disarming many an angry assault, dampening vibes of irritation, softening the frustration he induced in others, for he knew he had not, could not it seemed to him, reach what they saw in him; what they described with an endearingly perplexed expression; potential. Sometimes as ‘so much’ potential. He had lost people for this; for being the bewildering puzzle they had come to know, their interest in him often piqued by his smile and good natured demeanour, learning there was something about him though that just, didn’t work, didn’t make sense, so invariably they moved on.

He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to accept it at face value for what it was; his flaw, his inability to progress in life, his stuckness. He didnt tell anyone how much it hurt. How lonely he was. How he too wanted more than anything to solve the puzzle of his stagnancy. But he didn’t trust people to stick around for long enough to speak about it, no one could help him, he was alone and so he carried this knowledge inside and it weighed him down further so that it was hard to move, to get out of bed even some days. There didn’t seem much point in changing anything right now, always right now, where there was no past, no future, just here, here with his unfulfilled potential and looks of bemusement, disappointment yes but at least it didn’t hurt.

When he smiled lines streaked out from his eyes and seared their way toward his ears. To the observer they might portray a lifetime of joy and laughter, to him it was from a lifetime of squinting at the sun as he couldn’t find any sunglasses that suited him. If he looked upward on a sunny day he sneezed, he burned easily and his body didnt naturally process the vitamins sunlight was meant to provide him with – he took metabolised supplements instead. He saw no reason to like the sun. He was a big guy and being outside in the summer made him sweat uncomfortably, made his clothes smell the moment he stepped out the door, made him self conscious and he didnt want to think of himself when at all possible.

He could not remember a time when these lines started their journey across his face. He suspected they were there even as a child, though he hadn’t asked, any question he asked about his childhood drew idyllic scenes of blissful union from his parents and the refrain, “oh, you were such a happy boy…a real joy…”; a view shared by “all the other parents…you were always smiling…” they would say, adding “but that was then…” so as to not betray their mourning for the son they had enjoyed raising, “and this is now…and we are doing our best aren’t we Steffy…”

And they were good parents. “We love you Steffy…” they said, more now than ever as though he needed convincing, but he did not. He knew they loved him and he loved them. He was sorry for them, sorry they had to worry about him at an age he should be buying his first house, when he should be carving out a rewarding career just as his siblings were. He wished they would extract more joy from their achievements, from the grandchildren they had provided, the many reasons for validation they brought for having done things right as parents. But instead they waited and waited, they coaxed and assisted, they did everything they could and more, to help him to be something, anything, to be happy. Like they were hanging around a ghost yearning for the day he would come back to life, be their Steffy, waiting for the lever that had been pulled so suddenly and created him now to right itself as suddenly perhaps as it had been pulled. But it wasn’t within him, he didnt know how. If there was a lever he couldn’t find it, it lay hidden, obscurely there but not there, he sensed it sometimes but he didnt know how to search for it.

He would join them in their celebrations of small things he achieved – dragging his body to a cafe, concentrating enough to read a few pages of a book – and he would be equally pleased, as though it could be something to build on, believing it to be so, until the apathy drained him again and he took to his bed, sleeping his life away. He thought of the excitement of a child potty training, the whoops, the sheer joy of it all, and it was the same – their enthusiasm and his sense of achievement; going to a cafe, drinking a coffee and returning home again. He tried not to make the comparison but it haunted him from the back of his mind.

And yet he had that smile. And he saved it for them, it was the only thing he possessed that made them happy, When they called he used it lavishly, employed it automatically throughout their time with him, so they would not sense the sadness within, though they knew, they knew him too well, but it was all he could give them and they accepted it with the love they always had.

“Medication will help but it is only a part of your recovery”, the doctor would say when he got out of bed to walk the short distance to his office, an office that always smelt faintly of urine. The doctor was of a certain age and Stefan suspected an age where the prostate has begun to loosen. He didnt seem aware so he didnt say anything about it and after five minutes his nose adjusted and covered over the ailment his doctor suffered with, perhaps, like him he thought in silence; but a pointless silence as everyone knew anyway but left it unsaid. He took the medication sometimes, when he saw fit, or remembered. It didnt do enough for him to be a strong feature of daily life and sometimes he slept even more than he did already which made the obvious additional advice from the doctor even more difficult to work on – structure your day, go for a walk, there is this group, this cafe, there’s a show on at the museum that should interest you Stefan.

He went alone to his appointments now. His parents had lost their enthusiasm for this particular doctor, and doctors in general, when it came to their son. Not quite disillusioned but they now viewed doctors and their acolytes as more of a long shot they still hoped would come off than the near certainty they had assumed initially. That they would turn his life around and in doing so their own, for it was almost impossible for them to be truly happy when their son had dropped out of humanity altogether. Stefan was inclined to agree with them these days, though he had never held out much hope they would help in the first place. How could you medicate this? He didnt even know what it was and though he met some criteria of something they had come across before he didnt think they really knew what was wrong with him.

Despite this he went anyway, that is when he could muster up the energy. If he didnt turn up at one appointment in three they invariably turned up on his doorstep both concerned and a little dismayed. He couldn’t let them in his flat these days and that would make them suspicious. They would see all the adjustments he had made to the interior and think it insane. To him it made sense, it helped him be there and not worry so much. It wasnt just his alterations they would see for themselves the rooms of chaos, tin cans, discarded pieces of paper with scrawled unintelligible handwriting he couldn’t read himself though he wrote them, the ageing takeaways and the object that would bring the most disdain of all; the small hand mirror speckled with the residue of various powders and crushed up pills.

They didnt need to know about all that. They had an agreement, though implied, they did their best from the distance he allowed them. He turned up occasionally and smiled, listened, agreed to try whatever they suggested and ultimately failed, though failing was not within their parlance; recovery took time they would say. He was trying. And he was, he was trying his hardest but it still amounted to the same.

He was lying in bed right now when he was meant to be walking with other people he was told had similar problems. On waking he had looked out the window, seen the weather, and knew he wasn’t going and knew he would have to ignore the persistent knocking at the door of Faye the group organiser. She would call through the letterbox a few times, encourage him and then leave. He looked down at his feet, pale in the ray of sunlight leering through the rip in the curtain and turned on his fan. He would email Faye, say he had Covid so she wouldn’t bother him next week.

He remembered childhood differently to his parents. He would agree with them that they had provided all the elements of a happy childhood and he was happy sometimes. But he remembered other things. His summary of it all was not as simple as theirs. He had always felt loved by them. The issue hadn’t been them at all. It had been him. He didnt know why. He always remembered it this way, even before the doctors and life screeching to a halt. He was defective. Somewhere, somehow, he just didnt work. He didnt know how to live like everyone seemed to around him. He kept this to himself also. He hadn’t wanted to worry people, tell them honestly there was just something about him that meant he wasn’t going to go anywhere, do anything, be someone other than who he was now. It was his trajectory in life and he had always felt that this was how his life was going to be lived.

He did well at school, academically not socially. Academically he was blessed with being curious about most things. He was always asking questions, though often told they were not relevant to the lesson, which he could see later in the day. He would ask anyway, until he sensed their annoyance and returned to his books who, though they didnt interact with him didnt find him irritating like people did. In the end his curiosity led to him reading whatever he was interested in at the time rather than the topic at hand and gradually the teaching staff grew happier with this arrangement and he was no longer labelled as disruptive or worse still unteachable, which his parents were told on more than one occasion.