One week’s worth of life (1)

This time last week, I was on a bus to Donegal. The next day was the wedding of my friend Cormac’s sister, so in an act of solidarity I decided to make the six hour journey up north. Solidarity, because Cormac has had a terrible time of it lately. Cormac was in college with me, and on finishing started a new, more prestigious course in Northern Ireland. He was beginning to settle down when he decided to come out. Cormac’s gay; it wasn’t a surprise. He’s…..not camp, but just has this manner. Anyway, he’s not the most balanced guy I know (but then who is balanced?) and in hindsight, someone that little bit insecure with himself at the best of times shouldn’t have gone round telling everyone all of a sudden who he had this amazing new lifestyle. But he did, and he got burned. While out in a club in Dublin one night, Cormac met this guy. They kissed and for the first time, Cormac was faced with the reality of the life he believed he wanted. It wasn’t going to be easy, but to be pushed into the deep end so suddenly must have been a huge blow to him. Becuase ever since then, he’s been horribly depressed. I mean horribly depressed.

He dropped out of college, stopped eating properly, started chain-smoking (five a day was a lot for him before) and now has this terrible cough and, worst of all, goes around feeling so sorry for himself. He moved to Galway and he’s now convinced people point and stare at him on the street. He feels he’s let his entire family down, especially his mother who thinks he just hasn’t met the right girl yet. He’s gotten so emotionally weak he believes her. He’s lost common sense, he doesn’t realise how daft some of the things he comes out with sound. He just can’t seem to get back on board. And it’s so sad because he’s so talented. When we were doing the radio course, he’d produce an entire programme out of ten CDs, a phone and five A4 sheets for shows I’d present. He’d set up interviews, type up questions for me, put in links; he’d cover everything. And if he was ever left to do it himself, he’d just do the most amazing job. And yet if you saw him, you wouldn’t think it. And this is why I keep in touch with him so much. Because at my best, I’d be the big-headed Larry Sanders-type presenter with the cheezy voice and big hair. But he was Art, the producer. The professional. He ran it all like clockwork.