On loss…

Trigger warning: Suicide, mental health

There is a Bukowski quote around pain. “Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire.... Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It's real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you've suddenly become an idiot. There's no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.”  

 I think of it often, nearly as often as I slip into dark thoughts about Nocturnal Animals – a bar and restaurant I opened in the city centre and then left within 9 months as the whole ship ran aground.  As I read of more closures across the city, these thoughts surface with distressing frequency.  We are all different and experience this weird little life thing quite uniquely.  However, in the current climate I can’t help but see some of my own experiences reflected in what others are currently going through.  There’s something universal, maybe, about what happens as you journey into the indescribably painful slow death of a business that represents many years of work, passion and effort.  Certainly, the planning for Nocturnal Animals shamefully lasted longer than its trading period…

 I think, pre-pandemic business failure was very often the cumulation of many small mistakes, made by one person, or by many, and occasionally it was experienced as a sharp, swift and unforeseeable shock from which it was impossible to recover; a pulling of the rug.  I failed with Nocturnal Animals because I believed I knew so very much when I knew far too little.  Ambition had me running before I’d even taken wobbly first steps toward a venue of that size and scale.  I made mistakes and I let people make many more as I turned a blind eye.

 Post-pandemic business failure feels more like the swift unfeeling wrath of Gods (I’m looking at you, covid), or the many small actions of an unfeeling government (Brexit, energy bills, a cost of living crisis – I’ve got my eyes on the Tories for that lot). Regardless, pre- or post-pandemic the pain of that loss, I assume, is no different.  We have in common that feeling of things going tragically wrong – fast or slow.  Wounds that are in isolation nicks, but ones that eventually conspire to derail best-laid plans with bruising efficiency. 

 As I confront my Nocturnal demons in the light of current circumstances, there is a painful revelation that I think, had I launched it as the person I am today, we would still operate a fun, slightly over-the-top bar in Birmingham’s most notorious drinking destination.  Alas, me of old was meticulous on the wrong things, over-estimated my control over the market, and believed that those around me would help me.  Bukowski again simplifying the complex without parallel: “nobody can save you but yourself.”

 In the end, and at its worst, I couldn’t afford to eat and smoke, and my pockets were heavy with spare change to sustain me for the week.  I chose the cigs.  And I attempted to top myself.  Thank god that I was far too drunk at the time to have any great success, and thank god for those around me who picked me up, a sorry state of humanity, and persuaded me to carry on.  I walked – at times reluctantly - through the fire, however much I wanted to throw myself at it blindly in an act of self-immolation.

 Why, you may reasonably ask at this point, am I writing such a fucking depressing post?  Well, for me, when I failed at times I felt alone.  Deeply, irrevocably alone.  This post is not for the benefit of diners – though if you are reading it, I am grateful for your time and pray you do not judge me too harshly.  I’m writing this for those who might currently be experiencing those first little nicks of pain, who live in fear that the worst pain is soon to come.  It is clear that this year will see more casualties across hospitality and there will be operators going through this process right now. I’m writing to you directly to tell you that this absolute horrorshow of a situation will not last forever, and if you want it to it will light rocket fuel under you for the rest of your career.  Here is what little advice I can proffer from someone who has the proverbial t-shirt.

 It's normal to not be OK

 Hospitality seems to finally be encouraging a level of emotional honesty that didn’t exist when I started.  Good.  More of that.  I’ve told you I was a pissed, chain-smoking mess (I quit two years ago, finally).  I still have therapy to deal with spectres from this time in my life.  There is zero pressure to be okay now, or in six months, or at any time.  Be assured that waving the white flag, seeking professional help, and simply saying you’re not OK is a good place to start on the way to recovering.

 The world will not end

 Although I absolutely thought it would.  I thought I’d never be able to make a living again, I thought I’d be a pariah in the city, and I absolutely never thought anyone would work with me again.  None of these things were true. 

 The year immediately after Nocturnal was, granted, a curious one, and there’s all manner of odd little loose ends that still have a habit of catching up with me.  But eventually, like all storms, the waters will yet again rest placid, and you will be able to swim once more. 

 There is no business owner alive who has not experienced failure – it is only the scale and visibility of it that vary.  Hospitality is, by the nature of what we do in a very public-facing way, a cruel mistress insomuch as it represents news.  Nobody reads of the thousands of business-to-business ventures that fail, nobody expects comment from them.  For the joy we experience being on the front-line of the city’s public identity, there is a price.  Yet, while the bastards might ogle your misery for a moment, you’ll find many more compassionate readers, supporters and friends who will want to help you rebuild whatever personal, professional, or financial walls seem to you to be crumbling with no hope of repair. 

 Your public failure is private

 I felt like the entire city thought I was a fucking idiot – ostensibly, I was – but the reality was far removed from the spiralling negativity of my own thoughts.  There will be those who wish to mock or gossip – many of which have never taken a fucking risk in their life.  It’s okay to not talk about it, it’s okay to decline to get into the intricacy of what’s going on.  You don’t owe anyone an explanation.  This comment piece is the most I’ve ever spoken about my experience, and it’s in my own time and in a format I’m comfortable with, edited down to the parts I can bear to share.  Say as little or as much as you need to.  You are still the boss.

You will fall in love again with what you do

 I didn’t want to cook again immediately after my failure.  I wanted to apply for a job as a slug or similar parasitic floor-dweller – such was my critical assessment of my value.  Alas, the slug community were ambivalent and I shortly after had to cook on national TV (paging Great British Menu) to another corker of a failure.  But time passed and so my creativity and desire returned – as if after some long period of illness.  The greatest achievements of The Wilderness have happened in the past twelve months.  We rise from the ashes.  The pace of when this should happen is entirely up to you – and absolutely should not be another pressure you put on yourself.

Find the silver-lining

 As the rawness of my hurt has passed, I’ve taken each and every lesson like it was the final chicken nugget in a box of 20.  Gobble that shit down.  The experience re-focused in a lasting way how I view business and the battles I pick.  Throughout Nocturnal-gate, I was a nightmare – bones bound by nerves and nicotine – and I am quite sure a colossal pain to work with.  I now try to navigate the stress of business – which still comes – with more grace.  I am sure I am still not always successful, but progress is progress.  

 It also helped me immeasurably improve and keep improving how I run The Wilderness – it was the best training possible for dealing with the stress and pressure of the pandemic.  Oddly enough, the pandemic was just another fucking thing for me – a glorious kick in the face from a deranged clown after an obstacle course from hell.  Nocturnal made the whole covid debacle far more palatable.

 Your silver-linings may be different, but they will be there.  Eventually.

 To conclude

 To return to where we started… “There’s no cure for pain unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help”. I can’t profess to know how to help, but if you’re going through the fire right now, I think  I can understand how you feel and there will be many of us lurking who run or have run businesses in this wonderful, testing sector who have been there and got the t-shirt.  Let’s keep hospitality talking – my DMs are always open or you can email me on alex@wearethewilderness.co.uk.