Up and Away! (But for how long?)

This is a piece that I am forcing myself to write.

As you may or may not know, I often write about depression and it's relating issues. And my pieces usually come from a place of real knowing - meaning that I am usually suffering, badly, at the time I publish.

I thought it was about time that I write about it from a relatively happy place. A stable day. A stable couple of months if I'm truly honest.

I don't know how long I will feel this way or how quickly Mr. Black-Dog will be bothering other people before he's back scratching at my newly varnished door. But I'm trying to focus on the fact that I feel good RIGHT NOW. And what have I done to make myself feel good?

Here's a few things that I feel have really helped to make me happier and healthier:

1. Exercise. This can be a tricky one for me. As an ex-crash-dieter and eating-disorder-er, I often worry about introducing exercise into my life too whole-heartedly as old obsessions can begin to take hold. But the difference is that now, I'm not doing it to be skinny (though we all wish we could lose that annoying half a stone), no, this time I am looking at the long haul, the life long health, the strength, the healthy blood and bones, looking after ME.
Once you begin to see your body as important, once you care for yourself enough to stop with any self-destrcutive actions like binging, smoking, drug taking or drinking too much, you can begin to feel physically and mentally stronger, day by day. I'm not saying I think it's easy to suddenly regard oneself as a temple, I'm saying it's a marriage.
Like it or not, find a way to get up and exercise. Even if it's running on the spot in your onesie with one hand still firmly clinging onto your duvet in case you need to jump back into bed. Getting into a sweat is really bloody good for you. And as much as we procrastinate and think of reasons not to do it, no one ever regrets a work out.
When you finish, smile. Pat yourself on the back and say 'well done'. And then eat something yummy.
I bet you will feel better. At least a little. Pinky promise.

2. Meditation. Wait, don't sigh and call me a hippy-wanker. Meditation means different things to different people. It's giving yourself a break, a rest, without napping away the day. You are recharging your body and mind and relaxing your heart rate.
Whether it's looking into Mindfulness (I recommend Jon Kabat-Zinn. Start with his videos on youtube and follow up with his books and CDs if you get into it), or whether it's downloading apps onto your phone with more specific goals (Andrew Johnson apps are brilliant for dealing with different issues from weight loss to positive pregnancy). Sometimes, it's great just to lie on your bed with some relaxing music or your favourite album. Stop and actually listen to the music. This used to be so important to us when we were teenagers but how often do you allow yourself nowadays to lie down and really listen to your favourites?
Breathe calmly but don't enforce a change in your breathing. Meditation can only do good. Don't fester on sad or stressful subjects, breathe it out. Even if you burst into tears for absolutely no reason (I've done it), it's better out than in sometimes. You've given yourself the time to realign.
This is particularly important if you are an ex-smoker or someone trying to give up. The one AND ONLY thing I miss from smoking is giving myself five minutes of still. Now chuck that habit and give yourself twenty minutes.
Do it.

3. Positivity. If I haven't lost the cynics already....then this is for you.
I challange you. I challange you to listen to the things you say and think and try to turn them into a positive. Being grateful is a good way into this. What are you thankful for? Truly? Even if you can't see out of the blackness to be thankful for anything. Are you thankful for your legs or your eyes? Go on, tell me you're not thankful for the basic things that we take for granted. Actively thinking these things and practising gratitude will only bring more happiness into your life.
Try to find the light in everything, the silver lining. (Also, watch that film about silver linings and have a dance, on your own in your house, like you're Britney Spears in the 90s. It works).

In the words of Jon Kabat-Zinn: 'You don't have to like it but you have to do it'.
Cure yourself. I believe in you. And when you find yourself back in the darkness of depression, just remember you're not alone. I will be there too soon I'm sure.
But for now, I'm going to get out and LIVE.

When I go, I'm going like Elsie...

Now, I'm determined not to post one of those dramatic 'I'm leaving cabaret' type statuses. I don't want any drama and I certainly don't want any sympathy. But I'm not going to just fade away either without (at least personally) noting how wonderful and important my cabaret life has been.

Soon I'm about to embark on an exciting new job. In less than two weeks I start rehearsals for 'Beautiful' - The Carole King musical going to the west end. Our hopes are high for this to be a hit. On broadway it's doing exceedingly well. But, let's be honest, the west end doesn't have a great track record for new musicals at the moment. Still, fingers crossed and all being well, I will be in this musical for at least a year.

Due to this (and also some unfortunate behaviour that I have experienced), I am running away from cabaret for a while. And although it feels scary and strange, it also feels exciting and freeing and new.

I fell into cabaret. Almost by mistake. While on my cousin's hen do five years ago, I decided that the singer that I was hearing was not using the space well enough and due to my champagne-induced cockiness I went marching up to the host and told her that they needed me. I came back the following week to 'live audition' and the rest, as they say, is vaguely-well-known cabaret history.

I was a body-insecure girl. I was always veering to the wrong side of chubby for my liking and put myself through treacherous crash diets and the like all the way through my teenage years. But about 4 weeks into my new life as a cabaret singer I found myself wearing stockings and suspenders ACTUALLY IN FRONT OF PEOPLE and not feeling too bad about it. Actually, feeling really fucking excited. I learnt to be a woman in cabaret. (No, I'm not saying that wearing stockings makes you a woman) I'm saying that I slowly stopped being awkward and trying to hide my boobs or slim my hips, I started to embrace my curves. I discovered Marilyn Monroe, vintage clothing, high waisted pencil skirts, beautifully curled hair, high heels, red lips - ALL of which the emo hippy child from Glastonbury had never even thought of before.

I became a compere. And I was terrible. TERRIBLE. Not least of all because I hated it. But when you've left drama school and you're a full time waitress and an email pops up in your in box saying 'do you compere too?' you of course say 'yes indeed I do, when do I start?'.

Over the years my confidence in my compering grew. You write your schtick and you create your character and your branch out from your usual cabaret clubs. I found myself on a UK Tour hosting in theatres and then The Hurly Burly Show on the West End. I couldn't believe it. Little nervous me stood front and centre in a beaming spotlight talking to an audience of 400 - 2000 people all on my own and making them laugh. ENTERTAINING them. Madness. I once even performed my entire routine in italian to 2000 in Milan's massive theatre.

Anyway, this isn't supposed to read like a CV.

The people I have met in cabaret are the most incredible people you could ever wish to meet. I am welling up as I write this. I was thrust into a world of the most hard working people. Night by night a different venue. Creating every act and skill from scratch. Sewing on sequins, glueing on rhinestones, sewing until their fingers bleed. People who go out and create, who throw around electric carving knives and bowling bowls, people who set their tongues on fire, who hang upside down from a pole and plunge themselves to the floor. Beautiful burlesque dancers who taught me what it is to feel sexy, to embrace the tease, to immerse oneself in glamour and sexual resplendency.

I have made real, long life friends. I have talked about periods and anal sex in a corridor with women as they stick a merkin on their vagina. I have seen real heartbreak, I have seen real drunkeness, I have lost myself in the underground world of gin and dancing and nakedness. I have sung songs and looked into the audience begging my poor lonely heart to love. I have looked into the audience and seen my love. I have passionately sung 'Cabaret' a gazillion times and believed every word with every fibre of my being. I have spent too much money on corsets and long dresses. I have hung from the ceiling of a strip club singing Shirley Bassey. I have laughed until I can't breathe and my corset forces out a little wee. I have cried, I have been angry, I have shouted and screamed.

I have loved you cabaret. And my goodness I shall miss you. The people mostly. But also that part of me that I found that I didn't think was there. Coco, the girl who gets up and makes people laugh, the entertainer, the clown, the part of me that says 'yep. I'm going to sing a classical song and strip out of a reindeer onesie' because why the fuck not? Life is too short. Things come to an end. And I feel like this may be our end, Coco.

Sometimes, you have to close a door in order to force yourself to move on. I have given nearly five years to cabaret. Five incredible years. But now I must become the actress I've always wanted to be and become the writer that I know I can be. New adventures, new roads to drive, new places to see.
New people to meet.

But. To the people I have met along the way, the people that have made my life so very full and beautiful, THANK YOU. You mean more to me than any blog can ever explain.
And Holy Crap, we made some memories.

"What good's permitting some prophet of doom to wipe every smile away?
Life is a cabaret, old chum, so come to the cabaret"

Robin Williams

Something happened last night.

As I came back from the bathroom, my boyfriend told me that Robin Williams had died. And then my boyfriend probably felt a bit awkward at how upset I got.

I tried to hold it together. I mean, it’s very sad but come on, I didn’t KNOW the guy. Turns out, none of the people on my facebook and twitter KNEW Robin Williams but the outpour of devastation was everywhere. Some people were upset, some people were simply saluting his genius, some people had moved past the shock of the death and onto the comforting of others spouting out the reasons we should be happy. And I just felt angry. I couldn’t get my head around my feelings. I still can’t. Hence the writing.

This man, this talent, this person with the ability to make you laugh and cry in the space of a second had got himself to a point where the only option of moving forward was to end it all.

Just over a year ago - after a lifetime of crying on my own, of feeling like the whole world was bunched up inside me, of black dog, black cloud, utter helplessness – I finally went to a doctor to talk about the fact that I was depressed. I had of course known I was depressed for many years. I knew that cutting oneself and starving oneself were not normal habits of a fully functional human. I had suffered in silence for a relatively long time. I had, on many occasions planned how I would end it and would any one know and then slapped my own wrists for not having the courage to go through with it. The other thing I didn’t have the courage to do was TELL ANYBODY.  I could lie there next to a boyfriend, sit silently next to my mother, pant and wretch at trying to form the words to tell a friend to no avail. I couldn’t pick up the bloody phone to tell a complete stranger on the other end of the line how I was feeling. The best I could do was email the Samaritans to say something along the lines of “No biggie. Just feel really suicidal. And every time I have to get onstage and make other people laugh I feel like I’m burying more of myself.”  So, to actually get myself to go to the doctor last year was pretty monumental and the sigh of relief that washed over me as I scuttled back to my bed clutching anti-depressants and a therapy referral form was like a waterfall of calm and excited apprehension.

Over the past year or so I took the pills for about 6 months (the recommended time) and came off again. Cognitive behavioral therapy was not the one for me so I jacked that in and stuck to the pills. I also in this time met the love of my life who, without him realizing it, became all the support I’d ever need. I mean, I only had to look at him and this big beaming smile would come over me. I went on to do a west end show and thankfully in the big group scenes I’d stopped bursting into tears silently in the back shadows. Everything felt pretty good. I was nervous that I would feel ‘numb’ on the pills. After all, I am an actress, I don’t want to lose any of the spectrum of my talent DAHling! But all seemed well and good and eventually I decided I was ready to come off the pills but was not adverse to the thought that I would probably have to go back on at some point. And I did. With some health scares and such, I very quickly rushed back onto the pills but only for a short amount of time. I discovered a thing called mindfulness and I helped myself for a while with no need for chemical enhancements.

Now, over the past few months I have felt the return of an unfriendly but oh so familiar cloud. Slowly, I can feel it pulling down on my eyelids and weighing down on my body causing me to stay in bed for hours and then return to bed many times throughout the day. My eyes want to close and I forever want to fall asleep, at least until something better or more interesting distracts me, as it’s safer to be asleep than to be left with my own thoughts. Despite all of these feelings, I have once again not been honest with myself. I’ve been brushing it off. Excusing it. Convincing others and my loved ones that I’m just being melodramatic, that I’m ‘really tired from the gym’, that I’m fine it’s just this, that and the other. The truth is, it is none of those things. And the death of Robin Williams last night brought me right back to myself and the realization that I’m not OK. 

I took myself into another room. My boyfriend went to sleep with work in the morning. And the tears flooded over me. Big, fat, galumphing tears took over my face. I felt SO ANGRY that this man had taken his life. That no one had helped or stopped him. But what can people do? What can anyone do for us? All I could see was endless unhappiness and torment and a big sign in front of me that says “You will always feel this shit”. I sat alone on the floor and those familiar old sentences crept back into my brain. Those scary thoughts that asphyxiated me before.  The idea that nobody really knew and nobody could help and that it would be far easier to just not ‘be’ anymore.

My boyfriend awoke, shocked to find me so upset about the death of an actor I’ve never met and eventually all of my emotions came flooding out to him. “I just don’t want to be the 63 year old comedian who kills himself and everybody says ‘oh that’s sad’, I just don’t want that”. I sobbed into his arms and he held me close. I felt a mixture of pure love for Robin Williams and complete and utter devastation at the world. If someone THAT LOVED can get away with killing himself than everyone can. Everybody who feels this way can just end it. And it will be sad. And that will be that.

Now I’m not claiming that my thoughts made any sense. In fact, I was mostly just shocked to realize that I had once again got to this point and not even noticed. Me, spiritual goddess always trying to help others. Me, always posting facebook statuses about appreciating life and how we should all look out for the signs of depression and help people. Turns out it was all a big fat cry for help.

I was calmed by my boyfriend and eventually my hyperventilating rendered me exhausted and I fell asleep. And now I’m writing to you. I’m not sure what I’ve learnt really, except that I’m not ok. And I’m not sure how to move forward. Do I return to the drugs? Do I seek other help? I’m not really sure and I’m not really asking for advice. I just knew I needed to write. To let my emotions come out somehow. To admit that I’m not OK. And that I need my friends. And that I don’t want you, or me, or anybody else to be the person that was loved by the whole world but couldn’t love himself. 

Out of control.

Anybody who follows me or my writing will have already seen my post back in May about depression.

A lot has happened since then.

I'm writing this because I feel that I am almost back at the start, full circle. I am scared.

As I write to you, it is half past 1 on a monday afternoon and I am in bed. I am in bed because I don't know what else to do. I mean, I have things to do. I continually have a long 'to do list' filled with activities, I can often be found clutching the timetable to pineapple dance studios or gym classes. But I'm not doing anything because I can't seem to find a way to start.

Here I am, back at stage one, all over again. I took my course of anti-depressants. About five months I'd say. And they were great. I felt balanced, energetic (for the most part) and positive about things. It's been a month, maybe two since I stopped and I can feel old habits begin to creep up on me. It doesn't come as a complete surprise to me that I am feeling this way. Over the last few months I have been in and out of doctors surgeries and hospitals for appointments and health scares and I am still in the depths of that, though we're getting somewhere. The stress of it is pulling me down again. Back down to where I feel hopeless and lethargic and pointless and barren. And I know it's not 'me'. I know it's this nasty bug, this virus, we call 'depression', we call 'anxiety'. And I'm scared that it's come along to take hold once more.

I feel like I've let myself down. Like I'm broken. Like I'm selfish and that no one should bother with me. It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous.

I've booked an appointment this afternoon to head back to the Doctors and to request to be put back on the pills. I have never felt dependant on them, but now I'm scared that this is becoming my 'way out'. There is NOTHING wrong with taking anti-depressants. Depression is, after all, an illness like any other, a chemical imbalance. So why do I feel like I'm giving up the fight?

You can't always fight. You get tired. I can't fight my own head, my own body. I want to be outside, I want to be dancing, I want to be laughing with my friends, creating, exercising, getting excited with my boyfriend about our new flat, I want to be happy to be alive. I don't want to torture myself anymore. I don't want to be sat here, writing this, feeling like there is nothing to get out of bed for.

So what can I do?

I have wonderful friends, family, loved ones. But if even they can't pull you out of your ever increasing black hole then you have to trust that a doctor and her medicine can. For a few months I felt alive, I felt normal, I felt that I could get out of bed in the morning without fighting off six demons between the duvet and work. So is it a permanent thing? Am I permanently going to require a little help? Many of us do.

I just want to feel stable. I don't want to tip-toe around myself and feel scared that the moment something goes wrong I'm going to catapult full-speed into a crazed pit of despair. I want to look in the mirror and be pleased with what I've achieved in life. Because deep down I'm ecstatic. Behind this curtain of self-doubt and insecurities I am over-the-moon with my life. It's the best life I could wish for and it's everything I want it to be and more than I ever dared imagine. So let me embrace it, let me feel it. Let me live.

And so comes the time....

...to share with you a blog I have been meaning to write for a fair amount of time. I've been meaning to write and yet have not found the bravery of expression, the shame of face, the guts of adversity in which to voice, to exclaim, to cry:

I am depressed.

Yes, I feel the eyes of many turn away, disgusted by the self-indulgence, the audacity of a British woman to admit this point of failure.  'Surely she just wants attention!', 'Surely this blog is nothing more than a scream for help, a self-centred cry for notice, a longing for people to see a self-inflicted tortured soul?!'.

To those people, the people who turn away, the people who are scared, kindly do FUCK OFF.

I write here, not as a plea, not as a call to help, not as anything but an account of life, a sharing of thoughts, an honest account of my day to day internal monologue and a plea to end the stigma.

Less than two months ago, I got diagnosed with depression and anxiety. This came as no great surprise to me. I had known for years that I suffered both these things but was unable, incapable of sharing, even with my nearest and dearest. When you try to voice these things you know to be truth, to the unsuspecting caring friendly circle it can seem dramatic, over-exaggerated, or, as many people like to word it: "just one of those days".

Ten years later I realise that this is not "just one of those days". I look seriously at my life. I see nothing but wondrous things. Remarkably, through my deep dark holes of complete desolate ruin I have managed to create a life that is respectable, a life I can happily look upon and say 'yes, well done. If nothing else, you achieved something'. But it's only when I could see this fact and still feel the way I did I realised that I had a real problem.

About three months ago when I realised that I wasn't hiding my faults as much as I'd hoped; when two wonderfully close friends both seperately expressed to me their slight concerns and in turn, their own run-ins with the nasty haunting monsters that are "depression" and "anxiety" I FINALLY got up the courage to book an appointment with a GP. This was a MASSIVE step. It may seem like nothing at all: lifting a phone and booking an appointment, but only weeks before I had found myself in such a hole, that I couldn't even leave my bed, let alone admit to someone that I maybe wasn't 'of perfect health'.

The GP spoke to me with the perfect mix of concern and cold, hard, matter of fact-ness. I had to fill in a form, multiple choice, upon which I made myself be brutally honest, after all, when in Rome... I told the GP briefly of my 'shortcomings' and found myself swiftly in tears, apologising for the way I was behaving. Initially I was incredibly sceptical about any sort of treatment that involved pills/medication. The doctor asked me why. As an actor, especially, I felt terrified at the 'numbing of feelings'. As a human I felt terrified of the dosed up, unnatural way of life. The beauty of instinct taken from me. The inability to cry at a song or film that moved me.

I have been on the antidepressants 'Citalopram' for about two months. After about a month, I couldn't believe my luck. I felt like a new person. All those times I had spent crying in a corner about something I couldn't control: GONE. I felt miraculous. But not in that scary 'I can't control my emotions I'm so excited' way. Just totally in control, positive and forward thinking.

It's also remarkable how quickly other people come out of their little depression shaped closets. Now I'm not going to name names but I can safely say that a great number of close friends swiftly expressed to me that they had suffered the same fate or trialed the same pills. So much so that I was SHOCKED at how common this all is and how greatly under appreciative we all are of each others' mental health. So quickly we are to judge that someone is a bit 'batty' or 'unstable' or suffers mood swings. So happily we all accept that when we suffer those insecure moments of 'losing it' we are to admit that we were just 'having a bad day' or 'something bad happened' or, heaven forbid ladies, 'it was my time of the month'.

In the last week, unfortunately I have found myself slipping back into less uplifting places but then again I did miss 3 pills within a week and a couple things happened that made me feel insecure in life/work so I am not being quick to judge these feelings, I'm actually taking it as a learning curve and moving on, hoping for improvement once again.

Anyway, I digress. As you can imagine, I also greatly expressed to my GP how much I believed that I (and many others) could benefit from 'talking treatment' or therapy and the GP agreed and gave me details of an NHS supported therapy centre for self-referral.

After a few phone calls, emails, a self-referral form, a few more phone calls, a couple missed phone appointments (on their part) and finally an apology, yesterday I received my 'phone assessment' to see if I am eligible for cognitive behavioural therapy. I have to add, I am not suicidal, BUT had I been, this would all be too late for me. The therapist was apologetic about lack of contact but you know, had it been a more extreme case....

The assessment itself was pretty harrowing. Nearly an hour of multiple choice and scale of 1-8 questions about how depressed you are (I mean, come on?!) so that you hopelessly try to remain honest but tortured in the hope that your score will reveal that you need some help (when surely that is already glaringly obvious).

Having grown up a very honest and open person, I gave my all (later to regret it and feel the affects) but for someone else suffering on more of a downward spiral I can only begin to imagine how they may not have passed 'the test'.

Anyway, they think it is right for me to go ahead with CBT. Which is great, if I ever hear from them again....

As previously expressed, this blog is not a cry for help, or any sort of attention seeking scheme. Maybe that's my own paranoia setting in again but I always think we try to make a judgement and assume the worst. If you wish to speak to me about this blog then do so! I have been honest, why shouldn't you?

I am not wishing to gain anything from this post. Only to be safe in the knowledge that I shared, and that maybe someone out there won't be so scared anymore. There are millions of us.

As my dear friend puts it: "We are the broken biscuits".

That doesn't mean we're not just as tasty. ;-p

Saturday 8th December 2012, 1am.

I tried to write, thinking it would flow, like it usually does. A flow of meaningful nothingness, a heap of emotion amounting to nothing but a temporary distraction from this, our crazy world of unexplained eventualities. I tried to write and yet, I stopped. How do you write? How do you accumulate or summarise when you, yourself have no more accepted the truth than the person closest to the cause? 

How can you sum up a life, an ending, a choice, without the knowledge of the when and how? 

I type many sentences and delete again because of their insensitivity, their complete inadequacy at the situation. 

I want to hypothesise, to theorise about the inner workings of the human disposition. About mental disorders, imbalance, hidden emotions of the depressed. I find all the words and yet...nothing. They don't fulfil my feeling if complete warmth and loss at yet another beautiful mind that we let go. 

Behind closed doors lies a world of mystery. I, for one, know that I have a lot of family and friends that care deeply for my well being. But the thought has (more than once) crossed my mind of: no one knows where I am right now. No one in the world. No one knows what I'm doing, who I'm with, whether I'm laughing or crying. 

It suddenly becomes easy to imagine how someone who is sad can get lost in feelings of loneliness. And before we've woken for a sip of our morning coffee they have gone. Never to be heard again. 

Why can't we remember the stakes? Why can't we all just pick up that phone? In today's technology it seems mad to me that we don't use it for the greater good. Of course, everyone has their own 'shit' going on and no one can ever really know how anyone else is feeling; but I think we do know, really. I think we are blessed with a sensor for others' well being and strength. Maybe not. 

All I'm saying is, next time you think about picking up that phone, sending that text; or next time the mere thought of an old friend grazes your mind. Do it. Just do it. Because tomorrow is a day with no itinerary. 

Hi. How are you? X 

Saturday 24th November 2012, 1.21am

They say you should write what you know, but so often I don't know what to write. I know that I need to write. That somehow as I exhale my words onto an empty page things start to make sense, life becomes less confusing. Clarity.
Right now, inside me I have this bubbling energy, this nervous pot bubbling below the surface of my chest, I want to cry. It's not sadness, it's not anything, it's this overwhelming feeling I get sometimes when I feel like there is so much to contain and not enough to do.
I'm tired. I'm over thinking.
I just wrote several different lines and deleted them.
Right now I am so happy and yet so incomplete. I know that we should never rely on others to pull us through and ultimately we are alone but I'm beginning to really miss that feeling of connection, of understanding, of unity. I'm struggling with the concept of having everything I want and/or desire and yet no one to share it with. I adore being alone. I adore sitting under my duvet right now and typing away. But a double bed is made for two.
How do you ever know if you are ready again? And if you are ready, whose to say it will ever come?
Writing is not coming easily tonight. I should have trusted my gut and gone to sleep. At least then maybe I would dream. I dream such wonderful things. At the moment my dreams are all focused around touch. Affection. It's divine. But then you wake up.
I've been through so many emotions in the past year. And it has been a year. Since we ended. I'd have to say the main emotion has been unexpected: Anger. I've never felt so angry at the injustice of a situation before. That there was nothing to be done. That we couldn't work it out. That I ran away. That I had to meet someone so important only to have hell thrust in my face after one too many drinks.
I still can't make sense of it. I think it is good for me to be honest for once.
I tried to picture our society without alcohol, without drugs. I used to wish they didn't exist. I still occasionally kick myself for not being strong enough to give up everything for you. You said you would give up everything for me. But there lay the problem. I didn't want you to do it for me. I wanted you to do it for you. And now I sit here a year later and wonder if anything has changed at all. Maybe you've met some incredible new woman who has saved you from yourself. Maybe I was a coward.
You can only make decisions based on your knowledge and feelings at the time. So I can't ever say that I made the wrong decision. But if it was the right decision then why does it still hurt?
Every time I think I'm home free another tear will form.
I keep telling myself that time will heal all. And it will, eventually. It has to. But time is taking it's time...