The Night Manager Review

It is very rare that a series leaves me breathless upon completion, and as such I never feel it deserves a review. However, as my heart continues to pound in my chest, I’ll be happy to make a delightful exception.

The Night Manager is a wonderfully done mini-series based on a novel by John le Carré sporting the same name, which originally aired on BBC One before jumping the pond and airing on AMC. As of May 25, the series has concluded, leaving audiences with mixed feelings of excitement, satisfaction and disappointment. Disappointment only because we seriously want more.

The show features Tom Hiddleston as Jonathan Pine, a former soldier of the British military, and Hugh Laurie as Richard Roper, international arms dealer and all around bad guy. Joining them on the screen are other brilliant actors such as Tom Hollander, Elizabeth Debicki, David Harewood, and of course, Olivia Colman.

In the middle of an Egyptian revolution, Pine’s life of simple night manager at the Nefertiti Hotel is suddenly turned upside down when he’s inadvertently brought into the middle of an arms trade, featuring enough weapons to not only start a war, but keep it going for decades to come. Pine proves he has a heart of gold, and fueled by the need for vengeance he joins forces with a small group of British intelligence officials headed by Angela Burr (Olivia Colman) to do the impossible: Bring down the most evil man in all creation. 

This show has it all: Love, action, suspense, drama, and multiple views of Tom Hiddleston’s behind. Oh, and explosions. Lots of explosions.

Many reviews will go on to tell you details about the show itself, including plot points and spoilers. This will not be one of those reviews, as I very much want each and every one of you readers to watch it in its entirety and be just as surprised by it as I was.

What I will tell you is I was a bit unsure about it during the first 15 minutes, as the series begins rather slowly. At 16 minutes, I knew I was in love with it and craved more. Each episode leaves the viewers sitting on the edge of their seats, and by the time the series concludes you’ll be breathless. Not only was The Night Manager beautifully shot, locations ranging from Cairo to various locations in Switzerland, but it was immaculately cast.

Colman plays Angela Burr with such perfection, you’ll often times wonder where real life ends and the acting begins. With haunted eyes, and a stubborn attitude, she manages to not only hold her own in a male dominated government agency, but also outsmarts them. All while very much pregnant.

Tom Hiddleston as Jonathan Pine, a young man with an old soul who has seen what war can do, proves he is as driven as he is clever. With every grin and passing moment, the audience is never quite sure which side he’s playing.

Hugh Laurie as Richard Roper, an evil man lacking in a conscience and a reputation that would make even the devil nervous, captivates audiences with his smug smile and nonchalant attitude. The truly frightening part about this character is not what he’s capable of, but the fact that even knowing what he can do, he can still make you fall for him. Richard Roper, with all of his charisma, plays on the fault of the human condition.

I could go on and on about this show, tell you how I was holding my breath through the finale, or cried with Angela as she describes the incident which drives her to catch this man, but why tell you when you can see it all for yourself. I urge you, my faithful readers, to go out and find The Night Manager. Buy it if you must, because I promise you…this is money well spent.

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Enough.

What would you do if I dropped the act? Tore up my mask, stomped holes in my persona? What would you do if I showed you how I really felt, if I laid my soul bare, and forced you to accept it?
What if I shouted over your interruptions, because I finally realized my voice is as important? Instead of turning the other cheek, or waiting my turn, I lashed out in a way that’s unexpected?

What if I finally told you what’s really on my mind? Instead of this candy coated bullshit you want to hear. What if.

Would you listen, or would you run and hide cause you’re scared? Could you accept it?  Or build me a new mask to wear? Would you care, or make it all about you. Yes I know you think I’m stupid, and anything and everything I’ve been through has happened to you, too. Not only did it happen, but it was ten times worse, or better? Am I not allowed a genuine emotion?

Why must I sit silently and listen to your fairy tales, when I’ve got something important I’d like to tell. Why am I expected to give unconditional support when you never come through for me on the smallest thing?

Oh yes, I hear you. Your ego screams your name proudly from the mountain tops, but your words have the power to break others, turn into their demons. Can you not see you’re killing me? Are you truly blind, or just in denial?

If I cried on your shoulder would you turn me away, expecting me to hold you when you feel the same one day?

I’ve had enough of manipulation, I’ve ripped the wool from my eyes. My demons are my weapons, I see through your disguise. I’m writing from the heart now, can you see me bleed? Count the scars on my heart and maybe finally you’ll see, I’m growing. I’m learning. I’m changing. Ready? Enough is enough, but can you change with me? Leaving is the hardest thing I can do, but I can’t keep drowning in your ego.
I’d say I was sorry, but I’m not. Your actions pushed my hand, and like a pawn to my chess game I’m letting you get taken away from the board. My victory becomes clearer every moment you’re gone.

Enough.

I’m Fine

As I lay my head down to the sleep,
The demons find a hole to creep
Inside my thoughts, chaos spinning
Memories long gone come back again.
The yelling, the screaming, the torture, the pain,
The lies, the betrayal, the embarrassment made,
Shadows I’ve been running from for most of my life pick the time I want peace to pounce and fight.
I claw at my skin because I can feel them crawling
Like ants trying to devour my soul,
I keep resisting them.
Even when I wake I catch them creeping inside
Forcing me to relive my deepest sins.
Remember that one time, and how everyone laughed?
You’re such a mistake, a fool, your time has come and passed.
Remember that other time you fell asleep with your tears?
Let’s relive that, and all your worst fears.
I lay my head down to sleep,
I pray the nightmares away will keep.

But you’re all smiles and all laughs. 
Your problems can’t be that bad, you’re over dramatic.
It could always be worse, my dear, don’t you know it?
Keep your head up high and don’t try to show it.
Don’t let them see the scars or hear your pain,
It’ll be worse next time, they’ll be back again.

I open my mouth to scream, but all I hear is silence.
On the outside I’m calm, but inside there’s violence.
I’m being torn apart now, but don’t worry about me.
The demons aren’t real, or so they tell me.
It’s all make believe, I just have to keep trying.
How can this not be real, can’t you see I’m dying?
Can’t you see my soul bleeding from my eyes?
Can’t you hear the lies when I whisper I’m fine?
Can’t you hear the lump form in my throat?

No tears, we get scared when you cry.
You’re so happy all the time, just grin and lie.

I’m tired of lying, I’m tired of fear.
I’m drowning in my pain, and with every tear
I shed when I’m trying to dream
Is pulling a piece of my heart out, but I silence my screams.

Give all that you can to everyone around.
Maybe filling the void for them will quiet the sound
Of the monsters hiding in your soul trying to get in.
Or you’ll dry up like a husk, and eventually give in
To the temptation to pick up the razorblades
And let the demons carve their names into your flesh.

Don’t worry about me, I’m fine, I promise.
The final breath that I scream will be my loudest.

Comfy Cloud

I was driving home today, lost in thought while music droned on in the background. My thoughts can sometimes be freeing, as I imagine life carefree and happy. My thoughts can also be a prison, bombarding me with every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I enjoy driving, as it relaxes me and let’s me clear my mind. Sometimes the journey is a little symbolic; a mental journey to clarity made manifest. Today was no different.

In the past few months I’ve begun to struggle with my brain. Once upon a time I knew who I was, what I wanted, where I was going, and what I wanted to do. I knew myself well enough to counteract the symptoms, prepare for the highs and lows that accompany my mental disorder. It would seem, however, that I’ve become a stranger to myself.

I don’t know who I am anymore. I have no passion, nor desire. No inspiration. As a result, I also no longer know how to fix, my broken pieces, or at least cushion the fall.

So, I’ve decided to start seeing someone. Or, I did, until I chickened out and left the parking lot. I know it’s something I need to do, because I cannot do this on my own anymore.

What scares me the most about the entire process is…. everything. I try to pinpoint one thing even to type about it now, and everything screams at me. Single file line, please!

I’m scared to become a zombie like I did the first time I went on medication. But I remind myself that I am older, and wiser, and medicine has come a long way in 13 years……Holy shit, has it really been that long? Damn. Alright.

I feel like a failure. 13 years unmedicated, and now I’m having to do something. I remind myself that millions of people are on medication for various reasons, and there’s no shame in it.

What if I’m not bipolar? What if it’s something else, something worse? That thought terrifies me. If my diagnosis was to change, how would I go from being bipolar to something else?

What if I’m not taken seriously? What if they think I’m just…crazy? Or overdramatic? Well, they’re paid to help you, so that’s silly…

Finally, but certainly not least… I’m inspired by my sadness. What will I do if I lose it? I don’t want to get rid of the only thing that gives me something to write about and hits my soul……….. But then I think…. What if I could live in a world where I was inspired by joy? Experienced true joy, happiness, delight, on a daily basis? What if, instead of tears covering my paper from sadness, tears slid down my cheeks from laughter? What if darkness didn’t lurk over my shoulder, influencing all of my hobbies and talents, and instead gave way to light?

I don’t want to be inspired by my sadness.

It was that thought that brought be clarity, as I arrived home from my travels. Darkness, sadness, doesn’t have to be my driving force.

Maybe if I can find myself, I can l “fix” myself. The question becomes… Where do I look first?

Ignorance Must Be Blissful

Hello everyone!

I don’t know how familiar you are with the concept of Pinterest, but for those of you in the dark, allow me to shed some light on the subject. Pinterest is a website/app where people can find funny, relatable, educational, or inspirational pictures, and “pin” them so their followers can legally stalk them see what they’re up to or interested in st the time. Subject matter ranges from photography, fails, memes, recipes, self help, humor, etc. Imagine it, I’m you can find it. Anyway, when you click on a picture, it will give you similar ones in the general category you’re looking into. I have a point to all of this, I swear.
So, like many others, I have a Pinterest account. I mostly use it to stalk celebrities find funny pictures to brighten my day and waste time.

Until tonight. Tonight, I’ve stumbled across something that truly makes me I’ll. I won’t be posting the picture, as I do not want to draw more attention to the image itself, but I do want to draw attention on the subject matter.

The image features the wrist of a young girl, fresh, red blood pools on her skin. There appears to be razor marks as well, indicating self harm. I hate seeing pictures like this to begin with, but the message accompanying the image is what disturbs me. “I’ve been diagnosed with depression, give me 100 repins and I swear I’ll stop.”

There are so many problems with this post, I’m not even really sure where to properly begin.

One, I understand not everyone is a psychologist/psychiatrist, and not everyone has a mental illness, or understands how they work. But depression does not automatically mean you’re obligated to become a cutter.

Two, cutting is the physical manifestation of an abstract, illogical, emotional pain. It is a wound on your soul now made visible. Why would anyone photograph this for the sole purpose of showing it to anyone, let alone the internet?

I’m a cutter, but unless I want you to see it, you’ll never know it’s happened. I am guilty of taking pictures, but not for show and tell. I take them so I can look back, and remember the pain. Remember what led to the scars. Try to keep myself from doing it again. So far, it does seem to work.

Three, self harm is not something to mock, or take lightly. It is a problem, and doing it for attention only discredits those of us with a real problem. Doing it because you want people to pity you, or because you want the romantic image of the man of your dreams kissing your scars, are not proper reasons to harm yourself.

The reality of self harm is not romantic, or beautiful. It’s disgusting, and shameful, for the person doing the harming. It means constantly having to make wardrobe changes to cover the scars, or new wounds, and often times being uncomfortable.

It means having to constantly feel everyone’s eyes on you, and knowing they’re judging you in some way (be it pity or otherwise).

It means people touching your scars and constantly having to answer the question of “what happened to your arm?”

Boys don’t place loving kisses along your arm and tell you how beautiful they are, and even if they did, why would you mark up your own body just for that? Some guys have a feces fetish, are you going to eat shit next to impress the menfolk? (Sorry to anyone reading who might have a shit fetish)

Four, why would anyone repin something like this? Again, I understand a lot of people are ignorant to the world of mental illness, and perhaps you think you’re doing good, but you’re actually enabling more harm. 
Say this girl is real, and she does have a cutting problem. She sees people fawning all over her, and giving her the attention she so craves. It won’t stop. She’ll cut again, post again, to gain even more likes and followers. So begins a nasty, never-ending cycle.

If you really want to help people who self harm, talk to them when they’re ready. Help them seek the help they need. Do your research, educate yourself using credible sources, and try to help. But repinning, or reposting an image will not help. It will not make the pain go away.

I, for one, grow such and tired of the lacking knowledge in this world regarding mental illness. I think it should become mandatory for all to learn about them, and stop romanticizing this stuff.

Scars can be beautiful, because they make up who you are. The pain you’ve lived through, the times when you wanted to give up but fought a little harder is evident. Don’t be ashamed, but don’t make a pubic spectacle of yourself in the process.

All of us have pain. Some of us wear it visibly, others keep it hidden and tucked away.

I also urge you, my readers, to educate yourself. Ask questions, learn from others, be understanding, but don’t be blinded.

If you are a cutter, I also urge you to try your best to find an alternative. It’s easier said than done, I know, but try.

Thank you all for reading, and I hope I’ve helped a little.

Mental Illness Is…

Mental illness is sitting in your car trying to gather enough courage just to go inside. Sometimes even your own home.

Mental illness is painting on a smile, just so no one can see you tearing yourself apart.

Mental illness is sometimes hating thee people you love more than anything, because it is a welcomed relief from hating yourself.

Mental illness is sitting alone in your car crying because it’s the only place no one can see you.

Mental illness is thinking suicide is the only way out of a bad situation, because you’re scared of what’s coming next.

Mental illness is listening to someone say unnecessarily hurtful, anger filled things to the people you love…only to realize you’re the one saying the negative things.

Mental illness is wanting to be alone, but wanting people to refuse to leave you alone.

Mental illness is believing you don’t matter….and if someone tells you differently, you believe they’re lying.
………
…………
Mental illness is mentally scripting out your suicide letter, and trying so hard to mentally word it in such a way that everyone knows it wasn’t their fault, there was nothing they could do.

Mental illness is being overly controlling in other aspects of your life, only because you’re losing control in every other aspect…..

Mental illness is a swirling black void filled with all the terrible things you’ve done, all the terrible things you’ve said, and every day it tries to consume you.

Mental illness is paranoia, questioning every little thing anyone says, over thinking, over analyzing, and assuming everyone is trying to get you. Or, other side of that coin is thinking everyone is your friend even with mounting evidence they are not.

Mental illness is pain.

Why did we want to grow up?

When childhood ends, adulthood begins. I’ve found they hold many similarities. We choose to ignore them, for various reasons.

As a child, we rely on kisses and comfort to make our problems feel better. Everything is better after a hug from mommy or daddy.

As an adult, kisses and hugs give way to darker things like drugs, alcohol, or cutting. Though secretly we all just want to be held and told everything is going to be okay.

As a child, we’re led to believe adulthood is the greatest thing on earth. We cannot wait to grow up. We’re free, we’re alive.

As adults, we search for the feeling of freedom, and we envy our childhood. We wonder why on earth we ever wanted to grow up.

As children, we make believe, and pretend there are magical worlds filled with dragons and fairies.

As adults, we play pretend, too. We pretend we’re happy, and that everything is okay. We hide behind our fake smiles, and cover our broken hearts with laughter we don’t mean.

As children, insults didn’t stick around long. We had better things to do.

Adults carve every insult or negative thing into their skin like a slice from a razorblade.

I wish I could go back. I wish I didn’t have to pretend.