On behalf of the Government, the State and its citizens...

 “The shame was not theirs, it was ours.”

More than two decades after the last mother and baby home in Ireland shut its doors, survivors of those institutions have received an apology from the state, delivered by Taoiseach Micheal Martin on Wednesday. A long time coming, it has brought little comfort to the survivors and their supporters.

There is no denying the inhumane, cruel treatment and squalid conditions which were the daily reality of these institutions, and their unthinkable consequences. Yet it’s impossible also to ignore the thread of context that weaves its way through both the Commission of Investigation’s report and Martin’s acknowledgement of the role played by the state and church: a disregard for women’s rights was and is an issue globally; Ireland in the early 20th century was a harsh, unforgiving environment for all of its residents; the path that led the women to the homes began with blame, rejection and abandonment by their families and communities. 

The priest, doctor and nun may loom large; unforgettable also are the boyfriends who disappeared when they were most needed, the father who beat his pregnant daughter, the mother’s disdainful rejection, the schoolfriends who turned their backs. As is so often the case, those close to us can inflict the most hurt and one wonders if these personal wounds form the bedrock of the survivors’ trauma. The public apology has come through but in all but a handful of cases it is too late for the private apologies so dearly needed to heal. 

The message we hear is that those that ran, oversaw and funded the homes were components of a larger dysfunctional system, one which was supported and sustained by the Irish people. And while it may be tempting to lay the blame in its entirety on a faceless state and church by focussing on what the latter did and the former didn’t, that picture is an inaccurate and incomplete depiction of the affair and one which fails to honour the testimony of its survivors. 

Fantasy, celebrity and the desire for more of less.

Fantasy as a coping mechanism is a common tenet of psychology, one of ten key defence mechanisms identified by Anna Freud - we use it as a way to escape our daily realities, avoid problems and explore new ideas before putting them into action. Fantasy isn't intrinsically bad and can be part of a healthy approach to life, for example childhood imagination, indulging in daydreams from time to time, escapism through literature and film, and so on. Like any psychological tool, it can also be detrimental if used to excess or for the wrong ends, like fostering an erroneous belief or putting a creative spin on reality to avoid facing an uncomfortable truth, all the way to full-blown Walter Mitty-style delusion. 

Another more subtle manifestation of fantasy can be the belief that your ideal life is just around the corner; you will be transported there with little effort or consideration of how, any day now. This allows fantasies to co-exist with a more mundane present reality. Consumer society has not hesitated to tap into this propensity. "Better is closer than you think" declares Mercedes Benz's latest advert. The lotto has preyed on the belief in the possibility of an imminent quick fix for centuries. Day to day, we are bombarded with ads promising us that this lipstick or that protein shake is the key to a new dimension.

Celebrity culture is probably the realm which exploits this foible with the most rigour and never more so than now. While past generations admired their icons from afar, mostly on the silver screen or via weekly newspapers, nowadays relatability has replaced exceptionality as the criterion for fame. Social media and 24/7 media coverage have made celebrities more accessible and more real than ever, creating the illusion of "just like me". More and more high-profile figures are moving into the lifestyle space, where their audience is treated to glimpses of Normal Life 2.0.

I'm not one to judge. I have had a long-standing fascination with the British royals and, more recently, a girl crush on Meghan Markle. Occasional titbits of media coverage and instagram snaps all created an impression of someone living their best life, someone to aspire to emulate and, crucially, someone not entirely dissimilar to myself. After all, my inner dreamer reasoned, our shared ground was extensive: both women in our thirties who loved travel, food and fashion, who aspired to do good and to make a difference. It wasn't too much of a leap to imagine that the rosy holiday pictures, beautiful home and picture-perfect gatherings of friends over fine dining lay in my near future, attainable and almost within reach. Of course, admiring from afar, it's easy to discount inconvenient facts that threaten such compelling notions. But isn't that the whole point of a harmless diversion into fantasy?

Reading Finding Freedom made me like Meghan Markle a little bit less, not because of what it revealed of her but because of what I realised about myself. The selective facts I had cobbled together to create and sustain the illusion of similarity could not stand up to the level of detail contained in the book's almost 400 pages. She enjoyed weekends away with George and Amal Clooney, was put up for free in hotels owned by friends, was paid thousands of dollars to appear at events, and so on. My fascination with Ms Markle broke under the weight of such evidence and I lost interest overnight. Sussex-related clickbait no longer pulled me in and news of the recent podcast release inspired little more than indifference.

Celebrities and brand marketers are no doubt aware of the pitfalls of overexposure, so easy to stumble into in the age of social media. After all, too much information can allow a glimpse beyond the veil, laying bare the reality that a better life takes planning and work, and dispelling the fantasy of an easy win. And where would we all be without our daydreams, so diverting and which make us so easy to sell to?