Examine this

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Okay. Do you know how wrong it all was? Everything you did? Examine closely. It’s possible.

I suppose most of how we interact with life is down to simple causes, or beliefs.  We are simple creatures, however different we think we are. This is heavy stuff, and I might not be able to get my point across right now. There is not a lot to be said for typing on this keyboard at this hour after the medication I’ve consumed. Oh, and Therapy was cancelled today. But, hey, here we are.

Today is not about death, or hopelessness. It is about life. The most alive I’ve ever felt. The most emotionally exposed I’ve ever been. People with Borderline Personality Disorder are supposed to feel like third degree burn sufferers. We feel the slightest touch. And, mostly, it hurts. But not this time. Right now I’m at the mercy of something overwhelming and good.

There is a shift in my life. A palpable, touchable, event, person, emotion, that has driven out almost all other thoughts. Some might say it’s just down to Oxytocin, but I don’t believe in science. I believe in the look in somebody’s eyes, or the sound of something chasing you in the darkness. You can’t put that in a petri dish and make it grow into fungal lumps, measure it, or get a diagnosis to stick. There is no cure.

Like I’d ever want one.

 

 

 

Wasted again

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I burned another incense stick but the smell of weed was overpowering. There were a couple of windows open, but I was sure that they only spread the problem down the backs of neighbouring houses. For some childish reason the whole thing felt naughty. Here we were, two middle-aged guys wrecked on booze, pills, and weed on a mild July night. Listening to music. Laughing. Talking about the old days. Passing the joints back and forth like we’d done a long, long time ago. I wasn’t mentally ill, and he wasn’t struggling with his past alcoholism. Neither of us had been through tough times. Not last night, anyhow.

The lights drew moths in through the windows, the music moved on, we sank more beers, smoked up a good fug, and I twirled on the old office chair at my desk talking rubbish over and over again about that one person whom I’d have preferred to his company right then. He was oblivious, rambling and starting to lose any coherent train of thought. I decided not to offer him any of my codeine and pregabalin. I’d taken some but, then, I am a professional. I watched him – eyes reddened, slurring his words, veering wildly from reminiscence to periods of semi-rage as we navigated our shared experiences. He took longer to roll the joints, got less involved in listening, and more in talking. His eyes seemed to have become smaller, like tiny red marbles, withdrawing into his face to escape the sensory overload that the cannabis and ethyl alcohol were laying down on his brain.

He over-ordered from the pizza menu and I rang the order in, mostly because I was the nearest we had to a public face. When the delivery guy turned up he was greeted with a cloud of blue smoke and a beaming smile faking innocence and trying desperately to get the money into his hand and explain, yes, I’d over tipped by a long way but to just take the fucking money and let me shut this front door for the love of God. Too much attention was already being garnered at the back of the house, what with the music and the stench, to have to fight a battle against the general public on two fronts.

He ate greedily, in the clichéd stoner way. I chomped through my shitty pizza only because I hadn’t eaten for almost 36 hours. It tasted of warm dough, fat, and battery acid. When he’d eaten two pizzas and some chips we sparked another joint up and sat back with full stomachs smoking into the night. Bottles and cans everywhere, music booming into the early hours down this quiet hillside. Two old friends. Wasted again.

Le Sourire

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Heart beating hard and fast. 2am. I kicked off the duvet, stared at the ceiling again, and tried to focus my thoughts. I could almost see the feeling in the air above me, all around the dark room, moving just that tiny fraction out of phase with everything else. You could squint and maybe you’d catch it for a second moving quickly out of the corner of your eye or right ahead of you disappearing, fading quickly into the stone window frames. If I didn’t know better I’d have said it was a spiritual intervention or message. Religions have started on lesser foundations.

And over it all, that feeling thumping, cossetting, working deep inside against the grain of everything I’ve ever known. Call it what you want. This thing has power.

When I finally woke up, the sun had started to aggressively pound into the hillside, a dog was wailing, and my head moved quickly through the gears from early waking numbness up into that feeling again. I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried. I took my meds, swallowing them down with cold water, and went into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror over the wash basin. My eyes were red, I looked old, fat, ravaged by years of bad experiences. I told myself this was only a dream. No-one could really be that crazy. I soaked my face, grey beard and all, in the sink and lifted my head back up to the mirror. Nothing had changed at all except the water running in great globules from the straggled edges of my face. Then I thought of those images stored in my brain from the night before, the things that were said, looked once more in the mirror, and couldn’t stop a smile.

 

Staying Alive

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At 3am you get the sense you’ve been here before; light crawling up the hillside, the grey porridge of the end of night, too early to move, too late to go to sleep. Early July, 3am, is a time to sit on the edge of a bed and draw the curtain and create the notion of hope in the forming daylight. You might sit like that for a while, pausing to throw yourself back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder, and think, and try to let all those thoughts drift up and out of the open window with any prayers you might have silently mouthed. And I did.

Where thoughts like that go is anyone’s guess. I could almost see them reaching out from inside and forming long golden lines like cosmic silk, floating up into the morning. Almost. Perhaps some God somewhere gathers them in and weaves a better future if you can only provide enough? A vast omnipotent being, taking in my hopes and dreams and slowly piecing the threads together until it hands them back to me fully formed into a gold jacket. Maybe that’s what happened to Barry Gibb? He had the right contacts up there, a direct line. Priority customer. Maybe I’m still in the queue, further down the list? Or they boogied all their bonhomie away on that one sacred item of clothing? NO energy left to complete my order.

And that’s it today. The birds need feeding, the grass needs mowing, and I still have to write some more stuff in order to eat. Standard day on earth. Basic human events. Totally under control. So why is my heart beating faster than it should? My thoughts aren’t still. They get only so far then return to the same point over and over, like a looping disco track. I just don’t have the right clothes.

 

Paragon of Animals

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Quiet up on the moor this morning. No sounds of outward bound groups screaming with the delight that trees and air and rocks can zap into an inner city brain if you let it.

As I stood at the viewpoint a guy came past, looked me up and down, smirked. He was fit, sinewy, tanned, hardly out of breath as he ran. I watched him kick up the dust on the old railway line. He was moving. I looked at myself when he’d gone out of sight: old, out of shape, dusty boots, shorts, rucksack. Dressed for suck-sess. He was superior in every way, bouncing along like an impala, too fast to catch or throw a rock at, smug. Men like that always win, always sprint past through life. They are go-getters. The sharks in the sea. Viewing the rest of us as prey. Too full of testosterone to see properly out of their eyes. I thought about turning back, writing the day off in maudlin self-hurt, but ended up on auto-pilot down the incline under the canopy of July, 2017.

The walk was quicker than usual. Maybe a trick of the mind, maybe worm holes, or some psychotic delusion. I kept reciting the Hamlet Soliloquy, famous as the ending of Withnail and I. It seemed to make sense. ‘What a piece of work is a man!’

A pretentious mental tick…… ‘Man delights not me..’ over and over, and the geese on the canal heard some of the words before they could paddle away with their chicks in the early morning sun. The village was empty. I made it back up the hill, locked the garden gate behind me. Got to typing.

Bombshell

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Ant people. As the blind, stumbling, hairless, disorientated, people who survived the closest to the Hiroshima bomb were called. Ant people. Charred skin. Wondering why.

Today on the radio I heard two men arguing about Nuclear weapons. One guy just didn’t want them at all. He figured the World was better off without them and without some city somewhere being one computer glitch away from disappearing in a cloud of unimaginable horror. Ant people.

The other guy talked about protection, as if he was under some constant threat, calling from under his kitchen table. Too much anger in his voice, as there always seems to be in the voices of people wanting more guns, more bombs, more sharpened teeth. More ant people.

The radio moved on. People were going to Mars. Billions of dollars would propel them up into the vacuum and give the poor fools who volunteered the opportunity to drink each others urine for months on end, fighting off cabin fever, psychotic urges, and the type of panic only the really insane feel on any regular basis. Trapped like rats in a chrome watering can. Gnawing frantically at each other out of fear.

But so what, eh? Who cares what I think. It’s raining outside for the first real time for a few weeks. The foxgloves in my garden are shining and their flowers are lifting the dull day. Perfect form and colour, standing out from the crowd like a beautiful friend. Something and someone good.

I have therapy tomorrow, then a visit by my CPN on Thursday. There’s a lot to talk about.

Know your place.

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The kid was screaming in her pushchair. Really letting loose. High pitched. No words, just the air-splitting. I drew level along the path. It was a beautiful place. The father turned to me and said, ‘Morning,’ then shrugged his shoulders and sighed, nodding his head towards the screaming.

‘Good fun?’ I asked. He didn’t answer.

It took thirty seconds to walk to the corner of the viewpoint. It’s a popular place to scatter ashes but I couldn’t see any fresh ones down below. And no new flowers. Down the trail the young girl was still screaming. Dad had had enough. He leaned his face right under the cover of the pushchair and screamed back, inches from her face, ‘SHUT UP, POPPY. JUST SHUT UP. NOW!’

It did the trick. She stopped at once. Adult aggression had overridden whatever reason she had for screaming. She knew her place in the scheme of things and now she understood that adults are big, powerful, and threatening. Would Dad forever be a symbol of hurt and hate? She could see rage, twisting his face as the spittle flew from his mouth. I’d seen it at her age, too. Many times.

I walked the usual route from the viewpoint down the incline and back along the canal. The crowds were out but most of the people I said ‘Hello,’ to as I walked along didn’t answer me.  At the end of the canal, tourists grouped like muted bees around the car park. Pastel shades of mail order outdoorsy clothing everywhere. Kids paddled around in canoes. Ducklings floated around near the rushes. Typical Bank holiday scene from any English beauty spot. Solitude for the masses. I sat outside the café in the sunshine. Drank a diet coke. Took some diazepam. Thought about why I’d had an urge to kill myself yesterday. Two women at the next table talked about ‘Immigrants’ being The Problem. They were wrong.

Sunfish

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Another dawn start – nightmare woke me up again. Can’t remember the details, but I do remember going to bed drunk. Somewhere a doctor is sighing and stating the obvious about alcohol and sleep deprivation. Is four hours sleep over two nights enough? That witch Thatcher apparently only needed half an hour every night suckling on the blood of infants to function properly. Is this normal? Am I becoming one of the undead like she was? I’m tired, but too full of daylight to do anything about it. I’ll be assimilated, or put under the curse without any fight at all. My lips hurt. My arms ache. I’m half zombie already. Finish me off.

Now it’s therapy day/time in two hours. My Psychologist will make mincemeat from what’s left of my psyche like a threshing machine going through a ripe harest. If I’m not on the top of my game then therapy is a one-sided exercise full of arguments and anger. Last week we examined our relationship and I told her to fuck off. She’s only in the room because she’s paid to be. That is the bottom line. She disagreed but in that windowless room we both knew she was wrong. Goddamn this tiredness. And I’ve got no pick-me-up meds to tip the balance. I’m dead in two hours. In that comfy chair by the table with the tissues on it I’ll give up and roll over. A bloated mentally dead corpse, gibbering and taking her through really shit bits of my life. Flapping around like a beached sunfish. Brain shrinking. Skin cracking.

I have to sleep tonight before I start getting weird(er). High and dry is no place to be.

 

The Drunk

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9pm Last Night – And so it came to pass. I was drunk in a village pub with a rich ex-Olympic Heavyweight Wrestler whom I’d never met before. His ears were two ravaged lumps of gristle and his nose had been broken a few times. He was heavy set, fierce looking, about 50yrs old. I’d made the mistake of talking to him at the bar. Now we were five hours into the drink and talking about what made Boxers tough. Why any of that mattered does, right now, remain a mystery. We talked and laughed loud, like you can when you know there isn’t a single guy in the place who would be crazy enough to interject.

At a table behind us, a guy who owned the local Mystical Crystal shop seemed different when I glanced at him over the top of a beer. I looked again. I hadn’t seen him for a month. His face. Fuck. From both corners of his mouth ran a downward line, making him look like an old ventriloquist’s dummy. His grey hair was the same, same black leather jacket. But his chin was gone. Removed. A big fluid-filled bulge the size of a grapefruit was gathered on one side of his neck underneath his left jaw. He sucked on a drink with difficulty, holding the glass in both hands and taking great care as his top lip drooped on down into the beer. Jesus. The poor fucker. I guessed it was cancer. I tried to picture him with his jaw back in place, but couldn’t.

I left late. Drunk. Made it up the hill with my missus, then into bed and spent the night in bad dreams cut with wake-ups to go and piss. In the morning my head felt like a thousand cacti were rolling around inside. I felt old, sad, and couldn’t stop thinking about the Crystal guy and his gone chin. He was feeling much worse than me this morning, I knew that much. I made toast, drank tea, tried to avoid the News on the TV, realised I’d run out of Pregabalin and wouldn’t be able to get more until Wednesday. Meaning the headache’ll just get worse until then. Another shitty little withdrawal to do because of my own incompetence. Problems. Problems. But not like Crystal guy. Nowhere near.

What can I learn from this? Anything? I’m not taking up MMA, or smoking, for sure, but is there any deeper point to any of last night? I guess I’m still too hungover to work it out and, man, my head is really starting to bang. There but for the grace of…something something? Is that the message? Don’t count your chickens? Don’t stare at recently disfigured cancer sufferers? Don’t engage in tough-out booze sessions with Wrestlers who talk wildly about the plans for their next birthday party – midgets serving drinks from silver trays, unlimited champagne, indoor pools, horror – and accept the invitation? O Lord, what foul things you showed me last night, and what lessons I can’t figure out today, or maybe ever. Give me guidance…….  No answer. No spiritual direction from anyone or anything. Next time the dumb thumb of fate grinds me into situations like this  I’m calling on the ghost of Bill Hicks. He’ll know what it all means.

Oh, and I’m giving up drinking – again.

Reptile

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Upwards of a thousand things with staring eyes hiding in every corner in here. Quick moving. Just outta sight. Some with legs. Others with wings, skin, feathers, slug-like oozing behind where they hide. Some mornings are like this. One minute you’re watching a programme about Preppers, the next you’re under attack. It’s the familiar tale of fragile psyche versus the shit truth of human existence. And the knowledge that all the problems of the World cannot be solved by lighting an incense stick and gibbering some words about poverty, war, protection, love. No, No. I lit one anyway. A hopeless romantic.

I’m too fragile at the moment. Skin too thin. Watery blood, unable to function without prescribed meds. I’m clogging up my arteries with shitty food and sedentary living.

‘There’s only one way of life, and that’s your own.’ Music good and loud.

I’m ravaged by years of booze and medication. Is that the Way of Life they were referring to? I fucking doubt it. Those poor deluded freaks. Sure, living outside next to a river, smelling woodsmoke and playing guitar seems, on the face of it, appealing, but it’s a pipe dream. Want to taste freedom? Want to know if you’re really free? Trying doing something for any length of time without money. Think as hard as you can. I do. It’s impossible. Sure, you can sit still, but that land you’re sitting on better be owned by you. It’s all about ownership. Paying in to the system. Paying in is vital to maintain the status quo. As soon as you stop paying taxes the Government want to know why. Fuck, I even got threatened with court action for refusing to put my name on the electoral register. And no matter what bolts are on my doors, the Government have the means to smash them down if they are in the mood. They represent the money every one of us has in our pockets – and is duty bound to hand to some utility corp, or taxman. Every inch of the UK is owned by somebody paying in. They don’t like people who don’t agree with the same way of doing things. They used to hang Witches around here.

As you can see, today I am a paranoid mess. I don’t want an Apple IWatch, or a Nissan Car, or to eat something called Pappa Johns. I’m not even sure what type of food Pappa Johns is but the guy in the tiny bit of advert I’ve just seen is enough to put me off. He is freakishly dark-haired – greasy hair, tight skin, weird grimace smile – and untrustworthy looking. Is he selling cheese? Burgers? I don’t want to look him up on the internet. One glimpse of that hideous reptile face is enough for me today. He looks like he’d suck the last pint of blood from a road crash victim before the Emergency Team turn up and have to keep him at bay with high voltage defibrillator pads. What is going on?!

Yes. Today is hopeless already. [9.26am BST] See you when one of us blinks first.