Sunday, 30 September 2012

Back in the 1890s, depression was referred to as 'floppy upper lip'


"Years ago, I loved a man who'd always told me, "if my past girlfriends had only been this supportive and loving, I could have accomplished anything!" In hindsight, I'm sure his 'picker' was broken, and most of those women had been Borderlines. Distinct patterns emerged during our relationship; I was all the things he said he wanted, yet he suffered terribly from depression. I later came to realize that without someone to demonize, he had to confront his own demons. The lack of conflict in our relationship brought him face to face with his self-loathing and dissatisfaction, and he could no longer blame his feelings (and failings) on his partner. That reality spiraled him into the depths of a full-blown mid-life crisis."

British Shores

I recently visited a British shore
Its cliffs were so dry that they were raw
The sea came in and moistened up the place
And the glistening waves broke all over its face

There is something quite unique about the British shore
The tides open it up like a revolving door
It lets all the seaweed into its crevices and caves
The snails cling onto their sides like gibbering slaves

There are many well-photographed British shores
Exposed to the world like knicker drawers
They make a programme about it featuring Geordies
It’s as pointless and banal as it is bawdy

Be careful when you visit the British shore
What seems attractive turns out to be a bore
There’s nothing much to look at save the setting sun
Once the tide comes in you’d better get up and run

I thought I’d made a home on a British shore
I was captivated by the initial tour
Realised too late I was a cuntstruck rat
Then it ate me alive; no wonder it’s fat

So don’t go wandering around too many British shores
They’ll mess you up until you’re nothing but gore
They’ll have you crawling around on all fours
And you’ll find yourself fighting a losing war

Saturday, 29 September 2012

Splitting of the Self

"The splitting and part object relations that characterize the earlier phase are succeeded by the capacity to perceive that the other who frustrates is also the one who gratifies."
- Des O' Connor

Spent first two hours of being awake feeling tearful and shaky again for the first time in weeks. Spent the time in the bath 'bargaining', thinking about ways to get her back to make this feeling go away, because only being with her could make it go away...

Then just now realised it was her that caused these feelings. And I immediately stopped shaking.

The fact is, I hadn't noticed how much better I've been until those symptoms came back again. Sure, last Wednesday I felt shite and was dwelling, but not teary or shaking. Just sad, but realising that I was sad not for me, not for the us that was, but maybe just for her.

And maybe that's the hardest part for me to accept: that for once, I didn't do anything wrong.
That I exist anyway.
That I can't ever find rhyme or reason behind the actions of someone who has acute mental illness.
Because that really is what it is.
I'm fucked up, but I'm not that bad to be treated that way. I'm really, really not. And to respond to my statements that she was self-centred and cold in precisely the way that a self-centred and cold person would only justifies my statements.
Conversation between me and Abby:
Me: "She got upset because I called her self-centered which was harsh of me."
Abby: "She is."
Me: "... Shit."

She that giveth taketh away. It was so easy for me to funnel and project my emotions onto her, to live through her, to feel through her. I still feel obliged to share all my joy with her, all my depression with her. And yet I don't anymore, and when I feel good I find someone else to share with... or just live in the moment and enjoy it for myself. Subject/object relations. I become the object. I am subjected. So I am neither.

Hard to find a constant perspective. Hard to know what's right or wrong. Feelings change within minutes. This is why I enjoy the feeling of being part of a class, a mesh: a child again. Perhaps that is the logic behind religion. Absolute ego death and total subjugation to a higher force. That may well be peace.

Why can't I stop thinking about her? Maybe a sense of duty, a thought pattern she had allowed me to fall into. Always put her first in your head, even before yourself. Or maybe that was what I wanted because it was easier to stop focusing on my problems. Or maybe I think that if I just find some kind of magic answer that will bring her back. A sentence that she's waiting to hear. But in my more sane moments, I realise that she is terrible, and was terrible, and will always be terrible. Terrible because she wasn't obviously bad for me. It was far deeper than that, far more subtle. I saw only what she wanted me to see, but there were things there that had a far-reaching effect on me. Another year with her and it's possible that I might have been lost. That, or been happy.

I won't love again. At least, not in the way I was by the end. I wasn't in love - I was obsessed. Steam chat to you near the end I said:
"I want to play Left 4 Dead over and over because if I'm good at it maybe she'll love me again."

I thought I was joking; turns out I wasn't. Should have ended it myself there and then. Let her feel the pain of being rejected. Let her spend her every waking moment replaying that moment again and again because to think about anything else means...

Well, it means accepting you exist. Which I don't think I ever really have. Ever. But I do anyway. Are we defined by people around us? If we are, that must mean that my feelings are normal and that anyone who is alone doesn't exist. Like Thoreau. He didn't exist, or at least not as a person related to society. He became an animal, a hunter.

Maybe the mindset of depression is the need to escape into absolute solitude, to be free of society's obligations, society's pull on the ego chain to flush away the shit of the id. I'm not sure what I mean by that. I just can't help dwelling on the possibility that all my life I've been thinking narcassistic thoughts. I remember feeling this same way back in 2005. I wonder whether I was wrong then and am wrong now, or whether I was right then and had I started some sort of mind-readjustment therapy I would be magically happy now...

I think I actually feel guilt. Guilt towards things and people in life. Like, the thought of going to my sister's today fills me with guilt, because I remember a distinct moment sitting with Mia there thinking "if she wasn't here with me, I'd be bored out of my brain now." I had given all of myself to her, rejecting my family in the process. I had made my choice of preference. And now I'm thrown back into the mix that I had rejected selfishly. That is a sign of besotted madness. Or going on holiday with the parents in Germany with her, seeing my dad being a cock, and thinking "I reject him, and can now cope with him, because I've decided she means more to me than he does now." And now, having done that, she's gone, and I'm still stuck with him. But I've lost everything. I've rejected the ones I shouldn't have, and been rejected by the one who I chose.

Those rejections were entirely deliberate and I would make them again. I guess I was addicted to her. To that initial hit, and I would have sacrificed everyone around me if I could have got that hit again.
it's  her fault.

Unless it's my fault and I've always been a cock and it makes things convenient and easy just to blame her. Everyone's telling me I'm nice and she wasn't, so I suppose I ought to believe them. But what if they're all wrong? They weren't there. They don't know what was said. It's all on me to figure it out. But I'm so fucking tired of thinking about it and it's driving me crazy.

I'm going to play Civ to numb my head. Again.

Friday, 28 September 2012

So I caved in

And looked at her tumblr, where this was posted a while back:

The shit I put you through? Bollocks. Where's the acknowledgement of how shittily you treated me?

And you have the nerve to post how horny you are now, and how no one wants you, and how "stifling" it is to have a male fancy you. What sort of bullshit is that? The fact is, you left me without sex for six months, and I didn't whinge once. I was the stifled one. I was the pressured one. I could not have been more laid back. Fuck you.

Jesus Christ, what kind of planet are you on? I miss you but I don't actually know why anymore. The problem I realise I'm having is coping with how unbelievably selfish you were... how deceitful. I literally can't imagine how someone can be like that. Borderlines I guess. And here I've been hating and blaming myself.

At least I've finally deleted her phone number from my phone forever, like venom being drawn from a wound. I'm getting better. But I'm mad.

Thursday, 27 September 2012

The Middle Way

I feel a little happy but demented. Like I could say anything to anyone and not care. Feeling the need to embrace the world in a hug that will probably suffocate all held in its grasp. Unaccustomed to existing in such a gravity. Perhaps I exist. Perhaps all is normal, all anxieties natural, all depressions accountable to the higher god of junk floating by on a vacuum mind. I have made people laugh today, a lot. I see it happening, but my brain only wants to tell me how stupid I am.

I can act indifferent, affable, strong... but in fact I feel so acutely embarrassed by the possibility of me saying stupid things (even though I do) that all I can focus on is what I cannot undo, and sleep will not come easily. What is this? Why can't I just be weird and be okay with it?

Because one day I might say something that will really upset people. And I have. And no apologies can change it. It's all going back to her: to that feeling of abandonment without reason that I felt minutely with Syra, and massively with my dead auntie/depressed mother as a kid/emotionally absent father/bitch sister/boring hamster....

Who does this feeling really go back to? This feeling that something's always been missing inside me that only certain types of people can compensate for? A hole that is always there, no matter how much I might laugh and joke - a self-awareness so painfully acute that I can't get any kind of escapism; even drugs are something I fight against - I have never become so completely fucked (in others' company) that I felt myself being lifted out of this head onto a higher plane. Only Mahler and Beethoven have allowed me that escape. Computer games numb it. Routine numbs it. Return to seating position numbs it: autopilot and all is returned once more to the moon surface, where dust does not gather, for gravity is such that existence is dust, and ash, and there is no room for movement, for all is set in its ways.

What am I talking about? Nothingness. Living death. Today, for one fleeting moment, I felt myself actively wishing I could stay in a moment, stay with these people, always feel accepted as part of a group. At times, it was either me or them laughing every ten seconds. I was astonished -  not only how funny I was, but how funny they were. I laughed, hard. I don't do that in people's company. I don't feel comfortable enough to.

At a table today I made a muttered joke that made three women around me laugh so hard the entire room stared at us in wonder, and at me in astonishment that I'd provoked such a reaction. At the same time, I get the egotistical feeling that because I'm so bloody hilarious, the entire room just thought 'Oh, that Olly... he's so funny...' Imagine the glory of reading minds and seeing women thinking that you were funny, or men thinking you were a good person to talk to. I see people come up to me, seemingly pleased to see me, and am nonplussed. I cannot reconcile this with the history of my interactions with new people. They can't actually think of me as one of them, can they? They can't actually see me as a normal, nice person, surely? I'm meant to be seen as weird, standoffish, scary. I'm meant to be shunned.

It feels refreshing to see myself only as part of a greater organism, a collection of students all with ideas and dreams and quirks. My quirks don't matter as much to these people as I think they do, because I do not matter as much as I think I do. I am not the centre of their world. They do not look to me to justify their existence. The world is not narcissistic like I am - like she was. That's what attracted me to her - the fact that she was like me: dead inside, clinging onto another in the wilderness of the broken minded-collective.

When I feel depressed I feel that I am a narcissist that all my pre-defined thought patterns about others, and my relationship to others, are based on a set schema that it would take so many years to undo that it hurts to think about. I have moments where I equate being worshipped with the highest form of love; moments where I can only think of others as being better or worse than me; moments where I feel so small and pathetic that I wonder why the world doesn't erase me from it; moments where I stare in the mirror and wonder when I'll become the guy I see there; moments where I feel like I've never ever experienced real love, real empathy, real comradeship. Moments where I consider myself evil, as I've bleated about before - it's just now I'm trying to clarify it, shape it, make it something objective and studious. Objectivist emotion. I am an object: I view you as an object. You are not real: I am not real. We need each other to become real. Even then we are not real, but we go on anyway. Our friendship in university was narcissistic, at least from my point of view. Was telling someone just now about how we ate lemons and had sugar shots. Lovely as she was, she was probably confused and a little scared. Having said that she did tell me a story of how she had a friend who used to go round eating people's lemons from their Coke drinks, and that she "hasn't seen her for years", to which I replied...

Actually why am I doing this? Why the need to write down, to state as fact afterwards, to record? Is that an introvert trait, perfectly healthy - or is it narcissistic? It's almost like I leave myself, but when I come back to myself, have to clarify the reality of something by documenting what happened, often to someone else, just to let them know that I was really like that. It's all about me - me who made them laugh. My dad's always done that. Twats always tell other people about how they made other people laugh. Why the need to prove my own self-worth via telling others? Is it because I'm unable to see it for myself and require others to do it for me? "You exist and are worth something because I've approved you."

Today, and almost every day I've been at university, I was able to find the peace of absorption, of anonymity - and, paradoxically, identity - in this smiling mass. My warped mind was... muted. My feelings for others felt (at least at the time) authentic.

But I do find myself copying people's traits who I admire, contributing to my own (inauthentic) feelings of inauthenticity. I act. I ironically emote. I have, in fact, adopted one or two traits from Abby for some reason - maybe because talking to her I felt a part of myself come away, a rotten branch on my tree, and I replaced it with whatever came to hand; namely, her idiosyncrasies. I insert "but... yeah," into conversations because I like the sound of it. This is not 'me'; it is me taking from another. Other people may see that as one of my idiosyncrasies, which slightly scares me because it doesn't belong to me. I adopt a personality and add bits from others to it, sticking them on arbitrarily. I am not real; there is nothing in me, only what I think others want to see. Pure construction. Where is the real me? I have no idea.

Is that normal? Normal to parrot? Normal to even adopt facial tics because you find yourself comforted by the reminder of their origin? I find myself nodding in a way that I may have got off you; I find myself using hand gestures that I think I got off one of my English teachers in college; I find myself saying 'man' for god knows what reason, probably adopted from Big Lebowski (although I was doing the whole 'man' thing from age 15)... it seems that anything I do or say that people consider likeable isn't me, and that anything that's embarrassing or socially unacceptable is me. Of course, that's nonsense.

I think.

They say your personality is defined by the six people closest to you - but, in my case, I seem to take that too literally. If I was put into a house with six new people I would, by the end of the time, become a mixture of them all. Sometimes I feel like I'm more of a woman than a man, and that this male construct I have constructed was borne out of necessity. Then I have moments where I realise that's bollocks, and for some reason that depresses me too. I'm just a blunt, brutal male, without charm, because it's all superficial. 

I need to stop doing this. Even if I'm right and I'm a total semi-autistic narcissistic dick... maybe I could just live with it? I don't have to be perfect. I can never be perfect. Whoever planted that idea in my head as a kid really managed to fuck me up. 

Worst part? Whenever I feel depressed, it makes me think of her because it's almost like I've kept that part of her in me and exposed it... which of course makes me think of her, which makes me more depressed... weirdly, I feel quite chipper at the moment, so I'm sort of stating this and it almost feels like it's not me I'm talking about, but I know that the shield will crack soon enough. You know that feeling when you're really drunk, or really high, and the person you were when you were sober seems like it wasn't the real you? That's how I feel right now. Yesterday I wanted to kill myself, and yesterday I thought that the 'happy' me was a total fiction. Today I wonder if the depressed me is the fiction.

The fact that I am writing this based on yesterday's emotions is almost my way of telling yesterday's self that those thought patterns are pathetic enough to shove out there and show you. Today me was good and nice enough to actually put out there into the world. 

Yeah, he's weird, and inappropriate, and talks about poo too much, but actually, he's pretty funny. 

And I even like people and wish the best for them. There is no hate.

There is no hate. 

And that's what feels good.

See Like Ashes My Contrition

The choir chanted the mass, as George and Rita sat, hands linked.

Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison; Kyrie eleison.

George nudged Rita.
“What’s the matter, love?” whispered Rita, eyes devoutly turned to the choir, her back straight, legs clamped together, hair put up.
“It’s come closer,” said George.
He noticed the line of her mouth turn downwards ever so slightly. A frown glanced across her forehead, but quickly disappeared, so quickly that George wondered if he had imagined it, as though it were a mirage.
“No,” she said firmly. “It can’t have.”
“Stop denying it.”

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine; In memoria æterna erit justus, ab auditione mala non timebit.

She didn’t reply, preferring to look back to the choir for solace, but her mouth’s downturn didn’t go away. George hoped this wouldn’t be the last image he’d ever have of her. The hair, dark grey and light grey intertwined, whereas once it was a dark brown. She had looked like an ethereal fairy when he first met her, eyes wide like those strange creatures on those documentaries, even more wild and beautiful than that girl photographed on that magazine, what was it called, National Geographic? Green, flecked with blue.
The first time he ever saw her, she had been sitting in the library, face studious over some hardback whose pages groaned under the weight of its own pertinence and importance in the great scheme of things… some science tract whose numbers he had looked at, and had said
That was when she had looked up; eyes caught like an animal in a car’s headlights, and for a moment he thought he might have surprised her so much and intruded so much onto her space that she might either ignore him, or worse, run away – but of course she didn’t, she’d looked up and smiled, and said,
but her confusion was mixed with a look of pleasant surprise that someone had actually noticed her, because, as he was to learn during the course of the next few months, nobody had paid her much heed during the last year of university. Just another anonymous face, her curly hair too witch-like to enable her to mix in with the rest, her ferret-like movements giving away her social anxiety, and her glasses – well, enough said. All these were the concoction designed to inspire the eyes of any passing student to linger once and then move on, minds temporarily troubled by the sight of someone Not Like Them, someone whose mind was elsewhere, away from the banal present. In those times of course all the other kids were into drugs, and rock n’ roll, whereas George was like her into such deformed abnormalities as the latest Penderecki piece, whose strange noises were for him far more stimulating than any attempts by the pop groups to be different or avant-garde. She was weird.
He realised he’d been asleep.
“Uh?” he cried out as he woke.
“You were snoring,” she hissed.
“Oh right?” he said, realising he was speaking far too loudly. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “How long?”
“Long enough…” she muttered. “You missed the tract.”
The choir almost whispered the next chant.

Dies iræ, dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla,
teste David cum Sibylla.

George instinctively stroked his hand over his bald head, as though checking to make sure he was still without hair, something he had never quite got used to. Of course, when he and Rita had first met, he had fluffy, curly, tar-black hair –
He was startled from his reverie by a sight at the front door.
The sand was over the first step.
“Rita…” he said.
“The sand’s come closer.”
Her eyes glanced sidelong to the door, as though if she didn’t look at it directly, it might not be true. She didn’t say anything. George looked at her, wondering if she was ignoring him. But she clearly wasn’t - her face looked frightened. Her cheeks were red; it was a sort of blush response, but one that he knew was not only the result of embarassment, but of fear. She hiccuped after sex, and blushed when she was scared. She’d always done.
“Oh, Christ,” she whispered.
He squeezed her hand. Looking around, he saw that the rest of the packed church were glancing nervously at the door now and then. People fidgeted in their seats. Others had closed their eyes and already accepted the inevitable. Some seemed to be muttering prayers under their breath, as though being in church listening to Mass wasn’t enough to ensure their salvation. All of them there had sinned, after all. George and Rita had driven their cars, had taken planes on holiday, had used up more than enough electricity… and now they were reaping their rewards. Fifty years before, the sea had drowned London. Then the first deserts cropped up, and took the place of the outskirts. The desert seemed alive, and malignant – spreading over the land, consuming all before it – life, both future and past, so that history and dreams were both extinguished in the same instant by sand. Sand knew nothing about love, nor hope, nor humanity. It only knew about reducing everything to the lowest possible form it could take. Within the desert sands, a few had found skeletons from days before, but they didn’t have long. The desert knew nothing but its own unchangable self.
Rita’s hand was turning sweaty and hot. He didn’t know what to hold onto at this final point: the past, or the present. His memories were his own treasure, but to indulge in the past and remember the young Rita would be to sacrifice the present, and to forsake Rita. Old, now, like himself. But it was harder to accept his own old age than it was to accept that she was old. She always looked the same age to him. It was only when they looked in old photos that he realised she really was old. A while ago the thought had occurred to him that photos are useless without people in them. They exist merely to remind people that they’ll never be young again. The pleasure comes at the same time as the shock. Old photos of newer people.

Confutatis maledictis,
flammis acribus addictis:
voca me cum benedictis.

When death comes for you, and you realise your solitude, what’s more important, keeping hold of your last few thoughts, or trying to stay true to your last bodily functions? Must he keep hold of Rita’s hand, or do what he really wanted to do – which was to lie on the floor and close his eyes, in a vain attempt to try and escape all this?
Moans broke out among those seated.
“It’s coming down the steps,” whispered Rita, the horror now open in her voice. He had never seen or heard this Rita before – the Rita confronted with her own mortality. It wasn’t how he wanted to remember her. This wasn’t Rita – this was death etching itself upon what used to be his wife. Death spoke her words, not Rita.

Oro supplex et acclinis,
cor contritum quasi cinis:
gere curam mei finis.

“Close your eyes, baby,” he said.
She did. Her meek surrender to his command scared him more than anything. It was so… childish. She wants to be protected, he realised. But how could he be a shield when he was equally helpless to his fate? He closed his eyes, too. No more sight. He felt angry that this had to be the last thing he would ever see of her. The finality of it all. Surely it had to be some kind of joke, this thing they called Death. It just didn’t make enough sense that life had to end in this misery. God? Afterlife? He couldn’t quite believe it. Nor could Rita. This was why it was so hard.
No! He couldn’t stand it. He had to grab hold of the last moments and make the best of them, even though all that was left was mocking agony of the past and the blackness of the future. Regret screamed in his ears as he lifted his eyelids, looking around. People openly cried, screamed, tried to make themselves heard above the liturgy, whose chant had now become a roar, more akin to a damnation than a mass:

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem,
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem,
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem sempiternam!

Lambs of God, indeed. Lambs stripped for some ghastly kebab. A sickness overcame him, a sort of shivering dread; this feeling was something he had only experienced occasionally in his life – like when Luke had died, and that shock, that disorientation, that swaying, not only of the body, but of the mind, of all existence. The threatening crumbling of rationality. It was as though the angles were all wrong, as though logic were but an illusion, a surface covering up something behind it all: a blackness who laughed, its mouth devoid of a tongue, but who swallowed everything remorselessly. Tartarus. It was that sinking, swaying calamity of the mind that had gripped him for a few moments after Luke’s death – but now, it consumed him. It grabbed his mind in a vice, seeming to yell triumphantly that this was reality. This is what it meant to be alive. All your delusions, all your jokes, all your happiness… was it all worth it when this was the outcome? Every movement felt like an effort. His eyes crawled grudgingly in their sockets to look at his hands. To his detached amusement he noticed that they were clutched white-knuckled in front of him, as though he were riding some kind of rollercoaster. The right arm seemed to lift itself away; and as he looked at it, he saw it was not only trembling, but shuddering. The splayed fingers looked like a scream. His eyes switched focus, and he realised the sand was not only pouring in through the door, but inching its way down the aisle, and darting between chair legs. Some people lifted their feet, like a housewife in a kitchen confronted with a mouse. Most didn’t.
He didn’t want to see any more, but his eyes stayed open anyway.

Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna, in die illa tremenda, quando coeli movendi sunt et terra, dum veneris iudicare sæculum per ignem.

How could the choir keep singing? he thought. Everyone in the church looked white, as though ghosts already. The choir looked inhuman now, skulls. Sand flowed over their feet, rustling, like snakes and rats all in one.

Tremens factus sum ego et timeo, dum discussio venerit atque ventura ira. Dies illa, dies iræ, calamitatis, et miseriæ, dies magna et amara valde.

Rita had put her head on his lap. Distantly, he was aware of a shuddering vibration that he supposed were sobs racking through her body. He realised with relief that he had become too numb to cry anymore. It couldn’t be real. His death he could take - the world’s death was something else entirely. Insanity bubbled through his eyes as it occurred to him that the people inside this church were possibly the last remnents of humanity left on earth.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

He sniggered, but stopped himself, alarmed at the outburst. The worst part was, he realised he wasn’t the only one. The entire church was silently laughing as it cried. Hysteria threatened. Words had collapsed and movements were unnecessary now for there was nowhere left to go. Rita’s fingers dug into his thighs. He felt blood dripping into his shoe and it made him feel alive. But then he realised that it was actually sand. That made him chortle.

Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Something had to be done just to shut them up. Give them the truth. That would do it. That would open their eyes. They’d all look at him then. This was it, he thought. His last moment to partake in life. What would he do?
He stood up, barely noticing that this caused Rita to fall to the floor was an outraged yelp.
“We’re FUCKED,” he announced.
He was right. It was only when the church fell silent that he realised how little he had underestimated people’s capacity for outrage.
“Perfectly disgraceful,” he heard a voice say nearby.
“Come down, George, for God’s sake. You’re making a scene.”
“Oh. Alright. Sorry.”
He got down. The church looked at them.
“They’re all looking at us, George,” said Rita. Her eyes were streaked. He realised she’d been crying.
“Oh, I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry.”
He held her close, and swore he’d never let her go. They both closed their eyes.
After a brief pause, the conductor took up his baton once more, and conducted the final part of his Requiem for Humanity that he had composed two weeks before. This would be its only performance, and he wasn’t going to let some crazy old man ruin it. Yes, many people were weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth, but that added to the charm of the piece. The swearing, on the other hand… that was uncalled for. He gave a brief nod to the choir, some of whom had looked as though they were going to faint in the middle of the Agnus Dei. But, it seemed, the old man’s words had stirred them back into action. This work had to be completed. It wasn’t for God – God was clearly dead – but it was for them. They had been rehearsing it for the last three months, after all.
He raised his baton. The choir sang.

Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Amen.

Sand swished and swirled around his feet.
Then, came the silence.
“Thus finishes humanity’s final act,” he said.
Nobody moved. No one applauded. He realised he had nothing left now but death, and madness inched its way into his cranium.
They hadn’t even liked it. His final performance, his masterpiece, the final work of art ever created by humanity… and nobody had even liked it.
It was sort of funny, really.
He felt a chuckle threaten him. A small noise emanated from the back of his throat that he supposed was the sound of incoming lunacy.
But, before he could succumb to the final gibbering throes of his life, he realised that the silence had something about it he couldn’t place. There was nobody talking – he knew that – nobody moved, he saw that – and yet, was there a reason for it?
And then he realised. He couldn’t hear the sand moving anymore.
“The sand!” said someone, evidently realising the same time as him. “It’stopped!”
“So it has,” said the conductor, a wry grin spreading across his face. “And not a moment too soon.” The sand had reached his knees.
Then came the applause.
George said to Rita, “Oh. Looks like we’ll get to star in a post-apocalyptic story now where people eat dog food and ride strange oldfangled devices and talk to Tina Turner even though her forehead is strangely over-large.”

I miss being able to write stuff like this and throw it into a random folder because I didn't think it was worth anyone looking at


Had a lovely day today, felt quite content...flicked through my history by mistake on my phone and found Her number and then texted it.

Why did I do that?

Also how I delete all my history..?

Wednesday, 26 September 2012

Hard-Hitting Children’s Book

“Trying to find the right sort of tone, Jenkins,” I said, lifting my pipe from my mouth and blowing out a pfffff of some random dot of paper that had made its strange way into my avuncular yet strangely moist mouth, inside of which seemed to be some sort of tongue-based blob.
“What’s the market going for?”
“Well, from what I can see, there’s a lot of hard-hitting things out there. Misery-fic. I’ve written a piece myself to try and find a way in; I’ve sent it to my agent, and we’ll just have to see what he thinks.”
“But Stanley, I’m your agent,” said my priest.
“Let me read out what I’ve started writing: it had been twenty days since my cousin Ben last stole from us to buy for his drugs. Yeah. You heard me. Drugs. In the first line of a book supposedly written for children. What’s that all about then, you say. Well that’s the way it is on the streets. Name’s Tom. Yeah. You heard me. Tom. You got a problem with that, you can shove it. Yeah. Because that’s how we work in the estates. Proper mugs don’t come round here. They’re not tough like us lot. Because they don’t get it.” I put the book down and gazed into those cold grey eyes of his, hidden beneath lids. For an alarming moment I thought the man had somehow lost his eyes, but then the eyelids went up as though they were some kind of blinds. Hadn’t ever seen such a sight.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Your eye thing. The folds of skin covering them up. Wondered where you were for a minute.”
“It’s called blinking, Jenkins.”
“I’ve heard of it.” I attempted to blink, and succeeded. Made quite a difference. Realised I had been closing my eyes for the last twenty-six years. “That’ll make it a damn sight easier to write. By God, you’re ugly.”
“That’s a painting of the Mona Lisa,” he replied.
I swivelled and realised I’d been talking to the Mona Lisa the entire time. As in the last ten years.
“How?” I said.
“In the time I’ve known you, you’ve only ever been blind. I enjoyed throwing my voice when bored. Which I am most of the time.”
“You’re even uglier,” I said.
“It’s all relative, dear boy,” he said, packing a punch into his briefcase, “You see, without knowledge of beauty, you assume everything is ugly. That picture of the Mona Lisa is the epitome of beauty. I, on the other hand, am the epitome of ordinariness. It’ll take some time for you to get used to seeing the world with your own eyes for the first time. Rest assured, you’ll be fine and dandy by tomorrow evening.”
“What did you think of the beginning of the novel?”
“Piss-poor. Now that you’re not blind any longer, there’s no excuse for churning out balls. Create me a hit. Bang it out, and set the world to rights. Type with your eyes. Not literally. Look at the world around you as if seeing it all for th’ first time. Except, in your case, it is the first time. So, really, what I’m trying to say is look at the damn world.”
“Damned world.”
“Damn world.”
“Edam world.”
“Agreedam world.”
“Get out.”

After nearly being blinded again by his dangerous hand-wobblers, I exited the premises to try and find inspiration in the local world around me. I surveyed an ant as it crawled on the pavement. A kick up the arse moved me along. Looked around for the source: a shoe lay solemnly on the pavement behind me, bereft of owner. Mystery.
The world had exploded. Suddenly what had been a soundtrack became a cacophony of visual over-stimulation. Faces twisted and gurned; traffic lights leered; cars reared; horses were steered; babies were reared; eyes were bleared; Ray was Mears; eyes held tears; people drank beer; far was near; pressure was peer; time was measured in days, months and years. Time – the greatest time of our time. I had hitherto considered life to be a black canvas upon which random feelings splashed. Sometimes, as a blind man, I could see spackles of sunlight, heat made sightflesh. Sounds acquired vibratory resonance and, without knowing it, I had managed to know all the colours of the rainbow from behind my black veil. In a way, the world that I now beheld with my holed eyes merely confirmed certain suspicions created in what I thought was a fevered imagination.
My agent was wrong – there was no beauty here. Colours without colour, shape without form, echoes without sound... a feedback of futility retching itself behind waves over and above the expected capacity of our senses, and I found myself needing the toilet. So I went to the toilet, and in there I did a Poo. And then I got bored and decided to try beginning a new children’s story.

“Can’t be writing this sort of crap,” said my agent, as I handed him my new attempt, This Sort of Crap, a story about a boy who gets flushed down a toilet.
“Why not?” I said, literally stamping my authority on the floor. “Kids love the scatological. The horror of the toilet and being flushed down it represents a fear of being sent back up the vagina.”
“That’s what we should put on the blurb.”
“Really? So you - ”
Frowning, I snatched it back from his plump little hands and fanned myself with it before dumping it wholesome into his basket bin with its cutesy weaves and ashtray memories. The walls, coated in a brown substance that I supposed was wood, seemed to heave and pray with the reverent memories of misused time. My agent – a bald head and nothing more – seemed hell-bent on denying me my true calling, which was to be a children’s writer. Instead, I was a hack – a nun, a bendy-faced quadgeflazgoider incapable of nought but metastasis and conjugation, doomed for displacement to some far-off gulag; or worse, Barnsley. 

Saturday, 22 September 2012

Is there any evidence to contradict the possibility that I'm actually evil? Like, 100% wrong. I'm pretty sure I'm the definition of evil. Driven only by ego, incapable of real love, self-obsessed, acting most of the time............................................................

shut the fuck up dude
Lonelier than a dog left strapped to a lamppost in the pouring rain.

I began the day and she entered my head, and ended the day she's infected it completely.

Facebook doesn't help.

And Donna would rather be in a 'relationship' with someone 400 miles away than me... pathetic how much I care really.

Memories clinging to me like shit on an old shoe. You can wash and wash them but sometimes things get ingrained and the only way to get rid of it is to get a new shoe.

This is why I'm going to go to a tanning shop and become a guido. Guidos get it easy.

Probably end up leather-faced like Keith Richards.

Ok so I haven't felt this shit in weeks. The only time I post stuff is when it's bad; if I don't post, it's because I'm doing ok. But fuck.

It was only a few months but for a while there, going out on a Saturday night, doing what normal people did, felt so good. I'd finally stopped feeling like a loser. Ego. That's all it is though. Ego and lust. Just tell yourself you're that shallow and it stops being a big deal.


Wednesday, 19 September 2012

Epic commenter (yeah, I said epic.)

A magnificently fucked-up commenter on the article linked below. Weirdly he's from Southsea. Maybe it's David Hyde.
25 August 2010 10:05PM
`Mind Champion of the Year` - fuck MIND then. People with mental illness have no rights, and all this `empowering` talk is just so much BS to try and get people off benefit (where they are no longer a disempowered drain on finances) and back into work (where they will be happy-clappy little workers with loads of gleaming new-fangled rights and empowerments). Utter fucking crap.
Send people to work? Who will employ someone with mental health problems? Only a few. Let`s shuffle the shit under the carpet and pretend nobody notices.
If I am sent to a DLA hearing in 2013, it will have been thirteen years since I last worked. Spacecube comes up with stuff like `The psychiatric industry's raison d'etre is to label its patients with one of its many 'diagnoses' such as psychosis, personality disorder, schizophrenia, borderline, obsessive compulsive, narcissistic, schizoaffective (with or without borderline features), paranoid, schizotypal, bipolar and the list goes on and on and on. There has never been any scientific proof that any of these 'illnesses' exist. Many, particularly older, psychiatric terms are used by the layman pejoratively, which is one of the reasons why there is stigma, and as a result the stigma somehow gets blamed on society as a whole, rather than being blamed on the psychiatry & the state, which is of course where the blame should lie.`
Fine. But don`t tell me that there is nothing wrong with me. Also, please don`t tell me that I`m `avoiding work` which is just a cuntish way of copping out of the issue - lack of effective treatment. My day consists of getting up and lifting weights indoors (I don`t go out much); I do some work on the punchbag and if it`s early enough and nobody is around I can do 20 minutes of running. My diet consists of Fluoxetine Hydrochloride and Lamotrigine (I also have to take Metformin fro Type 2 Diabetes). On some days, I feel reasonably stable; on ohters anything is possible (I started jerking off on the bus once when I was really unwell). Where was the help when we were being harassed by local chavs (from poor little disadvantaged backgrounds). Nowhere, until it got to the point where I started making threats to kill. That is the reality of mental illness - instability, punctuated by brief moments of lucidity.
My wife and I now have somewhere stable to live. The bunch of cunts in government have declared war on the disabled. I`ll be damned if we are going to lose our rented accommodation now we have somewhere semi-decent to live. There is no fucking way we are going back to some slum.
Times like this make me wonder, `What`s the fucking point?` I`ve got no job; I`ve been labelled a benefits scrounger; my mental health problems are down to personal failings and we`ll probably have to go into social housing surrounded by anti-social chavs.
I really hope Cameron (or better still, Ian Duncan Smith) visit Portsmouth. If they rip the carpet from under our feet I hope I can jump far enough from the crowd to plunge a knife into them as a parting gesture. As the IRA are no longer active, I suppose a Brighton bombing-type scenario is out of the question. People with mental illnesses have enough shit to deal with and these cunts are pushing a lot of us into suicidal thinking. Raoul Moat Part 2 anyone?

He continues...

26 August 2010 9:24AM
Spacecube - I am sorry I went off on one. I was very unstable last night and I just shot in the dark. What I was talking about followed me into my sleep and I had some very nasty dreams about me and my wife ending up back in the kind of dump we were in when local chavs started threatening to kill and rape my wife while I was away on business. The police did nothing to help and it was only when I went out with a knife that they turned up. I have a lifelong history of mental illness and the treatment has been pathetic or non-existent.
Had I had earlier intervention my illness may not have developed to the extent it has; I do not expect the government to be able to fix everything for me and I have disconnected from my mother (who laid the foundations for the development of my illness). However, if I had cancer or something like that I`d be considering suing. As my manager started bullying me at my last place of work, the instability set in, followed by the chav harassment etc. My manager and the police contributed to my becoming unstable to the point of collapse; the treatment thereafter - the drugs I have been prescribed have stopped me becoming psychotic, which is some relief - has not helped me. Now these `reforms` threaten to fuck me up further, but I am not going to take it up the arse passively and ask for seconds.
What makes me pissed off more than anything is that I can have days where I can function relatively well in a safe environment. Sure, I`ve got two degrees, but I could not manage in a `white collar` or `blue collar` environment (awful terms, but you get the picture). I would be more than happy to do voluntary work with the elderly (for example, helping out at the Royal Hospital). Having nothing to do is depressing; apart from my weights and punchbag (a great help for rage issues), I have fuck all to do, except die a little day by day. No attempts at serious rehabilitation have come my way. I am fucking sick and tired of going on like this - my wife has to suffer too. Sometimes I seriously contemplate suicide.
I am going to call up the duty team at my mental health team today, as I had quite a few thoughts about `looking up` some of the fuckers who have oppressed me. I`m not going to waste my time on them - it`s the likes of Cameron, IDS, Osborne and Clegg who should be removed from the equation.

And oh man, I lost my shit finally at this comment:

26 August 2010 8:58PM
SPACECUBE - I am sorry about your post being removed. I feel that I may have had some part in that as a result of my going off in the deep end; if the moderators feel that my reaction was caused by your post, I am sorry and that was the last thing I would have hoped would have happened. I hope you can forgive me (particularly - after reading some of Perkins`s documents - I now feel the Guardian article was sloppy journalism).
I can see that Perkins is perhaps trying to give a life back to people with mental illnesses, but - even if she has the best will in the world - this vile coalition will twist her approach to batter the disabled. Seen it all before with Thatcher. :(
Perhaps I should refrain from getting involved in mental health discussions. Some people from Acorn Lodge came round today to assess me and gave me some diazepam (which has helped a lot); needless to say what I said to them was not really that coherent.
DESIK - 100% with you on that one. I feel like a ping-pong ball being bounced form one shrink to another; one `treatment` to another and one load of pills to another. Very little control of my life (when I am able to do so). Like the people you employed, I can get very defensive or just lose the ability to go on - I am about as reliable as a stopped clock (which can tell the correct time at least twice a day). At my last job (IT support) I started jacking off in the toilets, leading to my having obvious cum stains on my trousers. Icky but true I`m afraid. :(

And the final comment, the final of anyone on the whole page, which is pretty disturbing, truth be told:

  • southsea13
    27 August 2010 10:03PM
    I am totally fucked. That is all.
Comments on this page are now closed.

Make Sure You've Eaten Before You Read This, Part II

"So what are you here for, Mr. Neale?"
"Three things really: one embarrassing, one to do with my head, and this little rash thing here on my leg that's freaking me out."
"Ah," she said, peering at my exposed hairy shin. "That's what appears to be a scratch."
"Great. The other thing is... I've got a painful bum."
"That's probably piles."

"You've got piles." Nothing can prepare you when you hear those three little words. Similarly, nothing can prepare you for the three little words she said, which, as you may or may not know, were "That's probably piles". I assumed she was referring to my bum-pain, not to some random picture on the wall of goatse*. What kind of a doctor was this, I thought, as we discussed how long this had been going on.
"Ever since I was at my friends' house a month ago," I said, feeling a sudden shame, as though I should have come out of the piles closet a long time ago. "First it was my coccyx. But lately, it's like... I've been getting ever more intense feelings. My perineum seems to be swollen."
"I see,” she said, clearly impressed at my usage of the word ‘perineum’. “I'm afraid I'll have to check it."
I'm afraid I'll have to check it. Memories of my first time playing doctors and nurses with my childhood friend Cathy - and her screams as she discovered that I had some sort of growth extruding from my crotch*.
"Do you want me to bring in someone as a witness?"
"No, I think this is embarrassing enough as it is," my ego said with a raised eyebrow, but
"No, I'm sure it'll be fine," said I, in all my awkwardness, half-hoping she would turn into a Porn and get her top off; having said that, I didn't fancy her in the least. Arse-transgression continued as the doctor inserted a jellified finger into my erstwhile and/or stoic anus. A metastasising growth of anal protuberances in my mind amounted to little more than a single pile: a "mild" but nonetheless "potentially explosive"* vessel that has somehow wrecked havoc not only in my sitting habits, but my sexual identity. She said in a sad voice that I would have to take down my trousers and lie on the bed thing, facing the wall, with my knees up in a foetal position. I felt like I was about to be raped, or that in fact, my whole life had been a rape, and this was the default position I had to take.

So I lay there facing the wall. I was going to take off my trainers as well, but decided that my dignity was all gone so I might as well just leave my trousers and pants hanging around the trainer area, like a child in a urinal unaware that all they need to do when pissing is just marginally take the trousers down instead going all the way. These things should be taught in school. "Lesson 5, Friday - How To Piss. Top marks for whoever can hit the cistern." Total subjugation to the will of the masses. The wall of the masses. Absolute authority. Rigid rebellion. The flaccid cock of the patriarchal system changed now into the diaspora of the multicultural matriarchy-vagina that is the new educational paradigm. The brain's vessels flow outwards, splaying their thoughts and rapid emotions out onto the grey slate. Likewise, the vagina spreads itself eloquently outwards, embracing the new. And then the arse gets involved and all hell breaks loose. Gays came along with their token gestures thrown from limp wrists. If we pushed the penis far enough back, it would negate the arse. That is how it will be in the future. H.G. Wells predicted it in his novel The Space Gadget.

As she inserted her lubricated finger further in, I realised that this must be what anal sex feels like: painful, and yet strangely enjoyable. My first sexual experience had been at the doctor's, when a male (does it matter anymore) doctor pulled down my foreskin and left me wincing in masochistic enjoymentpain. This time round, the gender once again meaningless, the female inserted her little finger-phallus into my end, and I embraced my destiny of women literally wrapping me around their little finger.

"And so yeah," I said, as we both sat back down. I had watched her wash her hands, wondering if she was, despite herself, aroused slightly by the absolute submission of my foetal form. I began to wonder whether she liked her men to lie in that position - exposed, foetal, childish. A normal doctor would ask you to bend over. Or, I could have stood up straight and she could have knelt down and stroked my cock before inserting a... well, we're straying off-topic here, as I realise I haven't had sex since June, and not had good sex since January.
"And so yeah," I said, "My brain feels a little bit better. Of course, being at university has helped."
"Any anxiety?"
"It's weird - it's like, those moments, such as coming into the doctor's and letting them poke a finger up my bum, they should slay me, but it feels like, just as my body is about to go into full-flight crazy mode, it is stopped. It's like a tap that's been shut off."
"That's good to hear."
"It could be circumstantial, of course."
Then of course she proceeded to do the Brain-Test, and this time I got 8 instead of 15 like I did last time, implying that somehow magically in two weeks I'd become half as miserable as I was. But I'm just distracted. Maybe that's all that happiness is: distraction. That, and a warm bum.

"How was the doctor?"
"Slightly embarrassing, but that's par for the course I suppose."
"Now you know how women feel."
"I spent most of my time narrating it from the perspective of Baudrillard and/or Burroughs and realising that for the last two days I've felt like I've accidentally become a woman and/or gay."
"That's nice."

As I slathered on the ointment, there came an inevitable step into the door from the Mother, transgressing the threshold, the boundaries between civilisation and barbarism inches away; had I not shouted, more braver than I would if I were wanking, "Don't come in!" she would have been witnessed to her 'male' son crouched like an Oriental, trying to shove a nozzle full of Anusol up his arse.

Anusol. What a name.

What have I learned from all this? That suddenly leaving a seminar because my arse is painful makes people think you're weird, but that actually, I am weird, and if people think I am, fuck it. The people who do like me like me because I'm weird even though I write in detail about my piles.

*none of these are true

Tuesday, 18 September 2012

Make Sure You've Eaten Before You Read This

The uncertainty of the polyp-based flesh-fractal suggests obedience to an entropic god specialising in chaotic splurges on the body's canvas. The cunt: acceptable bacteria. Slimy succumbing to the Dionysian disgust that turns even the best of us into ravaging monsters hell-bent on phallocentric conquering of the labial landscape. Friction lost in this timeless road, where tyres spin over oil patches, a euphoric collision of textures transcending the neuroses of each party involved: flaws become part of the package. You grab onto body parts like lifeboats, the parts that hitherto you might not have considered to be there for the taking. The scent of arse, and tangy unnameable atrocity becomes, like a KFC to a hungry man, more than acceptable, and suddenly erotic; it is only in the passing light of day, experiencing a sudden memory of those sensations, that you wonder what the appeal was.

But yeah. I'm currently experiencing Kristevian levels of self-repulsion, sitting as I am with atavistic skidmarks showing on my nonplussed boxer shorts, reminders of a past I thought I had forgotten - a past whereby I did not check my roll after every sweep, where I did not make myself sterile, where I neglected to bathe every morning, where my hair was greasy, and my feet were sweaty.

Piles: don't get them. You will feel like the least sexy being in the world.

"I was a man, once."

You will feel like a mucky kid, but also like an obsolete old man. A brain is nothing when faced with the knowledge that your arse is doing things to you that you can't quite cope with on a Monday morning. You can sit there and blab about the need to accentuate personal growth within a structured curriculum, but a part of you is wondering whether you smell of poo and everyone knows it, but no one will say anything about it until afterwards when they laugh like this:

Fuck you, laughingwhores.jpg.

My genitalia,  my knob, proudly on show, honest and down-to-earth if unspectacular, remains a true summary of me as a person. I am unsheathed; I am out there, and yes - I too find that I lean to the left, not only in politics. My last girlfriend noted this with some amusement, possibly disgust too, but no matter. I had made my peace with it. She, on the other hand, had a vagina that held so many secret scents that she had failed to deal with that it became my job to grin and bear it. A fat borderline's vagina reflects a fat borderline person: too many rolls blocking the way, and you realise that maybe it wasn't worth probing in the first place. Plus it thinks it's important because of some long-held belief in the importance of its own meaningfulness. The vagina is no more meaningful than the cock - the borderline is no more meaningful than any other fucker out there. My cock is my own, and it is boring, but honest.

But yeah, piles. Suddenly the area around my cock is in a state of emergency. Shit is happening to my body that only pregnant women get. I am transcending the accepted boundaries of sexual politics, and I'm not even doing it to try and be cool. I find that instead of a clean, solid cock, the area in and around my bumhole is becoming sheathed, bacteriaish, slimy, and secretive like a cupboard filled with not just porn, but really weird porn. Piles are cushions of blood vessels that emerge from the arse, in a manner suggestive of an explosive-looking catastrophevag witnessed on the spilled-out over-bodies of the massively obese. The mucus produced in and around the arse is therefore also exposed, like the myriad strange liquids of the vagina, except in my case it's my arse. I shift my body and feel a tormenting wet sensation (why are you still reading?), and am put into the shoes of the two girlfriends I had, both of whom, at least at the start, created more erotic sensations for me than ever when  not only announcing in surprised and slightly ashamed tones "Oh my god, I'm so wet..!" but displaying and utilising the evidence in a manner whose liquid assistance provided a truly remarkable intertextual gratification experience (or IGE). However, in an ironic pastiche of all that is good about wetness, bacterial-based scent, the arse, and swollen, moist flesh, my present-day arsehole region is displaying all the symptoms of piles, which, is you can probably tell by now, is making me feel like the world's most disgusting hermaphrodite. And also making me write a Cracked-style blog entry about having piles. Which I have got. Just in case you didn't know.

Unless it's bowel cancer, in which case there'll be a goldmine of blogs from that one.

Saturday, 15 September 2012

actually I'm kind of lonely.

and the fact is, if anyone likes me, I automatically think they must be stupid and therefore easy to manipulate. Therefore I'm actually just evil.

Give me a fucking gun. I'm bored of myself.

Friday, 14 September 2012

actually donna getting back with her ex has depressed me a little.

why must i be defined by women?
Just managed not only to go to uni and have a nice time, but also go to the barbecue afterwards where I sat with people and, for the most part, chatted, and even ate a burger. I hate eating around people.

Feels good man

Thursday, 13 September 2012

who is this mr neale guy i'm reading about?

Dear Dr. Alford,

Re: Mr Oliver Neale

Thank you for your referral of the above named patient to the Suton IAPT Service. Mr Neale was assessed through our telephone service by Joanne Croxon.

Presenting problem: Mr Neale presented with symptoms of moderate depression and severe anxiety, as indicated by scores of 16 and 16 on the PHQ-9 and GAD-7 questionnaires. Mr Neale explained that he has  been feeling very low in mood for the last month. He described lacking motivation and is consequently leaving the house less often. Mr Neale also reported feeling 'unhappy' and self-conscious in social situations since his teens. He stated that he worries he has nothing interesting to say and often goes over conversations in his head for fear he has said the wrong thing.

Risk issues identified: Mr Neale reported having thoughts of being better off dead or of hurting himself in some way 'several days' in the last two weeks. He did not report any specific plans to end his life.

Yours sincerely,

Ms. Joanne Croxon

Is it weird that seeing my brains viewed through the lens of medical notes amuses me?

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

There's double effect - the initial obvious bad feeling, but then the guilt that I'm turning into 'that guy' - the loser who acts like his emotions are all that matter. Who can't get over it. Who can't move on. Who can't stop being a creepy wanker. As opposed to a normal wanker. Who thinks no one else has ever felt like this.

I can go
with the flow
I can say it doesn't matter

Today went to Wimbledon Chase, my old school for a day's observation. Wrote this thing about two months ago. it was fictional. Today it came true, every word of it. Not a single teacher who taught me remembered me.

I’m going down to my old school
To see what’s going on
Wander round the corridors
Best not stay too long

Goin right back to the old school
Goin right back to the old school
Goin back to the old school coz
There’s nowhere else left for me to go

I meet up with some old teachers
We swap stories and jokes
They haven’t changed at all but I have
Or at least that’s what I hope

My name is John Smith but
Some address me as Paul
Takes me this long to realise
I didn’t stand out at all.
The place still smells the same
Dust and varnish combined with mud
Memories still remain
Emerging from the playground knees scraped with blood

Fight broke out in this asylum each day
How did teachers cope?
I couldn’t do a job like that
A job that saps your hope

Having said that I’m a clerk
Each day passes by
Nothing interesting happens
No one looks you in the eye
Have I grown up since those days?
Have I changed the way I live?
Only difference is now I’m getting paid
And I’m able to drive

Still got the mind of a child
Still immature as hell
I still feel untamed and wild
My office space is my cell

Whatever happened to that kid
Who had such hopes and dreams
As I leave the school I wonder how
I managed to turn so mean

Goin right back to the old school
Goin right back to the old school
Goin back to the old school coz
There’s nowhere else left for me to go

Having said that, I looked at her tumblr and realised that actually, she's kind of boring :| the usual shite about the same old things and people, and you realise that actually she was a broken record, playing for no one but herself.

Yet another godamn Damascus moment. The idea of the irretrievable, is not her, and never was. It was a part of me I created. She knew she was nothing but a borderline cliche, and told me so. But that was part of the charm. The feeling of saving someone who knew they were doomed (but actually weren't - because nobody that self-involved will ever kill themselves).

I am fairly sure I don't know what real love is. I only get a kick out of physical intimacy because it breaks my bubble temporarily. I view emotional relations sometimes as if they are an inevitability - I view conversations from afar, seeing myself taking part in them, experiencing links ironically, forging emotion ironically. It is only when the event has gone that you realise that part of you that detached from the event at the time wasn't actually you, but just some alien in your mind.

I do that thing where if I haven't seen someone for a while, it doesn't restore my love for them. It fades it. They become a stranger. Even you, sometimes. I suppose it's healthy in some way to detach, but that initial first few moments, I wonder who you are, and why I know you. Then I have to be reminded. And it was far more pronounced with her. Days with her would actually increase my affection and I would remember why I thought I loved her. Days apart and she became a prop, a beacon, a signifier of a relationship, just a Facebook status. The actual person was lost; and when we met again, it became harder and harder to get it back, no matter how hard I tried. A part of my mind always detaches, often at the most crucial moments. I watch a car crash and don't help. I see a child die on the television and am not moved. It is only later when I am alone with myself that I can truly see how I felt. And even then it's difficult to remain consistent. Consistent towards anything. Other people change one's attitude all the time.

The world is simply a set of geometric viewpoints. Each event, each person, each moment in spacetime, reflects wave after wave, and each wave is a different interpretation of that original, which is lost in the process of empirical but entropic diffraction. Our senses and minds distort all that is said, done and felt. Other wavelengths interfere with mine: background cosmos skews my vision and morality, bending it to another's will. No point having a viewpoint on anything anymore, even nihilism.

Jellified gentrification. Circumcision masculinity. Locus angle. Hellish light. Totem pastimes. Party-time business. Delicate devastation. Terrible happiness. Stone heart. Lighthouse blindness. Post-mortem life. Radiation cure. Pastiche sadness. Bum-faced dodgem. Eloquent idiot. Quaver softness. Muffin Man.

Monday, 10 September 2012

"For whatever reason she one day said she didnt want me. After that I missed her so much and this then became an obsession. I thought and think of her obsessively and seem to have lost myself. My ideas and tastes in everything from music, movies and clothes have taken a back seat to her. I have become obsessed with everything she did and liked to the detriment of losing my own opinions and ideas and tastes. How is this possible? How can someone come along, someone who I almost disregarded at the start, who can turn your way of thinking upside down? I know that we dont know what we have til its gone but this si absolutely ridiculous and I just hope it fades in time. I know that all things must pass and I need to work on myself, for myself. But how can I ever find someone to match her? I am constantly sizing up women against her. Checking their clothes and hair and other superficial things. Who can match her? I know now that she was putting an act on and she did copy a lot from me. It was an illusion I know but it happened and forgetting it and letting go of the obsession is something we all find more difficult than in any relationship. Sometimes my only way to deal with this is to visualise myself in another relationship with someone right for me. But its hard. We are the real slaves in this situation. Our only consolation is that we will one day be free, the borderline never. Yes, one day I will be free. But when? And what of this crazy obsession?"

Truth spoken by an anon out there.

The worst thing I can do is try to ignore when the feelings of hurt creep back up. Accept that this will take a long, long time. Some days will be good. Some days will be bad. That this isn't just about her anymore. It's about me, and how I felt before I met her and how I felt during it and how I feel after. She was just a catalyst for a process that should have been addressed a long time ago.

"No contact is the second key. Continued. Absolute. In fact, it can be very empowering. You have control over it and your life, something very few of us had while in the grips of the BPD psychic vampire. Obsessing about the BDP is Sisyphean. Push Rock. Rock Falls. Push Rock. Repeat. Obsess. Stress. Repeat. It gets old, the mind begins to revolt from the the illogical loop. What they did was f*up. Remind yourself to get on with the bizness of living. cause you are doing it anyway.
the afterlife post BDP is challenging, but can be an adventure. who will you be now? what lessons have you learned? what are the ways to find humor in the madness? you have passed through the relationship crucible. a survivor. a Darwinian success. go now into the great void and find life."
"Such an exciting three months, I fell for her hard, and then a year and a half of absolute push-pull chaos and deception. I changed from the most adoring, happy man into a paranoid wreck with my sense of self crushed. I existed to serve, in the hope that I would win a little love in return. I became her ward, caretaking constantly no matter how it was destroying my life. I gave everything I had."

"If one day she genuinely sought forgiveness and a friendship I might offer her the chance. But from what I have read from pwBPDs who are in heavy therapy, they STILL struggle tremendously to get past their deeply-ingrained patterns and defenses. So it just may not be remotely possible with her. Depending on what each pwBPD has been through, their willingness, and their support network, it may or may not be possible for a friendship, especially not in a true friendship."

Thursday, 6 September 2012

Fuck that shit.

All of a sudden, you're going through that horrendous withdrawal again--and wishing you'd never reached out. You're texting--and she's silent. The pain is back.

I'm NOT going to let this shit happen again. Goddamn, that evil bitch did a real job on me.

I exist. Just.