Hunt down the orphans and kill them – 1

By which I don’t mean the wretched Baudelaire children, but the poor, unloved scraps of gibberish I committed to various online sites over the years and then had to abandon due to forgetting passwords. On a cold and stormy November day I’ve decided to hunt some of them down and sacrifice them here…

April 2011

8.4.11 Starting to take my meds quarter of an hour earlier each evening to try to avoid that awful, morning zombie effect where I loll around on the sofa like someone recently lobotomised, slurring my words and trying to join my thoughts together like a clumsy infant attempting to stack blocks atop each other. Today has been a really good day. A little groggy first thing but a coffee and a cigarette soon sorted that. Once the mist had cleared I felt pretty damn good for most of the day and found myself looking back, as I’m sure most bipolar types do with monotonous regularity, to yesterday, when I felt completely different. It’s embarrassing sometimes to read such unequivocal declarations of permanent, intractable misery a mere 24 hours after they were penned and have no sympathy for the person who wrote them, just vaguely contemptuous incredulity. Sad, sorrowful twat – how could ANYONE feel like that? One problem  with mood swings is that they are so REAL. The blackness is real and it is forever. It’s impossible to imagine a tomorrow might ever arrive which might find you in any place other than this dark, dark hell.

9:4:11 The Quetiapine seems to have kicked in and I appear to be getting some kind of therapeutic effect from it now, not just the pharmaceutical equivalent of having a prefrontal lobotomy performed by a monkey with a claw hammer. So…what to write about? The misery mine is empty. I can’t force it or fake confusion or despair, the usual staples of my ‘literary’ output, and it’s not very interesting either for me to write about, or for you, gentle reader, to read about, how nothing out of the ordinary’s been happening. Even my short lived but intense love affair with ripping the piss out of Paul McKenna seems to be going off the boil. No more jumping out of speeding vehicles into oncoming traffic, no more self-mutilation, just…eating three meals a day, engaging with my family in a relatively normal fashion, getting enough sleep, attending to my personal hygiene – that kind of thing. An unusual absence of drama. So I guess that leaves me either having to recount old, dog eared tales of the madness of yesteryear or…my god, write about something OTHER than being a nutter! Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and give a warm welcome to…writers’ block!

10.4.11 Well, fortunately today’s been shit so the stone has rolled from the tomb of dead words and they’ve come tumbling and moaning back out into the sunlight. It is – meteorologically speaking – a beautiful day. I left the house where I’ve spent all day festering like an angry, purulent boil ready to disgorge its septic contents and went for a walk with the intention of sitting down somewhere quiet and writing. And there were fucking people EVERYWHERE. Picnicking families, elderly couples, healthy, wholesome men in shorts on mountain bikes. Back in the day, when I was the drunken, bug-eyed singer in a dreadful punk band, I penned one of my typically petulant, misanthropic ditties called ‘Clear The Streets’ all about how I wanted Mr & Mrs Joe Citizen and their snot-nosed kids to stay indoors behind closed curtains so I could go for a walk without having to be bothered looking at them. The sentiment still holds true today. But I managed to find myself a secluded spot, angled so I can look to the far horizon without there being a single human blemish to spoil the view. I’m sitting on a cliff looking out over the sea, half hearted surf churning lazily round the rocks below. I can still smell somebody’s nearby barbecue though, can still hear the faint droning of a boat’s engine. Fuckers. I wonder… how many of us suffering from a mental illness would find it as problematic if we didn’t have to live amidst and interact with other people? What’s the problem here, us or them? I sometimes (often) find myself yearning for some global nuclear holocaust – that I’d survive, naturally – so I could have a massive, empty, post apocalyptic playground to romp around in, doing my own thing, being as barmy as I wanted, all on my own. What difference would being bipolar make then? I’d sink down low and I’d swing up high and I’d spend some time on the less frequently travelled road of normaldom but my life would be simpler, purer, less of an almighty pain in the arse. Wouldn’t it? Sure, I’d have to deal with mutant squirrels the size of donkeys and tribes of fellow survivors who’d banded together and formed weird cults based around worshipping Paul McKenna, ‘I can make you happy’ their bible, but that’d be okay. I wouldn’t have to go to work or pay any bills or talk to my landlord or get mired in awkward, shaming social catastrophes with PEOPLE – I could just kill them. Problem solved. Just me and the cockroaches, moodswinging with gay abandon, dancing a merry jig bather in a virulent green sunset. I truly do believe that the perils of day to day existence amongst the fallout and the squirrels would be easier than day to day existence in 21st Century England amongst the terrible, soul sucking television programmes and the DWP and the convoluted, confusing and exhausting business of relationships. Why don’t you fuck off to Chernobyl then, you tosser, I hear you chorus…

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