Je suis, tu es

I am silence.
Not just absence of sound, but loud,
cloying silence that deafens.
As whispers carry,
so am I heard; yet
neither seen nor felt.
I am silence.

I am destruction.
Not just planned Despite
of urban planning.
I am shattered bones,
shards of femur;
I am destruction

I am fear
No ordinary dread
that creeps behind.
I am the eye that looks
full in your face;
I am fear

I am despair
Not but the lack of hope
that darkness brings.
I am the pit that beckons,
Coldly,
when all else has fled.

Despair,
For I
Am come.

Totally Mental : Tory Torturers

The day before yesterday, I received a threatening letter from the DWP.
I was in the WRAG (Work Related Activity Group) group, and it informed me of the financial sanctions that I would face if I did not comply with whatever the Jobcentre told me to do – including working for £1.63 an hour on Workfare.

Yesterday I received another brown envelope from the DWP.
It told me, in an oblique way, that I had been placed in the Support Group! Success, my challenge to the original ATOS and DWP assessment had been successful! I would no longer have to go to the Jobcentre, or be faced with workfare! I could plan to recover, go forward.

Today – ONE DAY after being told I was too ill to work! – I got a white envelope.
It was from ATOS Healthcare.
It was notice of a new assessment of my ‘abilities’ to work. The whole process was to start again from scratch. The whole process, which destroys, kills, disables, was to be enacted upon me again.

If you ever believed that the ‘fitness to work’ assessments were about simply removing fraud from the system, you can now think again – and above is the proof.
ATOS assessments have nothing to do with fraud, nothing to do with enabling disabled people to find employment – and everyone to do with torturing the disabled until they either give up claiming their rightful benefits, have a worsening of their illness leading to death, or kill themselves.

The process – started by Labour but rolled out much more comprehensively by the Tories aided by their LibDem quislings – is about stopping the welfare state, removing benefits from those who have insured themselves to receive them if unwell.
They will stop at nothing. They will harass, demonise, and, eventually, obliterate the disabled.

I am beyond consolation – I am in shock. I do not know how to bear this, I do not know how to survive it; it is difficult enough keeping safe with a mental illness, without this constant stream of vitriolic political harassment thrown at you.
Staying alive is difficult.
Despair sets in.
Despair and a tiredness that seeps like rot into the muscles, into the fibre of your being; a weariness that does not allow for recovery from one of the most painful illnesses that can be imagined. Or not imagined, in fact.
I have so much frustration and pressure within me, I want to puke it out, violently assault that which threatens me, commit myself to their physical destruction. Yet, through love of my family, I cannot, for it would hurt them beyond hurt, remove me from them, and the victor would only be the Tories and their ATOS torturers. They would remain, and I would not.

Where is the justice? Where is the justice?
Our country has been taken over by barbarism; a friend remarked that the veneer of civilisation has been rubbed through, and the awful spectre of what this country has become has been made plain for all to see.
Black crows with torturers as evil-minded as Those who took over Germany with twisted swastikas have invaded our land.

And I am left, bereft.
Trapped between the rock of the calumny of disability, like so many of my disabled friends, and the hard place of ATOS and their weapons; weapons paid for by you and me, millions and millions of pounds’ worth of weapons at their legal disposal.
I am helpless. Lost in a sea, lost and rudderless, pushed hither and thither by strong forces, whose aim is not betterment, but annihilation.

Help me.
Please, help me.

Brown Envelope Day – A Blast (And Buggery) From The Past

It’s not something that I care to come home to, is the brown envelope.

It’s something that I never think will arrive, and always catches me on the hop.  Take today, for example.

We started it off in a muted way, the wife and I, with a cup of tea and a bowl of cereal for me; I was neither feeling well, nor particularly poorly.  In fact, from the night before, when we had done some arty things together, I was probably a 4 out of ten.  Which is quite bearable, if not positively wonderful.  

I hied myself off to the charity that gives me an outlet for poor days, Towers Above, a place of healing though art.  I arrived, chatted and started about my latest ceramic masterpiece – meh – and had a damn good boost to my general mood and ability rating; off I toddled at the end of the session, and managed not just to go to Hobbycraft alone, but to chat to t’girlie from the knitting section about knitting, life and art.  She intimated I should contact the manager-type person who dealt with demonstrations, as I seemed able and interesting, to set up a date to come in for an art day for customers. And I damn’ well thought, at that point in time, that I might be able to, as well; I made a note to look at the possiblility for the new year.  If I could get through that, I could see a bonus in it for me of health-sense.  Worth trying to do it.

All in all, I now rated probably 7 on the ability and mood scale.  I’m pretty happy, looking forward to going home and getting on with some art.

The Brown Envelope was waiting for me.  

Threats from the Government as to what would happen if I was unable to comply with what the job centre were going to be telling me to do from the 3rd of December – yes, I an Duncan Smith, a merry fucking Christmas to you too – to whit, ‘sanctions’, a gradual reduction in my benefit until I came to heel.

Now, following the assault by the police, and handcuffing, in Wellington (see this blog ), I’m not even going to get into the Job Centre, because I simply cannot go into Wellington any more. Being scared of a place is no longer an ‘adequate excuse’ – if you think about it, if severe illness is not a good reason not to go to the job centre, then very little else (except, maybe, death) is going to cut the mouse turd, is it?

So now I am at a 2. I have very little but gradual, but accelerating, impoverishment to look forward to, and eventually the loss of the house.  Sure, there are people in the world worse off than me in the poverty stakes, but most of them do not live in a rich country, or have paid into a social insurance for their working lives.  Indeed, these poor people are going to be much worse off, ironically, since the aid Belinda and I currently give them will soon be cut off.

Threats from a Government – whatever the flavour or colour – toward ill people is a sign you are living in a very poor country indeed; not poor in resources or financially, but a country that has reached rock bottom in the way it treats the most vulnerable of its citizens.  A country so lost, so spiritually and morally bankrupt, that it is willing to put up with propaganda and strictures against the disabled, the like of which have not been seen since Germany of the 1930s – and thought that, with the sacrifice of lives that people  in WW2 suffered, we would never see again.

Threats in the post from a Government.  I shall soon be forced to wear a Black Triangle on my clothing.  I may preempt them and wear it anyway.

I’m unable now to see forward, with the remainder of people willing to let people like me die, some at their own hands, some at the hands of the DWP and ATOS, and this (Tory) government.  

I’m sort of lost.

I’m sort of afraid.

I’m very, very alone.

Totally Mental II: One Weak, In Pain.Day 6

0950 hrs
I’m sitting drinking the first cup of tea of the day, in a flat in Wembley. I’m starting to realise the enormity of what I have signed up to. It puts a trip to Liverpool Tate, a day at an Oxford museum, driving to London so far into the shade that you’d need a long train journey to get back to the sunshine.

I’m going to march outdoors (anxiety trigger) with a huge number of people ( anxiety trigger ), in the presence of loads of police (terror trigger), with helicopters (fear trigger) flubb-flubbing overhead, in a strange place (anxiety trigger). I’m starting to wonder if this is not a bridge too far, a mountain to high, a river too wide.

Everybody is chatting randomly. I so want to have a day like that, where what is about to happen doesn’t affect ones ability to function. I’m acting away like Gielgud on speed. All seems to be fine with me, I’ve even made a joke about helicopters and police. I’m even trying to kid myself with affected bonhomie.

The present is reasonably pleasant; a flat I have been to before, daughter and her partner who I know, a cup of comforting tea. I’m trying to live in it. The reality is that even when not considering this afternoon, it hangs like a pall over me; it is the cause of the tight diaphragm, the small but persistent hamster trying out a plethora of wheels in my head. I’m having small narratives about consequent actions. All the things that might happen.

I’m going to have some muesli.
Or weetabix.
I’ll update before I go. That’ll be fun.
Happy weekend, people!

****************************************
11.30 hrs

I’m getting kind of jumpy now, unable to settle, wondering what I am doing, finding it difficult to settle. It’s disconcerting to think I haven’t even been outside yet today; even the thought of that is beginning to be more and more scary. I can vaguely see loads of people in the Asda car park opposite, and realise it is relatively empty compared to where I am going soon.

Can we talk about something else for a while ? Wine, music, postage stamps? Something to take my mind off it.

I’m so cloudy even these words are taking a Herculean effort to pass out; it’s constipation of the worst sort. I’m doing breathing exercises. I’m starting at one and doubling figures in my head. I feel like going to sleep. I want to escape. I don’t want the police to kettle me. I don’t want to hear the helicopter.

But I need to stand shoulder to shoulder with my comrades in arms.

We will leave soon.
If you do, please pray.
If you don’t, please send cash.

I’ll write later.

**********************************************
1800 hrs

Safely back to my daughters flat in Wembley.

I’m a little shell-shocked, but otherwise ok. I feel like a punchbag loaned to one of the more burly pugilists for training.
Noise, police, helicopters, people, lively chaos, strange city, tube, train, Oyster cards.
But we were there

In amongst a hurumphing, happy crowd that just wanted to show their feelings. More left wing/anarchist factions you could shake a stick at, more causes and protests than you could accommodate in a linear week. And my head buzzed with the vibrancy of it all, nerves jangled at its raucous vitality that threatened to – but never did – burst out in to song; no jostling, but people being overtaken, and I, in my turn, being passed by those impatient to hear the speakers in Hyde Park.

Police lined the route, surreptitiously muttering into their radios, eyeing me with complete disinterest. Above a helicopter flummmppped it way over my head, causing the usual desire to run, and hide, to swear at it to ‘go away’. But I was in company – included within many children and a wire haired terrier that seemed to get into almost every picture I took – and that required control.

At that point it was too overwhelming, and I sought salvation in the company of a morning star seller, who was also selling ‘atos kills’ badges. Money changed hands, the din receded, and I moved on, thanking them for they knew not what.

Queuing for the toilet in Hyde park was not too difficult, unlike actually micturating with all the sounds of festival only a thin sliver of fibreglass away. I concentrated by reciting numbers.
The crowd started to swell, and we moved nearer the stage. I managed to clap and shout at the right places. People were reading my tee shirt and I felt very exposed and vulnerable. Any one of these people could have been following me. The helicopter frimmframmed overhead. I was alert and very very nervous all of a sudden.

Still, we sat by a fence, and ate out luncheon – a nice brown BAP with meat filling, and a muesli bar. I had forgotten to drink, something I continued to forget for the rest of the day.

The tube home was easier that the outward journey, even though I was now sporting the obligatory placard.

I’m ready for sleep, ready for peace, ready for quiet. But I survived. No one knew I was in difficulties, and no-one knew I was winging it as I went along.
It was, for me, a triumph.

I’m going to lie down now.
Well, recede into the background and be quiet.

And return anon.

Totally Mental II: One Weak, In Pain. Day 4 Thursday

09.45 hrs
So I’m sitting on a minibus heading down the M54
With me are nine of my colleagues from our Wellbeing Through Art group, Towers Above. I’m sounding like the jolly, confident Roger they all know, joking and laughing with the best of them.
You know what is coming next.
The pretence is complete and seamless. Even though I say it myself, I am damn’ good at it; oh to be a thespian, and hide myself away for money. That’s one of the jobs I could truly do.

We had a helicopter go overhead while we were waiting for the minibus. It’s sound marred the excited chatter of the others. I hid behind two friends. Even though I knew it was the air ambulance – it was a gaudy, hi-vis red – it didn’t settle me.

I don’t have my car with me now, so I have lost control. It feels achingly alien. I always drive, I have the control over whether I stay where I am, or the ability to scurry home like a disturbed rat. Now I have to go, stay the allotted time, and return when told. The feeling of helplessness grows.

A lot of the people have gone quiet now, I wonder how many of them feel as I do.

The motorway passes by, a river of souls encased in metal. The thought that one in four of them will develop some sort of mental illness is frightening. These are the people with whom I shall have to fight for resources with the ever shrinking NHS.

My head says stay alert, watch out for Them. My body says relax and enjoy. How many differing voices can a chap have? I lost one recently. I have been having a dialogue with God for the past 45 years or so. Now I’m realising that voices just are that. But I am missing the comfort, the understanding, the stability of that voice; I have to look deeper into myself, for it was me I was listening to.

I need sleep, really.

**********************
11.25 hrs
Not all that long to go. I have slept for a considerable portion of the journey. Defence. I’m a little nervous now of how I will be at our destination. No control and no idea what the place looks like.

A thought goes through my mind that people reading this might think “well, he’s not so ill”. My ’peers’ might be contrasting their difficulties with mine, and putting me way down the scale. Those who do not suffer from a mental illness may wonder if I am ’ill’ at all. After all, I can go on a minibus with other people to a museum far away – plenty of job ideas there.
Sometimes I wonder myself – as a lot of the mentally ill do. Self doubt extends to the illness too.
I have no answer to this.

We are nearing Oxford.
I will prepare my head.

As Monday, these missives will only be posted when wifi available.

************************
1340 hrs
I am sitting in the cafe in the Pitt Rivers Museum. 40 minutes have passed since I came, but no sign of the Oxford contingent, so I will have to assume they are held up or otherwise engaged. It happens.
My stomach knots left me after about ten minutes of scanning the gallery, but anxiety levels remained high. I’m sitting on a high barstool, very visible and very exposed. The others in my party have left to see more of the museum. I am alone.

I’m surprised at how well I am coping. And rather pleased. I have stress, to be sure, but nothing like I expected. Though its does rise when I spot a new person at the till …

The problem is, I know I am coping. I need to unknow that, and just web in the moment. Of course, the writing of this blog reminds me of it from time to time, so I have to factor that in.

I’m doing rather well, though aware of people watching me.
I’ll take a bronze star.
And wait another 10 minutes, until 1400 hrs.

******************************

Totally Mental II: One Weak, In Pain Day 3 Wednesday

0720 hrs
The morning couldn’t be more different from yesterday. It’s raining, and dull, heavy clouds threaten joy, and seek to blot out all memory of bluesky.

It mirrors the morning of the soul. I am suddenly living in a different world, one where even emotion is difficult; no anger, no light, no life. I live in a world where few care that cotton kills 10,000 people a year, where some people think a bullet in the skull of a 14-year old’s skull is the way God intervenes, where corporations who contribute nothing have the greatest say in economics.

Reality is so difficult to come to terms with, I wonder that I try at all. Why would I want to be a part of it, why would I want to straighten out my convoluted brain to be a part of it. Surely better than being an unabled side liner, is to let go and embrace the chaos with a slide into catatonia, shutting out all that is such a gross offence to the sensibilities?

It’s a comforting thought. Peace at last. An inability of the outside madness to affect the inner. Not even electrical shock being able to pierce the gloom and silence. It’s not even suicide, it has no stigma, no shame, at last, the perfect mental illness that none could deny.

It’s a comforting thought, but an empty one. I need more than google maps to show me the way to Catatonia. It’s something that happens, not something you can engineer. It’s not voluntary, it’s always compulsory. Bugger.

So, live with the morning that threatens to engulf me – but never does – I must. Live with the blanket of liquid tar that weighs down effort I have to. So, I’ll take Monday’s visit to Tate Liverpool and go paint what I could not yesterday. I’ll do it today because I have four hours in Towers Above, our art group for unquiet minds. I shall do it while wearing a mask so thick, everyone will think I’m a jolly sort. I’ll join in with the grateful socialising. *

I don’t doubt most will think me a little madder – a colourist pun, unintended – at the end than at the start. The result I doubt will inspire, or uplift; it will probably bring on an attack of morbid puzzlement.

I’m not feeling myself. That’s a double entendre, too.
It’s the best quip you’ll get.

Until we meet again.

*I may not.

*******************************************

13.00 hrs
In the fun factory, the art emporium, the creative corner; I am in the corner with the dunce’s hat, with my finger in just one pie, pulling out a typewriter with the ink slightly smudged on the letter ‘y’. They’ll find me for sure once the list of demands hits No.10’s doormat (aka Clegg) unless that is a lot of machines have that, give me strength my mind’s alive they think I’m mad, well I am but not bad I can sit still or stand up and groove it, my friends I know I’m mad, and I’ve got the ‘scrip to prove it.

I just wanted to write something poetic. I failed, but not SOS you would notice.
I’ve thirteen feral rats scurrying around in a place the size of a shoebox, and they’ve had a good dose of speed before starting their mad dash for freedom. They’re bouncing off the walls now, and I’m completely and utterly … Erm … Beggared.

The art group is making up boxes and peanuts. I am doing a piece that is making people avoid eye contact with me. Nearly. But they know me by now. I think they might be a bit annoyed with me not joining in with the nuts. But they might be envious. No they aren’t. They’re my friends and they think the best of me. Whatever crap I produce. But it’s not crap.

I’m not looking forward to leaving. In an hour. I just want to stay and put things on my canvas.

I’m not sure if I feel good or bad.
All I know is I feel.
Photo of artwork to follow.

*************************************

He And Me.

****************************************

Well, I managed to find a few minutes where I can sit and scribble.
20.30 hrs
I’m mightily stressed out thinking about tomorrow – a visit to Oxford and the Pitt Rivers museum. I need to get things together, but the manic episode you probably guessed I was going thru in my last update has left me a bit stunned. I’ve had to buy – horror of horrors – a ready meal, and stuff it in the oven.
I just can’t organise anything. It just isn’t going to happen. I’ve got to get shirts ready for the march in London. It will have to wait until I get back from tomorrow’s trip.
A party in a brewery. Not possible.

How can I hope to work, when I don’t know what is going to happen in the next few hours?

I’m instructed to find a way to sit in the present, not go into the future. I think it’s a good idea. So I’m going to have a real go over the next few days to work at it. At present, the future looms dark and foreboding.

I’ll go get the ready meal out. I’m feeling shamed over that already.
It is a cop out.

**************************************

Totally Mental II: One Weak, In Pain. Day 2 Tuesday

11.00 Hrs.
The sun is shining with a brilliance that almost makes depression almost impossible.
I used ‘almost’ twice there for a reason. It’s a multiplier effect. Because people say that ‘if your problems went away you would be well’, ‘if you had plenty of money’, ‘if you weren’t socially isolated’. Etc. etc. If I won the lottery, life would be easier, no doubt; but it wouldn’t make my illness go away. I’ve never seen someone with no legs suddenly sprout a pair when they won a million, have you? Neither would you expect them too. But people expect people with mental illness to get better when circumstances change!

So, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, but it has little effect on how I am this morning. And this morning I am an ambivalent mix. I have yesterday’s blast of creativity still washing over me, yet I have an underlying nervousness about the day, which has changed overnight because of Belinda’s shift changes.
I don’t like sudden changes to what I had expected, and I know a lot of my friends with mental illness are the same. It is unnerving. I rocks the matrix. It shakes foundations.

So this morning I am shaky, but creative. Sometimes the very act of being creative can cause shakiness, but it’s a good shakiness. And today I have an idea for art. As my transatlantic chum suggests, I may just post it. It won’t be a crowd pleaser. I won’t prettify it to please.

No pressure.
I’m going to have another cup of tea.
It’s a lifesaver.
Almost literally.

************************************************

13.10 hrs
My wife has left for work – she has had a lift from a colleague, so I haven’t had to go out at all today.
I’d like to go out, when I have to, to shop in town rather than the usual supermarket. For one reason, the meat is better quality, and I’m going to make a stew tonight.

Whether I will be able to or not is as yet undecided; the shakiness has not subsided, and I’m feeling rather fragile. Fearfulness has not returned, which is a blessing, held at bay, no doubt, by yesterday’s sensory experiences.

It’s still debilitating. I need to prepare. I also need to get some more black paint. The wildness of the wind doesn’t help, it’s an unsettling chaos I could well do without.

I’ll go out at 14.00 hrs.
I’ll prepare my head.

**************************

I prepared my head, and failed miserably.

I’m not sure I want to keep trying when things get like this. Outside is so unforgiving, it’s like a room full of wasps, you just don’t want to be there.  i Want to write how successful I have been in getting the shopping, and coping with the crowds of shoppers, how I have been self-determined and strong, and always – or often, more honestly I guess – have to get to this point of despair and lowness before I can throw myself into the action.

I’m trying to be positive, I’m trying to be forward looking and secure, but all that sits in the distance is pain and poverty, even homelessness.  Each day I hope to see a brown envelope on the doormat which will tell me that, having looked at my details again, they have decided to change their minds and put me in the support group of ESA.  Though even if that happened, they have the DLA tests next year which will see me back to square one.  I feel like giving up, truly.  I wonder about the point of going on.

But go on I must, because I love and I am myself a support. It is, however, becoming increasingly difficult to do so.

My mind – me – is going to have to continue to groan  for a bit.  It will have to creak and splutter.  It will have to endure.

Going for some meat and veg now. And a nice pudding, and bugger the carbohydrate, fat and sugar levels.

Laters.

PS I am adding this line because the word count without it is 666. Call me foolish.

******************************************************

Some wise words from friends to ponder make the nighttime a little better.

It’s 23.10 and I’m still waiting for Belinda to finish – she will still be working hard, even though she was meant to finish at 21.30.  it’s giving me a bit of gyp, to be honest.  My narratives are starting to speed up, multiply , fractally.  as they do, they bump into the borders of the space available, and rebound back so that chaos can reign.

I have a curry, pilau rice and bhajis ready and waiting. We should get them around midnight at this rate.  She’s back to work at 6 am.

I am getting angry again, which isn’t good.  I need to stop, think, meditate. Not easy when the phone may go any minute to go pick her up.

I hope she isn’t hurt. I hope she hasn’t been assaulted, or become ill. Worried and angry.

I’m needing a drink, I am ashamed to say. A good glug of rum or some such. I know it won’t help, but even so.

i am burbling.

Time to stop writing.

Time to start breathing.  Good night, all.

Totally Mental II: One Weak, In Pain. Prologue

I was uncommon pleased, I have to admit, at being asked by a number – a closely guarded secret of a number, so as not to inflate or deflate my ego-at-large – of people to write another blogseries detailing a week in the life of a mental illness sufferer, namely, me.
At the same time, I was uncommon anxious about doing it, as the last time I did so was rather painful and difficult.

However, people seemed to be, according to my inbox, helped and given food for thought by my first week’s scribblings; and for this reason, I have decided to do it again.

Once again, I will try not to get on my soapbox about the mental health services, benefits and the mentally ill, or other things, but stick entirely with my own experiences as the week progresses.
It may be a little different to last time, in that, while I will write the copy live, because of a week out of doors in strange places, I may not be able to find wifi to post it. But it will still be live as I experience things.

I’d just like to point out once more that, though this is about my particular week, it’s not just about me, me, me. It is about the lives of many people like me, who have complex and differing symptoms, but who know what stigma is, and what struggle against self is too.
They are brave people; most of them far braver than I. They are not weak cowards. Courage is not being able to do something easily, but to feel fear – and then do it anyway.

Tomorrow, Day 1, is Monday, and I am going to an art gallery in the northwest. I’m being taken by a very kind chap. More details in the morning! I’m already nervous, but ready for the challenge. I’m hoping that blogging about it live will help me through the day.

I hope you ‘enjoy’ what I write; I will try to keep it as light as possible. And as honest as possible too, which may clash occasionally.
I’m going to try and get to sleep now. I’m hoping not to forget my false tooth tomorrow. It would make for fearsome photos.

Good night, and may your God go with you, as Dave Allen used to say.

R. x

Totally Mental: A Week In Carnage Final Day Sunday

0155 hrs
So, we come to the last day of this week-long examination of my synapses and their unnerving ability to get things wrong.
It’s going to go out with a bang, not a whimper, I deem.

So anyway, we settled down at 2130 hours last night to watch the 2004 Film Dogville, a nearly 3 hour epic by Lars Von Trier. With a few breaks, for refreshments and loos, it finished shortly after 0030, and Belinda nipped over to the computer to find out who had played a certain character on imdb.
She broke the Internet. Well, ok, maybe it wasn’t her, but at that moment, the Internet went down.

It is at this point I start to feel my old paranoias returning about Internet downtime; tightness starts around my chest, and my pulse quickens noticeably. The ‘blood runs cold’ effect starts as adrenaline hits my bloodstream. I can feel my breath shorten and quicken as my body demands oxygen for fight or flight.

The removal of the network brings about the following scenarios:
1. At best, the bank has frozen our account, and the bill to Virgin has not been paid. I have been disconnected. This is by far the least threatening.
2. Virgin have been asked – by who? – to start monitoring my account real time for all communications, and have temporarily disconnected me while they set up the necessary monitoring equipment.
3. Virgin have been told – by who? – to disconnect my connection so that I cannot let the world know if anyone is battering down my door, in order to take me away (to where?).

I call Virgin and their ‘you have five options’ hoops, jump through them, and am eventually connected to somewhere in the world. It sounds like a connection from Mars or Jupiter, but no matter. No, there are no faults reported in my area, and have I tried turning it off and on again? We jump through what I know to be pointless hoops and trials which I know to be pointless because I am not artless in these matters.
There is nothing more to be done, they will have to book an engineer for next Wednesday. I accede, just wanting to get off the line. I know the modem does not need seeing to, because I tested it.

I cannot relax. I say out loud that it will be fixed in the morning when other people complain. I don’t believe it. I try to read, play a game, but nothing helps.
Panic, paranoia.

Half an hour later, the lights on the modem change. They are working on the dns servers now. I have network but no Internet.
So, it is now 0215 hrs, and I am sitting up in bed typing this, because I know I shall not sleep for some time. My system needs to return to normal, and it still retains some background suspicions.

I’ll listen to some music. Try some breathing exercises, visualise a calmer, more pleasant world. Belinda’s rhythmic, slow breathing beside me shows her to be peacefully asleep. She exudes calm at the worst of times. I am lucky to have her as my wife.

I hope I haven’t shocked you as to how badly my mind works when left to its own devices. I’m an ordinary guy, really, but that mind of mine – I’m not sure I should use the word brain – just doesn’t play ball at times.

I hope and pray your sleep has been a good one tonight. In the morning you may read this and wonder what the hell I am like.

I’m like you. Unlike, but like.

Catch you later. Be at peace.

*********************************

I really am sad that last night (above) ended so negatively – I had just baked a successful spelt loaf, and some orange, date and ginger muffins. The supper – quinoa pilaff with pancetta – had also worked really well, and I was in a right decent sort of mood/state.

1230 hrs
I am suffering from a hangover from last night’s drama; I can almost taste the stomach acid, and a dull ache now takes over from the sharp pain of the night time. Renitidine has helped.
The panic has subsided, the suspicions are more or less dealt with; I am left not a little numb by the whole episode. It is the ability of an electrical/electronic glitch to stir anxiety in those suffering from it, that illustrates perfectly the difficulties of life for mental illness sufferers; an everyday occurrence has the ability to cause so much disruption to mood, routine, ability to function.

I have to pick myself up, grit my ever-disappearing teeth, and start over.
Anger would be good right now – it is a very motivating emotion – but I am as flat as a pancake.
Friends help. Most of them are virtual, but that does not matter. The small messages of support, empathy, solidarity help enormously. There are often tears in my eyes when I read them. I must remember that when I interact with other sufferers.

I’m aware that, in part, this being the final day of this series of blogs has made me less cheerful than I might otherwise be; I’m not sure what I will do when I don’t have this to come to and explain. I neither want to bore people, nor do I wish to turn into a preacher for mental health issues.
Though this has been a painful, dangerous week in many ways, it has also been a comfort and a validation.

I’m going to finish my coffee.
Then do something.
I don’t yet know what.

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Not making a great deal of headway. Avoiding the TV as I don’t want to see myself and thousands of others being maligned by the political machine.
It doesn’t help, the political onslaught. Fighting the disease is hard work enough, fighting governments is even more so, and as the fights tend to get intertwined, despair can set in quite quickly and easily.

My outing to Tesco earlier took another few microns off my teeth as I ground them together with the stress. I tend to grimace without knowing it – until smiling people dazzle me with their pearlies as they come in the opposite direction; they think I’m smiling broadly at them!

I’m not sure how the rest of the day will go. I just want to sleep at the moment. Sleep and forget. Seep can be so very good at helping you to escape from the world. I could do the same with a drink, but I’m aware of the pitfalls, so I abstain.

I’m going to nap. I’ve decided.

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Nearly the last edit in this series … I’m going to miss it. Thank you to those who have written to say that you will miss it too.

I’m napped out, and washed-up, ready to make supper; a japanese curry with green and white beans. I’m quite looking forward to doing it, to be honest. It’s quite cathartic, is cooking. When it goes wrong, it can be a pretty dire experience, when it goes very wrong, it can bring me crashing down. But, when it tastes right, looks right, and plates are cleaned out, it is an affirmation of worth and a validation of one’s abilities.

I need that sort of validation. I guess everyone does, to one extent or another; we all like to think we are wanted/needed/appreciated.

The cooking shows how flaky the ability to function is. Function depends on so much more than gritting teeth, pulling yourself together, getting your head down and getting on with things. Function is dependant on results, and results are dependant on good function; there is a circle that – as Johnny Cash may have sang – must remain unbroken. my confidence is no measure of my success with this curry; were it to fail, i doubt if i could make a successful pudding to follow.

Belinda has had to change her off-duty tomorrow at short notice, something that also leaves me a bit nervy, a bit off-centre. Changes – especially those at the last minute – do that to me. It unnerves me, and I am aware that, even while typing this, I am rocking in my chair for comfort. I, and those like me, often need stability, almost ultra stability, which is something that does not happen in the real world. Instability also reduces functional ability.

I’m going to make the curry now then. Some nice wholemeal basmati to go with it. I’ll enjoy it while we may. It will be the cheapest we can get, soon, I fear.

I fear.

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Well, this will be the last post in what has been a difficult series to do. Only 35 minutes of the week left.

I decided to do this to fight against an external situation which threatened to engulf me; I decided to fight against it by taking the initiative away from those feelings and that situation.
These situations will always exist, and it may be that I will never be rid of the effects of them. I hope and pray, of course, that wellness can come, but I’ve learnt that sometimes it doesn’t. Everybody expects a mental health patient to get better; they don’t expect an arthritis sufferer to do that, or someone with MS.
I could live with a bigger space, a brighter future, less or more manageable pain; but I know that I would never have been so strong today if it had not been for this protracted illness. I am glad to be able to empathise with my friends who suffer similarly. I am glad to understand their pain, because one thing I have learnt is that there is no better medicine than someone who understands.

Tonight I’m looking forward to sleep.
Tomorrow will be a strange day. I will be a little lost not having this blog to write.
I’ll miss wondering who has been reading this – there are only figures on my page. I’ll miss hoping that someone, somewhere will start to understand about mental illness, or even if a sufferer has been comforted. We do small things, and never know the consequences of those actions.

Thank you for reading. It has been a privilege to write for you, whoever you are.
And thank you for those who have commented, either here, on Twitter, or on Facebook; those who have shared or retweeted my links, I am very grateful.

I’ll sign off this series now.
It’s been better than I could have ever hoped.
In love
As Always
Roger
xx

Totally Mental: A Week In Carnage Day 6 Saturday

Ah now.
It is afternoon already – 1240 hrs – here, and I expect a few of you thought I may not be writing this today. Truth to tell, I did sleep in a little – it’s Belinda’s day off from her frenetic Sistership of her ward – and I was also brought up short by my daughter’s comments on yesterday’s blogpost.

I am still feeling kind of good – ‘the mist has cleared’ as a good friend puts it – and the sunshine, combined with my daughter’s comments, have left me in a positive, workaday frame of mind.

We do have them, us depressed (and, sometimes, depressing) lot. We enjoy them terribly much, and are far more appreciative of ‘good’ days than you ‘normal’ lot! I’m considering some DIY, as the bathroom needs finishing off (for good, really, but we need one) and Belinda is, once torn from her Kindle (The Spiritual Brain, if you must know), enthusiastic as well, and not just because she gets a shiny finished bathroom; she knows how much better it will make me feel when it is done.

There are many such things to be done, not least the jungle garden; and I have to be careful to think of them one at a time. Becoming overwhelmed is very easy for me, and that’s when I start groaning out loud, and I’m afraid, swearing not a little out loud also. It sort of bursts out of me without warning. It’s a defence I suppose, but God knows how it works.

Strangenesses like these abound, and make me wary of social situations where I may be subject to a number of different stimuli – noise, lighting, people, strangers. Also going shopping in a real town, as opposed to a supermarket, where there may be loud people, crowds, music, cars, helicopters, police, sirens, buskers, people running … The list goes on.

This morning, however, I feel like I could manage Oxford Street during the sales, so that’s all to the good. And I’m not manic – I know I cannot build a summerhouse in the garden by sundown, or redecorate the kitchen in an afternoon. So it’s good.

I’ll let you know how the day goes on, as usual. I’m hoping – though it is less dramatic for the purposes of this blog! – that the mood is sustained.

Pip! Pip!

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1720hrs

Well.

Colour me pinky and call me Ethel, but the bathroom remains undone. It’s a combination of lazy day lassitude on both our parts, the wife and I. I need dragging out of chairs to get me started on things, and I was allowed to remain. i don’t have a problem with it – I may feel a little guilty later on, and maybe a little down that I didn’t have the strength to fight for the DIY, but that’s something that anyone could be forgiven for, in my book, ill or no.

I’m drifting a little, and that’s not a Good Thing. Even this blog I am currently typing away at is more a way of procrastinating than a writing experience. If I continue to drift, that is the way down. This I know, so I will, following this entry, gird my not inconsiderable loins and Do Something. I’ll have to do it off my own bat, but this is what I am good at, after all. I’m often on my own, and I have to sort things out. It’s not the drift into Down that catches me out – I can spot it, and deal with it – it is the sudden and complete reversal of mood that is the big killer. That comes out of the blue, sometimes from known triggers, sometimes as abstract as one of my paintings. Do any of you ‘normal’ people have that I wonder? Fear or anxiety that has no obvious cause? Just random, abstract emotion?

I know my wife has abstract impatience or annoyances when hormonally challenged, I wonder if fear/anxiety has the same mechanism somewhere? Anyway, I digress.

I’m wanting to cook something special, and at the moment don’t feel able to make a list for shopping, let alone cooking. But I think I should. Maybe I will hit the recipe books after I am finished here.

Ordinary, everyday tasks have to be broken down into tiny pieces. If the number of pieces becomes large, then the task becomes impossible. I know that other people in my position find the same, anecdotally at least. Earlier this afternoon, I looked for a date and ginger sponge recipe. At that time I then looked up how to crystallise the fresh ginger that I have. At that point I could have – should have – done that. Now it is not a possibility. But I will cook. And it will be okay. I have enough strength to struggle on, and that is fine. I really don’t ask for much more, because the times of strengthlessness are the utter pits.

The cats are about to eat my face off, as I have not fed them yet. They sit looking at me, licking lips, questioning whether I want to forget for an hour longer, go ahead punk, make my day, dou you fee lucky punk writ large on their feline faces. One absent-mindedly tries extending claws in a lazy, affected way.

I had better go. I’ll write later. If I don’t, please call the RSPCA SWAT team.

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You didn’t call the RSPCA did you? Whew. Just an Internet outage. See tomorrow.