The Importance Of Accountability


This will be the last thing I put on the internet for a while. At least in article form. I hope it’s informative at least. It will not make you like me and in fact if you went in to this liking me you might not after. But that’s cool.

From the ages 13-24ish I was suicidal. In deep denial about it but suicidal. I did not give a shit about living for myself. Only thing that kept me alive between 18-24 was the dog. Before that I really didn’t know suicide was a proper option. As weird as that sounds. I thought that option belonged to an upper echelon of sadness that I wasn’t qualified to reach. Anyway. That is not hugely important it’s just a scene setter I guess. 

I’m not going to drone on about bipolar but I do have it and have had it since I was around 17-18. I’ve known since I was 23-24 and went from a very depressed and unproductive man to someone using the self esteem fuel from a good twitter response to my early articles to fuckin…write 45 articles a day. It felt like that anyway. It just would not stop. Yet I never chased a diagnosis for years nor did I ever tell any therapist of manic spells or any of that. Treat me for depression and fix it so I can be normal please.

No matter what I done I was still very lonely. Every person who’s ever got close to me I’m convinced they are deluded and will one day see what a prick I truly am. The good twitter feedback gave me an attachment to the place I still can’t get rid of. It gave me my best friend and so many others who are vital in my life. It gave me my partner of nearly 6 years. It gave me too much for me to know when to leave it alone.

I have to write about this a bit. Accountability is important. I emotionally abused that partner during this manic cycle. I was callous and hurtful. I refused to listen and continued being an absolute pest of a person. Still am. As much as I don’t identify with my behaviour as a stable person I am well aware it was all me. This is not an attempt at gaining sympathy or forgiveness. It’s an attempt at owning it without excuses. 

The mental health shit was horrible but she was trying to fucking hard to get me the help I needed and I done nothing but resist that help and betray her. I regret it and will always love her but I am fully aware of why that will never be reciprocated again and I can do nothing but respect that. Now. I was so deluded for so long I assumed it would all be fine and continued to fuck up in an attempt to make it fine when in reality. It never really could be again. I just needed to shut the fuck up. Section me and remove all stimulus so I don’t wreck the gaff. By gaff I mean life.

It was realising I wanted to die again when I was so settled in that relationship that really sent me into overdrive. Why? Not now please. I have so many reasons to live. Nothing really entered my mind when I was destroying it all so any attempt to excuse it or come up with reasons has been cowardly. A way of finding rhyme or reason for actions that didn’t have any. They were designed to hurt. 

I done the same to my wee mum. The only one who has always tried to help. The only one who saw the depression probably before even I did. I said horrible heinous things to her. There is no excuse for that either. I left a pile of victims and proceeded to blame them for everything while I wandered about Bearsden asking for sympathy cause I was homeless due to my own actions. My mother would never see me in that situation unless I’d really tore her to shreds and by god did I do that. I am so ashamed of it but I done it and it was no ones fault but mine.

That’s what accountability is but. I’ve been playing at it man. Admitting my shit and padding it out with reasons. Reasons in this context are still excuses. I was still doing that shit as recently as yesterday after my latest fuck up which hurt more folk. This is why but. This person said a bad thing first. Arsehole behaviour.

This won’t be an easy bit to write and again not an excuse. Over this period of madness a deeply buried memory resurfaced. It’s my story to tell. My pain to own. Too often I’ve taken the pain of others and decided to shoulder it. It’s wrong and not helpful. So is divulging that information to anyone else. I done all that bad shit. Taking my hurt out on people who done fuck all but try to help me. 

I was sexually assaulted when I was 8 years of age. It has also happened twice as an adult but neither of those times could be a root cause about me being weird about being touched since I was wee. None of it explains why I immediately piled weight on and isolated myself even back then. It happened and it’s okay. I am trusting the process right now and waiting patiently for counselling. I am also considering going back on medication because my moods and actions are still not in control at all. I like how creative being off everything makes me but loathe every other aspect of it. 

This is where I hope this is informative I guess. You can stop all this. There were stages where I could have halted it. I should have been sectioned and should have gone willingly. It would have fast tracked a lot of the stuff I’m waiting on right now such as proper counselling. Please listen if the people closest to you see you falling apart and are so concerned they feel you need serious help. I was so delusional I felt invincible for a while yet at the same time was convinced I’d die any day. It was scary as fuck. Admitting I’m truly scared has always been an issue for me though. It gets buried deep and out comes a huge arsehole. 

For so much of my life I have been nothing like the guy I wrote about above. Yet it was still somehow all me. For most of it I have been a very caring, kind and loving person. Supportive to a fault. Not bigging myself up too much because I feel anything but that guy right now but it is true. I am a good person at the core and someone who has the ability to be a positive influence on peoples lives. Basically I’m heavy nice right. Good to others. Yet still I done all this bad shit and blamed it on the fuckin pandemic or whatever. I won’t be that type of arsehole anymore. I’m not hiding from it.

Writing has always been the outlet but like with everything else in my life, I cared about it too much. It hasn’t been fun in so long because I put massive amounts of pressure on myself and care so much about what people think it colours every piece l do. This is the least I’ve cared about how something is received in a long time. It’s the truth and as honestly as I’ve written in a long time. There’s a bit of peace in that.

Guess that’s what I’m looking for. Peace. Mental clarity. A day where I don’t have a panic attack. All that shit stopped during the Bearsden spell and that’s because reality didn’t exist. I was in survival mode and living off adrenaline,

Nicotine and biscuits. On reflection I’d now call that period the worst of my life and without two of my dearest pals I would not have survived it. Every day I wanted to die but pretended I didn’t. They pulled me back from the brink constantly without even noticing. I didn’t deserve it but their loyalty and support kept me on this earth.

Right now I do not want to die. I am also an uncle again to the two lights of my life. Angels who will never see hardship if I have anything to do with it. Those two changed my whole outlook on life. I needed to be better for them so they have me forever. I needed to grow up and have a house of my own where I could babysit them. Be a real difference and not an occasional visitor. Be their uncle. 

I’m a brother again as well. That’s not something i thought would happen either and it’s all early days but my family are there for me again. They always were. I was just too off my fuckin rocker to see it. Somehow I’m accepted as a son again too but I see and understand the hurt my parents still carry.

It’s going to be really hard moving on. Necessary but so hard. I didn’t mean any of it and wish so much that I could go back and change it all but I can’t. I was a horrible partner for a small period of a long relationship but ANY period of doing what I done is too long. Years of soundness only matters if you keep that shit up. I was a horrible ungrateful son. Venom ridden. A terrible brother. An absent uncle. A lying shit of a friend. A bad bastard basically.

I’m not now. It is over. The mania is gone. Reality is here. It is time to leave it all in the past but I felt writing this was necessary. None of the other articles I’ve wrote about this have been anything like the truth. I’ve danced around it so much my feet are fucked. It was time to step in the shit. 

I’m getting the help I need to prevent this happening again but all of it is part of me now and denying that is not healthy. I’m here to own it. I’m sorry. 

The Bipolar Diaries – Part One – Mans first mania

Now I’m almost out of the manic cycle I was in I am able to make sense of a lot of things I never could before. If I’m honest with myself I first read up on bipolar disorder when I was around 19-20 and fuckin. Shat myself. It was too familiar. Always assumed people with bipolar were locked up and that assumption seems fairer now when we’re not even 3 months away from a time where I absolutely should have been. I lost my shit mate. Some people thought I was bonkers. But I just thought I was free.

Anyway this is not going to be another long and arduous thing about how shite my life’s been lately. I’m sure that’s been covered adequately. This is more about how scary serious mental illnesses are.

article I wrote about Mauro Ranallo where I fully realised I suffer from the same illness

In the space of three months I went from a sad man with some stability to a lunatic living in a homeless unit. I still live in a homeless unit like but the lunatic side is long gone. Same guy I always was just a bit lighter and now less hairy. Getting off topic again here guys. Bipolar disorder aye. It is genuinely as if there’s two brains. One deals with logic and little else. For 99% of my existence that brain has won. I avoided anything that didnt make sense to me and over the years that’s led me to avoid far too much. The other brain is where the creativity lives. The reckless streak. The pain. That brain is active all the time but working at maybe 15% capacity mostly. Enough to keep ye interesting. 

When mania hits I’d say that side goes from working at 15% capacity to fuckin full steam ahead 110% madness. It sneaks up on you too. Thinking it’s under control to an extent and a week later you’re literally sleeping in a wrestling school because no one will have you and you’ve shoved everyone close to you away so forcefully they’re floating doon the Clyde on a wee dingy boat wondering what the fuck happened.

Anyway the first time I was manic that I can recall was when I was about 18-19. I was gambling online anyway. Nae job. Chasing a wee thrill and thinking if I got the right accumulator up I widnae need a job. Gambling habit quickly became gambling addiction. Lies and lies about it. Where did yer money go this week Martin? 

Spent it mate. Next question. Don’t ask why yer wee change dish is lighter either. The dug ate all yer 50 pences.

Never had a fuckin scooby this was the first manic spell until I’ve thought back. I also briefly tried online dating during this spell when I was 18 and by that I mean I had PlentyOfFish for one week. Messaged one lassie a shite joke and immediately closed the account cause she patched it. I’ve always been really good at knowing when burds like me. You could call it my superpower (but you definitely shouldn’t). Took about 5 year after that to try again cause my man. I was a bit too busy being sad all the time to be mackin hoes.

Point is. I recognised then something was badly wrong with me. If I had got the right help I might not be where I am today but all these wee hardships have shaped me in to a better man. A man who’s starting to believe he’s decent after so many years of just not seeing it. At all. I never saw what anyone saw in me. Even my partner of nearly 6 years. I assumed every passing year was a fluke. She’ll see one day yer fuck all mate. The beard masks the misery that is your withered coupon. Might as well blow it apart. How could anyone stay with a person who is. Well. You. 

There have been maybe 6 manic periods in my life in the last 13 or so years and I do learn from each one. I also don’t mind that ratio considering I’d only had one very mild manic episode in 6 year before this lockdown induced pull ridden madness took over. The first one taught me gambling is a serious issue for me and I should not do that if I want to stay mentally healthy. It taught me that I hate lying to loved ones yet I will continue to do it when I’m manic. When I did have a burd during the most recent manic spell I tried to counteract this need to lie by telling every truth that popped into my head. Yet I was still fuckin lying at the same time. Honestly it’s like two brains wae boxing gloves on steady boxing each other. Fuckin rotten

Mania is essentially arrogance mixed with bravado mixed with constant soul sucking guilt. All of these things create an adrenaline bubble that carries you, yer wee heid and yer wee tired body all the way to the fucking moon. 

Doing this shit pill free right now. It’s a laugh. If by ‘a laugh’ you really mean ‘throw several busses on top of me and jump up and down on them till I’m flatter than the hoose bitter’

Despite the difficulties I’m genuinely doing as well as i possibly can be at the moment. For every day day there’s 5 good ones. I know how to cope with this better than I ever did and writing this stuff down is important. It’s a form of therapy for me that I ignored for too long

This will be part of a wee bipolar series btw. I have other manic spells I can remember and wee other bits and pieces. Cheers. God bless x

That Time I Went Mental – A Brief Diary


Connie gave me the idea to write down the different stages of this spell of madness in a diary type thing but my mind is extremely clear so I’m just gonna bundle it all in to one big nightmare of a thing and hope it makes sense. Connies ma best pal and managed to help pull me through this somehow. So cheers. Ya goon.

this is me and my gran just cause

Basically i spent most of the first two months of, for the lack of a better term, being quite homeless, as a mad marauding writer. Convinced that all this hardship would make me fuckin. I dunno. Who’s a good writer? We’ll say Russell Brand. I was awrite wae just fuckin suffering for weeks because the nick I was in was not a spectator sport. I counted and at the very end of my mad spell I was taking 9 different medications. 5 prescribed and 4 I was bumping on the reg. This is how I’ve always dealt with the mania that I didn’t fuckin know was mania until 4 months ago. Imagine realising so much shite that’s happened in yer life that made ye think ye were a terrible person was literally because of an undiagnosed mental illness? That shit is fuckin scary. I stopped taking everything immediately bar venlafaxine and even that went after 3 months. It had to happen. I was not myself and the only way to get back there was to be in my right mind. Stop numbing it and feel it.

Not only did I remember my whole fuckin past, I even started remembering wee details of the shit I done when I proper melted the fuck down and I won’t lie to ye. I was a lunatic. How the fuck I interviewed Grado for an hour and a half escapes me. I’m embarrassed to even ask the poor man for round 2 in case he thinks he’s gettin invited to a ket den.

Point is. I am embarrassed every single day by these actions and I had to write something that made sense in order to let that go. I’ve been lucid for 7-8 weeks but memory is a fucked up thing and I was entirely blocking large chunks of the shit I said and done. The misguided attempts to make situations better than continually made them worse. It’s hard to shut the fuck up when you experience mania. I’m trying man. Anyway here’s another 4000 words 

(Jkz)

In the space of 3 months I went from someone in a stable job, stable hoose, stable relationship, stable enough mental health to a guy who had. None of that. It’s rebuilding bit by bit but it’s still far too fuckin slow for me. Forgive me now. I’m okay and so fuckin sorry.

It disnae work like that bro. People need to get there when they get there. I should have been sectioned without question, but I was too manic to see it. So my brain decided to go a mad journey instead and I found the trauma where a lot of my stuff comes from. A deep childhood demon re emerged and it’s sound now cause I’m big enough and sexy enough to slay it. 

It’s almost like I was on pause. There’s this whole patch of life that seemed to bring a fresh disaster but I’m still here. That’s really the main thing for me. I decided I wanted to keep being alive and I most certainly am. Skint as fuck. But mostly awrite.

It’s lonely n that. I’ve never lived alone or been entirely alone for long periods. It’s different from shutting yersell in a room where other people are constantly in the house. But I needed it to heal. I needed to be sober and alone to realise why I was so irreparably fucked. 

It’s hard when it all unpauses cause everything and everyone I loved still matter to me the same amount. It’s just that they don’t see me how they did. Finding people’s boundaries with that is still a struggle. People are exhausted by constant sorries. Concise and meaningful mean more. 

Don’t let this shit win if any of this is familiar to you. I am alive and healthy in the mind and body. Just stressed oot my nut and sad in spells. For numerous reasons but this isnae really about me. It’s a story that should be taken as a cautionary tale. If the people closest to ye think ye need serious help. They are probably right.

I said and done heinous shit. Not my character at all. I feel now I did that because a combination of substances made me see nothing but death. That was all that was left for me. To die. So I pushed everyone who meant anything to me away. I was subject to some form of abuse every day in Bearsden. I wasn’t safe anywhere bar big Andys and he’s a saint. He let me shake in his living room as all they pills left my system and I’ll never not owe him for that. 

I’ve been convinced my mental health was gonnae kill me for years. Probably up until 2013 when I finally got help. Then it came back 2 years ago. Imagine dealing wae that when yer happy and in love. Looking at that person and still knowing something inside you was corrupt and ye might need to leave them. Horrific. It’s selfish to keep being with someone when ye feel so awful about yersell but love means ye help when the person needs that help.

In the span of about a week I fucked up more than I’d done in the previous 31 year of my life. Somehow I’m still hopeful. I’m a son again, a brother again (brother brother), an uncle again, a fuckin writer again sometimes. It’s getting there but PTSD is a bitch. I didnae get it till i had it but it’s like yer nerves are on fuckin fire and the touch of literally anyone is taken as an enemy attack. It’s dire. 

All that deep seeded stuff will need therapy. I get that. I might need some form of medication if the anxiety and shakes from the PTSD doesn’t stop but I don’t want to die anymore. I believe writing will be my job when I’m settled and I’m more than happy to make dolla bills doing something else until it happens. The key is to never give up. I gave up on writing a long time ago I was just too much of an addict to fully let it go and now it’s the only addiction I want any part of.

Look out for the book. Dropping whenever I get a laptop charger. Sorry for being such an exhausting cunt but I’m sound now. Mostly x