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.
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
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