baldrick1997

[baldrick1997]

The Department Of Society

A lot of mental “illness” is normality distorted and magnified. Paranoia’s like that. Most people are familiar with the word, and think they can identify with it, but unbridled, runaway paranoia is far from normality and beyond the experience of most.

One of my earliest and most powerful paranoid delusions was that a team of assassins were out to kill me. During the Cold War the American space program trained a body of elite men to become astronauts. They were chosen for their physical and intellectual superiority and were considered the cream of American youth. In psychometric tests, some of them were considered to be ideologically unsound and not suitable for the space program itself, so it was decided to cryogenically freeze them until such time as psychological programming became effective. Years later, a covert branch of the CIA known as The Department Of Society awoke them and conditioned their minds so they would have a fanatical devotion to the state and would carry out any orders given without question. Their hearts and vital organs were replaced with synthetic units powered by tiny but powerful atomic batteries with almost perpetual life. The Department also used supernatural forces in their work, and a seer they employed had predicted that in my 60s I would write a book which would capture the imagination of the world and bring about an end to global capitalism. They decided I had to be destroyed, and they programmed 6 of their units to track me down and kill me.

I knew I couldn’t trust anyone, and I was constantly on the lookout for any sign of danger. I knew that they wouldn’t do anything as obvious as gunning me down in the street, and would employ more devious means such as sabotaging my car or electrocuting me in the bath. I was driving around a lot at that time to escape the voices, and I would often check my car for bombs or severed brake pipes before starting the engine. I’d get nervous if I thought a car was following me, and what should have been a short journey could turn into miles of travelling to avoid being pursued. I started to avoid people, as the voices had told me that they would kill my family and friends if I tried to get help, and the authorities were all in on it. I’d often find myself in a strange town, miles from home, trying to stay one step ahead of the hunters. When I was briefly at home, I was terrified that they’d come for me, and I hardly slept.

About this time, I’d been seeking medical help for the depression which had become unbearable and I was given medication which I’d been taking for a while. I didn’t tell the doctor much about the other symptoms - I didn’t trust anyone enough for that. I can’t remember what the meds were, but after time they began to have a calming effect. The paranoia slowly faded and the delusion gradually dissolved. Realisation eventually dawned that I was safe. For now.

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Mood Swings And Roundabouts

Extremes of emotional affect are familiar to me now. When I was younger, I could go from ecstatic jubilation and supreme confidence to howling, death-wishing floods of tears and crippling feelings of self-doubt in the space of a few hours. As time has passed, the transitions have become more gradual, but even now they can still take me by surprise on occasion. The periods of high or low can last from a few days to months on end. Sometimes other symptoms are present, like hallucinations and hearing voices, especially during a spell of low mood. When I’m high, the voices are there less and the ones that do visit are the “good guys”. When I’m high, I have an incredible amount of energy and feel like I could do anything. The first few times, my thoughts would be like stampeding wild horses and it was difficult to actually focus my mind, but over the years I’ve come to have a little more control over them, although they can still be pretty unruly.

In my early 20s, depression and anxiety hit me so hard I sought professional help. Before the low, I’d been feeling fantastic and it wasn’t until much later that I realised that I’d been experiencing my first high. My GP prescribed anti-depressants and referred me to Park Clinic day hospital, and I became a patient there for the first time. The patients were a complete mix of just about every kind of mental illness, age and background. I wasn’t feeling particularly sociable at that time, and settling in took a while, and was a bit like starting at a new school or job, but even harder. After a few weeks, the meds began to have a slight effect, and it became slightly easier to interact with the people there. I was still plagued by thoughts of suicide and feelings of worthlessness, but I also felt less isolated and began to talk about what was on my mind more, both to other patients and the medical staff. I was assigned a keyworker, and had regular sessions with a psychiatrist. I didn’t tell anyone about the voices I was hearing, as I was terrified of being sectioned. This had happened to some of my fellow patients, and their stories scared me shitless. I only told the psychiatrist about the hallucinations I was having, as they were actually more disturbing to me than the voices, and that was when I was first given an anti-psychotic medication. I was lucky, and it helped with both the voices and the visions after a while. It wasn’t without side effects though, and made me feel a bit spaced out, and sometimes when walking I felt like I was floating a few inches above the ground. Not entirely unpleasant, and I was prepared to put up with the weirdness in exchange for the benefits.

The depression was more resistant to pharmaceutical intervention than the other symptoms, and I continued to feel really low. There was great pressure from the medical staff and my keyworker to undergo ECT to deal with my stubborn condition, but despite finding it hard to be assertive at that time, I resisted them. I was especially determined after seeing the effect it had on a friend who’d been given the treatment. One day he was acting and talking quite normally (as normal as any of us could be described as being), and the next he was talking in monosyllables and staring vacantly into space, barely aware of the rest of us. I was reminded of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest when McMurphy gets shock treatment. Fuck that. I continued to say no, but they kept on at me for weeks until finally realising that they were wasting their time.

I love spending money when I’m high, it’s just a pity that I’ve never had much. In the noughties, credit was easy and I had no problem getting a couple of credit cards which I proceeded to max out within a couple of months. Mandy egged me on (she always welcomed one of my high periods, especially if it followed a low one) and we accumulated an abundance of things which we didn’t really need but wanted badly. The end result was that I declared bankruptcy a couple of years later, which taught me a valuable lesson. Now, I don’t spend what I haven’t got.

I’ve been asked if I ever think about the way my life might have turned out if I hadn’t been struck by mental illness and I have on occasion thought I could have been a punk rock star fighting off rampant groupies, or a millionaire entrepreneur cruising the Caribbean in a luxury yacht with gold bidets and a helipad, but I don’t like travelling too far down Regret Road – it ultimately leads nowhere except perhaps to a tendency to wallow in self-pity, and I’ve no time for that. I’m just thankful to still be here, I’ve known plenty of people along the way who had it a lot worse than me. Some of them didn’t make it, but I’m still breathing.

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Park Clinic Life

I don’t know how efficient mental health services are now, but when I first sought help from my GP in 1987, within a few weeks I became a patient at Park Clinic day hospital. I was assigned a key worker, psychiatrist, psychologist and psychotherapist. I’ve no recent experience of mental health crisis response, but from what I’ve heard, things are quite different today.

The day unit operated five days a week from 9 am to 3 pm. Each patient had a timetable which included things like art therapy, music therapy, exercise, creative writing, various group activities and weekly individual sessions with different therapists. The only one I really hated was art therapy – I wasn’t exactly overflowing with self-confidence at that time, and viewing my pathetic artistic efforts which made children’s stick man drawings look sophisticated didn’t do my ego any favours. I got in the habit of  skipping those sessions, and no one seemed to notice. Twice a week, we had relaxation sessions where about thirty of us would lie on mats, covered with a thin blanket, in what had been the main ward in the days when Park Clinic was a cottage hospital. An occupational therapist would put some music on and read a script whereby we would relax our muscles from feet to neck. I found out later it was called Progressive Muscle Relaxation and I still use the technique today. The group sessions could be difficult for someone with communication issues, but I guess that was probably the point. One frequent exercise was for us to sit in a circle and pass a ball round, each patient saying something  about how they were feeling when the ball came to them. There were a number of different exercises designed to help us express our feelings and interact.

Occasionally, a group of us would go on an outing in the clinic’s minibus. One trip was to Hampton Court and I found myself sitting at the back with Carla. (Not her real name.)   My erstwhile lustfulness had been replaced by a fear of getting too close to someone in case my voices reappeared and took a dislike to them, as had happened before, but I still craved emotional and physical proximity so, summoning all my reserves of courage, I held her hand. She not only didn’t flinch, but squeezed my hand back and so we sat for the rest of the journey. We already knew each other quite well from our frequent lunchtime visits to a pub in town – Park Clinic was situated not far from the town centre – and we’d discovered that we shared a lot of symptoms, although I hadn’t told her about my own voices as the meds had zapped them by then and I didn’t want to hasten their return by talking about them. She was less fortunate than me with meds, and her own voices were still sometimes troubling her. I remember asking her if she’d tried talking to them and telling them to fuck off (I had with mine, to no effect) and she said they took no notice. I knew that feeling.

We began spending a lot of time together and I became a frequent visitor to her house where she lived with her parents and sister. We spent hours driving around in the ridiculously large, gas guzzling V8 Rover that I’d bought with a small inheritance from my Aunt which also provided me with the funds for petrol and drinks. However, the clinic staff didn’t share our happiness and we were told separately by our key workers that forming a relationship was “unwise”. I couldn’t understand that – we were supposed to be preparing for a return to “normal” life, and I thought that developing personal relationships was a pretty normal thing to do, but they thought otherwise. Years later when I saw the Ken Loach film “Family Life” (1971), I identified with Janice when she became friendly with a fellow patient and the staff were similarly disapproving. However, we found it easier to just spend less time together at the clinic, except for our regular lunchtime pub visits.

Mental illness can do strange things to a person’s libido. In my case, it evaporated completely, but some people experience the exact opposite and become insatiable. I think Carla was in the latter category as, after a few months, she became tired of my apparent lack of physical interest and put an end to our brief relationship. I became a resident of Singles’ City, and even our pub visits finished. I left the clinic not long after and never saw Carla again.

[baldrick1997]

A Funny Thing Happened In The Forum

I used to visit mental health forums to chat with like-minded people. I usually only use them when I’m high – when I’m low I tend to avoid them. There’s some really dark and unhelpful shit on the web regarding depression and the motives of the participants can be questionable. I met some fascinating and eloquent people on my internet travels. Here’s one exchange from a now defunct chatroom.

Me : Evening, how’s it going?

Bipolar Bare : Great, thanks, how are you?

Me : Excellent too. Feeling pretty high.

Bipolar Bare : Do you mean manic?

Me : I don’t like that word, too many negative stereotypes associated with it. I just say “high” or “low”. People usually get the meaning.

Bipolar Bare : OK, that makes sense.

Me : What’s with your handle, is that a typo?

Bipolar Bare : Lol, no. The first word’s obvious, and when I’m manic I don’t like wearing clothes.

Me : Ah, I see. For myself, I prefer not to show off my body, even when I’m high.

Bipolar Bare : Why’s that? Are you gross or something?

Me : I’m not sure. I’ve got skinny arms and legs, a ludicrous pot belly and I’m developing love handles.

Bipolar Bare : Lol, I won’t ask for a pic then.

Me : Thanks.

Bipolar Bare : Tell me a bit about yourself?

Me : Not much to tell, I’m a male in my 40s, I have mental illness and I live with my girlfriend near London. What about you?

Bipolar Bare : I’m a married female, 30s and I’m in Birmingham. Also, it’s my birthday.

Me : What! Why aren’t you out celebrating?

Bipolar Bare : Money’s too tight to mention.

Me : I know that feeling. Maybe I can help you live it up a bit, without spending any cash.

Bipolar Bare : And how do you propose to do that, pray?

Me : Fancy a dance?

Bipolar Bare : What do you mean?

Me : I’ll paste a link to a suitable tune and we can bop till we drop.

Bipolar Bare : That sounds a bit crazy, but OK.

Me : Bear with me, I’ve got a suitable song in mind, but I must warn you, I’m an aging punk and the only dance I know is the pogo.

Bipolar Bare : That’s cool, I’ve got two left feet anyway.

Me : Here you go.

Me : Click the link on the count of 3. Ready?

Bipolar Bare : Yeah!

Me : 1-2-3-GO!

*Music sounds from the tinny computer speakers for a few minutes*

Me : That was excellent! I haven’t moved like that in years. How was it for you?

Bipolar Bare : Not bad. Haven’t heard that song in a long while.

Me : You were great, the high kicks were especially impressive.

Bipolar Bare : Lol, your pogo was pretty cool too.

Me : Yeah, it took me back. I regret all that gobbing on the monitor though, it’s made the text all blurry.

Bipolar Bare : You better wipe it then!

Me : All done now. I can read you now.

Bipolar Bare : Good. After all that I need a drink, so I’m going to log off now.

Me : OK, nice chatting and dancing with you, catch you soon.

Bipolar Bare : Same here, bye for now.

 We chatted again a few times over the next couple of weeks, but then she suddenly disappeared and I never heard from her again. I haven’t danced since then.

[baldrick1997]

[baldrick1997]

The Uninvited Guests

The Uninvited Guests – Part 1

One day when I was 24, something happened in my head. I’d been feeling down for a long time and didn’t think things could get much worse. I got that all wrong. I was eating my dinner when someone whose voice I didn’t recognise said “Hope that fucking chokes you”. I looked round, but the room was empty. I carried on eating and the same voice said “That tastes like shit”. I realised then that the voice was in my head. I was scared shitless, and stopped eating. Nothing more after a few minutes so I started, slowly, eating again. I finished my meal without incident and thought maybe it was just a momentary aberration. The rest of the day passed and there were no more interruptions and I kind of shrugged it off.

A couple of days later as I was trying to get to sleep, the voice said “You’re not going to wake up”. I sat up and looked round the semi-darkened bedroom but saw nothing. Then he said “You don’t really want to wake up anyway, do you?”. For the next hour or so he gave all the reasons for not living that had been floating round inside my head for months. After what seemed like hours, he stopped. I don’t remember ever feeling so terrified, and sleep came slowly and fitfully. I woke up feeling drained and unwilling to face the day ahead, but I reluctantly got up. The rest of the day I tried to carry on “normally” but I was always waiting for him to return. He didn’t.

Then, nearly a week later, I was just staring vacantly at the TV, the sound and images just floating over my consciousness, negative thoughts circling through my mind, when the same voice said “What the fuck are you still doing here?”. For the next few hours followed an endless stream of negativity and abuse. This guy really knew what buttons to press to make me question any reason for my continued existence in this world. I’m going to stop here, it’s hard to write about it. I found out later (as more voices appeared) that they REALLY hate me talking about them when they’re visiting, and when they’re not there it’s still not easy to talk about them in case I wake them up, so bear with me. More later.

The Uninvited Guests – Part 2

As the days went on, the voice visited more and more often, and he got very creative with his abuse. He’d make me relive unpleasant moments from my life and vocalise some of the dark thoughts that I’d been having. It was like having my worst enemy living in my head, doing his best to make my life hell. He was succeeding, too. I tried listening to music, but it did little to put him off. Sleep was difficult, and when I did manage to drop off I didn’t get much rest. Over the next few days he was joined by more voices, each new one as objectionable as the first. Sometimes they’d combine forces and I faced an internal barrage of torment from an angry mob. Then came some help. A new voice appeared who seemed to be on my side. He argued with the others and told them to leave me alone. He was hugely outnumbered, but he did reduce the intensity of the personal assault on me as they focussed on him, giving me some respite.

Taking advantage of the lull, I decided to visit a friend, hoping it would take my mind off what was going on. Almost as soon as I got in the car, the voices stopped, and they were silent until I reached my friend’s house when the original one reappeared. I didn’t stay long; it’s hard to be sociable with an internal madman hurling abuse at you while you’re trying to have a conversation with someone else. Again there was silence while I was in the car, until I got back home. I discovered in the following days that I had peace while I was driving, so I began just cruising around aimlessly with no destination. I spent a lot of my meagre budget on petrol.

Sometimes, watching TV quietened the voices down a bit, until one day a new one arrived and started giving me a running commentary on what was happening on the screen. It was different from the usual abuse, but I found it very disconcerting. I turned off the TV, but he then began describing my every action in minute detail. I’d already decided previously that I wasn’t going to give them names - I didn’t want to encourage them by giving them the status a name would confer- but I couldn’t help naming this one “The Commentator”. He became a regular visitor, and although he wasn’t as unpleasant as most of the others, he was still unwelcome, and he ruined a lot of films and TV for me.

The Uninvited Guests – Part 3

After keeping my voices under my hat for nearly 35 years, I’m finding writing about them quite therapeutic. The only person I ever told the full story to was Mandy, and she was sworn to secrecy. She not only accepted my “madness”, but positively embraced it, so she has my eternal gratitude.

After a while, I realised that the voices were here to stay, and the feeling of terror I had when they first visited began to ease. I still felt apprehensive when they came, but I was getting used to them. I began to think of them as uninvited guests, so from now on I’ll refer to them as the UGs. It’s quicker to type. The supportive ones were still outnumbered by the abusive ones, who now included individuals who shared their extreme political views attacking my own, and making offensive comments about people I was with. It became harder to socialise with friends as I never knew what the UGs were going to say about them. I was scared that I might vocalise some of the insulting remarks they made. In the early days, some of their speech occasionally leaked out of me, and it was a long time before I learned how to control it.

One of them has ultra-right-wing beliefs which horrify me. He considers me a racial mongrel because of my mixed English, Welsh and Scots blood. He feels compelled to share his ideas of race and eugenics with me and despises my own left-wing views, calling me a “fucking commie, pinko Trot”. He’ll sometimes rant on for ages without a break. Against my own policy, which I described previously, I named him Adolf. He’s one of my regulars. Sometimes, one of the good guys appears and takes him on in an ideological battle of wits. This is a welcome relief and I call my helper Leon. They can argue with each other for long periods and although I wish they’d both fuck off, it’s comforting to have someone on my side occasionally. A lot of them are very sweary, there’s one who constantly calls me a “cunting fucker” among other things, an insult I’ve adopted into my own vocabulary, frequently hurling it at politicians on TV. There’s plenty of suitable recipients at the moment, I find. Somehow, using the term myself has taken some of the sting out of it when it’s aimed at me personally.

Forming intimate relationships after the UGs arrived became almost impossible. I never knew how they’d react to a new person in my life. More than once, they took a vocal dislike to an object of my affection and I lost the previous easy-going approach to romance that I’d once had. When I’m depressed it’s even worse, as I just want to hold and be held, but the UGs make even that modest objective difficult. Most people tired of what they probably perceived as my indifference and it was a long time before I struck lucky and found someone who was willing to wait for me to stabilise. A couple of times, a relationship came to a premature end because of my inability to give myself fully emotionally. Still, quality is better than quantity, and I consider myself lucky to have found one person that I could connect with completely, and who the UGs not only didn’t hate, but completely ignored, all of the time we had together.

As the years have passed, I’ve discovered that sometimes I can engage the UGs in conversation and try to counter some of their negativity. It’s doesn’t always work, Adolf is especially impervious to my most well thought out arguments, but at least now I don’t just mutely accept what they dish out. I’ve also learned that if I avoid stress and don’t fuck about with my meds too much, the UGs are less bothersome. When they do visit, they’ve got to get pretty creative to surprise me now, although they do still manage at times. I’ve also found that drinking them away with considerably more units of alcohol than the BMA would advise to consume in a month, let alone a day, is no solution – they tend to return with renewed force the morning after, so no more half bottles of whisky at a time for me now. There are advantages to hosting the UGs though. It’s made me practically bulletproof to insults from others now. Also, in some cultures, I’d be revered as a deity. They’d build me a huge detached hut and I’d have 20 wives.

[baldrick1997]

Ambivalence

Since these posts aren’t always displayed in chronological order, you may not have read “The Uninvited Guests”, it’s what I call my voices. For faster typing I’ll refer to them as The UGs. Some are regulars, others come and go. Most of them are arseholes but there’s a small number who I consider to be the good guys. It’s usually easy to tell which category they come into, but there’s at least one I’m still not sure about. This internal dialogue left me wondering.

UG: How’s it going at the moment?

Me: Pretty shit thanks. You being here doesn’t help.

UG: But I’m here to help. You can trust me, not like the others. They’re a bunch of cunts.

Me: That’s exactly what someone who’s trying to manipulate me would say.

UG: I helped you with the morphine, didn’t I?

He was referring to the two bottles of Mandy’s morphine which I’d been keeping safe in case I needed a speedy and painless exit. He’d previously urged me to pour them down the sink, as had the bereavement counsellor I’d been seeing after Mandy’s death. I compromised and disposed of just one bottle. Bollocks to burning that bridge completely. I’ve still got it, but after ten years it’s probably lost its potency.

Me: You knew I was already thinking about it though. You could just be fucking with my head.

UG: I understand your mistrust. The way the others twist things, I don’t blame you for being suspicious, but I really am on your side mate.

Me:  So what do you think I should do about this depression? It’s worse than it’s ever been. The drinking doesn’t seem to help much, just numbs it a bit.

UG: Maybe you need to drink more. There’s a lot to be said for being comfortably numb. Your family aren’t helping much either.

Me: That’s because I haven’t told them how I’m feeling.

UG: You shouldn’t have to. They know your history and you’ve lost your soulmate. They ought to know you’re suffering.

At this point I reflected on what he’d said. Were they the words of someone who genuinely had my best interests at heart, or did he have some sinister ulterior motive? I poured and quickly downed a generous shot of whisky, and did feel slightly more numb, so maybe he had a point. As to my family, I didn’t know what else they could do. As far as I knew, they had no powers of reincarnation, and I hadn’t told them the extent of my anguish, but the UG had planted a tiny seed of doubt which bothered me.

Me: That’s not really very helpful, you know.

UG: I’m just pointing out the facts to you. Sometimes the truth hurts.

Me: I don’t think a real friend would say something to hurt me.

UG: A real friend wouldn’t lie to you to protect you from an unavoidable truth. That would be misguided at best, deceptive at worst.

There was a horrible logic to that, and it didn’t make it any easier for me to decide whether he WAS one of the good guys or not. I did subsequently increase my already unhealthy alcohol intake and promised myself that I’d be a bit more forthcoming with my family. That was the end of that chat, and I didn’t hear from him again for a while, and my uncertainty about him remains.

[baldrick1997]

Delusion #1901

After Mandy died my already florid mental health deteriorated even further. I was already on the highest doses of risperidone and mirtazapine I’d ever taken and I needed even more. The voices and hallucinations became cinematographic and “normal” functioning was almost impossible. During an episode I sometimes develop elaborate delusional belief systems which are more resistant to meds than the other symptoms. When the meds have seen them off I recognise them for what they are – false beliefs, but when I’m in their grip they’re as real as breathing. This one started gradually, as they usually do. I was watching the news on TV when the newsreader called me by name and said “We’re watching you”. Then he continued reading the news as usual. Over the next few days more and more figures on TV spoke to me until it got to the point where every voice that came from the TV became directed at me personally, verbally attacking me, mocking me and telling me my every move was being watched. I had to switch it off eventually, which wasn’t easy as TV had become a lifeline, a window on the world that helped me deal with being alone. After a few days I tried switching it back on, but it was just as bad. In desperation I put a DVD on and I was amazed when I managed to watch an entire film without interruption. I tried another one and the same thing, no problem. It seemed that the problem was only with broadcast TV. Over the next few weeks I worked my way through my DVD collection until I ran out of things to watch. I began downloading films and TV shows with torrents, converting them and burning them to DVD – I bought spindles of 100 blank disks online. It was a slow process with my 8 Mbps broadband connection and converting and burning took time, but it kept me busy, which I needed. It took me nearly a week to acquire the entire collection of classic  Doctor Who episodes. It gave my obsessive side something to focus on. I amassed an impressive pile of DVDs which gradually took over the living room.

I’d unwillingly upped my meds and they were starting to kick in, so after a while I tried watching broadcast TV again, and the delusion seemed to have evaporated, but it didn’t have the appeal it had before, so I switched back to DVDs, only watching ordinary TV for the news and occasional programmes. Now, faster broadband has made video streaming possible and my DVD collection has stopped growing. They still take up a lot of space in my living room and I haven’t got space to put them anywhere else. I rarely watch normal TV now, preferring streaming and IPTV. Sometimes the delusions return, but I’m ready for this one now.

[baldrick1997]

Consciousness

Someone in an online forum once asked me if I regretted my mental illness. I said no, I’ve experienced levels of consciousness that some people spend a fortune and a lifetime to achieve without success. I’ve been to places in my mind that most wouldn’t get to if they lived to be a thousand, so no regrets here. I wouldn’t change a thing.

[baldrick1997]

1977

Just had a weird time vortex experience with myself from 1977. We had quite a chat.

1977 Me : What’s that crap you’re watching?

2021 Me : Pink Floyd, the PULSE concert.

1977 Me : What the fuck? You used to wear a t-shirt slagging them off.

2021 Me : That was years ago, times have changed, mate.

1977 Me : Have they? I think you’ve just become an old wanker.

2021 Me : And you were a young one. I remember you and that Blondie calendar. You were an Orgasm Addict, always at it. Especially from April to August.

1977 Me : I bet you vote Tory now.

2021 Me : Bollocks to that, I’m still a socialist.

1977 Me : I doubt that. Listening to shite hippy tunes. You’re a revisionist prick.

2021 Me : Old punks are allowed to listen to different music now, they changed the law.

1977 Me : That’s wanker talk. You are a wanker, aren’t you?

2021 Me : Stop saying that. I can’t be as bad as you were.

1977 Me : That’s between me and my love glove. Anyway, I bet you’ve forgotten the lyrics to 1977.

2021 Me : No Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones? No mention of Pink Floyd there.

1977 Me : They only left them out cos they couldn’t think of a rhyme for it. They meant them too.

2021 Me : This is pointless. There’s no reasoning with you.

1977 Me : Ha! I’ve run rings round you ideologically, you’re culturally bankrupt, pal.

2021 Me : I give up, I’m going back to bed.

[baldrick1997]

[baldrick1997]

Diagnosis

A mental health diagnosis is just a label, and they keep changing. The labels they stuck on people 30 years ago are different now, and they’ll probably be different again 30 years from now. I don’t like them, and I try not to use them myself. I find them unhelpful and sometimes offensive. Labelling someone just enables people to delude themselves that they understand what a person is going through.

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[baldrick1997]

Life’s A Gas

It’s 1987 and I’ve been a patient at Park Clinic day hospital for a few months. There’s been some suicides and the mood in the place is pretty sombre. I decided I’d had enough of it all and it was time to check out. The only question was how to do it. I knew it wasn’t going to be an overdose as I’d made an unsuccessful attempt at that when I was 14. I remember with great clarity being  rushed to A&E in a panda car through rush hour traffic. The siren was knackered and it made a sound like the amplified noise of a goat being strangled. When I got there, they took me into a large room and laid me out on a table. There was a bunch of medical personnel in gowns and they put a rubber tube down my throat and pumped my stomach via a funnel for what seemed like ages. I found out later they called it gastric lavage. I definitely didn’t want to go through that again, so after much thought I decided that carbon monoxide poisoning was the way to go. I nicked the hose from my mum’s hoover, stuck it in a carrier bag and put it in the boot of my car. I waited until dark and headed off looking for a suitable place. I eventually found a field a few miles out of town and parked up. I got my torch and took the hose out of the boot. Looking good so far. It never occurred to me that the exhaust might be hot after all my driving around, but it was, and I nearly burned the shit out of my fingers trying to attach the hose to the tail pipe. So I tried again, carefully, but the fucking hose wouldn’t fit. It was a fraction too small, but not small enough to fit inside the exhaust. It’s not like this in the movies. I had some insulating tape in my toolbox, so I got that and tried to fix the hose on without touching the tail pipe. Odd, I meant to end it all but I didn’t want to hurt my hands. I just couldn’t manage it and I just stood there, looking at the hose. It was like that film where the guy tries to top himself, but keeps fucking it up, with hilarious results. I was never further from laughing then though. At that moment I saw approaching headlights, so I thought I’d better call it a night. Somehow, the entire episode put me off the whole killing myself idea and the next day at the clinic I gave the hose to my psychiatrist and told her to keep it from me. My mum never did find out what happened to her hoover hose.

[baldrick1997]

Dreaming Ain’t Free

After a few months at Park Clinic the meds were starting to kick in – the voices had fallen silent and the visions were gone and I began wondering about why I was going through this. I started talking to fellow patients more, and we spent hours discussing symptoms, thoughts, feelings and experiences. The clinic closed about 3 pm and most days I’d head to the library in town. Desperately seeking answers, I ploughed through medical texts and psychiatric nursing manuals hoping for some insight, I hadn’t studied so hard since my O levels. I didn’t find any blinding revelations, just more questions.

During one conversation with another patient, she mentioned that she’d been seeing a hypnotherapist and that it was helping. This interested me – I hadn’t thought of that before. I got the hypnotherapist’s number and called her when I got home. We had a brief chat about my symptoms and I told her I didn’t have much money but luckily she must have had a social conscience and she agreed to only charge me a fiver a session, so I made an appointment to see her the following week. I was apprehensive about it, but also hopeful. Maybe this was my path to enlightenment. The office was modern and fairly sparse with just a couch, desk, chair and a couple of plants. I made myself comfortable on the couch and after she described how hypnosis worked the session began. I won’t detail the hypnotic process here, but essentially I became progressively relaxed and free of tension until we were ready to begin the analysis. Again, I won’t go too much into the exact nature of the investigation, I don’t want to give anyone who might be thinking of undertaking similar therapy any preconceived ideas of what to expect. I felt drained and emotional at the end of that first session, but I had the feeling I might be on to something, even though probing into my tormented psyche felt like the mental equivalent of poking a stick into a hornets’ nest, so I made an appointment for the next week. My thoughts and emotions were turbulent and chaotic during the wait for the next session and I was relieved when the day came. This time was slightly less distressing and at the end I felt like we were making some progress. In the next few sessions we analysed my dreams and I got into the habit of writing them down. After a few weeks I actually began to feel better. A lot better, and during a session with my key worker at the clinic I told him about my therapy. He didn’t say anything, but a few days later I was called to a meeting with him, my psychiatrist and a couple of people I didn’t know. They said they felt that the hypnotherapy could jeopardise my treatment plan at the clinic and essentially said that if I continued seeing the hypnotherapist I’d have to leave. It was a tough decision, because the clinic had been a safe haven for a long time but I was feeling a lot better so I decided to discharge myself.

Without the structure and routine that I’d become used to at the clinic, the time between hypnotherapy sessions dragged, and I spent hours just driving around. Driving was a great escape for me, when the voices were active the only time they didn’t bother me was when I was at the wheel, I could concentrate completely on the road, free from their intrusion. I listened to music as I cruised. I started with my punk favourites – Clash, Ruts (It Was Cold is a great cruising tune – I hit replay many times), Sham, Pistols, Penetration, ATV and others. I began to develop an interest in different artists like Free, Eric Burdon, Led Zep, Black Sabbath and others I’d never have considered playing before. I clocked up hundreds of miles without really going anywhere. After a few more months of therapy I was feeling fantastic, elated, and I thought I’d found what I’d been seeking. I was so impressed with hypnotherapy I decided to take the course my therapist had done and get into it seriously. So followed months of studying Freud and others, writing induction scripts and practising my hypnotic techniques. I eventually got my diploma, and, answering a timely ad in the local paper, I started working at a local practice. I even wore a suit for the first time – I felt like the accused at first, it took some getting used to.  I was looking forward to some juicy psychoanalysis cases like my own, but I was to be disappointed – most of the clients were there to quit smoking or lose weight. The most interesting case was a past-life regression, a middle-aged guy who was transported to a previous existence as a Roman gladiator. He ended up running round the office brandishing an imaginary sword, complete with warlike bellowing. That was a highlight, but it was an exception to the rule. A few months passed and nothing notable happened, but one day I began seeing things again, a few insects at first then swarms of them and packs of rats. It was starting the way it was when I first got ill. Before long the visions became more disturbing – people would morph into characters from “The Evil Dead” - and the voices kicked off again, spasmodic at first but getting more intrusive and debilitating. I had to quit the practice and go back to my doctor for help. I’d stopped taking my meds some time ago, so I had to start back on them and I found myself back at Park Clinic. I thought I’d found the answers I’d been looking for, but my brain chemistry proved me wrong. I lost my faith in Freud.

[baldrick1997]

Breaker 1-4

I didn’t realise for ages that I was actually “ill” for a long time before I first sought professional help. I was often high for (sometimes lengthy) periods and behaved in a way familiar to fellow voyagers. I didn’t sleep much and had fantastic and grandiose ideas. I had boundless energy which I later tried to emulate when depressed with illicit substances without success. I spent what little money I had freely, often on cars, and indulged in lustful pursuits that with the wisdom of hindsight were probably a little unsafe and unwise. My interest in CB radio became an obsession and I often stayed up till the small hours chattering endlessly with anyone who’d listen. I’d often drive out of town and engage in conversation with strangers. It was our equivalent of social media, but without everything being stored permanently in the cloud. Thank fuck for that, future generations would probably take a dim view of what we got up to.

CB radio was great for casual hook ups, especially if you travelled to London where lots of single women were on the air. Of course, I always took precautions and gave a false name and address. About 40 minutes on the road and I hit the bright lights. Time for some action.

“Breaker 1-4 for a copy and an eyeball with a lonely seat cover”

A burst of static for a while, then:

“I copy, what’s your handle and twenty?”

“White Diamond, I’m just hitting Fulham. What’s your handle and twenty?”

“I’m Cool Cat in Putney. How old are you?”

Sounds promising, no messing around.

“23, what about you?”

“Sweet 21, what do you look like?”

“I’m 5 foot 2, weigh 20 stone, I’m bald, and my few remaining teeth are green”

“Haha, you sound funny, wanna eyeball?”

“Cool, whereabouts?”

“Do you know Putney Bridge Station?”

“I’ll find it. Are you mobile?”

“Yeah, I’m in a blue Escort in the car park”

“I’m in a red mark 3 Cortina, give me 20 minutes”

“I’ll be here”

I made it in 15. You can guess the rest.