Victor Frank Walked

28.04.14 (Day 127)

11.42

The blog is finished; the journal too. My thoughts now are with my other half (who’s 35-years-old).

I grew tired of the negative comments I received from so-called friends and supporters: they did nothing but drive me into the ground. But I picked myself up and dusted myself off, yet again. They can’t keep me down though.

I’ve got my girl now. We’re okay. We’ve got a flat. I’m working. I did it with the help of people who remained by my side. Me and my girl don’t have much time. We’re walking, together. FTW (double meaning: get it).

I’ll carry on. I’ll continue to write for as long as I can. Just not here.

New beginnings.

I’m off to get my kids back too.

Farewell.

Victor. Frank. Always.

 

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Notes From an IIndependent State

22.01.14 (Day121)

18.42

I’m limited for time and limited by resources. Also I’ve bee limited by yet more restrictions placed upon me by who will henceforth be referred to as “The Driver”, for it was her which drove me almost to the top of the ladder to take the plunge. Notice that it’s “which” and not “who”, as I don’t recognise this entity as a person. It – this thing – is merely evil; a dark, malevolent force: “It” in fact.

Anyway, It may not be mentioned by name. It has forced me to reduct a lot of the notes I made over the weekend. It doesn’t believe in me. It wants to destroy me. It won’t. It doesn’t. It joins They and Them as ghosts and spirits of the past. But I walk, not talk. It says that It doesn’t want to be referred to in the blog under any circumstances and by any of the names previously used. Those names referred to a person. It is an entity.

So this is part two of the insight into my psyche. What I’m thinking and feeling at the moment. Here are the reducted notes from the weekend:

At 06.42 yesterday, I was sitting at my writing desk, bemoaning the weekend which was drawing to a close. Easter weekend was almost as awful as Christmas and New Year: everywhere closed, nothing to do. Christmas and New Year was when I had to start moving on. This weekend’s hiatus was shorter but after four months of being out here, it’s grown more than a little tiring.

I keep busy with voluntary work, which keeps me of of the booze. I have witnesses. It apparently gets sent screen shots of the blog. They’ll do nothing other than to make the malevolent spirit even more evil. But the devil sees all, so see this.

Breakfast with mum and dad was lovely on Sunday and it was a perfect day until It interfered.

It jumps to conclusions, assumes the worst, tears your soul apart, doesn’t trust it’s many enemies (those who work for charity and churches) and tries to destroy all that tries to be good. It is evil.

I have ADS. It is on my medical certificate (double meaning? It tore my writing apart but I’m above the darkness now).

I wrote this:

“I’m climbing the ladder; taking the plunge. They told me to. In my mind. Get out.”

Full of double meanings and suggestion. That’s the skill in writing: make the reader think. Draw their own conclusions. I wish it would stop and draw a line; or the curtains (there’s another one).

My writing has been praised by my peers of similar intelligence. Alas one often has to write below one’s own intelligence level. But then one is mis-judged. By things like It.

I also wrote:

Driven by one person. And I paid for the lessons.

Nokia Lumia: moods. Currently in “Green” mood, as selected by my friend Kristy, who works in McDonald’s.

Along with the phone, my baccy tin and my friends are the few things I’ll fight for. And have. And will again.

The rat died and has been buried. I’m going to visit her and I’m tired. Notes from an IIIndependent State (Part Three) another time…

 

Startwrecking

17.04.14 (Day 116)

10.42

Across the universe. In the inter-galactic ship Ghost Bird under Captain Lucard.

But that’s another story for another time. As is Chapter Three of the second of two books, two short stories, at least two poems and a comic strip; all of which are outlined and planned for writing but all of which I’ve not gotten around to yet. It’s not like I don’t have time – I’m awake for 20 hours a day – but less than 24 hours ago, I’d reached what I thought might be the end. I keep a record of everything, with little witheld, for the benefit of my mental assessment and so that I can look back upon it and wonder. Here’s the remainder of what I wrote yesterday:

Final notes

I did my best. I was trying.

One less problem for “Them”: the shadows of the past and the ghosts in the machine.

I never liked the life I was forced into. Few helped; few understood and just gave up, as I’m about to. With a smile inside, knowing that I did right.

A lot of people out here will bear witness to my descent: not into alcoholism but into despair. One less statistic just got killed off.

This was the story of my life. I told you I was ill.

________________________________________________

Captain’s Log, Supplementary

And then I got better, such is the nature of manic depression. Help arrived.

In just under two hours, one of the cavalry will be taking me to Tunbridge Wells.

The last entry was indeed going to be the last. But I’ve been thrown a lifeline, which I’ve grabbed. A potential new life awaits, at last. I just hope that I’m not getting ahead of myself, setting myself up for another fall (from not such a great height as the last one) or counting my eggs before they hatch. And despite progress and the fact that I used to love weekends and bank holidays when I was on the other side, now I hate them and Easter stands between me and ongoing progress.

Whatever awaits at the end of this part of the journey may not be much but it will be more than I have at the moment. It will be nothing compared to what I had before but I let all of that go. All of that must fade into the past, like the shadows. The ghosts. I still have things to sort out here before I go: the physical move is one but I’ve decided that I’ll leave all of my things behind – as I have in other places I’ve moved on from – and let someone know where everything is so that it can be donated to a worthy cause. Shelter will probably be the benefactor of my clothes and other belongings. It’s a new start and I can acquire new things. Even now, I have someone acquiring new clothes for me. Fortunately, she’s the same size as me, so I don’t even need to be there while she makes the acquisitions. I need to find a home for Whoopi (my rescue rat) and before she goes, I’ll post photos of her online, for my own memories if nothing else. I’ll also take and post pictures of Gilbert House. One of my future charity projects was going to benefit Shelter as they have me. Thinking of how the project might fit the cause, I thought perhaps I’d spend a night homeless. Get the irony.

 

19.04.14 (Day 118)

15.42

As with so many things in this life, I’m limited by the time afforded me by the library (one hour per day). Before I go though, despite this weekend being a shit, I’m looking forward to breakfast with my mum and dad in church tomorrow. I’m grateful to all of my friends who’ve recently accepted me and sought me out via various media. I’m not grateful at all to the Post Office for losing the package which I spent £45 on, sent to my children and because the Post Office computers were down, I was unable to get proof of postage for.

I’m off to the park now, to hang around and be deemed inappropriate. Good job I’ve got my dog. And my rat.

 

 

If a Picture Paints

16.04.14 (Day 115)

14.42

No picture would sum up the millions of words in my complicated head but here goes…

I wrote something earlier and was talked out of doing what I was contemplating. I had a wobble. I’ve been advised to record my thoughts though, to aid my ongoing benefits claim by backing up the medical note which I’ll have confirming that I’m chronically depressed. Here then are those thoughts, preceded by a letter from CAB to DWP, which will hopefully prove beyond any doubt among remaining doubters that all of this has been true.

Here’s the letter:

Image

And the post:

I’m S-O-R-R-Y

16.04.14

04.42

(I know I am. I’m sure I am).

Image

This is where it ends, soon.

I’m not allowed to mention many people by name so those that have forbade me will be referred to as ghosts; shadows of the past, as they were before. They’ll not be reading this though as they abandoned me. I wish they were reading as perhaps the letter I scanned would prove to them that their doubts of me were unfounded. It’s academic now.

Pretty soon I’ll be a ghost too.

And to those who still nose in and see this as simply a cry for help, maybe it is. Or rather, maybe it was. Go judge someone else to fill your empty lives.

This won’t be the best-written final post as you’ll note from the time of writing that it’s my usual ridiculous O’clock for rising from slumber. That’s because I’ve survived for the last three and a half months on three to four hours sleep, because I’ve had to sleep with the proverbial one eye open. It’s dangerous out here and some of the shadows have blood on their hands for placing me in this situation. Perhaps with hindsight they’ll realise they were too harsh; that maybe they shouldn’t have simply given up. They did and now I am about to.

I should keep going for the sake of my children? The ones I posed no physical or verbal threat to, yet I’m still not allowed to see. They’ll forget soon enough. This too shall pass.

My beloved Danielle: Please excuse my writing. I can’t fight this feeling anymore.

Becca: my Patsy Kensit lookalike (but prettier); my friend.

Rhian: sorry mate.

Sam White: you’re welcome to it.

Emma: such a shame.

Old “friends”: ghosts.

Brothers and sisters; family: adopted, not blood (they abandoned me and have blood on their hands): heed my advice. You know.

New friends: thank you. For trying. For believing. Keep going. Relationships: inappropriate? I thought not but the shadows did.

I am sick and tired: not metaphorically but actually. No-one really ever got me. “I told you I was ill”. But I’m alright (Whoopi Goldberg: Ghost).

I’m grateful to those who stuck around and they know who they are as they’re the ones reading this. They’re also the ones who’ll know where to find me.

Two of those who won’t be reading this are shadows. They’re relevant though as they each have a sealed envelope. I’d be grateful if any remaining readers could track those down.

And those who know where to find me need to know some things:

Whoopi will be on the table, in a biscuit box. She’s got food and water.

I need to spend some time saying farewells and clearing up unfinished business. Once that’s done, I’ll climb the ladder and take the plunge. You know what that means.

I’m sorry.


So thereafter, a couple of people talked me out of it. For a while, I was okay. But it became like this:

Image

I was hoping for this:

Image

And tomorrow I’m due benefits (until someone fucks that up for me) as it’s a long and boring weekend when I’m not allowed to see my kids. If it fucks up, I truly am screwed, financially. There are emergency Bridging loans but you need to be in receipt of payments to receive them.

I think I’m due another wobble,

Didn’t quite work out though, so I may have another go.

Shadows Fall

15.04.14 (Day 14)

07.42

In the places we used to know…

People I may not mention: ghosts; shadows of the past. Shadows of their former selves as they’ve gone down in my estimation and my never get back up.

Welcome to my world. Barriers: physical, mental; tickets, please?

I’m having breakfast in McDonald’s before what has promised me it will be a long and arduous day. Another atempt at sorting out the benefits I’m entitled to BECAUSE I’M ILL AND SIGNED OFF! A lot of walking with a back which may not hold up (spinal injury), only to have things screwed up yet again.

The only reason I’m able to get to Tunbridge Wells and endure this is thanks to a donation from one of the ghosts. In the envelope containing the train fair given to me, there was also a note, questioning my integrity: “If you’re talking the truth, you are unbelievably unlucky.” I am and I am.

The latest robbery DID HAPPEN! If only the ghosts had been there. They wouldn’t last a day out here. Yes, I’ve lied in the past but I do so no longer. Indelibly marked it would seem. I have witnesses to the theft and there will be indelible evidence once things have been dealt with out here.

The ghosts and shadows are of the past, as is yesterday. Today is yet another day and this too shall pass.

Could someone shed some light on this love afair?

The damaged one is you old son.

Tears of a Clown

14.04.14 (Day 113)

15.42

Thoughts as they occur, to me: I wrote this in the notebook (the paper one), with a good old-fashioned pen. The netbook is broken. Not that it was a lot of good given the limitations of facilities in this shithole of a town. So it’s back to basics. Back to where I was; to where I’ve been so many times. One step forward, two steps back.

I had what I call “a moment” earlier. One of those when I wished it was raining and was grateful for my sunnies.

I feel low (I am diagnosed as chronic depressed). As well as the netbook, I’ve had money lifted (again): that’s what happens out here. People with less resolve wouldn’t last a day. No-one knows what we go through. The latest incident is being dealt with though, in the old-fashioned way.

I’d actually concluded – on the advice of a friend – to let it lie. The thief obviously needed (or wanted) what he took and no doubt got what he needed (or wanted) with it. Being the forgiving type, I was prepared to leave it. Word got around though and the drums of the jungle beat loud in this hellhole, so someone has taken it upon themselves to have a word.

Stealing from someone out here is simply against the rules of the road, especially when the victim is someone who’s bought lunch. But nevermind. I’m just too trusting. But I’m forgiving.

I’ve been asked by yet more people not to mention them by name here, so I won’t. On top of the broken netbook and the stolen money though, there’s also someone who I hold dear apparently not recognising two-way traffic. Then there’s O2, who’ve fucked up my mobile allowances and lack of funds (due to theft) means that I can’t top up. Then there’s DWP’s fuck ups on the benefits (which I need to move on), the latest episode in the saga being that I have to jump through further flaming hoops and jump over more barbed wire-tipped hurdles to achieve nothing, again.

As well as the money in the stolen wallet, there was proof of postage for the package I spent £45 on the contents of and sent to my children. The package hasn’t arrived; I have no way of proving postage and I’m no doubt labelled a liar. Again.

I get it. I earn it. I share it. I give it away: I may as well, or it gets stolen.

Right now I’m just so tired, I want to go to sleep. In some respects, I hope I don’t wake up. I’m finding it really hard to carry on at the moment.

And then he cried. Again.

Ad-LIIIb

12.04.14 (Day 111)

14.42

Having not had time to write notes with pen and paper and not having the resources to do so electronically (McDonald’s: free wi-fi but no power; library: power but limited wi-fi and only one hour on the public access machines; home: fuck all), this is another impromptu stream-of-conciousness post, written as I think, so probably not coherent. I’ve been advised to write these though as it’s therapeutic and gives an insight into me. And so many people ask so many questions: read the blog.

I’m tired. Very tired. I’ve had nine hours sleep in the last 72: not good. Not good if you’re diagnosed with clinical chronic depression as I am. I’m down but I’m up. I’m up because I’ve built bridges to an extent with the ex-wife and the meeting with the children is on the cards, after a few more bridges have been built and crossed. And hurdles jumped over. And hoops jumped through. I’ve spent a lot of time on the phone with my ex-fiancé lately and that’s a bridge which is very much under construction. We’re getting on well and the day before last we spent four hours on the phone together. Then yesterday, because we’d enjoyed the previous day’s conversation so much, we spoke again. Since then though, nothing. I must admit to being confused. She has a life – and I don’t really – but I’m feeding myself mixed messages. Bottom line though: I’m still in love with her. I don’t just love her; I’m in love. There, I said it.

It was after I’d gone through the married years in my confessional a few days ago and I was about to move onto the “Monkey Months” that I broke down. Dan was – and is – my Bunkey; the love of my life. It’s over (and that’s me saying it from the driver’s seat which I’ve assumed) but you don’t get over the love of your life. Time heals most things but never a broken heart. She says I’ll find another but I won’t. There’ll never be another Steve’s Dan and I’m always Dan’s Steve. There: I said that too.

I happened upon (I earned) some money a couple of days ago and spent it all on my children. As of today, I’ve not heard whether the package I sent them has arrived. I feel cut off.

All of the above, coupled with my ongoing battle with the Department for Work and Pensions led me to almost go and play with my train set last night: that’s the real trains at Tonbridge station. I was persuaded not to.

We’re now three months into the process of applying for my benefits (to which I’m entitled, as I’m signed off as unfit for work through depression, alcohol dependence, a compressed spinal disc and fatigue: I’m ill). I’ve given up, buried my head in the sand, banged it against a wall. CAB have taken over and even they admit that the process is ridiculous and designed to just put people off. Having filled out three forms so far and having been told that these were the wrong forms (despite the forms being given to us by Job Centre Plus) and that one was obsolete, we’re now on form number four and having to start all over yet again. My advisor at CAB has lodged a complaint against DWP but I’ve asked her to make a compensation claim as this whole process is making me (more) unwell.

In other news, I’m still helping out at the churches in Tunbridge Wells and was instrumental in providing soup and sandwiches for the gathered guests yesterday. As I’ve said before, I don’t care about money any more; it’s all about helping others and gaining satisfaction. If I have it, I’ll give it away, as I did today. As long as I have my bible, I have comfort. And it helps to have people who support me and believe in me. There are several but at the top of the list are Danielle (my ex-fiancé), Blue (my brother), Rhian (my “wife”) and Will (Charlie Richardson’s son): they don’t judge but they do believe.

I’ve found an additional haunt: Jimmy’s Cafe. Therein, one may sit over coffee for a long time and have a full English breakfast any time of day if one so chooses. They don’t have wi-fi though. I’m off there now that my one hour has expired in the library, to read Leviathon (by Paul Auster: very good, as are all of his novels and my friend Kristy in McDonald’s reports that she’s enjoying Sunset Park, and I’ve also got her Mr Vertigo, and, and, and I’m rushed).

Until the next time then: perhaps a proper post, or Ad-lIVb (or IVmpromptu).