10.08.14 (Day 231)
A long time ago, I had a life that I loved: I had a wife, two wonderful children, a thriving business, a beautiful home (several, in fact), a successful poker career, a swimming pool, thousands of pounds worth of hi-fi equipment and all the trappings of wealth that come with that sort of life. Then it all went wrong.
Or did it? Life is what you make it, as well as what you fuck up and mistakes are there to be learned from, the same as danger is there to be faced and educated by. I fucked up, so judge me. I’ve learned and I’m serving my time.
I’m due to serve more time when I move on from the safe haven which is temporarily home in a couple of weeks: possibly up to six months in a place I think of as a prison because there is regiment, routine and authority. I tend not to recognise such things, being of a slightly rebellious nature. But I won’t run; I won’t kick out and I’ll accept what is imposed upon me. It won’t change the true me and it’s a means to an end: the end of a chapter in a story and journey. This current phase has been a pause for thought.
A long, long time ago, I fucked as well: ran up debts; went bankrupt. I learned but I didn’t change in myself. I just changed my life and fucked it up again.
Not so long ago, I had the beautiful flat with the supermodel fiance: I fucked that one up as well.
And still I didn’t change in myself. Three strikes, not out.
I’m tired: still surviving on three hours sleep per night but surviving. I need drugs: preferably cocaine – as in one of those previous lives – but it’s more likely that once I get a final diagnosis, I’ll be prescribed a combination of uppers (Prozac-based) anti-depressants for during the day and something like Mirtazipine – which contains a sedative – to help with the sleep problem. The latter were never a good idea living as I was but now that I’m in safer environs, I can sleep; with help.
I’m re-building again. I won’t change in myself and what I’ve been through has made me what I am. That’s me.
11.08.14 (Day 232)
I attended an induction at CRI today. The letters are arbitrary now. The last time I tried, CRI stood for Crime Reduction Initiative, because those of us with drink or drug problems are automatically assumed to be criminals. Well I am but don’t tar everyone else with the same brush as me. Their shoulders may not be so broad as to be able to take it so that others don’t have to, like I do.
CRI is now West Kent Recovery and funded more by charity (The RSA no less, among the supporters, as they recognise creativity) than government. The government gave up: go figure.
The induction went well. It was shorter and less patronising than the old regime. A little bit of form-filling but only to assess needs and appoint the most appropriate help to individuals: key workers, doctors, nurses, psychiatrists. Those being the professionals who provide the help, rather than need it. Mind you, dealing with us lot…
And us lot are bad people in the eyes of those who judge and persecute but rather than being patients, we’re now clients. We were made to feel in control today, rather than being bullied. I’ll be going back. A means to an end and yet another stepping stone on the path to rebuilding a new life.
One of the sections in the questionnaires which we had to complete was on the life which we aspire to.
Fantasy or reality, the new life I have planned will see me in a permanent home, making money and sharing my life with a beautiful wife: it’s all starting to happen.
It can’t happen? Wait and see. Keep reading
I’m doing it for myself but with the help of others. I won’t blow my trumpet too soon.
Last night in the temporary haven, we watched Star Wars on something called a TV. Episode IV: a new beginning.
You couldn’t make it up and I won’t fuck it up. This one’s for keeps. My little secret for now though.