The saddling doubt of salmon

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I find it difficult to be open about my anxiety and depression, to speak and express myself freely (outside of fiction), because like many others, I find it confusing and contradictory. Mental illness is a cocktail as unique as the vessel which carries it, so I don’t expect people to understand me when I misunderstand and contradict myself.

Fine not fine

The saying goes that a problem shared is a problem halved, but I believe it’s the saddling of an unsolicited burden, like much of my fiction. The salmon of doubt, the smell of fish…

When a real-life friend recently posted a festive mental health message on Facebook, I was grateful but confused. Thankful that someone had posted something I wouldn’t, but unsure of how to respond. I’m not one to follow instructions, least of all when a copy-and-paste request is so generic in such a complex field. So I’ve copied and pasted it here:

Anxiety sucks. Being isolated and believing your friends don’t care sucks even more.

How many of you have had a night out planned, or arranged coffee or a beer with friends and suddenly the 4 walls you inhabit seem the only safe haven because it’s the only place you don’t have to pretend you are ok, so you cancel?

Or when you are invited out you tell them how terribly sorry you are but you’re already booked up that weekend, when you are actually just really busy holding it together in your safe box. And so the first problem starts, all by itself.

People stop asking you and the isolation that at first wasn’t true becomes your only truth.

Please don’t give up on your friends. Ring them, go round, even when they don’t want you to. Because they really do they just don’t know how to say it.

And in work every passing comment is a negative, you constantly do more to get over the feeling you’re not good enough. The exhaustion from not sleeping because you panic all night over what you cannot influence means you make mistakes, you live in a fog and it is a vicious circle.

I’m going to make a bet, without being pessimistic, that out of my Facebook friends that less than 5 will take the time to put this on their wall to help raise awareness of and for those who have mental health difficulties. You just have to copy it from my wall and paste it to yours.

Who will be my 5 … I wonder?

Yeah, damn straight. But I wasn’t one of any arbitrary number, because although I’m everything in that post, I’m also more. And who am I to post on my own timeline when it’s parts of me which are buried in there? Why ask people to check their other friends are okay while overlooking me? No point sending them on a guilt trip they wouldn’t otherwise have known, and I know what those are like when I live every day with many. Little point in burdening them. But I did reply:

Asking us to copy and paste about mental health seems very well-meaning, but the trouble is, not many of us with anxiety will actually copy and paste, for fear of being ignored, but at the same time not wanting to attract attention we can’t escape. I know I won’t, and neither will I post it as a stand-alone, for the same reasons. That’s anxiety, and depression, and paranoia: socially crippling. Thanks for sharing what I can’t explain though…

My friend then posted his thread, and my reply, on my timeline. Again it was of the best intentions, a plea to my friends whom I’m loath to trouble, especially when some still don’t understand addiction, and can find no sympathy for someone who – as far as they’re concerned – put themselves where they are. It was sharing problems which I didn’t fully understand in myself. That more public post by proxy would have been more like a plea for help, which I know no-one can provide, because there’s no cure. It’s not one I would make on behalf of myself.

Hello Hi How are you

This quieter way of sharing is where I’m more comfortable, just telling a few friends, who for some reason come here to see what I’ve written. I prefer the semi-secret society of blogging, keeping it on a need-to-know basis, while still wearing the heart tattooed on my left hand. Anything more public would fill me with an inner anxiety that everyone might run away, or become obsessed about how many may respond. Based on previous best intentions, those who do are rarely ‘always there for you’ when you need them.

Friends have offered to come over in the past, even take me out somewhere quiet. I was grateful, then backed out as the date approached, but not kicking unwanted attention away any more than I’m happy in my own company. Both are uncomfortable, and I don’t want to subject anyone else. It doesn’t make sense, does it? Others let me down after promising to come over, and in a way it was a relief, because it’s one less person to try to explain to, what I don’t understand.

That shared post might have looked like I was asking for help, but afraid to do so directly, so I’d appointed a spokesperson to speak about what I couldn’t. And I didn’t want those who still judge to think I was asking for financial help, nor anyone for somewhere to go at Christmas, because if I can’t be with my family (kids or parents), I want to be alone. I’ll watch Jimmy Stewart and eat cheese. I deleted the post, just as Christmas is cancelled for me anyway. This too shall pass.

I’m making the same point here as I did by not sharing on Facebook: I want to talk about it; I can’t talk about it. I have a smaller, less judgemental audience here, who won’t patronise me, say they’ll come over sometime, or always be there. At least I know they’re more likely to listen with their eyes.

If I had a live audience, I could talk for hours about how depression, anxiety, paranoia and all the rest affect me, because it’s such a mix I’m always trying to make sense of by speaking to myself: Sorry you can’t get through, and neither can I. But I’ll get back to you, probably in fiction. There I can find my inner confidence and contradict myself about being too shy to talk about it, so I close down and resist the exposure everywhere else.

I can write, and maybe one day unpack what’s inside my head, this post, and that last sentence, about why I fear to be out while placing myself in full view. It’s partly because I have to edit the weight of the burden, leaving myself with all the untold narrative in my head. When memories are forgotten, they become stories. But some stories can’t be written, because they’re still practising to become memories.

So many molehills in my mind, and from the outside that’s all they are. But I walk like Hannibal on eggshells, around a tower of giraffes (because it’s a better collective noun than a herd of elephants) in a mountainous range with many volcanoes. One day, all of this will make sense.

Not doing it wrong cows

Computer says no, you must die

THE WRITER’S LIFE

After keeping me waiting for five weeks, throwing petrol on my depression and anxiety, The Department for Work and Pensions (DWP) have refused my re-application for PIP (Personal Independence Payment). They didn’t even have the decency to send a letter, and I found out when much less money than normal went into my account. No doubt the shit sandwich will arrive in the mail soon, after it’s gone through further bureaucracy.

VogonA relative and employee of Theresa May at DWP, yesterday

I’ve been in receipt of the independence benefit for the last four years, and at my last assessment I must have seemed in worse health (because I am), but some appointed worthy who’s never met me, sitting self-importantly at a computer, has made a life-changing decision, to deny me what I’ve been entitled to for the last four years, and which I used to live an independent life. I can’t do that any more.

I may not be able to visit my kids or parents so often or at all. But what does DWP care? They know I’ve failed to kill myself before, as it’s on my hospital records. It couldn’t be that they wish me more success next time, surely? I hope they sleep well at night (and one day, don’t wake up).

Now I face the appeals process through to tribunal. I’ve done it twice before and won. This was a re-application, for a benefit I’ve been paid for the last four years. It all begs the question, why do this? Why incur all the extra expense and waste their time (and mine)? Because they want to wear people down so that they give up, roll over and die (it’s the Vogon way). But like a bad smell, I won’t go away.

With about £5 a day to spend now, I’ll have to be very creative with meals. And as the appeal process takes around three months, that’s Christmas nicely fucked up, possibly the last one I spend with my parents, thanks to the DWP and the Tory government’s social cleansing project. The last five weeks have made me ill but it didn’t kill me, and I won’t be swept from society by fascists. Apart from the roof over my head, the next few months will be like it was on the streets, and I survived that.

The singular, only, sole, lone, individual good thing I might be able to salvage in all of this, is that with nothing to do (eat, drink, or smoke), I might as well spend some time at the keyboard. If I can’t afford heating, I’ll get some fingerless gloves.

I have a tribunal process to document in fiction. I need to write, of the psychological horror this has been, of poverty, of the perverse torture by sick and twisted Nazis, and of exacting, violent and bloody revenge. The story of an impoverished writer, an irritant irritating, and literally (in literature) fisting some arseholes and scratching around inside.

Shooting battered cod and chips

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Today is five weeks since my PIP assessment and I’ve still been told nothing. DWP acknowledged that they have all they need to assess my claim, so part of me thinks no news is good news. Based on previous experience though, most of me suspects they’ll conclude that I’m not entitled. If so, it’s taken five weeks to play a pretty sick trick on someone they know is vulnerable. But it’s all part of the Tory social cleansing machinery.

ship_shark_jaws_boat_sea_60084_2560x1600

It’s anxiety and paranoia, and the reassessment process makes it worse. It heightens my conditions, like taking a Stabilo Boss to all the Post-It notes pinned to my head. Benefits claimants are fish in barrels at the best of times, but I’m simultaneously out of the water.

I saw the kids yesterday, so I now I have separation anxiety. I do miss them, every day, but the days after I’ve seen them are the hardest as they’re fresher in my mind. Everyone but me ended up in a better place after my breakdown, over five years ago now. It’s a testament to my ex-wife and the kids’ second dad that I now have two very engaging and curious young people to share the odd Sunday with.

I can think about plans but not make them. Visiting my parents and my kids costs money, which PIP has helped with over the last four years. With my mind confused and unknowing, I can’t write, or not coherently enough to hold all but the most surreal stories together.

I know I should broaden my horizons and maybe take up a new hobby, perhaps even one which might get me out more. The problem with being outside is, there are other people there. Maybe then a solitary pursuit, like fishing. But then there’d be some tosser (one who casts lines) who’s been doing it for years, telling me I’m doing it all wrong without actually helping (you know the kind of smug, elitist type, often train conductors or lorry drivers in their day jobs). So perhaps I’d get a boat, then float alone, fishing on a lake. It’s where my name came from after all. Then I realise I don’t have the money or the courage, so I stay as I am. Less a Laker (one who fishes from lakes) and more the ponder.

gir_by_thekeyofeGir by Thekeyofe

The only thing I have patience for is poker. I’ve been coaching and playing my sole regular visitor, my kid sis Courtney (‘The Courts’, or ‘WE33 WIDOW’ at the table), and she’s holding me to a 14-14 score line in our tournament of tournaments, albeit with some handicapping earlier on. She’s 21 today, she’s come a long way and gone through as much machinery as me, and we both kept the other alive at times. Sometimes we’ll have fish with our poker chips, and PIP helps with thanking a friend for their support with a take-away (and ensuring I eat something). Playing poker relies on having someone to play with. I can play online, but not having someone to talk to means my attention wanders and I could end up playing losing games and forgetting to eat, so I stick to live play.

The Courts and me started playing poker at the squat, and in some ways, this waiting game is like being back on the streets, when my only output was transcribing a few pages of handwritten notes I’d made as I led my transient life, never able to settle anywhere. Back then, I started writing as it was all I had (no TV, not even a radio, and I daren’t borrow too many library books for fear they’d be lost or stolen), so I wrote. Now I have more to do, but no patience to do it; everything around me, but no interest in it. I’ve become even more withdrawn, and withdrawal drills into deeper thoughts. Yet after all that, after all the talk about being depressed and in a rut; because of all that, I can see something.

I read something on the train yesterday, on my way to meet the kids. Essentially it said, be grateful of your own company if it’s all you have. Don’t waste time chasing other people, less so wondering when you might hear from them. Don’t put your life on hold for too many others, live the one you have left with whomever you can.

Right now, that’s just me and my adopted sister sometimes for a game of cards. Once a month, it’s precious time with the children their mum and step dad have brought up so well. Once this period of limbo ends, it’ll be more regular trips to spend time with my parents. Until then, I wait, like I have for five weeks. And during that month and a bit, I’ve written a lot which doesn’t make sense in pieces, but I can see how it will come together.

I’ve not lost the ability to write, just the means to edit my thoughts and make them coherent. While I reconstruct myself, I can at least see ahead and know that I have a lot of stories to tell, once I can stitch them together as analogies for the horrors of going through the social cleansing machinery, and how it can be used to find things in the mind you’d normally be too busy to be troubled by.

In future fiction, within the next 2-3 years, a number of technologies could combine and reduce in cost to become something really cool:

Take an AI home assistant (Siri, Alexa…), put it in a humanoid or other robot physical form, and you’ve got home help for lifting and assisting with physical tasks.

Introduce an app to design your own personification of a home help robot, send it to a 3D printer (which will also print the circuitry), and each AI becomes even more individual and a part of the designer.

I’d like to print one of these:

shark_rex_by_heckthorShark Rex by Heckthor

To be continued…

That’s me in the corner (B-side)

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Today is four weeks since I was in the spotlight, having my brain prodded to determine if I’m entitled to Personal Independence Payment (PIP, which I’ve been receiving for the last four years). The social machine is tiring and I’m in danger of losing my head.

Losing head LegoSilvia Borri

I’ve been restless since the beginning of this year. It seems longer, but it was two years ago yesterday when a tribunal judge awarded me PIP, until September 2018 (reassessments are every two years). Ever since I’ve known it’s 2018, I’ve been more on edge than usual (and even my usual on-edgeness is not normal). For the last two or three months especially, I’ve been stumped, laid low and crippled, afraid to start anything lest my money is stopped, and unable to concentrate even when I do.

I’ve plotted stories but not written them, started some and not finished, and written endings with no beginnings. Nothing fits together and it’s all spare parts. None can be cannibalised and given life. I can’t keep my mind straight, and I may yet have to go through the rinser at another tribunal.

I’m hoping there’s a human in the system who sees I’ve been through it twice already and won, so they don’t put me through it again. Waiting to find out if you’re ill enough to be paid to be unwell is a cruel and inhuman process, but it’s designed to wear a person down so that they give up, the social and ethnic cleansing of those who were already socially excluded and only partially visible.

Kept in the dark, I’m cutting myself up, sawing bits off, and trying to reassemble myself. They hope I’ll fall apart, but I’m just about holding myself together. It’s all in my head, and they know this. It makes mental illness worse, and that’s the plan. Our Tory government are the real cannibals.

That’s me in the corner. That’s me in the spotlight. Until they put me out of my misery, I can’t sleep.

Losing head Coffee

Anxiety and despair in 3 words

POETRY

A 45 RPM I wrote, which spins for about 14 seconds. It’s about stumbling back into life in Tonbridge after ten years in London, and all that’s meant over the last five years. I made it black and orange, as a kind of reflection of a one-way train ticket. Off the rails and onto the streets, but from where I live now, there’s a direct ThamesLink train line straight back to Catford…

Tonbridge Station Poem 6

If I’m eating my dessert with a teaspoon, please don’t give me a big spoon. I’m having a great time and I know what I’m doing.

Getting the hang of Wednesdays

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Days like these are the worst, when you wish for the emptiness of the vacuum which is a typical day with depression. These atypical days are filled with thoughts. My mind is always full, which is why I suffer insomnia, but these thoughts are the darkness escaping the vacuum. For Arthur Dent, it was Thursdays he couldn’t get the hang of, where most of my problems seem to haunt me on Wednesdays.

Arthur and MarvinHeroes of fantasy and sci-fi (Stark After Dark)

I’m looking at everything ahead and I can’t see any bright horizon, just the red glow of dusk. The optimist and the pessimist have no control over an outcome, but the optimist has the better time leading up to it. As low as I’m feeling today, the optimist is a far-away stranger in that crimson landscape.

As the Marmite filling of my family’s generational sandwich, my main thoughts are with either slice of bread. Thankfully my eldest seems to be over the worst of his recent derailment (when you’re 13, you’re just looking for somewhere to go off the tracks), which means my dad is an even greater focus.

His health isn’t improving. Long story short, he was getting a bit forgetful, culminating in him forgetting where he lived one night when he was out in his car (alone). After much debate with mum, I phoned the police. I knew someone was always going to be “The one who…” and seeing as I’m usually assumed to be, I didn’t break with stereotype. The police picked him up and got him home safely, but he subsequently had to surrender his driving license.

The whole family was disrupted as a result, and my dad’s lost a great deal of his freedom and liberty. The memory thing was found to be a build up of fluid around the base of dad’s brain. It wasn’t a degenerative condition and a simple drain should alleviate the problem.

He was admitted to hospital and the procedure was initially deemed a success. Trouble is, a succession of setbacks followed, as dad developed an infection which required intravenous antibiotics, prolonging his stay in hospital. Eventually when he returned home, he took a fall down the stairs. I can’t help thinking that I’m “The one who…”

You wouldn’t expect someone to get better after all that, but the old man’s still with us, albeit never fully recovered from the initial diagnosed condition because of these complications. Mum and dad have made adaptations to their house, but dad longs to get back to tending his garden. I’ve suggested it might be quite nice to let it meadow a bit, to attract some wildlife, which dad also loves. It’s about quality of life now, and he’s probably got some years in him yet if he’s kept engaged by people and things around him.

Which all serves to reduce the importance of my own issues, which are short-term, relatively speaking. At worst (ever the pessimist), I’ll have my PIP application declined as it was the last two times. I have no reason to think otherwise, as despite claims that mental disability is given equal consideration to physical restrictions, mental illness remains invisible. Yes, I can walk a short distance to a local shop. I have legs which work and I don’t require a physical aid to walk. Sometimes though, the anxiety and paranoia are such that I simply don’t attempt it. That can’t be seen when you’re asked to walk up and down in front of an assessor.

If my application is declined, then I’ll appeal at tribunal, as I did the last two times, and both times I won. It hardly seems worth putting me through it, but I suspect there’ll be another attempt at social cleansing by wearing me down in the hope I give up. I didn’t the last two times.

So the worst case scenario is I’ll have my benefits reduced throughout the appeal process, then reinstated and back-paid afterwards. I might just have to adjust to a lesser quality of life for a while. Then again, the ‘Medically-qualified’ PIP assessor might not be a midwife this time, they could be a psychiatrist or psychologist, who is more likely to confirm my various conditions, thereby sparing me the ordeal of the appeal process. If government out-sourcing fulfilled its function properly, a simple thing like appointing an appropriately qualified assessor would save the state considerable funds.

But it doesn’t work like that. The savings are made by getting claimants off of benefits, and subjecting them to an extended dehumanising process is one way of thinning out the numbers, when some people just don’t have it in them to fight. My last two appeal processes made me far more unwell than I’d been at the outset, but I didn’t succumb to the social cleansing machine.

Beyond the small sphere of me in my sandwich, there’s the world at large and plenty to worry about, not least of which is the rise of the right. Those of us on the left, and anyone who cares about the planet we all share, we need to find our voices. Fascists will not be reasoned with, so there’s little point trying to debate, negotiate and be democratic with the blinkered and socially-conditioned.

I’ve written of positive outcomes for humanity and our home, just as I’ve doomed them both in other stories, where the right’s solution is population reduction. Being an optimist or pessimist about such existential things might actually determine the outcome. At the end of it all, that thought strangely perks me up, as it’s more a duty than a choice.

I feel slightly more hopeful about the coming weeks and months now than I did when I started writing. Sometimes it’s nice to talk to myself as I type, just to relieve some pressure. It’s always been my only real therapy. Thanks for reading.