This is a story about exclusion...

The police have finished their investigation and the coroner's inquest has happened. Does that mean that those of us who are privy to information which should never have been shared with us can now break cover?

"[Ted Senior] has killed himself"

I got this text message on Monday 12th February. Ted Senior had hanged himself on Saturday 10th February.

I didn't know Ted Senior. I'd been in his bedroom. I might have seen him in passing in his house. I might have seen him in passing in the area of Swansea where he lived.

Somebody sent me that text.

Prior to that, somebody had told me confidential details about what Ted had shared online and the consequential furore after it "went viral" (to quote the tabloid press). Somebody had told me how isolated Ted was; how badly he was being treated at university. Somebody said they'd told him he should go home and see his mum. That's what he did: he went back to the family home, he wrote a suicide note and then he hanged himself.

From what I've read in the newspapers, Ted's family want to know how suicides can be prevented in future. Ted's family are raising money for a foundation in Ted's name that will invest "in projects and forums aimed at preventing a reoccurrence of a similar tragedy". So, I know for a fact that Ted's family want to prevent a reoccurrence of a similar tragedy. I think that gives me a right - an obligation - to speak up about my own suicidal thoughts.

I've written, deleted, censored and edited so much on the subject of Ted Senior's suicide, because I empathise so strongly with what drove Ted to kill himself, yet there are some who believe that it's best to cover-up and gloss over the enormously powerful forces that drove this bright young man to take his own life.

At this stage, there's nothing that I want to add to the sensationalistic tabloid news coverage angle, because I think the media have been reasonably respectful towards a young man who made a simple error of judgement: sharing something online when he believed it would be kept private. But his entire future was jeopardised. A silly mistake looked like it was going to destroy everything he'd ever hoped to achieve: to become a doctor. I can empathise so much with the feeling that his opportunity to have a prestigious qualification, a prestigious job with high social status, a decent salary; the house, the car, the wife, the kids; the respect of society and the life he'd always dreamed of - that was all about to be destroyed. I can empathise.

I didn't want to know any of the inside details of Ted's alleged misdemeanour. I didn't want to get involved. I didn't want the gory confidential details shared with me, but they were. Then things escalated to the point where Ted Senior committed suicide and I've got to process everything on my own. I've got no support network. I've got nobody I can talk to about this. I've got nobody I can confide in. I'm a keeper of secrets that I should never have been entrusted to keep and I don't like it. In fact, I hate it.

I've kept shtum about Ted Senior until the police investigation and the coroner's inquest have been completed - I have nothing valuable to add - but I need to let it be known that I've had to deal with the confidential details of this case all on my own, in isolation, with nobody to talk to. I've maintained confidentiality when others who should have known better have been loose-lipped. I've been the one who's borne the burden of empathising with the plight of Ted Senior for a long time, while also not feeling able to discuss it with a single soul.

It's a lot to bear on one's own.

Tags: #suicide

This is a story about insight...

My own perceptions and judgement are very rarely reliable, so I depend on a handful of trusted people whose opinion I value so highly, that if two or more them are in agreement, I will substitute my own firmly held beliefs for theirs.

I can adamantly believe that a certain course of action is the correct one, and be completely unable to understand why anybody would not agree with me, but if two of my trusted inner circle disagree with me, I'll go with their better judgement.

I very often suffer wildly warped perceptions, which cause me suicidal depression and intolerable anxiety, but if two of my trusted inner circle perceive my situation differently - more positively - I will "tread water" in the hope that my own perceptions will move towards a more positive outlook.

My trusted inner circle is not some great reservoir from which to draw as much as I need whenever I need it. Generally, I seek a first preferred opinion and then a second to corroborate. The great paradox of the system is that I quickly make my own unwise decision to eject people from my trusted inner circle, leaving myself woefully short of the independent guidance I heavily rely upon.

Relatively recently, I've ejected three out of four people whose opinion I valued, who live locally. Two others who I'd previously been in regular contact with now have things happening in their personal lives, which puts them "off limits". I worry that my guardian angel's perceptions and judgements can be as warped as mine, so therefore I disregard their opinion, although I value them immensely as a friend. That leaves one person, presently, who can occasionally be relied upon to give me some precious guidance.

When I cast the net wider I have friends all around the world who I never speak to on the phone, and our periods of communication are patchy: sometimes we're in contact, but then there'll be long periods of radio silence. When these people speak up, I listen and respect their opinions, but my life becomes unmanageable: I have too many opinions to consider; too many contradictions; too many platitudes to filter out.

At the moment, a friend from Ireland has been phoning me and that's helped a lot to end one self-destructive aspect of my behaviour. The other person who springs to mind is a friend from New Zealand who's pointed out my repetitive, obsessive, cyclical pattern of behaviour, which I'd noticed myself but would easily ignore if left to my own devices.

The breakneck speed at which I travel, the immutability of my opinions - no matter how ridiculous - and my extremely poor judgement and impaired perceptions, create a toxic combination which leads to terrible decision making and regrettable actions, invariably making situations worse and damaging things beyond the point of repair.

As things stand, I hate where I live - both the place and the apartment - and I hate my job. I feel like my blog is ruined, which was just about the only thing I felt proud of and secure about. I feel like I'll never achieve financial security. I feel like I'll never have the social group and the partner I desperately need to be a secure and happy person. I feel like I'll never be happy. I feel like the stress and anxiety will be with me forever. I feel like there's no hope and that there's no point in anything: no point even trying.

I have enough insight to see that I've completely destabilised myself, by meddling with my brain chemistry and breaking up with my girlfriend. I have enough insight to see that hijacking my blog to grind my axe and expose my obsessive, unhealthy, repetitive, negative thought patterns, is something that would damage the relationship with my readers and particularly those who actively support me via social media. I have enough insight to see that becoming unwell has damaged the 'golden boy' image I had at work, which gave me a great deal of pride and security.

Despite that, the wind has gone out of my sails, and I genuinely believe everything is ruined. I don't feel like I've got the energy to fix things. I don't feel like I'm able to handle the things that will inevitably go wrong, or be disappointing. I can't see a workable solution; a way forward.

I should be putting myself out there, meeting new people, leveraging the many advantages I am lucky enough to have, but it seems almost impossible to muster the energy, enthusiasm and to get into a positive mindset.

I'm aware that this piece of writing is quite deflating; very negative. I'm aware that it's self-defeating, as it drives more people away. Who wants to read about somebody who feels so sorry for themselves, when it's pretty clear that most of their problems are of their own making? Who wants to read about somebody complaining that they're miserable, instead of doing things which would improve their life?

I'm astounded by the stark contrast between how I felt at the beginning of the month, when the weather started to improve, and now. I might have enough insight to see that it is my mood which is mainly at fault, but I still have to live with my warped perceptions and the unbearable unpleasantness of my feelings.

Are there any solutions? I think the best one is to act as normal as possible, pretend like everything's fine with my work colleagues, and don't do anything stupid... just sit it out and wait for the storm to pass.

Tags: #depression #suicide

This is a story about disguise...

Far sooner than I expected, I've reached a point where at least one work colleague has found my blog and I'm also facing the possibility that I might have to undergo further security vetting, which may reveal the double-life that I lead.

I don't really lead a double-life, because my name is plastered all over the pages of the internet and I make no attempt to hide my identity. Nobody asked me about my mental health. Nobody asked me any questions about my rather turbulent ride that brought me to this point. I haven't told any lies, or even been economical with the truth. The truth is that nobody's really cared about what's gone on in my personal life, because I always do a good job and deliver high quality work on time.

I am facing a bit of a difficult decision. I might have to go through a whole load more gatekeepers and submit myself to a load of horrible scrutiny, in order to keep progressing with my career, and to get a bit of security and stability in my life.

I'm loath to delete my Twitter and Facebook accounts and take down my blog, because then I lose one of the most important parts of my life - my digital identity and my personal brand, which I've cultivated for the purpose of what, I don't know... but it's extremely good for staying afloat when my mood has been unstable and my life has been smashed to bits; I've been through some very rough times. Who would I be without all the people who I can stay in contact with via my blog and social media? Who would I be if I just had my job and nothing else? I'd have nothing to fall back on if my day job wasn't going well, for whatever reason.

I work a full day in the office, and then I come home and write. I suppose you'd say that writing is my second job, but in fact I put far more effort and energy into my writing than I do in my day job. I'm not lazy or idle in the office, you have to understand, but it requires so little brain power and creativity. I think it'd drive me nuts to not have a creative outlet which I can plough all my excess effort into.

Things are going well at work. I've been well received by my colleagues and the bosses are pleased; the client is happy. The projects I'm working on are going well and I'm making a useful contribution - I'm an asset to the team.

It seems dumb to take a chance. Surely it's insanity to risk getting sacked, by writing candidly about my mental health problems, and about the difficulties I've had during the last few years. To risk my livelihood; my income - that's nuts, right?

It was too exhausting to live a lie. I tried to cover up the fact that my mood fluctuates up and down. To try to pretend like I'm a perfect corporate drone who can plod along and be a steady eddie was making me sick. Far too much effort was expended by me, trying to shoehorn myself into a job that was made for an unambitious mediocre plodder, who can get up early and go sit at a desk achieving precisely nothing for 45+ years, until they retire. Yes, it's arrogant and primadonna-esque to presume that I'm capable of doing and achieving anything noteworthy, but it doesn't suit my personality at all to get some dog-shit job and then cling onto it with my fingernails for over 4 decades, doing very little. It makes me sick, being held back and thwarted by the plodders. I'm not made for plodding.

Of course, boredom is profitable and it's healthy for me to pace myself. I've found a happy medium at the moment where I work hard in the office, but I leave early every day and I don't take things too seriously - I'm not getting too absorbed in my work. I work to live, not live to work, and that's healthier.

So, I could tear down my digital identity, because it's soon going to become career limiting. Sooner or later somebody's going to take me to one side and say "errr... about your blog...". I'm not going to back down though, because I'm not doing anything wrong - I'm not breaching my code of conduct, acting unprofessionally, talking about anything confidential, risking security, privacy or anything else. All I'm doing is writing truthfully, openly, honestly, transparently and candidly about who I really am about what makes me tick.

It'd be a shame if who I am became career limiting, because I really can do my job, and I can do it really well. I hate that we're asked to pretend to be somebody that we're not, just to conform and earn money and get ahead in our careers. I hate that organisations have that power over us.

Tags: #career #privacy #socialmedia #writing

This is a story about crossing a line...

To say I'm not sorry, I'm unremorseful, I don't live with regrets and I've never made a mistake, would be completely untrue. My life is fairly simple - work, eat, sleep - so I have a lot of time to think about things. I'm always prepared to consider the possibility that I've overstepped the mark; that I've gone too far.

The level of isolation I live with is something that 99% of people would find intolerable. Humans are sociable creatures. I'm quite a sociable guy, but my life completely collapsed and I haven't rebuilt it yet. I started a new job a little over a month ago and I'm starting to build a good relationship with my colleagues, but it's early days and I have to tread carefully because I really need the job and I don't really want everyone to know that I've been really unwell. I only moved to the area a little over 6 months ago, and I've spent half that time working in London, so I've not had much opportunity to make new friends yet.

I wake up, I drive to work and I think about what I'm going to write. My job's pretty easy, so I spent lots of time at work thinking about what I'm going to write. I get home and I write. I then spend a lot of time thinking about what I've just written. I often think that what I've just written doesn't accurately reflect how I'm feeling because I feel differently after writing. On reflection, I often feel like I've gone too far - I've been too passive-aggressive and critical; I've been a little negative and cynical. However, if I let my frustrations build up I'd explode or be driven mad.

You probably don't realise just how much you use your support network every day, because you take those people for granted. If you're feeling upset about something, you can pick up the phone or talk to somebody face-to-face. I often don't have that. At work I put on my corporate mask and pretend like everything's perfect in my personal life. With people who I rely upon for my money and my accommodation, I have to present a fake front, because my life depends on it. I'm very rarely able to be myself, and when I am able to finally talk with people who I can be honest and open with, they tend to be my social media contacts, because of my isolated life.

I have a girlfriend and she's great, but I can't have a dependency on one single person - that's too much pressure. My girlfriend suggests seeing a therapist, but that's expensive and you can only talk to them for an hour a week... provided you even like and respect them, of course. Finding a good therapist is a hard enough challenge in and of itself.

If you imagine the amount of traumatic experiences I've had in the past few years - a horrendous leg injury, suicide attempt, kidney failure, police, sleeping rough, crisis house, hostel, police, lost job, evicted, hostel, police, psych ward, DVT, kidney failure, dialysis, homeless and virtually bankrupt, suicide attempt, police, psych ward - then I hope you realise that an hour of week of speaking to a therapist isn't really going to cut the mustard... hence the blog.

I arrive at the point I'm at today, heavily traumatised.

You can't see the trauma, but I know it's there because I keep getting invasive thoughts that stab me like a knife in the guts.

The shit I've been through doesn't give me an excuse to be shitty to people and not be sorry when I upset people. The shit I've been through doesn't give me an excuse to say and do whatever the fuck I want. But, I've only got a limited amount of patience for anybody who makes my life any harder than it needs to be. I've only got a limited amount of patience for anybody who thinks they've got quick fixes and easy solutions. I can only humour people for so long.

Dealing with this post-traumatic stress is taking a long time. There's a lot of shit to work through. There's a lot of stuff I'm getting over. I only just managed to get myself into secure housing and start a job that I can tolerate. My finances are still shitty and I'm only just getting to the point where I'm a couple of weeks away from a cash injection I desperately need. There's been a mountain of practical stuff to sort out, on top of the psychological damage; the trauma.

Frankly, I'm surprised that I'm not more vindictive and nasty, because I've been through a right load of shit and I'm still deeply traumatised. It's true that people have been hurt who don't deserve it, but it's not true that I'm not sorry... in 99% of the cases, I'm sorry when somebody got hurt by me lashing out.

I don't really have anybody who regularly provides some kind of checks & balance on my behaviour. Most of us talk to our friends and family and then our initial anger and indignation dissipates... we feel like we're being unreasonable, when we voice our frustrations to our trusted confidantes. My blog is my trusted confidante, because my life collapsed and I'm dealing with a clusterfuck of post-traumatic stress.

Yes, my blog is public, but I also avoid using names or other things that might identify people. Yes, my blog is public, but how else am I supposed to get the support that I need, when I'm in such a dangerously low and precarious situation? Yes you might feel personally attacked, but are you absolutely certain that it's you I'm talking about? If you think it's you, is that because you've got a guilty conscience?

So, sorry I'm not sorry. But I also am sorry too, in those cases where I overstepped the mark; where I was unnecessarily unkind.

Tags: #writing #ptsd

This is a story about justice...

If you're a self-righteous twat and you're a privileged and entitled member of the guardian class, then you snobbily and sneeringly believe that you're in the right on every matter. Surrounded by sycophants and a society that worships you because of your social status; your kindly-call-me-God job title, you expect people to drop to their knees and kiss your arse.

Most ordinary people have the support of their families. Most ordinary people are well established in their careers and at their place of work, with their colleagues. Most people have a group of friends who they see and communicate with regularly. Most ordinary people are well established in the real world.

When you get tarred with the 'mad' brush, people who don't even know you can start being dreadfully patronising. "Have you taken your medication?" and "do you think you should up the dose?" and "are you having an episode?" people will ask, instead of talking to you like a normal human being.

Example:

Me: "Ugh! This cup of tea tastes disgusting! You've put two spoonfuls of salt in it instead of sugar"

Patronising twat: "<aside> awww bless, he's having an episode. Better get him to the doctor and get his medication increased"

You can't argue with a twat like that. If you tell the twat to taste the tea, which obviously contains two spoonfuls of salt, then they'll be evasive and blame the victim. It's a horrible way to treat people.

Thus, social media is needed to arbitrate in instances where a vulnerable person is being mistreated. By calmly presenting the facts on social media, a jury of my peers can decide, instead of some smug arrogant guardian-class twat, who thinks they're right about everything, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Social media is the best place to go when you're alone and isolated, because you can crowdsource support. Instead of getting wound up by those who hold themselves to be immune from criticism, and incapable of making a mistake, engaging the power of social media can hold a twat to account.

I'm really pleased that there's an immutable permanent record of everything I've had to put in front of a jury of my peers. I'm glad to have the record of what the crowd thought. I'm glad that everything is stored for posterity. I'm really grateful to have this antidote to the patronising smug twat who thinks they know best.

I've made mistakes in the past, putting stuff in emails and on Facebook restricted to my close friends. I've made mistakes when I've been extremely unwell. However, on balance, using social media and public scrutiny as a means of holding a twat to account has been a staggering successful strategy for returning myself to health, wealth and prosperity.

Very few people could have survived the destitution and stress that I've been through, with only a few people fighting my corner. I'm lucky enough to have some very loyal friends who I love dearly, but they're spread all over the country and the world. I've almost exclusively turned to social media when I've needed support the most, and social media has delivered.

I've been feeling pretty lonely and isolated and low over the last few weeks, but I've had a great response on Twitter, which has really boosted my spirits. I'm glad to have connected with so many lovely people via social media. I really depend on my social media friends, when I'm having a bad time.

So, in the case of the Twat vs. Social Media, very clearly the online crowd are the winners.

Tags: #socialmedia

This is a story about having a chip on my shoulder...

Seemingly out of nowhere a huge grudge has reared its ugly head. It felt like I'd been biting my tongue for a long time, and sadly it seems like I'd been unable to forgive and forget a big list of transgressions. I don't know why I've been carrying this unhelpful baggage around. I don't know why my own less-than-perfect behaviour doesn't cancel out the occasions which have upset me. I don't know why I haven't been able to resolve problems amicably. However, I blew up; I got mad. A huge tsunami of anger hit me and I've raged about all the stuff that's been bothering me for a long time, which I'd bottled up.

Every time I censor my blog, it's a huge mistake.

My blog is where I come to write, as a coping mechanism for some awful stuff that I've been through. My blog is a healthy coping mechanism, when so many others would resort to drugs & alcohol, or perhaps be driven mad by the torment of their suffering. My blog has been miraculously therapeutic at getting me through so many episodes of relapse, hospitalisation, homelessness, lost jobs, near-bankruptcy and other financial distress, and very difficult struggles with drink, drugs and mental health problems. I depend on my blog. To be denied the opportunity to write freely has dire consequences.

It was a huge mistake to censor my blog.

I took down a blog post as a goodwill gesture. It was a mistake. There was nothing in the blog post that was offensive or in any way problematic.

I had days of hell where I had absolutely no idea what was wrong with what I'd written. I had days of hell where there was an impending confrontation linked to somebody who had quite routinely tormented me and had been very aggressive. I thought things got resolved, but my Twitter was later examined with a fine-tooth comb and the unpleasant and extremely stressful confrontation - far worse than I had been expecting or prepared for - was completely pointless because the goodwill gesture achieved nothing. In fact, deleting my blog post and then being unable to write because I had no idea what was problematic with it, was incredibly disruptive and ultimately futile; pointless.

Unintentionally, the dam burst and I wrote about all the things that had been bothering me, but I wrote in a way that was stoked up by the unpleasant nasty confrontation and the censorship of my blog. It was a stressful and confusing situation, and ultimately it was utterly pointless - I should never have censored my blog or attempted reconciliation. As a result, things have come out with a lot more anger than I'd have liked. Things have come out a lot more forcefully than I'd have liked.

I can totally understand why I was Tweeting so desperately, having gone through 4 sleepless nights and had nothing to go on except an abusive phonecall... plus all the other unpleasant stuff that had gone before, of course. What had gone before could perhaps have been shrugged off as "a clash of personalities" but ended up crystallising into the firm belief that I didn't want anything more to do with a person who'd caused me a great deal of distress. I don't want to make things personal. I don't want to take someone to pieces and destroy them on social media and on my blog. What you have to understand is that this blog is my coping mechanism - this is where I come when I'm hurting, to work stuff out.

I'd like to stop being bitter, angry and vindictive, but I know that this fire's gonna burn for far longer than I want. I really want a clean break; a fresh start. I really want to move on. I want to forget all about the whole dismal episode.

I may end up re-writing the original blog post that I deleted, and publishing it in its edited form, as some kind of closure.

Publish or perish.

You have to understand that's why I write: because it's a life-or-death situation.

Tags: #writing #socialmedia #suicide

This is a story about having a place to call home...

Here's a picture of what it's like being of no fixed abode. The pins mark the 12 places where I've stayed in the last three months, with the exception of a hotel in Warsaw and my friends' place in Wales. You might not think of me as homeless because I've not been sleeping rough, but I've not enjoyed the security of owning a home or having a tenancy agreement. The process of evicting somebody onto the street is not that difficult if they're in rent arrears or defaulting on their mortgage, but things are even more insecure if you're no fixed abode. You have no rights if you're sofa surfing. This is not a criticism of the wonderfully kind and generous thing that my friends have done, letting me live with them, but it's still a form of homelessness to not have a home of your own.

It's really expensive being homeless. If you can't raise the money for a deposit you'll pay a premium for a hostel bed or to rent a room. It cost me an absolute fortune in train fares, travelling back to Wales every weekend because Friday and Saturday nights are more expensive than staying midweek in London, and there's less availability.

You might think it's laughable that I consider myself to be homeless, but I've slept rough and I've lived in hostels. I know what homelessness is. I know what being down and out on the streets is. I've lived it. I'm still homeless - one argument with my friends and they could ask me to leave. I don't have secure housing. That makes me homeless. Yes, my friends are incredibly kind and charitable, but can you imagine what it's like living without the legal protection that you take for granted? In Maslow's hierarchy of needs shelter and security are the foundations on which our entire sense of happiness and contentment are built. Can you imagine not having a home of your own, but instead being reliant on the ongoing charity of perhaps one single person? Can you imagine how insecure that would make you feel?

Undoubtedly my life has been saved by my kind friends taking me in and making me feel incredibly welcome in their family. Undoubtedly my recovery, my stability, my improved situation can be credited to the kind family who took me in. Without their love, support, food and shelter I'd have been shoved into to some godforsaken B&B in the Greater Manchester area and probably have gotten stuck in the revolving-doors of the mental health system, seen as a basket case and a drain on society; an undesirable. With support I've been able to get myself back on my feet, almost.

I'm really not biting the hand that feeds me. I'm incensed that it's so hard to find security in British society. All I want is a secure place to live and a tolerable job that pays enough money for a modest little life. Why is it so hard to re-enter civilised society? Why are there so many gatekeepers and obstacles, stopping people from pulling themselves by their bootstraps and getting themselves back on their feet?

The stress and anxiety of the bureaucratic nightmare involved in getting a job and renting an apartment is a utterly dreadful. I've had to produce so many documents, fill in so many forms, answer so many questions and have my life poked and prodded by an army of nosey parkers, intent on discovering any black mark that might give them an excuse to reject me. I don't know why people even bother subjecting themselves to such an ordeal. I can see why so many people find themselves homeless - it's just so awful and stressful to keep the plates spinning and the wheels turning and remain a member of civilised society. There's an enormous barrier to entry, and I'm one of the lucky ones because I don't have a criminal record or a bankruptcy that makes me one of society's rejects.

One week today I might get the keys to an apartment that I can call my own if I'm lucky. I'm going through a tenancy *application* process. It should be noted that it's seen as an application - I'll only be allowed to hand over my hard-earned cash to somebody who's not going to work for it if I'm lucky. I'm only allowed to be a slave of the rentier class if I'm lucky. I shall have to doff my cap and kowtow and pray to the sky monster that I am allowed to have something that should be a basic human right.

It's awful that property is seen as an asset. It's awful that we have to mortgage ourselves up to the eyeballs or pay rent for all eternity, to line the pockets of the capitalists. Property isn't something we should profit from. Property is essential for life, and to attempt to profit from it is wicked and evil. It's no different than buying up all the insulin and then price gouging, because the alternative to not having it is death. Profit and capital gain is not driving efficiency, it's driving misery. Property speculation is not rewarding hard work and useful contribution to society... in fact it's rewarding the most antisocial people in society.

While the headline news for the best part of two weeks has all been about a man who got sick but hasn't actually even died, have we forgotten how many people are living in poverty? Have we forgotten about the mental health epidemic that's ruining so many lives and causing so many suicides? Have we forgotten about how many people are just about managing, or in fact are not managing at all - those who are on the brink of financial ruin, poverty, destitution - and are having a thoroughly miserable time? Have we forgotten about the tens of millions of British people who are living lives of quiet desperation, because the media has an agenda to push - that we should supposedly give a shit about one former spy who hasn't even died yet - instead of the very real suffering of a vast and ever-growing proportion of society?

I can understand why they call the magazine sold by the homeless The Big Issue. Why aren't homelessness and housing issues top of the political and media agenda? I couldn't give two fucks about a half-poisoned spy when so many people are freezing to death on the streets.

Tags: #homeless

This is a story about novels...

I wonder why I don't write more fiction. I wonder why I haven't retreated into a fantasy world. I think it's because my reality has been stranger than fiction; my life has had more drama than any fable I've read. I wonder why I'm not compelled to delve into the realm of science fiction. I think it's because I'm entranced by the mysteries of the universe - the possibilities of scientific discovery are far more interesting and important than made-up stuff, even if it does fire the imagination.

The first novel I wrote was important, because it allowed me to explore the hardest thing in my life: my addiction. I felt like I was trapped into a destiny that could only lead to health problems, getting in trouble with the police, being locked up on psych wards and in prison, and a premature death. I felt like it was all my fault - because of bad choices - and that there was no escape. In fact, the solution was to take things to their ultimate conclusion in a fictional world. In writing the story of Neil and his descent into the world of addiction, I was forgiving myself. By telling the story, I could understand that addiction is not about moral weakness, stupidity, bad character and individual responsibility. By telling Neil's story, I could see that he was as trapped as I was and that it wasn't his fault that circumstances led him to the brink of the most awful death imaginable.

The second novel - almost but not quite completed - allowed me to play out a fantasy instead of acting it out in real life. I needed to move from an individualistic to a social mindset. I needed to think about people other than myself. Having a cast of characters to play with was important to take me back to a time when I had healthy friendships and a sense of purpose. I was undecided whether to write a utopian novel or a dystopian one. In the end I decided that it would be both, because life is messy. I was very strict with myself, trying to keep things grounded in reality and not fudge awkward details. It was very hard. Some of the point of writing fiction is to allow the author to fantasise about whatever they want and construct the back story to conveniently fit the world they want to create. I didn't allow myself that artistic freedom - I wanted the reader to understand how hard it would be for somebody to create a better society.

I wonder why I write. In my mind I've been writing every day for three years, but the reality is that I've skipped a lot of days and it's more like two and a half years. In my mind, I've written a million words, but the actual word count is 844,000 and it's more like 750,000 if you subtract the word count of my two novels. In my mind, this blog tells a clear and consistent story of rags to riches, and explains the complexity of mental health and addiction. In reality, I've written 750,000 words of self-centred drivel and a very great deal of it is quite vindictive and passive-aggressive. Undoubtedly though, it's a project I feel proud of, despite the realisation that a lot of what I've written is garbage, spewed out when I was very unwell. It makes me cringe to read stuff I wrote when I was high or otherwise strung-out due to sleep deprivation and drug abuse. It's very difficult to re-live periods when I was extremely distressed, due to bad jobs, financial woes, housing insecurity, depression, anxiety and lots of other awful things.

I have regularly proclaimed that I'm going to make a change, only to fail spectacularly to enact one. When I stopped writing my blog during November of last year to write my second novel, I found it really hard to live without my daily blog post. I write because it's a habit and a coping mechanism, and without it I struggle. I write because it gives me stability in an otherwise unstable life.

It surprised me how little traction I was getting in terms of getting readers and Twitter followers, until 6 months ago or so. My social media engagement - likes, comments and shares - was abysmal. Why on earth was I pouring my heart and soul into a project when so few people were reading? Who would spend two years of their life writing stuff that hardly anybody wanted to read? Turns out there aren't any short-cuts; there's no easy way. If you're not writing regularly then you're not going to get regular readers. It's hard damn work to build something that anybody thinks is worth reading. I don't think that my stuff is "worth reading" but I'm glad that I exist in the form of these words on the page; I'm glad I've put myself out there for the world to judge me.

I regularly read quite a few blogs and I enjoy the sense of participation in the lives of those people. I like knowing what's going on in their worlds, and what the history is that led them to the present day - what makes them tick. To begin with, it's easier if a person writes short and sweet little updates and a relationship is formed slowly over time, but then I'm often left feeling I want more - I wish people wrote more. I'm always surprised by how infrequently some people write and how reserved they are. I guess we can't all have verbal diarrhoea like me, huh?

A friend describes how he listens to the radio or watches Youtube vloggers because he's used to the voices, the personalities - it's company. I hope that if I can be consistent that I'm providing a kind of company for my readers - I'm a familiar voice too. I worry that I'm droning on and that I transmit far more than I receive, but it's helpful for me to keep this regular thing going. At least I'm still here in the land of the living if I'm writing. It serves as a kind of heartbeat if nothing else - if I go quiet then people will worry, and not without good reason. Thinking "what am I going to write about today?" is a purpose, in the absence of another. A purpose is important, in life.

If you wanna be a writer, you've got to write. I'm not sure if I want to be a writer, because they're very badly paid and their artistic freedom is restricted by the need to write commercially-viable pieces. In fact, I am a writer, first and foremost. I have a job that pays the bills and gives me plenty of time to write - I'm one of the best paid writers you know. I'm not sure I'm a novelist, but I'm definitely a writer. I'm definitely going to continue until I've reached my 3-year anniversary and a million words published on this blog, later this year.

I'm not particularly motivated to write fiction at the moment because I want to know how my own story ends. My life is going through an exciting period with some very real "will he?/won't he?" jeopardy. It's a nail-biter.

Tags: #writing

This is a story about anonymity...

I work somewhere doing something for somebody. I have a date of birth, a place of birth, parents. I have previous addresses and previous employers. I am the sum total of the data you can gather about me on a form.

Am I single, co-habiting, married, divorced, widowed? Do I have any dependents?

I'm being urged to tear down my digital identity, for the sake of what? Is it right that we should allow our work to occupy such an important role in our lives that we must create a sanitised identity that purely exists for the purpose of putting food in our bellies? Is it right that we're so desperate to exist that we erase parts of who we are which are not corporate-friendly? Is it acceptable that we have to paint a certain image of ourselves that's more compatible with the expectation of any cyber-snoopers who might come looking for dirt on us online, who could scupper our career objectives?

I don't drag my profession in to disrepute, except to ask whether the distribution of wealth is unfair, and whether the encroachment of work in our private lives is too much, when we live lives of quiet desperation; hiding our distress lest we make ourselves unemployable. I don't write anything that's confidential or would otherwise cause any difficulty for my employers, except that I have a strong position on the fact that the remuneration which most of us receive does not adequately compensate for the suffering.

Yes, it would be most prudent to tear down the digital identity that I've created, because I'm the little guy - I can get squashed like a bug and nobody will notice. It would be easy to find myself muscled out of 'civilised' society because I've been brave enough to speak out. It's easy to weed out any detractors. I need to learn my lesson - step out of line and I'll starve.

The power of the socially coercive effects is profound. It's remarkable how we're conditioned to put up and shut up. The economic incentives to cower in silence are inescapable, if you wish to live in the way that so many of us do - it's hard to go your own way. You'll be both gently and aggressively nudged into conformant behaviour patterns.

I'm not sure what I'm going to write about and what my writing style is, now that I am entering a period where I have a gun to my head - conform or die. Perhaps this is a little hyperbolic, but those who choose to live their life as part of alternative society will find it tough going. Fit in or fuck off.

While we believe that we're living in an era of unparalleled personal freedom of expression, the reality is that we are perhaps coerced and controlled more than at any time before in history, because it's so easy to dip into people's private thoughts and creative outputs, via the internet and social media. Since the death of letter-writing and journal-keeping, we are inadvertently wearing our hearts on our sleeves through our Facebook walls, Instagram feeds and other publicly accessible mediums through which we express ourselves.

I don't feel like I made a mistake and that I should tear down everything I've written, lest it be discovered, but I'm aware that I'm facing a difficult period where I have to re-evaluate what it means to "be myself" while retaining compatibility with my chosen source of income. It's undoubtably desirable to be very well paid doing what I do, rather than switching to a 'lifestyle job' where I'd be free to wear a green mohawk hairstyle and adorn my face with myriad tattoos and piercings. Life is a lot easier when you have loads of money and don't have to work very hard, although I disagree with how much the corporate world imposes itself on peoples' identity.

It would be nice to express myself without self-censorship. It would be nice to be able to have a single unified identity that's compatible with any situation and not have to think about what's NSFW (Not Safe For Work). I'm trying to be brave, while also not burning my bridges.

I'm going to keep writing, but my blog posts are going to be very cautious pieces where I avoid talking about any identifying details of who I am and what I do, let alone the gory stuff that goes on in my head. The idea is to create a series of blog posts that would bore any would-be cyberstalker from the corporate world, intent on digging dirt on me - those wage-slaves are hopefully going to demonstrate a spectacularly lacklustre dedication to the job, as they do in everything they do, which will mean that I'll be safe from any lazy glance that might be paid to the pages of this website.

This could be a very costly mistake, but the experiment continues.

Tags: #writing

This is a story about cyberstalking...

Things are starting to happen faster than I thought they would. I'm not prepared. I didn't think things would slot into place so easily. There's a slim chance I might get a couple of things I really want and need, but the very existence of this blog jeopardises those things. Being sensible, I'd just cut the power and abandon this blog, because the stakes are too high.

How much digging are people prepared to do? There's the best part of 825,000 words here, if you wanted to read it all. Would you be able to say that you reached the right judgement about me, unless you read absolutely everything? Is it really fair to judge somebody on the chapter of their life you walked in on? Can you claim that a small random sample would be representative of who I am?

The easy answer, for most, is not to make so much stuff public. It's simple: Don't write a public blog. Keep things so utterly boring that nobody would get any further than the first few words. I should write about what I ate for breakfast. I should write about things that nobody can relate to. I should write about things that nobody's interested in except for me... well, maybe I do that already.

I'm really badly exposed. I could lose a couple of things that are really important to me. I have the opportunity to build a nice quiet little life in anonymous obscurity, but the cat's out of the bag - my whole psyche is on display on the pages of the internet, for anybody who wants to take the time to Google me, although mercifully I'm a little bit buried thanks to a rapper who shares my name.

I'm changing mindset. In London there are so many people that you can do anything you want and nobody will recognise you or remember anything you've done. In London there are so many people that there's anonymity in the crowd, even if you're doing something that would ordinarily draw attention to yourself. I need to change my mindset to get into the small community mentality, where my face and my deeds are more likely to be remembered. I'm still an nobody; a nothing, but I want to keep it that way - there's no sense in making a fool of myself. I've gotten so used to saying and doing whatever the hell I want, because there are no consequences in London, but in a small town that's not the case. I could end up making myself undateable and unemployable.

I'm trying to tread a fine line between the humble assumption that nobody gives a shit who I am and nobody cares what I've got to say, versus the very real possibility that somebody somewhere might notice me - I really don't want to mix my blogging identity with my professional identity, for the sake of my career. I'm quite careful not to drop the names of my clients or any details of the projects I work on, but I'm not anonymous - I use my real name.

This blog is an experiment. I don't want to be anonymous, but London forced anonymity on me. I could have died in a ditch and nobody would've noticed. I wrote this blog because I wanted to raise my profile. I needed to raise my profile, because anonymity had led me to the point where I felt like nobody cared whether I lived or died, and nobody understood what was going on.

I have ethical objections to anonymity and the pressure to maintain a spotless corporate-friendly immaculate CV with no gaps, and a whiter-than-white social media image. I think it's too much pressure, to ask people to hide their faults. I think it's bullshit, to pretend like we don't have mental health problems, or have made any mistakes in our life. I think anonymity is a fate worse than death. Fuck anonymity.

I hope that one day, I can unify my dating profile with my CV and my LinkedIn and this blog. I hope that one day it's socially acceptable to announce my faults along with my achievements. I think that too many talented people; too many valuable lives are squandered because we insist on presenting such a bullshit image of perfection, when humans are anything but perfect. I think it's making us sick and anxious, having to wear a mask all the time, for the sake of our pathetic salaries.

It's me who's going to end up buried, potentially, if I'm not careful and I don't shut up. One slip, and you're labelled as undesirable, unemployable, undateable... the wrong sort of person. One slip, and you can find yourself shunted into the sidings. There are so many gatekeepers who are looking for a reason to reject you.

So, I challenge those who would skim a tiny fraction of what I've written and decide that they've read enough to judge me, to either read more, or not to bother trying to leap to any quick conclusions. If you want a synopsis of me, it's there to be found in the form of my CV, my LinkedIn and my other sanitised bullshit that you see every day. This is something special that you don't normally get to see, so treat it with respect. Everybody has a real life which doesn't fit onto 2 pages of A4 paper, and contains mistakes as well as all the good stuff, but you don't get to read about the bad stuff, normally.

I think what I'm doing is brave, and it helps me so I'm not going to hide it. I think that we should be moving towards honesty, transparency and authenticity. I think we've been living for far too long, with an encroachment of the workplace that forces us to present ourselves in the very best possible light. I think that society is facing an incredible amount of problems because we can't talk about our mental health problems; our stress levels, for fear of being seen as sick, weak and unreliable by our employers. I think that I'm living life the right way, even though it could potentially be very costly for me. Somebody's got to be brave enough to do it first.

This is my 'baggage up front' declaration, and I refuse to back down even though I'm scared. I'm scared I won't be able to get a girlfriend. I'm scared I won't be able to get a job. I'm scared that people will judge me and think that I'm a bad person. It's scary, to write down everything that goes on in my head like this, but it's also cathartic and helpful to me. There's an epidemic of mental health problems and most people are just about managing, and this seems to be the antidote to me - to write with candid honesty about what's really going on, rather than the usual "I'm great" bullshit mask we have to maintain. It's hard work, pretending to be a perfect human being.

So... let's see what happens. I might go broke and be single. If nobody does the experiment, we'll never know the outcome.

Tags: #writing #career