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#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day Twenty-Three

10 min read

Poste Restante

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

 

23. The Box

At the house, Neil's dad, Colin, was going through his son's stuff. There was a winter coat folded up at the bottom of the wardrobe on top of a pile of jumpers. Colin took the coat out, put it on a hanger and hung it up. He found some space in the chest of drawers and started to re-fold and put away the thick wooly jumpers. At the bottom of the pile, there was a shoebox shoved right to the back of the wardrobe. He took the shoebox downstairs and sat down with it at the dining room table.

The shoebox was nearly full to the brim with medication boxes. These were not plain white cardboard boxes that pharmacies gave out prescriptions in, but glossy retail boxes with logos of the pharmaceutical companies and drug brand names emblazoned on them in bright colours. The medications had smarmy names like Abilify and Effexor, suggesting they would confer abilities or be effective.

Some of the boxes had text that was predominantly in Arabic or Cyrillic script, and it was hard to tell exactly what the medication was.

As well as the boxed medications, there were also pills in blister strips that had their ingredients and dosage printed on the silver foil. Some of them had pharmacist's instructions printed in purple ink directly onto the unboxed strips, along with the price, in Indian Rupees.

Finally, there was a big plastic bag filled with mixed loose pills. Some pills were round, others were lozenge shaped, a few were in capsules and others were diamond or triangular shaped. All the pills and capsules had letters and numbers stamped or printed onto them. The pills were mainly white, blue, pale yellow, pink and aquamarine. The capsulses were half green and half yellow or half red and half white.

In a notebook Colin started to write down all the names and dosages of the boxed and blister packed medications. The boxed medications all had two names, but the pills in the strips mainly seemed to only have one ingredient printed on their foil. He then wrote down a description for each of the loose pills: "Round, light pink, GG925".

There were nearly 30 different medications in that shoebox, none of which looked likely to have been prescribed by Neil's doctors.

Going into the box room, Colin now located a small filing cabinet where Neil kept his old bank statements and credit card bills. He returned to the dining room table with a stack of paper that was dated within the last year. The bank statements mostly had recurring direct debit payments for things like mobile phone and Internet. A quick scan through the credit card bills found a few transactions in foreign currencies. It was wholly unclear what the payments were for from the various merchant names.

He went back to the filing cabinet and pulled out all the credit card bills for a two year period, ensuring he had every single one. Then, he found all the bank statements and credit card bills in a big pile of unopened mail. It was no surprise to find that there was no money spent on the credit card after Neil's disappearance.

Putting everything in chronological order, he marked any suspicious transactions on the statements. There were one or two foreign currency transactions on every statement for 6 consecutive months. Immediately after that, some payments to "Frog Eye Wares Ltd" caught Colin's eye. The transactions were all for the same amount - £27.90 - and there were 3 on one statement and 4 on the next: 7 in total.

The credit card transactions ended 6 weeks before Neil had disappeared. Going back to the bank statements, there were two payments to Western Union of circa £150 and daily spending that seemed to always be just over £55, as well as regular cash withdrawals for £50. In a little over a month, Neil appeared to have siphoned off nearly £2,500 from his current account, either getting cashback at local shops and pubs, or at an ATM.

Doing some quick calculations, Colin estimated that his son had spent about £1,300 in foreign currency transactions that he assumed must have been to buy medications from overseas. Neil also seemed to have diverted approximately £3,000 somewhere else, over a 6 week period. "Any problems with drugs or debts?" Lara and the family had all been asked by police officers and private investigators when he went missing. There was no way that this paltry sum of money suggested either. Neil's parents weren't rich, but they would have lent him a couple of thousand without a single question if he'd asked. Besides, Neil's bank account still had money in it and he only had a few hundred pounds of credit card debt.

When Colin was opening Neil's post, he'd made a pile for Lara, but he'd spotted another pile on a sideboard that Neil must have stacked up before he disappeared. Looking through the first few letters, they were all addressed to Lara, but he decided to go through the pile in case there was anything for Neil mixed in with it. He was questioning the futility of the exercise when he found a single piece of paper folded in half.

INVOICE

...

FRL-V4-0.5G £25.00

Postage £2.90

TOTAL: £27.90

Paid in full, with thanks.

...

 

A credit card card receipt for £27.90 was stapled to the invoice, with "customer not present" printed on it. There didn't seem to be a telephone number or an address anywhere on the invoice, just a website: For all enquiries go to www.frogeyewares.co.uk.

Back at the filing cabinet for a third visit, Colin pulled out Neil's mobile phone bills. Some really old ones were itemised with every number and how much the call cost, but the ones from recent years simply showed the amount for line rental and the total amount for call charges.

Unplugging Neil's laptop which was sat charging on a desk in the box room, he coiled the cables and took it downstairs. Returning the shoe box to the wardrobe upstairs, he turned off all the lights and left the house with the invoice tucked into his notebook, the laptop and its charger.

Back at the family home, Colin booted up the laptop and managed to log in using a password that Lara had suggested. She had suggested several of Neil's possible passwords, as well as some variations, but the first one on the list worked. Colin was no computer expert but his job in the civil service had required him to be reasonably IT proficient, so he was able to search for any documents on the computer, check Neil's email inbox and Internet browsing history. The laptop was completely blank, as if it had never been used from the day it was bought.

Using his own computer, Colin now started searching the Internet. The first thing he tried to do was to visit the website from the invoice.

"This website is now closed." was displayed in plain white text on a green background. Nothing more, nothing less.

Searching for "FRL-V4-0.5G" produced no results. Shortening the search terms to "FRL-V4" the Internet suggested a website about a seaport in France. This seemed unlikely to have been sold 7 times, and for less than £30. The acronym "FRL" turned out to have a multitude of uses, none of which offered any promising leads. It was a dead end.

Finally, searching for "frog eye wares" turned up two hits: one was a County Court website and the other was an article from a local newspaper from that area. The court website would not show the result when it was clicked on, displaying instead a "page not found" error message. The newspaper said that a local businesswoman and two of her associates had been arrested and were standing trial in connection with the frogeyewares.co.uk website. There were no details except the date of the article, which was 3 months old.

It was getting late and phoning the court or the newspaper would have to wait until Monday morning.

Now, searching for each of the names of the medications in his notebook, Colin found that the boxed ones were a mixture of antidepressants and atypical antipsychotics with antidepressant effects. The pills in the blister packs were medications more commonly prescribed for narcolepsy and attention-deficit disorders.

Finding out what the loose pills were was a much harder challenge, but there was a website with an excellent search facility that allowed the shape, colour and any markings on the pill to be input. For white round pills, the results were reliable, but for pills that were pinkish or greenish, or of more exotic shapes, there weren't any results. Searching for the markings alone found a lot of results, but Colin ploughed through the pages and narrowed it down to a likely set of candidates.

With a list of active ingredients from the pills, he then searched the Internet to find out what kind of medications they were. There were anxiety drugs, sleeping pills, painkillers, analgesics and more ADHD medication. There were also treatments for fatigue, lethargy and the promotion of weight loss through appetite suppression. A significant number of the active ingredients were listed as controlled substances.

Perhaps Neil did have a drug problem, but if so, why had he left these precious pills behind and how had he managed to hide and pay for an addiction so cheaply? Neil would have lied, cheated, stolen and gone into debt before he disappeared without a trace. Drug problems spiralled. The evidence was undeniable: Neil had been illegally in possession of a number of controlled medications with abuse potential. However, he didn't appear to have been buying them or taking them in great enough quantity to suggest drug abuse.

Not wanting to upset Lara and family with incomplete theories, conjecture and inconclusive evidence, Colin decided to keep quiet over the weekend and pick up his investigation again on Monday morning. He was frustrated and confused, but he was a patient and methodical man, calm and stoical in a crisis.

 

Next chapter...

 

#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day Twenty-One

9 min read

Poste Restante

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

 

21. The Cell

"If you don't mind, please empty everything out of your pockets into this plastic tray."

Neil put his wallet, mobile phone, house keys, loose change, used tissue and a folded piece of paper into the grey plastic tray, which had a sticky label on it with "Neil - Room 8" written on it in red marker pen.

"Do you have anything sharp in any of your pockets that could hurt me? I'm afraid we have to check we've got everything."

"No."

The nurse patted Neil's clothes down and checked the waistband of his trousers and underpants.

"OK, would you mind taking off your belt and your shoes, please. Just pop your shoes down on the table here next to the tray."

Neil complied.

"We have to keep your belt, sorry. I saw you brought a dressing gown and we have to keep the cord from that too. We're also going to have to take the laces from your shoes. We'll go through your bag from home in a minute but you can't have necklaces, cables - such as mobile phone chargers - razors, scissors, keys or anything else sharp."

"OK."

"If it's alright with you, we'll hang on to your mobile phone and keep your wallet safe here at the nurse's station. If you need something for any reason, you can ask one of the staff to get it for you, but we'd really like you to try and relax and get used to the ward for the first few days, so we'll be keeping your phone right here."

The nurse was now coiling the dressing gown cord and putting it in the tray, as he went through rest of Neil's belongings.

"We have to keep aerosols here. If you need your razor you can have it while somebody supervises you shaving."

"I'm not feeling suicidal" Neil said.

"OK, that's great, but there are other patients here who might be. The bedroom doors aren't locked so we have to keep all these high risk items here for everybody's safety."

The nurse showed Neil to his room. The door had a window with a blind which could be opened and closed from the outside. There was a single bed with a foam mattress, a writing desk, a plastic chair, an open wardrobe with drawers at the bottom, a sink and a plastic mirror screwed to the wall. A big window was secured with a wire tether so it could only be opened a few inches. There were no curtains. Across the hallway there was a wet-room with a shower. There was no shower curtain. There were no locks on any of the doors.

"Get yourself settled and then come and sit in the lounge. We try to encourage patients to not spend time in their rooms during the day."

Neil sat on his bed with his bag next to him for a few minutes. He thought about unpacking but he really didn't want to give the impression that he was OK about being detained in hospital against his will. He'd been told to bring a few essential clothes and toiletries. Visitors could bring him anything else he needed once he'd settled in.

In the main part of the ward, there was a lounge at one end with several sofas arranged around a big TV which was hung on the wall. At the other end of the room were a number of tables and chairs. There was a nurses' office and two rooms with sofas in, which had big windows so you could see in and out. There was a doctors' office and an examination room which were private. There was a door leading to the male bedrooms and another one leading to the female bedrooms. A recreation room had a pool table, table tennis table and books in it, as well as a number of patients' artworks displayed on the walls. There was also a small kitchen for the patients to be able to make their own drinks and snacks.

A noticeboard displayed a timetable of the week's events, which had many of the same things that Neil was familiar with from day hospital: art therapy, music therapy, drama therapy and community meetings. A whiteboard had the first names of the 18 patients who were staying on the ward, with their allocated nurse's name written next to it in green marker pen. The ward was at its maximum capacity, with 9 men and 9 women.

There was a dispensary hatch where patients would queue up to get their medication several times a day. There was a door that led out to a small courtyard surrounded by high walls on all sides. That was both the smoking area and the only place that patients were allowed outside without staff supervision.

CCTV cameras were everywhere, except in the bedrooms and bathrooms. The ward was secure but the patients were considered low risk. There was only one locked door between the ward and the main corridor of the hospital that led to the other wards and facilities. For a few days, Neil had to stay on the ward, but then staff members were allowed to escort him to and from the drama studio, art studio and music room.

Some of the patients had obvious scarring on their arms where they had cut themselves. A girl's neck was bandaged. Other patients had problems that were more subtle. A man with a big beard smelt of pooh and always wore pyjamas. Many were quiet and withdrawn and a few would shout randomly, talk or sing to themselves.

"BBC one, BBC two, ITV" a man started. "Channel four" he said, raising his voice an octave higher. He repeated this same phrase over and over in a lyrical and rhythmic way, like he was chanting a mantra. It was quite catchy and Neil found it stuck in his head too.

"I just want to be dead."

This is what Michael said loudly every single morning before breakfast. Neil was a late riser, but he could hear his fellow patient shouting all the way down the corridor.

"OK, Michael. Time for your morning medication" a staff member would coo, coaxing him towards the dispensary hatch. Michael would shuffle along in his slippers. By the time Neil got up for breakfast, Michael would be sat quietly at a table with a vacant stare and a half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of him.

"NEIL! What are you having for breakfast?" Nicole shrieked with excitement.

Nicole was young but some developmental disorder meant that she was even more childlike. Her eyes were always half-closed with her bottom lip protruding. Saliva dripped liberally from her mouth. However, despite her tenuous grasp on almost all aspects of reality, she had latched onto Neil, much to his annoyance.

"I don't know. I might have toast."

"I was going to have toast."

"Actually, I might have corn flakes." he toyed with her.

Nicole hesitated for a moment, looking crestfallen. Then her face lit up.

"I'm going to have corn flakes."

Neil swiftly poured himself some rice crispies and dashed out of the kitchen to find a table with only one spare seat.

"Those aren't corn flakes, Neil." said Nicole, coming out of the kitchen and looking with dismay at her own bowl. "Sit here with me" she gestured, standing by an unoccupied table.

"How's it going?" Neil asked a patient who he didn't know, sat at the table next to him, ignoring Nicole's entreaties.

"Not great" the man replied.

Nicole huffed and sat down to eat her breakfast. A staff member rushed over to join her, fearing there would be an upset outburst if the poor girl felt too overlooked.

In his first three weeks in hospital, Neil saw the psychiatrist three times. He had a few meetings with mental health nurses and a physical health check-up, but his life was one of ordered institutional hospital routine: medication, mealtimes, planned activities and lots of time spent watching TV.

Suddenly losing his liberty had been terrifying and his natural instinct was to yell for lawyers, demand his human rights and to complain about the arbitration that had led to him now being held under lock and key. However, he also feared the power of the state institutions. The police, the National Health Service, the government, the law: he was no match for these massive entities and he knew that he would only make things worse for himself if he made a fuss.

He now deeply mistrusted the system and regretted seeking medical help at all. He felt betrayed by his doctors, he felt that the medications had made him sick, he felt that the crisis team and Lara had conspired to lock him up. He was angry that the police were used for his "welfare" when he really felt they simply provided the muscle to drag him away from his home if he tried to fight for his freedom.

Neil's faith in medicine had been completely shattered, but now, as he lay contemplating his wrecked body he knew he urgently needed medical help. He was dying.

The can of cola that he had found in the shopping bag he'd left outside the caravan had worked its way quickly through to his bladder and he needed the toilet. Grabbing a half-full glass from a nearby shelf, he urinated into it. His urine had been getting more and more cloudy and smelled terrible, but now there was a copious amount of blood present.

His organs were failing. His lungs were flooding with fluid that he couldn't cough up. His chest was tight and his breathing was laboured. His ankles were swelling up as his heart struggled to pump blood around his body. His dehydration and malnutrition had reached the point where his body had start to eat itself and his muscles were wasting away. He was so fatigued that he struggled to move and he blacked out from low blood pressure if he raised his head too quickly.

Death in the filth and darkness of the caravan was nearly upon him.

 

Next chapter...

 

#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day Nineteen

12 min read

Poste Restante

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

 

19. The Hospitals

His first day in a psychiatric hospital had been spent as a day patient. The crisis team had arranged for Neil to get out of the house and see a different psychiatrist. They'd picked him up in a minibus from home and driven him to another local hospital that Lara had never heard of. It was surprising how many institutions there were in town, dealing with mental health patients.

A breakfast of toast and cereal was provided at the hospital in a large canteen with a huge bay window looking out onto a garden filled with mature shrubs and trees. The hospital itself was an imposing red brick Victorian building, originally built as a sanatorium. There were parquet floors and a grand staircase in the foyer. Otherwise, the hospital had been institutionalised, with fire doors painted glossy pale green, linoleum floors and lots of blue signs with white lettering.

After breakfast, the patients were corralled into a circle in the canteen. Tea and biscuits were served as a support worker went through the day's activities and asked who would like to do what. There was music therapy, art therapy and drama therapy. Neil said he would do all three.

There were long periods of time where nothing seemed to be happening and there was no sign of any staff members. Patients were hanging around in two rooms: the canteen and a lounge. The lounge had an array of different size and shape sofas around the edge of the room and a vending machine in one corner. A tall sash window offered a view out to the gardens on the opposite side of the building from the canteen. Nobody was talking to each other. Some patients sat completely still with glazed eyes, as if in a trance. Other patients paced around nervously, avoiding all eye contact and distancing themselves from others.

After a seemingly interminable wait - there were no clocks anywhere to be seen - a woman appeared asking for Neil.

"Are you joining us for music therapy?"

"Yes, I was going to."

"Well we're starting right now."

Neil followed the woman through a door. She seemed irritated as if he should know where to go and when. The music room was nearly full with about 20 patients holding instruments, sitting around a large square table. He didn't recognise anybody from breakfast. The room had a high ceiling and it was quite dark. The walls were covered with blue fabric covered cork-board and there were many crude paintings and drawings pinned up.

"Choose anything you want and we can start" said the music therapist, gesturing to a corner filled with an array of percussive musical instruments.

Neil picked up a tambourine and sat down in a free chair at the table. The music therapist sat at a piano and began to play a simple melody. Tentatively, a patient started to tap a bongo drum in a staccato rhythm that was not in time with the music. Another patient shook a pair of maracas at random intervals. Neil started to gently jangle the tambourine in time with the woman on the piano and she started to sing, presumably to amuse herself as nobody else knew the words or the tune. Everybody else in the room held their instruments motionless, except for sporadic flurries when they became emboldened enough to briefly make a noise.

Eventually, Neil got bored and started to beat time on the taut skin of the tambourine quite loudly. Following his lead, more and more patients started to join in with the rhythmic bashing of instruments. The sound built and built and the music therapist played louder and wailed badly out of tune. Finally, she stood up and gestured that everybody should calm down, gently shushing.

"We could wake the dead with that racket" she said, laughing at her own joke.

"OK that was a brilliant session. Please help me tidy away the instruments. Thanks everybody. I really enjoyed that."

The patients all disappeared in different directions and Neil made his way back to the canteen. Most of the people who he'd seen earlier were still there. Spotting the patient who had been shaking the maracas, walking through the foyer, Neil intercepted her.

"What happens now?"

"Well I'm just going outside for a cigarette. Get yourself a drink and have some cake. Then it'll be lunchtime."

A table in the canteen had been laid out with large plastic jugs of blackcurrant and orange squash. There was a chocolate cake and a victoria sponge that had been sliced into small portions on paper plates. Neil took a plastic beaker from a stack and was about to pour himself some squash when one of the catering staff rushed over.

"I'll pour that for you, dear."

"It's OK, I can do it" said Neil.

"No I have to pour it for you."

With his drink and a plate of cake, Neil sat down at a table with a girl who was fiddling with her phone. She looked up.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"Yeah. Bit confused about what's going on. You alright?" he replied.

"No. I'm not good at all" she said, suddenly looking very worried. She studied the floor.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

She looked up momentarily, made a little half-giggle and then started fiddling with her phone again.

After about an hour of awkward milling around, a servery hatch was opened in the canteen and a trolley with knives and forks on it was wheeled out into the room. Patients started to line up at the hatch, where there was a hot plate and the catering staff were taking off the foil lids on a number of plastic containers. Neil took his place in the queue. There were a number of dishes to choose from including pasta and a meat pie. Neil chose meatballs in a tomato sauce, mashed potato and green beans, which were dolloped onto a large white plastic plate by a lady in a hairnet with a long serving spoon.

"Gravy?"

It seemed an unusual question, but the dish could certainly be improved with some kind of sauce. The lady poured thick brown liquid all over his food from a big aluminium jug. Lunch reminded him of school dinners, but not in an unpleasant way. There was a stodgy pudding with lashings of thick yellow custard to finish the meal and it was all washed down with tap water in tiny plastic tumblers, poured by one of the catering assistants.

As he was finishing his meal, Neil was approached by a camp man with a bright happy smile who almost danced into the canteen. Half lowering himself to table level but not sitting down, he laid his hand gently on the middle of Neil's back.

"You're joining us for drama today. Is that right?"

"Yep" said Neil, covering his mouth which was still half-full of food.

"OK perfect. There's only a few of us but we always have a lot of fun. We'll be in the drama studio in about 30 minutes, alright? Wonderful" he said, answering his own question.

Neil wanted to ask where the drama studio was but the man had skipped away before he could swallow his mouthful and call out to him.

"Oh good. You're here" the drama therapist said when Neil finally located the right room. There were four patients, arranged in a semicircle facing the therapist. Everybody was seated in the middle of a large polished wood floor. Around the edges of the room were chairs stacked up, boxes with hats, props and clothes rails with various costumes.

The session began with some icebreaker exercises where each patient had to say the name of another patient before throwing them a ball to catch. They then re-enacted the story of Goldilocks and the three bears several times, rotating the roles so that everybody played each character. The therapist prompted them with questions while they were doing this.

"How do you feel that your porridge has been eaten, baby bear?"

"Uh. Hungry?" Neil replied.

With more tea and biscuits there was a community meeting where everybody sat in the canteen and somebody asked a sequence of questions about whether anybody had any problems with the facilities or could think of any service improvements. The nurse and support worker who ran the meeting were met with stony silence.

Art therapy comprised colouring in with pencils or felt tip pens. Neil chose a picture of an orange tree and meticulously shaded every leaf. He had almost completed it when a man appeared at the door of the art room.

"Neil. Can I borrow you please?"

Led up two flights of stairs, the man knocked on a door.

"Come" came a voice from inside.

Opening the door, a young doctor held out his hand.

"Neil isn't it? Good to see you. Take a seat please" he gestured towards a plastic chair. "I'm Doctor Akinbole, a registrar psychiatrist here at the hospital. I'm hoping we can do something to help you today."

"Oh.. kay..."

"Now, I come across quite a lot of cases of young men. Fit and active. Productive and happy. Sometimes problems can materialise in your twenties. It's nothing to be ashamed of and I'm sure we can help you get back on your feet."

"Alright" Neil tentatively offered.

"So you've been working full time, you're engaged and you've been in a long term relationship with this lucky lady?"

"Yes, that's right"

"That's great. Great" the psychiatrist said, smiling.

"Well listen, there's a medication that's helped a lot of my patients in a similar situation to yours. It's an atypical antipsychotic, but it's very good with depression too and a whole host of mental health issues."

"Antipsychotic?"

"Atypical."

The psychiatrist reached for a book on his shelf and leafed through the pages.

"OK, what we're going to do is start you on 200 milligrams today, 400 tomorrow and 600 the day after. Then you'll be taking 600 milligrams every night. This medication is great because we can ramp up the dosage really quickly."

"What about all my other medications?" Neil asked.

"Well, we'd better keep you on those for now. We don't want you to have any nasty withdrawal effects. We can taper you off those gradually in future."

The psychiatrist was now scribbling in his prescription pad.

"Here you go" he said, standing up. "Any problems, just phone the hospital and leave a message for me."

"Thanks" said Neil, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it again.

"I'm sure you'll be feeling much better soon. All the best" the psychiatrist said, ushering Neil out of the door.

Descending the stairs and standing in the foyer, Neil felt very lost and shellshocked. After a slow and relaxing day, his consultation with the psychiatrist had been a whirlwind affair and he was shocked at how quickly he had now received a prescription for a third medication. There was also something scary and unpalatable about the word antipsychotic.

On the first day with his new medication he woke up with a very dry mouth and was very sleepy until late morning. On the second day, he struggled to brush his teeth and get into bed because he was fighting to stay awake. On the third day, he needed to go to the toilet during the night and found that he was confused and staggering like a drunk. The dry mouth was terrible, he felt tired all the time and his appetite for chocolate biscuits became insatiable.

After some weeks, the side effects had not abated. Neil's life consisted of taking his medication at 7 or 8pm at night so that he could be awake for a few daytime hours, where he sat semi-comatose watching trash TV. Phone-calls to the hospital and messages had not managed to raise any response from the psychiatrist but eventually he spoke to another doctor. He was told not to reduce the dose, but he could split it into two or three doses throughout the day. This meant that Neil was half-asleep the whole time and barely conscious of what was even happening from one day to the next.

Two months elapsed and Neil was comfortably numb but there was no change or improvement. There was no way he could ever work while so heavily medicated. He booked an appointment to see his GP and halved his dose the night before he was due to see the doctor.

"I want to come off the quetiapine."

"Ok, but you can't just stop taking it until I write to the psychiatrist and ask his opinion."

"I can't stand the side effects and I have no quality of life."

"I understand, but we have to be very careful when you stop taking medications like these."

"It's not helping me. The side effects are awful. I'm just drugged all the time. It's like a chemical straightjacket."

"Let me write to the psychiatrist. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

 

Next chapter...

 

#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day Sixteen

9 min read

Poste Restante

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

 

16. Self Inflicted

"I should be upstairs saving lives and instead I'm here wasting my time here talking to you" the consultant harshly chided. "I'm needed in surgery helping patients who don't deserve to be here" he continued.

"We're picking up the pieces of your self-inflicted mess and that's not fair."

The staff and patients within earshot of the ward could not help listening in to the consultant's angry tirade. They cringed with embarrassment on behalf of the petite and ghostly white girl who looked the angry doctor straight in the eyes with a contemptuous stare. She seemed completely unmoved, which only enraged him further.

The consultant briskly walked off. Everybody in the vicinity had stood spellbound, watching the scene unfold and there was a moment of hesitation before anybody started to move around. It was deathly quiet before people resumed talking again. A male nurse who had been hovering near the girl's bed now came over to replace an empty drip bag. He studied her face.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about. I didn't choose to come here" said the girl.

"He's very good at his job. He's very respected in this hospital" the nurse replied.

"I don't dispute that. But I didn't want to come here and take up anybody's valuable time" she said.

The nurse stopped what he was doing and looked at her.

"The police brought me here. It wasn't my choice. I didn't want to come."

The nurse wanted to tell her to keep her voice down, but he knew that it would be hypocritical, given that the consultant had launched a loud verbal assault on the silent girl. She hadn't spoken a word to contradict him. In fact, they had never spoken. He had read her notes and marched into the ward to give her a lecture. The other staff were quite sympathetic towards this fragile creature who had been so apologetic that she had ended up in hospital.

Lara had to put two canulas into the girl's pale skin when she arrived on the ward. Inside the crook of her arm and down the length to her wrists, there were scarred track marks and pus-filled abscesses. Lara searched the back of the girl's wrists but couldn't find a single vein that hadn't collapsed.

"I'm sorry. That hasn't worked. We'll have to try again" Lara said as she pushed the thick needle of the canula into a vein in the girl's ankle.

"It's fine. Don't worry. I'm sorry it's so hard. I'm used to it" the girl said.

Lara knew that it must hurt, but the girl didn't make a sound, even when she slightly flinched with pain.

"I bet she can't feel a thing" muttered one of the other nurses to Judy, the ward manager. They were watching through the glass from the corridor.

"She detoxed in intensive care. She's probably in a great deal of pain and discomfort" said Judy with a stern look at her colleague.

The hospital was a fairly nonjudgemental place. Even when the radiographers would gossip about the strange objects that they had seen on X-rays, that had been inserted into mens rectums, there was still a lot of sympathy amongst the staff and sensitivity for the feelings of the patients. "Imagine shitting that out" Anne cackled, talking about a toy car that a man had "accidentally sat down on" and had been unable to remove himself.

On a general ward, those who stayed for any considerable length of time were the geriatric patients. The patients Lara looked after either got better and were discharged, or they got worse and were rushed off to surgery or intensive care. The old people took a long time to recover and had multiple health problems as their aged bodies slowly shut down and died. Young people were a relative rarity on the ward and there was something shocking about seeing somebody unwell when they had their whole life ahead of them.

The young girl on Lara's ward had been admitted with pneumonia, septicaemia - blood poisoning - as well as a number of infected abscesses. She had hepatitis B and C. She was HIV positive. Her blood borne diseases were not affecting her health but would severely shorten her life expectancy. This shocking prognosis was at odds with the defiant and beautiful patient who seemed so strong despite being critically unwell.

As an emergency admission, the girl was still wearing the same clothes that she had been when the police had brought her to hospital. Her thickly applied make-up was still plastered to her face. Her short skirt, boob tube, mascara, black eyeliner and bold lipstick unmistakably identified her as a sex worker. Her uncovered arms betrayed the fact that she was an injecting drug user, but the men who picked up street walkers wouldn't notice or care about such things.

"Do you want me to find you some pyjamas?" Lara asked, trying not to stare at the small scars all over the delicate flesh on the underside of the girl's arms.

"Only if it's no trouble" the girl replied with a grateful smile.

Rummaging in one of the store cupboards, Lara managed to locate some pale green pyjamas and a pair of beige disposable slippers wrapped in cellophane.

"Here" said Lara. "I'll put these on this chair and we'll get you unhooked from all this stuff when that drip bag is next empty" she said.

A drip fed into the canula in the girl's ankle. She had a blood pressure cuff and oxygen level monitor attached to her arm. A machine pumped fluids into her body. A catheter bag hung below the bed, half full of urine. The tentacles of cables and tubes spread out from the white sheets of the bed where she lay, to the surrounding machines and equipment.

Changed out of her clothes and into clean hospital-issued pyjamas, the girl had managed to quickly clean her face in the bathroom. Her complexion was unhealthy but she was clearly very young. Without her makeup, she was just a helpless sick child.

"Are you OK in there?" Anne asked. "Lara, is that you?"

Anne was stood outside the ladies' staff toilet. She had heard somebody sobbing inside. Lara emerged sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with toilet paper. Anne looked around to make sure nobody had noticed them, while Lara fussed with her handbag and tried to walk away as if nothing had happened.

"Whoa there girl! You're not going anywhere. We're going to mine. No arguing" said Anne.

Lara had stifled her sobs as they exited the building and headed to the nurses' accommodation block. It was the end of their shift but Lara had obviously been locked in the toilets for some time because the rush to leave the building had quietened down.

No sooner had Anne closed the front door of her studio apartment behind them, Lara burst into tears again.

"What's wrong? Is it that girl in ward D?"

"She.. she... she's so young" Lara snivelled.

"Yeah. Heartbreaking" said Anne in a flat tone.

"But she's got nobody. Did you hear the way Osborne spoke to her?"

"Well, he's got a point. Nobody forced her to start taking drugs" Anne said, pouring out two large glasses of white wine.

This made Lara sit up and stop crying, although her eyes were still filled with tears.

"That's such a cliché. You think she's to blame for her own problems? You think she chose everything that's happened to her?" asked Lara.

Anne sat down on the sofa next to Lara and handed her a glass.

"No. I'm sure she was abused as a child. I'm sure she was raised in foster care. I'm sure she's had a hard life. I just mean, some kids turn out alright and some don't. They're not born with a crack pipe in their mouths" said Anne.

Lara knew that her friend wasn't being harsh. It was no use for them to wallow in misery over every tragic case that crossed their path. Anne was being supportive and kind by looking out for her and giving her space to talk about this girl away from work, even though she was challenging Lara's sympathetic stance.

"I don't think it's as simple as Doctor Osborne makes out" Lara said, taking a gulp of wine, still unable to look her friend in the eye.

"He shouldn't have spoken to her like that. He was shouting. Everybody heard him."

"Yeah" said Lara weakly.

"I bet he feels bad about it now. He was just mad because it's so tragic that she's messed her life up so badly at such a young age."

"He's not her dad" said Lara.

"Yeah, but he probably feels a bit protective, like a parent. Like you say, she's got nobody."

"There were people from social services, the police, addiction support workers. They're all worried about her. Lots of people want to see her get better. She doesn't seem at all afraid about how sick she is."

"You know this is her third hospital admission this year? Doctor Osborne is as worried as anybody" said Anne.

"You can't lecture somebody like that" said Lara, catching her friend's eye now.

"You can't get so personally involved. I bet that's why you were crying, wasn't it? Because you didn't want to leave her and go home"

"Yeah. Everybody is judging her. Because she's a junkie and a prostitute" replied Lara, starting to cry again.

"It's not your battle. You can't save her. All you can do is make her as comfortable as possible while she's on the ward"

"During my shift" said Lara.

"Yes, that's right. During your shift. You have your own life too."

"Can I sleep on your sofa tonight? I want to get drunk" asked Lara.

 

Next chapter...

 

#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day Fourteen

10 min read

Poste Restante

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

 

14. Unsuitable Friends

He would always be in a different mood when she turned up. Sometimes he would be locked away in the darkness and would have to be coaxed out. He could be sleepy, so sleepy, struggling to keep his eyes open. Other times he would be on edge with his eyes wildly casting around and not seeing her, biting on his nails and pacing the room. Sometimes he would make it clear that he wanted her to leave; he wanted to be left alone. Other times he looked so content and peaceful. She thought he looked so angelic when he was like that, but the other moods were also intriguing even though it was a wholly confusing and upsetting experience to see his emotional state shifting so rapidly.

Lying with him, stroking his face or just holding him, she studied the ceiling. Painted white, it was streaked with rust where iron girders ran across it. Industrial lighting hung on chains with fluorescent tubes. There were black cobwebs caked in dirt in the corners of the room and thin wispy ones that clung to the ceiling and to the lights. Draughts blew dust from the top of the grey metal trays that held the lights and the sun would illuminate the individual particles as they swirled in the air.

In the day, the room was brightly lit by windows that ran the entire length of one wall. The glass was re-inforced with wire mesh. The windows were divided into a grid of squares by a sturdy metal frame that was painted gloss black. The windows were dirty because it was impossible to clean them from inside. The middle panes of glass had been frosted for privacy and the lowest ones had been painted gloss white.

The walls were unplastered and painted matte white like the ceiling. The texture of large concrete blocks contrasted with the smooth cement in-between each brick. Pipes and wires were attached to the surface of the wall, and their path could be traced to the sink, bathroom, light switches and electrical sockets. There were red wires that connected a point where you could break the glass to set off the fire alarm and a shiny red plastic siren. The pipes and nozzles of a sprinkler system hung suspended a few inches below the ceiling, crossing the huge room three times.

In one corner of the room there was a part that had been partitioned off with unpainted plasterboard walls. A half open door showed that one of the small inner rooms contained a toilet and a shower. There was a second door that was closed. That was where he slept, but she had never seen inside that room.

There were no soft furnishings anywhere. No carpets, no curtains. The only comfortable items were an armchair and a double futon which was laid out flat like a day-bed in the middle of the room. There were big cushions and several quilts and blankets, which were necessary to snuggle underneath in winter. There was a gas heater, but the bottle was empty and it could do little more than take the chill off the cavernous space. The floor was cold polished concrete painted glossy blue, scratched, gouged and flaking in places.

The one door into the room was painted battleship grey and had a huge shiny metal door handle. There was a bright green sign above the door that said "FIRE EXIT" and had a picture of some steps leading down. The sign had special paint on it which glowed in the dark.

She was fascinated by the objects that filled the room. In one corner there was a drum kit, a red electric guitar and big black amplifier. There was an acoustic guitar leaning up against a round stool with chrome legs. Sheets of music, hand-written lyrics and songbooks littered the floor nearby, along with a broken drumstick, used guitar strings and some colourful plectrums. Along the length of one wall was shelving that had many bottles and tins containing turpentine, thinners, white spirit, lots of different paints, varnishes and other things. Glass jars were filled with paintbrushes, some of which were turned so their dry bristles were upwards and others were soaking in murky liquid. On top of the shelves were various tools and half-finished, discarded or drying pieces of artwork.

On the opposite side was a large sturdy table with a glossy worktop. Stencils lay scattered and huge pieces of paper had been stuck down with masking tape: works in progress. An enormous green cutting board was criss-crossed with a white grid pattern and three steel scalpels lay on it along with offcuts which spilled all over the table and onto the floor.

Several paint-splattered stools and collapsible steps were sat around the large table. The stools were made of a bright yellow wood and had blue leather seats. The steps were made of dark wood and had a shiny metal tube bent as a handle above the top step.

An easel with a canvas attached to it stood with the picture facing towards the windows. Sack cloth had been draped over it so the picture underneath couldn't be seen. A mixing board hung on the back of the easel, covered with a bright array of colours and thickly textured with paint. On the floor nearby there was a jar filled with long-handled brushes.

Near the door there was a small bookshelf, writing desk and some shelves with a record player and retro hi-fi system. Large wooden speakers sat on the floor. The only comfortable seat - a Chesterfield armchair - had battered brown leather and a deep imprint in the seat cushion. Sheaves of paper with pencil, charcoal and ink drawings were scattered nearby, along with many leather-bound notebooks of various sizes, some of them with their pages open displaying row upon row of neat handwriting, as well as sketches and diagrams.

Over by the windows, there was a two-plate electric hob, a toaster, a kettle and a microwave. The opposite side of the door, near the bathroom, there was a small sink with a single tap which dispensed cold water. Milk, sugar, tea and coffee were on a tray on the floor along with the other appliances. Several jam jars were arranged near the tray as makeshift mugs for hot drinks. There were some cereal boxes but not much other sign of any food or cooking activity.

A number of modern angle-poise and antique lamps filled the space with harsh and warm patches of light. The room was zoned, so that the art table was lit with bright white clean light, while around the futon daybed and in the snug corner with the Chesterfield, there was much softer and yellowish lighting.

She hadn't dared to disturb the art, the instruments, or the vinyl, but after some time she had figured out how to operate the cassette deck and play some of the compilations of music that had been recorded onto blank 90 minute tapes.

She felt it would take her a lifetime to explore all the wonderful things in that big loft space and she adored spending time there with him, even if he was sleepy and absent or increasingly anxious and cranky. How could anybody live like this? This mysterious alien environment was so intriguing.

"Should I go?" she would ask. When he was sleepy and content, he would open his eyes and tell her to stay. He would reach out for her hand, put it on his face and put his own hand over it. He liked her being there. He found it comforting. When he was growing uncomfortable and restless, he would distractedly say "Yeah. Whatever" but she didn't feel rejected. There was clearly something that bubbled up inside him that he was dealing with. Sometimes he would have to go out and he didn't seem to mind if she stayed or if she went. When he was gone, she didn't dare to get up and nose through his stuff, but she liked being there, spending time in that place.

Lying next to Neil in bed on a Saturday, Lara could remember every sight, sound and smell of Sam's loft. Her present environment was so familiar, so unstimulating, so boring.

The plain cream curtains, the simple modern light fitting on a smooth white ceiling. The walls were painted a tasteful neutral pastel shade and their bedroom furniture was practical and affordable Scandinavian flat-pack, with bland doors. Her bedside table was neatly arranged with a glass of water, an alarm clock and the book she was too stressed and distracted to read. Neil's bedside table was crammed with several dirty glasses and a stack of plates and bowls. Neil's side of the bed had become a no-man's land, littered with food wrappers, newspapers, unopened post, various electronic items and half-eaten meals. Lara would occasionally collect the crockery when there were only a few clean items left for her to be able to use.

Neil was present, but cold and passive-aggressively hostile. He would sleep with his back to her and he seemed to recoil from her touch. Just switching her bedside light on or rummaging quickly in her wardrobe for clothes seemed to cause him to toss and turn in bed, hiding his head under the covers and making little sighs of frustration. When she came into the bedroom, she could sense him stiffen and hold his breath.

Sam had been affectionate in a strange way. He had been grateful that she was there in his life, even though his moods were so unpredictable, so volatile. Neil and Lara hadn't made love in weeks, but it was the small displays of affection that Lara missed more than anything. Neil no longer seemed to want to hug and kiss her, to squeeze her, to spoon, to caress her skin and tickle her with his nose. She often used to fall asleep on Neil's chest in bed or watching TV together, but now they lived completely separate lives.

She started to feel unwelcome in her own home. She listened to the TV at low volume, worried about Neil in the bedroom above. She worried about the noise she was making when she left in the morning, or when she was doing housework. She wondered what she was even doing, watching crap TV series that they used to enjoy together. Many things were less interesting without another person to share the experience with. It started to feel as though she was making things worse, not better, by being around him.

 

Next chapter...

 

#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day Thirteen

11 min read

Poste Restante

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

 

13. The Post Offices

In the United States, a letter for general delivery can be addressed to any town with a post office. The U.S. Postal Service will then hold the mail for the recipient to collect. In Europe as well as several other countries throughout the world, letters can be marked as poste restante and will be held at the post office that they are addressed to.

In the United Kingdom, Neil knew that post offices would hold mail for him sent from overseas for up to one month. Near the caravan, there were three local towns with post offices which could receive poste restante mail.

Having spent his first night in the forest in the back of the van, Neil awoke cold and uncomfortable. The van was small and the floor was bare corrugated metal. Even though his sleeping bag was good quality, lying on a cold hard surface meant that any warmth was quickly leached away. The small amount of moisture in his breath was enough to condense on the inside of the windscreen and on the walls, so that it was soon damp and unpleasant in the van.

Stretching his aching body in the chilly morning air, Neil then made his way quickly to check the condition of the caravan. Things were much how he'd left them many years before, when he had stayed there with Matthew. This was a relief, because he didn't want to spend time and money modifying the back of the van to make it more comfortable.

It was early and he wanted to avoid the school run and people travelling to work, but he was also impatient. Sleeping in the van and the coach station waiting room had been uncomfortable, but also his eager anticipation kept him awake during the night. There was a tension in his body that made him shudder as if he was cold. He felt a little bit nauseous, with butterflies in his tummy.

Driving to the nearest of the three local towns, Neil parked on the first side street he came to on the outskirts. The street had dark black newly laid tarmac. There was a row of identical red-brick starter homes on either side of the street, each with a driveway leading to a glossy white plastic garage door. Some of the houses had cars parked on the driveway and others had "For Sale" signs outside. This new housing development was only part-sold and building work was continuing at the far end of the street. Neil left his van outside an empty house and started the walk into town. It was over a mile to the town centre.

Ambling along at an unhurried pace, he knew that he had to kill some time before the post office opened. Very few cars were travelling in or out of the town on the back road because it was early, but he could hear buses on the main road as he made his way down a gently sloping hill.

The first shop that Neil came to was a TV repairman. The paint was flaking and the plate glass was dirty. It was unlikely that the proprietor ever opened the shop anymore. Then, he came to a large empty car park which had a sign saying that the next market day would be the following Wednesday. Opposite the car park was a large convenience store with a lorry parked outside delivering stock. Continuing towards the centre of town, he passed a launderette, a Chinese restaurant and a chip shop. Reaching a cross-roads, there was a pub on one corner and a hardware shop on the other.

In the middle of the town there was a green with a church, which was surrounded by shops and other amenities. There was a bank branch, a small department store, two delicatessens, a bakery, a grocer and the post office. Everything was closed except a large newsagents. Neil went inside and bought a local newspaper and a national daily broadsheet. Paper boys were making their way out to start their delivery rounds with bulging bags.

"Is there somewhere round here I can get some breakfast?" Neil asked the man behind the counter, as he paid for his newspapers.

"There's a greasy spoon out towards the station"

Neil continued downhill, leaving the centre. He passed another pub and a petrol station. There was a large supermarket and an agricultural supplies depot and the small train station was on the other side of a roundabout. A flat-roofed building next to the station advertised itself as a café and there were lights on inside.

Sitting down at a formica-topped table, there were already several other people eating, most of whom were wearing dirty work-boots or wellies. This was clearly a favourite haunt of builders and farmers who were on their way to work. Neil picked up a laminated plastic menu, even though he knew that the breakfast choices would be much the same as anywhere else like this in the country.

"What can I get you?" asked a rotund and friendly looking lady with a flushed face.

"Full english with a mug of tea please" replied Neil.

"White or brown bread?"

"White please."

With remarkable speed, a plate of fried eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, fried mushrooms and tomatoes arrived, along with a smaller plate with two slices of toast and a mug of milky tea. Neil ate slowly and read the newspapers, killing time. Finishing his food as it was almost stone cold, Neil ordered a second and then a third mug of tea, waiting until the post office was about to open before settling his bill and setting off back into the town centre.

At the post office, a flustered lady was filling the till with bags of coins from the safe.

"Hi, I'm here to collect a letter you've been holding for me. Poste restante" said Neil, offering his Estonian driving license.

"Poster what?" asked the lady.

"Poste restante. You're holding some mail for me to collect" Neil explained.

"Do you have a P.O. box?" she asked.

"No, the letter was sent here poste restante for me to collect" he said.

"You can't collect mail from here unless you have a P.O. box" she said.

"It was sent here poste restante. I don't need a P.O. box. I spoke to somebody before about this. Pete, maybe?" he said.

"Pete's not here. He's not working today"

It was clear that the lady now considered the conversation to be over. Neil simply stood where he was and waited patiently. She busied herself refilling the change in the till again, but she was unable to ignore Neil, who was silently stood by the counter. He caught her eye.

"What's this poster thing you said?" she asked.

"Poste restante" he replied.

"OK, I need to ring my manager and ask how to handle this. I've never dealt with it before. I can't phone him until ten thirty at the earliest"

"Alright, I'll come back later. Thanks for your help. Much appreciated" said Neil and then turned and left the post office with the nicest smile he could muster. Outside, he grimaced. This was so frustrating. He was now faced with a dilemma.

In anticipation of this problem, Neil knew there were letters waiting for him at another two post offices in the area. He could drive to one of the other towns and attempt to collect his mail, or else he could wait here and persevere. He decided to stay and wait until later, given that he wanted to be sure that at least one local post office knew how the obscure poste restante system was supposed to operate.

Returning to the newsagent and purchasing a glossy magazine about electronic gadgets, he then walked back to the café and got another mug of tea. After killing an hour or so, he went to the supermarket and bought cornish pasties, pork pies, sausage rolls, pre-made sandwiches, energy drinks, bottled water, fruit squash, chewy sweets and some cakes. He spent time browsing all the shelves even though he knew that he was only buying some very specific items.

He walked back into the post office at 10:35am. The lady was serving another customer and Neil waited in line.

"Hi" said the lady.

"Hi. I was here earlier" said Neil.

"Yes. I haven't phoned my manager yet" she said.

Again, Neil didn't reply or move. He just stood expectantly waiting. The post office was now empty.

"OK. Give me a second" she huffed.

Getting out her mobile, the lady tapped at the buttons and half-turned her back on Neil as she raised the phone to her ear. After a brief conversation she hung up and turned back to Neil.

"Alright. We've got something for you. I've just got to try and find it" she said.

Neil couldn't stifle a broad smile that spread across his face. A huge weight of tension was released from his body, but also a nauseous feeling twisted his stomach into a knot. His heart pounded, his face felt hot and his palms started to get sweaty.

The lady went into a store room in the back and spent a long while rummaging in various boxes and bags before eventually returning with an envelope. Neil's pulse raced and his breathing quickened as he saw her holding a white letter.

"Can I see your ID again, please?" she asked.

Neil fumbled for his pockets and got out his driving license, which he offered with a slightly trembling hand.

"Romet Kukk?"

"Yes. That's me" Neil replied.

The lady momentarily studied the photo. This didn't worry Neil. It was his photo, even though it wasn't his name, address or nationality. She handed over the envelope.

"Thanks" said Neil.

He walked so fast that he was very hot and sweaty when he reached the van. Tossing the bags of shopping into the passenger footwell, he carefully stowed his envelope in the glove compartment and started the engine with shaking hands.

It was hard for him not to drive back to the caravan excessively fast, but he had to be careful. A road accident would spell disaster. He was so close to reaping the rewards from his well-executed preparations. He knew that he needed a little more patience in the final leg of his long journey, even though it had been an agonising wait.

Back in the caravan, Neil dumped the shopping bags on the kitchenette worktop, which had nothing on it except a little dust and dirt. There was no rubbish in the caravan, nothing on the floor, the curtains were open and the windows were not obscured by anything except dirt. He sat down at the dining table, tore open the envelope and pulled out a leaflet with a picture of an oriental temple on the front. Unfolding the leaflet on the table, there was something sellotaped inside, which Neil tore off the glossy paper.

Although he had felt that the caravan was perfectly private, isolated, remote and hidden by the dense foliage of the trees on all sides, he still felt a momentary pang of paranoia - like he was being watched - which drove him into the bedroom, where he closed the curtains and shut the door behind himself.

 

Next chapter...

 

Sprint and Coast

13 min read

This is a story about IT projects...

Bipolar Mood Chart

I'm sorry steady eddies, but if you want to get anywhere with a big complicated project, you're going to need somebody who's a little bit of a madman. There's this idea that building a piece of software is a bit like building an aeroplane. Plan the work, work the plan. The idea is that the software architects will come up with a brilliant design specification, and then programmers can just come along and build it. Wrong.

Firstly, you have to plug together all the bits of tech, and make them work with each other. From the front end to the back end, you have the "full stack" and it takes a special kind of masochist to declare themselves to be a "full stack" developer, because you're liable to be asked to change the buttons to a slightly different shade of green far more often than you're likely to be asked to make a working piece of software.

For me, I'll start with a database design - a schema. I will model the data. Most applications have a CRUD element: create, read, update and delete data. If you think about the classic example of a database that holds all the data on your customers, most of it will be performing CRUD operations to keep the data up to date.

Then the next thing is the data abstraction layer. How is your software going to store and retrieve the data from the database? Software talks one language, databases talk another. Interfacing between them is easiest when you use a bit of software that does the 'translation' for you.

Then you're going to need a bunch of business logic. Sure, you have all this data stored, but you're going to want to do something interesting with it. Maybe you want a piece of code that tells you who all the customers who you need to contact today are. That's a bit of business logic, and you wrap it up in a service.

Then you're going to need APIs. APIs are Application Programming Interfaces. APIs let one bit of software talk to another bit of software, which can be done over the Internet. You need an API so that your website running in your Internet browser, can talk to the server to call the services that get the data to display, and call the services that have the business logic in them. When you click a button on a website, a request goes off to another computer somewhere in the world, which is processed, and then the response comes back. The API describes how this can happen: it's a contract.

Once you've built your APIs, you can build the user interface. The user interface is the pretty bit you see when you download an app from the App Store, or when you visit a website. When you visit a website, the user interface is actually downloaded and it runs on your computer, in your Internet browser.

With a website, the user interface will be built in code that's very different to the code that runs elsewhere. Because web servers execute millions of requests, their code is highly optimised. Because your Internet browser needs to support millions of different websites, developed by millions of different developers, the code is designed to run on almost any computer.

Then, when you've written all this code, you need to set up your infrastructure. You need a server, you need to connect it to the Internet, you'll need to connect your domain name to your server, you'll need to configure the server with website hosting software and the database, you'll need to protect your server against hackers, you'll need to deploy your code onto your server. Then, people can visit your domain by typing www.yourdomain.com and the user interface code will be downloaded to their computer's Internet browser, and then the API on your server will be called to get the data it needs. Bingo! Your software is live.

Just getting a basic website running requires you to be:

  • A system administrator (a.k.a. "sysadmin") so you can configure the server
  • A security specialist (a.k.a. "pentester") so you can protect yourself from hackers
  • A networking specialist, so you can configure your domain name, load balancing, traffic routing
  • A database administrator (a.k.a. "DBA") so you can configure the database
  • A serverside developer (a.k.a. "backend dev") so you can write the service code
  • An API designer, so you can define the interface contract between backend and user interface
  • A web designer, so you can make the website look all pretty
  • A front-end developer (a.k.a. "UI dev") so you can write the scripts that control the user interface
  • A mobile developer so you can make an iPhone or Android app that does what the website does
  • A QA engineer (a.k.a. "tester") so you can make sure the damn software works
  • A release manager, so you can package up your software and deploy it
  • An operational support engineer, so you can diagnose and fix problems when they occur

That's 12 different roles, or "hats" that you have to wear. Also, bear in mind that all your users care about is what colour the buttons are.

If you're a "full stack" developer, you're highly in demand, because you can take a piece of software from an idea, to something that actually works and can be used by people anywhere in the world, via the gift of the Internet.

Do you notice that none of those roles are "programmer". There is no such job as programmer anymore.

Back in the 1970s, you used to ring IBM up and they would wheel a dirty great big cabinet into your basement, and then a zillion wires would connect every "dumb" terminal in the building to it. The dumb terminals would just display on their screens what the mainframe would tell them. Essentially, it was just one computer that had hundreds of monitors, and hundreds of keyboards.

Programmers in the 1980s had everything they needed all in one box. User interfaces were just green text on a black screen. There weren't buttons to click on, that could be different colours, so nobody had to waste their time changing the colour of the buttons. There weren't pretty graphics for people to argue over. There was just green text on a black screen.

Because everything was on one box, everything was the same computer code. The data and the code and the different parts of the system were seamlessly interconnected. There wasn't computer code flying around over the Internet, being executed in billions of different Internet browsers all around the world. There was just one blob of code, running on one computer, with hundreds of users. That was programming: writing programs to run on one computer, not billions.

Programming's not even that hard: if this, then that. That's about the gist of it. If you know what the words AND, OR and NOT mean, you're well on your way to being a programmer. If you can write a list of instructions for another person to follow... that's how you become a good programmer. You just get really good at righting really good instructions for a really stupid person to follow.

IF you see some gold THEN go and pick up the gold

Looks pretty easy, right? Well, then you find that your program doesn't work very well when the gold is on the other side of a Plexiglas window. The automatons following your instructions are going to get stuck on the "go" part, and will find themselves just walking on the spot, with their nose pressed against the glass, trying to get to the gold that they can see.

Fast forward to the present day, and you might have the situation where your website looks absolutely awful because granny is still using Internet Explorer, but you only tested your code in Google Chrome. We have the situation where your website works perfectly fine when one person is using it at a time, but when millions of visitors are trying to access it at the same time, they're all treading on each other's feet and the whole thing falls in a heap.

A lot of techies want to be programmers, but programming is such a tiny part of anybody's job. If you hire a bunch of programmers, and they all insist that they only want to do programming, you're never going to have a website.

If you hire a bunch of web designers to build you a website, you'll have a very pretty looking thing, but it won't work very well. It'll be fake. It'll be window dressing. It'll be a film set, where the buildings don't actually have anything behind them: they're flat fronts, propped up from behind.

Film Set

If you hire a bunch of back-end developers to build you an application, you'll have a beautiful set of services and APIs, but you won't have anybody to tell to change the colour of the buttons. If you tell the serverside developers how important it is that the button colour gets changed for the millionth time, they'll just say "yeah, yeah, yeah... I'm writing down on my invisible TODO list".

So, you hire a full-stack developer, because they can do everything. Trouble is, they're all a bit mental.

If you can do everything all on your own - you can wear 12 different hats and context-switch between them - then you're going to be driven mad if you have to work for somebody else.

Even though I can do everything, it's not like I should do everything. It's not healthy, to have constant interruptions, and to be pulled from one thing to another all the time. In fact, it's distinctly unhealthy.

The only way that a full-stack developer can make any progress is to work really, really quickly.

If you throw together a fully working application in the blink of an eye, you can get it done before anybody asks you to change the colour of the damn buttons. These herculean efforts are incredibly draining. Holding so many different competing tasks, and also the big picture, in your head, while working as fast as you can... that's exhausting.

Most software ends up in the bin anyway, so you might as well throw together these hastily built applications, that at least prove that things can be done, technically. There's already too much useless vapourware crap out there that doesn't actually do what it purports to be able to.

And so, I end up working on project after project that's clearly going wrong. I hastily cobble something together. I get something working end-to-end. Then, I'm burnt out and I have to take the money I've earned and go have a lie down in a darkened room.

I actually don't think software can be built without some nutter who's actually going to fill in all the blanks and prove out the concepts. Every important computer system that I've ever worked on has had one madman who's single-mindedly taken the project to the point of MVP - Minimum Viable Product.

It's unhealthy for your moods, to be expected to sprint as fast as you can, and then reap the rewards but be burnt out, but it's certainly lucrative and a good career strategy. The financial incentives can't be ignored. Also, if you're a complete-finisher personality type, it's the only way you're ever going to see a successful IT project, because so many people are happy to bumble along until the project eventually goes so far over budget and has spectacularly missed its deadlines, that it gets cancelled.

My current project - which is getting cancelled because it's over budget and late - has been slightly better for me than other projects have been in the past, because I just concentrated on making sure my team was on time and on budget, instead of thinking about the overall project. Net result, I'm out of a job again, but at least I've got a happy customer and a good reference, plus I'm not totally burnt out. It's a damnsight easier to only think about my 1/8th of the project, rather than feel responsible for the whole thing.

God knows how I'm going to reconcile my personality - a completer-finisher - with IT's staggeringly bad track record of ever successfully delivering projects on time and on budget. My health is suffering as I've tried to single-handedly get projects back on track, and I never get any thanks when I do that. I'm not saying I'm a hero. I'm just saying that I don't like to bumble along and fail.

Although I can do full-stack development, I don't think I should because it's just too much stress, being spread across 12 different roles. I reckon I'm going to look for some kind of development manager job, where I can have more management input into the way things are run.

It'd be interesting to know what my mental health would be like without the kind of external pressure to rush, rush, rush. It'd be nice to work on a project where I could take my time, take pride in my work, do the things I'm good at. Do those projects even exist?

I think it's the engineer's curse. "Can you do this?" is always answered honestly. Yes, I can probably fix your damn car, but should I really be doing that if my skill is as a software developer? "Yes I could, but I'm not sure I should" is the correct answer, but engineers aim to please. So few managers understand that it's a dumb idea to ask their capable engineers to do everything and anything, and expect them to spread themselves so thinly.

Even though management doesn't agree with me - too frustrating and boring - at least it gives me the opportunity to throw a bubble around my development team and protect them from bad managers. At least I can create the kind of culture that I'd like to have, as a developer, for my team.

It's hard to know how to balance your skills, your needs, your values, and the fact that life's a lot easier if you're paid a lot of cold hard cash.

Anyway, it's all rather academic until I've dug myself out of the debt hole.

 

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An Essay on Paranoia

10 min read

This is a story about the schizophrenic spectrum...

Spy Cam

"Does my bum look big in this?" sounds like an innocent enough question. Do you not have an adequate grip on reality to objectively judge yourself whether you look fat? Is it possible that you're feeling paranoid about other people's perception of you?

When you think about it, paranoia is rife.

Why do you close your curtains? Who would want to peer in at you? What's so interesting about you that anybody would want to watch you?

Why do you confess your true feelings when you're inebriated? What's so shameful about your innermost thoughts and feelings that you can't reveal them when you're sober? Why are you worried what people will think?

In the workplace, we feel inadequate. We feel underqualified. We feel like we're an imposter. We feel like we're just blagging, bluffing. We feel that our ruse could be exposed at any moment. Why do you stay in that crappy job that you're hopelessly overqualified for and you've completely mastered... is it because it's comfortable and you don't like the feeling that you're not good enough to do something more challenging?

When you're purchasing stuff, is it because you like the things that you're buying, or is it because you're thinking about how other people are going to judge you? Imagine you are supermarket shopping with your young children. When you are loading all your food onto the conveyor belt to be scanned by the checkout clerk, don't you feel that they're judging every purchase you're making? If you're buying crisps, chips, ready meals, chocolate, ice cream, sweets... isn't that supermarket employee going to be thinking "jeez, this person's a really bad parent for feeding their kid all this junk"?

Every time you share something on social media, is it because you're Facebragging, or do the sum total of your posts represent an accurate picture of your real life? Why are you sharing anyway? Why do you worry what other people think of you?

When you're at home, you sit around with stained jogging pants and a grubby T-shirt, swigging a beer and watching trashy TV. When you're out in the park, you're immaculately dressed, reading a pretentious novel. Why is that?

You're doing all these things almost without thinking. They're all driven by paranoia. You're paranoid that you won't be liked, won't be respected, won't be sexually attractive, won't be loved. You're paranoid that you'll be seen as a fool, a bad person, a bad parent, a bad employee. You're paranoid that you might get caught looking at your own reflection. You're paranoid that you might be accused of being a pervert for masturbating. You're paranoid that you might be laughed at for wanting a girlfriend or a boyfriend, but finding yourself rejected. You're paranoid that you're a bigot, a racist, sexist, stupid, ignorant, narcissistic, self-absorbed, selfish.

In actual fact, we all share exactly the same flaws.

Any child will be confused the first time they see the dyed green mohawk hair of a punk. A child reared in an exclusively white or black community will be confused the first time they meet somebody of the opposite skin tone. Any child will be confused the first time they are told they have to use the 'correct' bathroom.

We're built to pair up sexually, and we're bombarded with images of the most attractive people on the planet. We can't avoid comparing ourselves with others. Of course we are going to feel inadequate in the face of glossy magazines, TV personalities and movie stars. Pornography amplifies things still further: people are worried about the attractiveness of every inch of their bodies.

We are sometimes mocked for thinking that people are talking about us.

It's true. People do gossip. People are talking about you behind your back, all the time, especially if you're unwell. It's a vicious circle. The more paranoid and erratic your behaviour becomes, the more people will whisper about it, and then go silent and 'act normal' when you're in earshot. It's not unfounded paranoia. People like to gossip about anybody whose life appears less than perfect.

We like to label people. Crazy uncle Fred had a nervous breakdown, painted his torso with blue paint, adopted 50 rescue dogs and wandered around butt naked. Even though that was years ago and now crazy uncle Fred is back running his accountancy practice, he's still "crazy" uncle Fred in his family. His family have loose lips, and everybody in Fred's town now calls him crazy Fred. Fred's friends have loose lips, and now his clients know that he's a bit "crazy" even though they would never mention it in his presence.

Your doctor may protect your confidentiality, but your friends and family certainly won't. Your friends and family will broadcast every slip-up. Your friends and family will attempt amateur psychoanalysis, with their foghorn voices.

People might not say to your face "I think you've gone mad and you should be locked up in an asylum" but they'll certainly say that to other people behind your back. It's sad but true. There's no sense in denying it. People just like to gossip and spread rumours, half-truths and conjecture.

The fact of the matter is that you are quite interesting. Most people are very private and most people hide their true selves.

We are relieved to discover that other people are just as flawed and fucked up as we are, when somebody's mask slips. We then take that relief a stage further, and spread the juicy gossip. Everybody loves to hear embarassing tales of misfortune.

The massive popularity of soap operas, fly-on-the-wall documentaries and reality TV proves that humans have an insatiable appetite for voyeurism, invasion of privacy, gossiping about people. Think about the millions of armchair psychologists, analysing the behaviour of the Big Brother contestants.

Also, your government is spying on you. Your government reads your emails. Your government listens to your phonecalls. This isn't a conspiracy theory. The revelations of Edward Snowden have proven beyond reasonable doubt that your government is snooping on every ordinary citizen.

For those who have a fragile grasp on sanity, there are plenty of things that will tip them into fully-blown paranoia. Paranoia can build and build, until you believe there are hidden cameras watching you. Some paranoid schizophrenics can believe that their thoughts are being read. Clearly, this is at the extreme end of the mental health spectrum, but right now I have 3 microphones and 3 cameras potentially recording me: my laptop, my smartphone and my smartwatch.

I was digging around in the data that Google had gathered on me without my knowledge, and I found that there was an accurate GPS record of my position for everywhere I've been, as well as hundreds of sound recordings. Of course, there is also my Internet search history and the vast digital paper trail that I have inadvertently created.

Although I expect all my friends and family know that I got sick, because of the aforementioned gossip, I want to make things crystal clear: I was briefly "crazy" uncle Nick. That moniker still follows me around even though I'm a highly paid and well respected IT consultant. I pay my rent, bills, taxes and generally conduct myself in a way that any outside observer would struggle to categorise as "crazy". By any measure or test that you could conduct, I'm just as sane as you are.

However, there was paranoia about who knows? How much do people know? What falsehoods had been perpetrated against me? It was driving me crazy. I decided to take action.

By documenting my inner monologue, my darkest moments, my most closely guarded secrets, I'm taking the power away from those who gossip and whisper behind my back. I'm getting rid of the grey area. If you want to know who I really am and what really happened, it's documented right here in exquisite unflinching uncensored detail.

I know that I'm being judged all the time anyway, so you might as well judge me on the truth, rather than on the bullshit that my persecutors would have you believe. I offer you all the facts, so that you can make an informed judgement. I would rather you reached your own conclusions, rather than the conclusions that those with an unpleasant agenda would prefer you to make.

It is a bit of a warzone. I spent my childhood with the pressure and expectation that I would lie about my parents' drug taking, alcoholism and unwillingness to act like mature adults, responsible parents, get jobs that would support the family. My parents' focus was on keeping up appearances, rather than acting with integrity, and I was expected to play along with their bullshit. They decided to throw me under the bus rather than admit any kind of wrongdoing. This blog documents the truth, rather than the false image that they present.

I doubt any of my friends or work colleagues have an unpleasant agenda. However, my ex-wife campaigned very actively to demonise me, compromise my confidentiality, undermine my good name, discredit me. This document tells the side of the story that never got told, because I acted with integrity and presumed that she would too. I was exhausted and sick - how could I defend myself? I doubt she's ever told anybody how she abused me, beat me. I know with absolute certainty that she's told friends and work colleagues that I've struggled with mental health problems and addiction.

Of course, I have plenty of stuff that I've done wrong. It's all documented here in gory detail. I've made mistakes, but people have broadcast them in order to hurt and damage me. I'm being brave enough to re-tell those mistakes that were already loudly trumpeted by my persecutors. It's true that I'm also telling the things that were wrongly perpetrated against me, in a way that appears to be tit-for-tat, but it's actually just presenting a full and accurate picture.

I'm well known for my honesty. To present some "whiter than white" image of myself, to try and offset this demonic image that my parents and ex-wife paint of me, would be yet another falsehood. It serves no purpose, to simply hit back and point out the awful things that my persecutors have perpetrated against me.

I'm moving from a bad place to a much better place, in that I'm now pleased that people know things about me that are correct, even if they don't paint me in a flattering light. I'm less horrified that people know things that mean my confidence has been horribly betrayed by people who are supposed to care about me.

By all means, go ahead and talk about me all you like now. It's immensely liberating living life as an open book. It's a fantastic feeling, to be judged on balanced facts, rather than half-truths, falsehoods and bullshit "holier than thou" images that my persecutors have painted of themselves.

If it sounds a little paranoid, you're wrong. True friends have told me what's been said behind my back, and my persecutors have even admitted betraying my confidence on particularly private and sensitive things, that they absolutely should have treated with confidentiality.

I'm quickly approaching a time when I will be satisfied that the tale is told. I've presented all the information. I stand by my sins. I'm ready for judgement.

It is a bit of an alarming situation. I'm preparing to die, because I'm exhausted by the bullying and the mistreatment at the hands of my family, my ex-wife.

If you've heard anything bad about me, consider this: don't be surprised if the dog that you beat turns around and bites you one day.

 

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Don't Tread on Me

7 min read

This is a story about shutting down conversations...

Flip Flop

Why don't we complain more? When things are going badly and luck is not in our favour, why don't we speak up about how unfair life can be? Why are we not allowed to discuss how hopeless we feel? Why aren't we allowed to say that we feel overwhelmed and that we can't cope?

There are numerous ways of shutting a person down, and ending any conversation before it even gets started:

  • "Life is hard"
  • "Life is unfair"
  • "Deal with it"
  • "Get over it"
  • "Other people have it so much harder than you"
  • "Look on the bright side"
  • "You'll find a way to cope"
  • "You'll get there in the end"
  • "Look how far you've come"
  • "You're a strong person"
  • "God wouldn't give you anything you couldn't handle"
  • "This will pass"
  • "It gets easier"
  • "Keep going"
  • "Don't give up"

All of these phrases have the same objective: to shut the person up who is in distress. We seem to believe that talking about our distress is somehow wallowing in self-pity. We seem to think that the best way to deal with problems is just to pretend like they're not there and that they'll go away on their own. It's akin to saying "LA LA LA! NOT LISTENING!!".

This cultural programming is so engrained that we repeat the useless mantras to ourselves. When stress, anxiety and hopelessness are overwhelming us, we say the very same things to ourselves. It's like we're trying to bully and abuse ourselves into happiness. "Get happy or fuck off and die" is the unequivocal message that is being sent.

Talking about depression is now permitted, but the message is very much the same: go to your doctor, get a therapist, take some medication, take MORE medication. I can't believe how many people would say "have you taken your pills today?" or "maybe you need to increase your dose" when you're having a bad day. This is part of the reason why I don't tell my work colleagues that I have struggled with mental illness, and it's part of the reason why I don't take medication. It's too much of a cop-out to medicalise a situation which might be brought about by circumstances, rather than pathological brain chemistry.

There was an experiment where mice had to run across an electrified floor in order to get to their food. The mice were obviously pretty stressed about this, and would exhibit all kinds of symptoms of anxiety when they were getting hungry. The mice knew that the only way that they were going to get fed would be to have painful electric shocks jolting through their feet as they crossed to the other side of their cage, where the food was.

The mice would get more and more stressed, until finally they were so hungry that they had to dash across the electrified floor as fast as they possibly could, getting zapped the whole time. Pretty stressful circumstances, right?

When the anti-anxiety drug diazepam was discovered, they were testing it on these mice. The mice who were injected with diazepam would exhibit none of the symptoms of stress and anxiety, and would wander across the electrified floor in an unhurried manner. The mice who were under the influence of diazepam still felt the pain, and their faces winced with each painful electric shock that was delivered to their feet. The mice just didn't give a fuck anymore.

Pain exists to condition our behaviour. You don't stick your hand in a fire more than once. You're careful with a knife because of that one time you cut yourself. Pain tells us about our environment. Pain gives us our list of dos and don'ts, without them having to be extensively listed in some kind of compendium of things that fuck you up.

Anxiety exists to tell us to avoid pain, when we can see it coming. Without anxiety, we would stand in the middle of the road, watching a truck hurtling towards us and think "oh, this is going to hurt" but not actually be bothered about getting out of the way.

We now have a society where pain and anxiety seem to be accepted as facts of life. We can see the onrushing disaster of climate change, but yet we just stand there in the middle of the road waiting for it to smash into us and obliterate most life on Earth. We know that our jobs are utter boring bullshit and are destroying our physical and mental health, but we still continue to work them until we're too old and infirm to continue any more.

In the oft-quoted example: a frog is put in a pan of cool water, and then the water has been slowly brought to the boil. Nobody has sensed just how deadly the situation has got. Nobody is jumping out of the pan to save ourselves. We're all just sitting in a pan of boiling water saying "this is fine" like the cartoon dog in the house that's on fire.

This is fine

Image credit: K C Green

If things get too hard to handle, and the danger that you sense - which is very real, tangible and rational - can no longer be quieted by telling yourself "everything's going to be fine" then you can trot off to your doctor and get yourself some happy pills to mask your symptoms.

How much depression is due to demoralisation, demotivation, boredom, stressful bullshit jobs with never-ending makework? How much anxiety is due to job insecurity, financial uncertainty, hand-to-mouth existence, well founded fears about terrorism, violence, rape, murder and paedophilia?

For sure the media rams the world's problems down our throat 24x7 from all corners of the globe, but fundamentally, even in our little local communities shitty stuff is happening. Even on the streets of wealthy London, there are awful things being perpetrated against innocent people.

Saying that life is a fight for survival, and that we are doomed to some kind of Malthusian catastrophe is disingenuous. Blaming people for their own misfortune is just an excuse for inaction. What we're basically saying is "at least I don't live in Africa" even though our lives are hardly peachy.

I would imagine that this put up & shut up ethos is trickled down from our ruling elite. While wealth is not trickling down at all, we are told that we should be grateful for a few crumbs from the table of the fat cat plutocrats. Bullying and drugging us into submission, our whole culture is one where we criticise anybody who dares to voice their discomfort and dissatisfaction with their lot in life, even though we ourselves are living with nearly unbearable stress.

It's as if we are all eating handfuls of ground up glass and razor blades, and somebody whose mouth is dripping with blood suddenly says "what are we doing? why are we doing this? we should stop!" and then everybody else rounds on them and says "we're all getting on with it without complaining, so you should too" and "take some painkillers if the pain is too much". It's as if the peer pressure to keep suffering the pain and eating the sharp glass and blades is so great that we continue to act irrationally and kill ourselves.

Food for thought, anyway.

 

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The First Million Words You Write Are Your Worst

18 min read

This is a story about storytelling...

Cray supercomputer

Doing the sane and sensible thing when you're being driven insane is hard. I'm having to think creatively, in order to stick with a job that I hate because it's really easy and really boring, but it pays the bills and it's low stress (if you don't count the boredom that's driving me insane).

I was writing my blog at lunchtimes, to break up the day, but I found that took away the thing that I look forward to doing when I get home in the evening. I also found it frustrating, being at my desk during lunchtime, when people could wander over and distract me. The City is not a relaxing place for those on their lunchbreak. Crumbs on the keyboard is the best you can hope for.

So, I've decided to write short fictional stories once or twice a day, to fill the time. My blog is my therapist, patiently listening and never interrupting, while I pour my heart and soul out. My blog is where I work out all the mixed-up shit that happened in my life. My blog is a non-fiction record of who the hell I am and why I do what I do. My blog sets the record straight.

But, I need a creative outlet. Writing my blog is kinda creative, but there are certain needs that have to be met. If something is bugging me, or coming to the surface from my subconscious and memory banks, I've gotta get it out, I've got to put it into words and start to make sense of everything. Writing creatively is different. Writing creatively is scratching that itch that I never get to scratch, as a software developer or leader of software development teams. Software is a science at the end of the day, and for sure it's a black art, but it's important that I don't rely on my job for everything that I need.

And so, today, I wrote the first fiction that I have done in my adult life. I don't know why I've shied away from it. Perhaps it's because I had seen it as childish, juvenile. Perhaps it's because I was afraid that people would laugh. Perhaps it's because even I would laugh, when I read it back again in future. So, it seems sensible that I would hide behind humour, satire. It seems sensible that I would use elements of fantasy, rather than trying to write anything serious, earnest.

I don't do role play. I don't play Dungeons & Dragons. I don't do any kind of fantasy at all, and wearing the corporate mask the whole time is very draining. It's important to not take yourself too seriously sometimes. Wear fancy dress. Pretend to be somebody, something you're not, just so long as it's for fun. I don't really do fun. My life is very simple: work, sleep, eat, repeat... plus some blogging.

I'm not going to publish every one of my stories. In fact, until I know what to do with them, I'm unlikely to publish any of them. I'm going to publish the first one I wrote, in the vague hope that anybody's reading and might have some feedback, but until I find my particular sweet spot, I'm going to keep things mostly under wraps.

Anyhoo, if you've persevered reading this far, I shall cut to the chase and introduce the first short story I ever wrote in my adult life.

It's called The Sysadmin:

The users were scared.

 

The office expanded almost as far as the eye could see, with row upon row of birch veneer desks, in two large columns. The room was cleaved in half by a walkway running down the middle. The polystyrene ceiling tiles were dirty and many of them were broken. Fluorescent lighting bathed the room with a dim yellowish flickering illumination, which harshly lit the people and furnishings, whilst somehow not being bright enough to bring out the colour or definition of anything.

 

Identical swivel office chairs each had their own character, through the damage they had sustained. Some had broken backrests, some were missing armrests, some had their once colourful fabric, hanging frayed from the edges of the jagged black plastic that was designed to conceal stained foam and how cheaply made these pieces of furniture were. Each chair had indecipherable markings that identified it to its owner. Some had initials scratched into the plastic of the backrest using a sharp implement. Some had letters or symbols daubed onto them using Tipp-Ex correction fluid. Some had rectangular sticky labels that were half ripped off, with a name now longer legible, written in felt-tip pen.

 

The grey carpet was almost uniformly patterned with brown patches from spilled instant coffee, which had become so trodden into the floor covering that they were almost unnoticeable in the context of the shabby decay of the office. There was a stripe that was slightly browner, running down the walkway in-between the two columns of desks, that led to the coffee vending machine, water cooler, and a door marked “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS”.

 

Clearly unnerved, but silently huddling together in the walkway and all looking towards the man who had just entered the office, the users were no longer at their desks. The users now stood wide-eyed, clustered in front of the man, but unsure what to say or do.

 

“Hi, I’m the system administrator” the man began. “Did somebody phone IT support?” he asked, addressing the group as a whole, unsure of who to direct his question towards.

 

The users mumbled to themselves almost inaudibly, but didn’t seem to be communicating with each other or the system administrator. They were nervous. Nobody wanted to speak up. Everybody knew, but nobody wanted to say.

 

The users mostly looked the same, men and women, despite subtle differences in appearance. The women wore flowery blouses in muted pastel shades, sensible flat shoes and rimless glasses. Their wavy hair was tamed by hair clips and cut to a uniform length somewhere above shoulder high. They were all overweight and with slightly reddish cheeks. They looked flustered.

 

One of the users spoke up. It was a man. You could tell he was a man, because he wore an off-white button-down shirt with a blue biro in the front pocket, like all the men. His shirt was wrinkled and half-untucked from his bulging waistline. His neck crumpled the soft collar, so that his head and body were just one bulging mass. There were coffee stains down his front and he had clearly wiped his hands on his trousers many times after eating. The hem of his stained trousers didn’t reach the top of his black scuffed shoes, and his white socks were showing.

 

“It.. it.. it’s the… the...” he stutteringly began.

 

The user looked around, with slightly wild eyes. He was desperately hoping that one of the other users would now speak up, but they all looked away and avoided his eye contact. Somehow, a gap had formed in the group around him, as if everyone had stepped away from him without anybody noticing. The user seemed to be attracting all of the inadequate light in the room. It was as if a spotlight had picked him out, and he now stood, floundering, all on his own.

 

“I.. I… I… I’m not in charge here” he continued.

 

“It’s OK, just tell me what’s going on.” said the system administrator.

 

“I didn’t do it. It’s not my fault. We were all here, just getting on with our work” he started to protest.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to blame anybody. Just tell me what the problem is” the system administrator offered, as kindly as he could, putting on his most understanding and approachable face. “You can tell me” he said.

 

“It’s the… it’s the…” the user haltingly continued, struggling to get a handle on his rising sense of panic, almost choking. He felt a sense of responsibility that he was totally unused to.

 

“Please just tell me what the issue is. Somebody logged a call with IT support” the system administrator pleaded, now losing his patience.

 

“It’s the MAINFRAME” the user blurted out. There was a sharp intake of breath from all the other users, as the man spat out the final word, even though they all knew.

 

The system administrator rolled his eyes. “Really? What’s wrong with the mainframe?” he asked, as if a practical joke was being played on him. His face now betrayed a deep skepticism and the impression that his precious time was being wasted by a bunch of low-brow imbeciles.

 

“It’s angry” the user said. “Yes, it’s angry” many other users now quietly agreed, in defence of their colleague. “Angry” and “it got angry” they all muttered, not really addressing anybody except the room they were all stood in.

 

“Right, get back to your desks. I’ll take a look” the system administrator said. He stepped forward, having to push people out of the way, as clearly nobody was in any mood to return to their desks. The users were stood in a trance-like state, just muttering “angry” below their breath, and staring at the system administrator as he tried to pick his way through the crowd and make his way down the walkway in-between the two columns of desks, where all the users were still clustered.

 

Walking through the office, up to the door marked “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS” the system administrator glanced back towards the group of users, who were still crowded together on the opposite side of the room, near the exit. They were all looking at him, in perfect silence and stillness.

 

Reaching for the door handle, the system administrator was about to twist it and enter the restricted area behind, but he hesitated, and instead put his ear to the door. It sounded like… footsteps. But these were not the footsteps of your average light-footed person. It sounded like deep thuds of metal and rubber on concrete. DUSH! DUSH! DUSH! Would come the thumps of heavy machinery hitting a solid floor in a slow rhythm, and then stop, and then repeat again.

 

In a moment of calm rational thought, the system administrator decided that perhaps one of the air conditioning units had failed, and the motors that drove it were now causing some kind of mechanical fault to create this racket. Immediately, he twisted the door handle and opened the door a fraction.

 

Inside the restricted area, it was dark. Almost pitch black. This was unusual. The restricted area should have been well lit.

 

The system administrator craned his head through the doorway. It looked as if the glass doors that allowed entry into the temperature controlled housing for the mainframe, were open. The doors should not have been open. The vibration absorbing shock mounts, that the mainframe sat on top of, were in the housing, but the mainframe was nowhere to be seen in the darkened room. The system administrator couldn’t see the whole room because he was just peeking in through the gap in the doorway. The thumping had stopped, and everything seemed eerily quiet. Where was the hum of the cooling fans and the chatter of the hard disk drives? Where was the bleep and crackle of the networking devices? Where were the blinking LED lights that signified the activity of the mainframe? It seemed like the restricted area was empty and lifeless.

 

Then, a gigantic shape lunged out of the darkness. A humongous black box, big enough to fill a quarter of the room, suddenly thumped forward out of the corner, where it had been previously unseen due to the poor lighting. DUSH! came an earsplitting sound, as metal crunched into the reinforced concrete floor. A sudden scattering of red lights lit up across the front of the object as it thrust towards the door where the system administrator stood.

 

Quick as a flash, the system administrator slammed the door shut and ran down the walkway in-between the desks. Almost scattering the statue-like users who were still milling around near the exit, he left the office. Just before the office exit door slammed shut behind him, the users heard him call back to them: “I think it’s hungry”.

 

The users appeared to wake up, and now a mild kind of panic spread amongst them. They started to talk amongst themselves, while also shooting nervous glances towards the door to the restricted area.

 

“Should we get out of here?” and “it’s dangerous, I don’t want to be in here when that thing escapes” they said to each other, in hushed tones. The users were quite calm in their indecisiveness. They mumbled to each other in low voices for several minutes, with no clear plan of action emerging.

 

Then, the system administrator threw open the office door again. He struggled, getting stuck in the doorway. In his arms were bundles of grey cables, like a great mass of tangled rope. The users cleared the gangway for him, but nobody stepped in to help him. Finally overcoming the obstruction, the system administrator burst through the doorway, and made his way to the restricted area door, while tripping up and dropping cables along the way. He dumped the tangled mess next to the “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS” door, and then made several trips back up and down the walkway, picking up the cables he had dropped and adding them to the pile.

 

Grabbing handfuls of cables, and massaging them into a giant knot, the system administrator now took hold of the door handle in one hand, while holding the beach-ball sized lump under his other arm. With a single fluid motion, he flung open the door to the restricted area and threw the cables into the room.

 

The mainframe roared with a bloodcurdling mixture of computer fans that were spinning at maximum revolutions, hard disks that were clattering, network devices that were chattering and the screeching sound of the twisted metal of its frame. The front of the mainframe was an angry mess of red LED lights, that flashed furiously in the darkness. It lunged for the door, but the system administrator was too quick and slammed it shut, before diving to one side with his back flat against the wall, panting heavily.

 

There then followed a graunching, crunching, high-pitched sound of plastic being stripped, broken, and metal being bent and torn, and then the low hum of fans and hard disks spinning. There were a few thuds and crashes, as the mainframe stomped around, and then things went quiet again.

 

The system administrator repeated the procedure, of rolling up balls of cables and tossing them into the restricted area several times, before the pile was exhausted. The users watched nervously from the other end of the office the whole time, although they craned their necks in interest, trying to see what was going on.

 

There was a moment of calm when the pile was gone. The system administrator and the users momentarily relaxed. Perhaps the mainframe was satisfied?

 

Then, a roaring and stomping started, many times worse than it had been before. The speed of the steps was rapid, and it sounded like the mainframe was tearing the room apart.

 

The system administrator looked worried, then pensive, and then he appeared to have a eureka moment. He sprinted energetically towards the office exit, hardly breaking his stride as he flung the door open and disappeared. Just as the door was closing, he called back to the users: “I think it wants dessert”.

 

Some time went by, and the users were getting very nervous, as the mainframe set about destroying the restricted area. Several times, the door seemed to vibrate and rattle in its hinges, as if it was going to be blown wide open at any moment. The users started to back up against the opposite wall, trying to get as far away as possible, but still unwilling to leave the office.

 

At last, the system administrator returned. He strode into the office carrying a brown cardboard box of modest size. He walked down the walkway, looking back at the terrified users with a cheeky grin. With a twinkle in his eye he produced a flat object, about 4 inches square, from the cardboard box. “I think it’ll like these” he said.

 

The system administrator proceeded to slide floppy disks through the gap at the bottom of the door to the restricted area. The floppy disks came in various sizes. The bulk of them were 3 and a half inches, with a metal sliding part that protected the black plastic magnetic disk inside. A lot of them were 5 and a quarter inches, and had no metal protective part. The mainframe gave a grunt of approval each time that it was fed a disk, but its satisfaction was audibly less pronounced each time.

 

However, the system administrator had saved the best until last. Producing some 8 inch and 3 inch floppy disks from smaller white cardboard boxes that had been concealed in the bigger brown cardboard box, he now fed the mainframe these rare delicacies. It didn’t take many before the mainframe started to sound positively delighted, with a crescendo of modulated digital signals gracing everybody’s ears.

 

The system administrator disappeared into the restricted area, opening and closing the door quickly behind himself. Soon, soothing noises and words of encouragement could be just heard outside the room, and there were a few thud-like stomps, and then the sound of computer fans and hard disks whirring back into life. As he stepped out of the restricted area, the lights in the room were back on, the doors to the glass housing were closed and the mainframe was back on its anti-vibration mounting. The LED lights on the front of the machine flickered in ordered patterns, and a thick trunk of network cables that hung from the ceiling had all been plugged back into the gigantic black box.

 

As the “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS” door closed behind the system administrator, hundreds of terminals blinked into life on the desks of the users. The office was now bathed in light from the computer screens that were displaying lines and lines of green text on a black background. The green glow seemed to soothe the nerve-jangled users, and they all went “aaahhh!” in unison, and started to slowly file back to their desks without prompting.

 

The system administrator ambled up the walkway for the last time that day. Most users were now seated back at their terminals, busily performing calculations for the mainframe, happy again. He paused at the office exit and looked back over a sea of green screens, with users hunched over their beige plastic keyboards. The natural order of things had been restored.

The end etc. etc.

Anyway, I noticed that my story was 2,500 words, which is about 3 and a half times more than what I normally write. If I write two stories like that every day, plus my blog, I'll be producing over 4 novels a month. That's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) on steroids. I think I'll burn out.

So, it remains to be seen what the sweet spot is for the length of the stories, and what I'm going to write about. Maybe I will be struck by the infamous writer's block. Maybe my enthusiasm for the whole endeavour will fizzle. Maybe I will never find anything that I think people will enjoy reading.

Let the games commence.

 

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