This is a story about the past year...

As I searched for an image that aptly represented the last year, I realised that I would struggle to find one. Should I use a photo of fireworks over London taken from my balcony? Should I use one from one of my visits to hospital? Should I use a photo that represents something abstract: addiction, travel, work, recovery or something else? Should I use a photo that reminds me where I was a year ago versus where I am today?

I've selected this picture from a psych ward. The tree is supposed to be decorated with leaves which have a handwritten message from patients who have successfully recovered and left the ward. There aren't many leaves on the tree.

I'm regularly criticised for being deliberately glum. Perhaps my negativity is a choice. Perhaps I wouldn't be so stressed, anxious and depressed, if only I decided to be fit, healthy and happy instead. Perhaps I could also decide that I'm a millionaire too, while I'm at it.

I should be happy that I survived 2017. The odds certainly weren't in my favour. Whether it was kidney failure, addiction or suicide that claimed my life, there was sure to be something that was going to kill me. I should be happy to have made it through another year, shouldn't I?

What about prospects? I start 2018 with friends, living with a family, with a roof over my head, with a job. Looking at the hard numbers, things look rosy: I earn a lot and it'll take less than a year to replenish my finances. Most people would be chuffed to bits to have the opportunities that I have.

Tonight will be my 5th night without sleeping pills and my 3rd without painkillers, having partially relapsed because the pills were helping me with stress and anxiety. I enter the New Year relatively free from drugs, medications and other substance abuse problems. Of course, I will drink. I will probably drink for the whole of 2018. I have no intention of becoming teetotal, although I do need to reduce the amount I drink.

The list of New Year's resolutions that other people are begging to make for me is endless: join a gym, do some volunteering, eat more kale, do yoga, smile, pet a dog, kiss a baby, punch the sun etc. etc.

It might seem like I'm bloody minded - intent on being miserable - but really, I'm not. It might seem like I'm ungrateful, but again, I'm not.

2017 has been what it's been. It's been a hell of a ride. I'm content just to say that I've survived it and that I have no intention of a repeat, given the choice.

Tags: #addiction #hospital #depression

This is a story about losing my way...

I've kind of screwed everything up since my suicide attempt. Why did I tweet when I was really sick? Why did I piss my readers off by live-publishing the draft manuscript of my dreadful second novel? Why am I struggling to find my voice again, and reconnect with people?

It feels like there's a lot of pressure to write very profound and meaningful things, having cheated death. It feels like whatever I write should be a decent contribution to society. However, I'm missing the mark. I'm falling short of my own expectations. I feel like I'm letting everybody down.

I feel considerable embarrassment that my story does not have a nice linear progression. Why doesn't the tale read like a straightforward rags to riches fairytale? Why are there flies in the ointment? Why is there bad stuff in there, mixed in with what I dearly desired to be good? What's my message anyway? Where am I going with this?

Writing another novel took me down a peg or two. It was hard, and my arrogant belief that I'd be able to just sit down in front of the keyboard and crank out something decent, was a delusion that was shattered. I've had to face the very real conclusion that I've still got a long way to go if I want to produce anything decent. I'll need to pre-plan more. I can't just shoot from the hip and expect everything to go my way.

Writing these stream-of-consciousness blogs has become quite easy. If you do aspire to be a writer, writing needs to become a daily habit. I've developed the habit, but writing a journal, a diary or a stream-of-consciousness blog is probably the easiest option. Writing short stories is fun and not that hard. Dedicating even a mere 30 days to a single work of fiction, turned out to be very hard. I thought it would be easy, because my first novel came with little effort and I've managed to write this blog for two and a half years, but the construction of characters, plot, scenes... it's tough going when you get up to and beyond the 30,000 to 35,000 word point. It's not about the word count, of course. You have to write the right words, naturally. However, I can't understand why anybody would write the wrong ones. Just edit as you go.... except that's hard when you're doing creative writing.

I'm trying to recover my raw and uncensored voice. I'm trying to rediscover myself; my identity. I briefly thought I would own the moniker: novelist. I wrote "thinker" on my bio because I thought it would piss people off. Aren't we all thinkers? How dare I declare myself to be some kind of intellectual philosopher type chap. "Show me your certificate immediately!" people demanded. "Show me your credentials!" they screamed.

I'm backing down.

Although I hold a balanced set of opinions, have lived a varied life that's given me first-hand experience of almost every aspect of human society, and I can string a sentence together, I'm surely not entitled to write on whatever topic takes my whimsical fancy, and expect people to read it? Who the hell am I? What's my job title? What position of authority do I hold?

I think my readers are figuring out that I'm just a guy; just an ordinary person. These are not the words of a superstar celebrity CEO chairman chief lord god. These are merely words. Where are my citations? Why am I not quoting people you've heard of? Who the hell am I to hold my own reasonable opinions, and dare to express them as if I'm somebody of any import?

There isn't enough room in this world for the rich and famous, and the likes of us. Make room for the celebs. "SILENCE, PLEB!" scream those who are entitled to an opinion, because of their superior status.

It would be OK, but what the hell am I going on about anyway?

I feel like I missed my chance. The spotlight was on me briefly, but I choked. When I had the attention I craved, what did I do with it? I screwed up. I wasted my opportunity. When that chance came, I didn't have anything profound to say. It's time to shuffle red-faced back into the audience. It's time to shut up and let the stars of the show resume their performance, isn't it? Make room for the celebs!

I lost 2,000 Twitter followers in the weeks following my suicide attempt. I've lost 500 Twitter followers since getting a job. If I was cynical, I could argue that it's not very interesting to read about somebody who's succeeding; somebody who's safe and is probably going to be OK. Where's the drama? Where's the jeopardy? Where's the suspense? I'm not cynical though, so I take it personally: my message must be wrong. It must be something unlikeable about me. I must have changed. I failed to say anything profound and interesting when I was passed the microphone. I had my moment of fame and I've screwed it up. Next!

What frustrates me is that I know there is something profound to be found in my writing. I know that my story does contain an interesting and exceptional tale. I know that there's a message that can be teased out, and it might prove useful for other people who are going through hell. The odds were stacked against me - as they're stacked against so many - but what's different about me that's allowed me to pull through? Why am I alive when so many others would have died? I certainly don't want to piss anybody off by smugly declaring myself a success story - it's a different message from that... it's about what lessons can be learned, even if that's not an original thought or idea at all.

I've had to sit and listen to cult-leader type characters, while they talked about their spiritual awakenings in sweat lodges or in South American jungles, intoxicated with ayahuasca. I've had to listen to endless amounts of people who've wanted to share their stories of recovery. Nobody who's listened has been able to emulate them though. It's all well and good going on about your own success in recovery, but it's not helping anybody, is it?

There are a lot of very desperate people out there. My website is visited by the suicidal, alcoholics and drug addicts. There are millions of people out there who are looking for solutions to their problems. There's a temptation for me to start writing as if I've got the answers. I know that there's an eager audience for any kind of self-help material. I know that it would be incredibly popular, if I was to start writing a prescriptive guide for how to cure yourself of your depression, anxiety, drug and alcohol abuse. I know that people are desperate and they haven't found anything that works.

Nobody's a done deal. Nobody is a finished article. It would be dishonest and misleading for anybody to write as if they've got the answers; they've found the cure.

During my treatment for mental health problems and addiction, I discovered a world of non-judgemental people, and people who will listen to your story. Your story is interesting. You deserve the chance to recover - every saint has a past and every sinner has a future. It seems as if there's a monopoly on storytelling - only the celebs get to tell their stories, and the rest of us should silently cower in a dark corner, filled with shame and regret; convinced that we're worthless sinners; eternally damned. I wouldn't be surprised if we discover that the secret to recovery is to allow people to recover, by allowing them to no longer feel as if they must pay a lifelong price for their shortcomings; by allowing people to revel in their own identities and their actions, rather than apologising and thinking of themselves as useless and flawed.

You may notice that there's rather a different code of morality applied to celebrities, than is applied to the general populace. You will see a great outpouring of sympathy for celebrities who are affected by mental health, alcohol and drug addiction issues. You will see that celebrities are celebrated for their faults - it makes them more relatable. However, the ordinary likes of you and me will become black sheep - scapegoats for the ills of society - if we stumble and err. Nobody's going to forgive our sins because we're not celebrities. Nobody wants to hear your story.

However, you should write like you're already famous. You should own your story. You should tell your story, because nobody else is going to tell it correctly. Nobody but you should own your identity. You decide who you are; you decide how your story gets told.

I'm having a wobble. Why are people disengaging? Why are fewer people connecting with me and my story? Why am I losing Twitter followers? Why do all my graphs trend downwards?

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where the hell I'm going with this. If I was going to be a writer, why am I not punting my novel manuscripts to every literary agent I can find? If I was going to be a writer, why am I not relentlessly pursuing a writing job? If I was going to be a writer, why am I not promoting myself through every avenue? It must be clear to my audience that I'm confused; directionless.

Often times when we're consuming content on the internet, we wonder what the commercial angle is. All those lovely webcomics that you read have usually got associated merchandise - T-shirts, coffee mugs etc. - and all those silly Buzzfeed lists that you love, are paid for by the advertising that's plastered all over the website. The deal you've struck is pretty clear - your eyeballs are being traded. However, what's my angle? What do I want from you?

I guess I need attention to feel valued; worthwhile as a human being. Without an audience; with nobody listening, who the hell am I? Who really cares whether I live or die?

My social media success is inversely proportional to my real-world connections. As I've made new friends, reconnected with old ones and impressed my new work colleagues, my social media identity has suffered. As my health, wealth and prospects have improved, my digital footprint has declined. I suppose I should be happy, but this blog and my Twitter followers provide me with a comforting safety net. If all else fails, this blog is something that would be hard to take away from me. This website - and my writing - is something that's inexpensive and provides stability; support; self-esteem. I suppose I could dismiss my virtual life as unimportant, and concentrate on real face-to-face human relationships, but I'm loathe to do that when I'm fragile; delicate. Why would I cut off one of my biggest sources of security?

A blogger friend has recently completed a year of sobriety, got herself a regular spot as a guest blogger and now has a boyfriend. Writing has been staggeringly successful for her, as a healthy coping mechanism. Blogging has been her constant companion, and she's proud of what she's produced. She's buzzing with the excitement of getting noticed. She's thrilled that she's achieved so much.

I remember when I started writing this blog, I suffered the usual thing that most bloggers do, which is to believe that I was writing amazing stuff that needed to be shared. I was a blogospammer. I would share my content as far and wide as I could. I exhausted every avenue, trying to get exposure. I wanted readers, like a junkie wants drugs. I obsessed over my stats; my metrics. I quickly came to believe that I was a serious writer, and that I'd produced a significant contribution to the literature.

Now, I beaver away in relative obscurity. I put very little effort into self-promotion. I cringe a little when I think about how I spammed every social media site I could, trying to get readers. Now, I'm passive - read if you want to... you know where to find me.

I'm still a bit hooked on my stats though. It upsets me when I have fewer readers this week than last week; fewer followers.

I imagine that I'm going through an important developmental phase though. To write every day for a year is necessary to develop the writing habit. To write for a second year is to prove that the first wasn't just a fluke. To write for a third year is to discover why you're really writing. What is it that I'm getting out of this? Where am I going with this?

It's incredible that there are some people who've read everything I've written here. I've written 770,000 words, which is the same amount as in the King James Bible, more or less - it's my next milestone, to have written as much as is in the Bible. Then, I want to write a million words, just because it's a cool number. How cool would that be, to say you've written a million words?

So, I don't really know what I'm writing about. I don't really know why I want followers; readers. I don't really know what I've got to say that's profound and interesting and useful and entertaining and moving and helpful and original and all the other things that I vainly want my writing to be. Why am I doing this? I don't know yet.

I imagine that people reach the end of these sometimes lengthy brain-dumps, and they think "that's 10 minutes of my life I just wasted". What knowledge have I imparted? How have I improved anybody's life?

I am going to find out where this is going. There is a purpose, I promise. I just don't know what it is yet.

Tags: #writing #socialmedia

This is a story about my 2,500 mile round-trip...

Two weeks ago, the local Community Mental Health Team (CMHT) was phoning me to see if they could potentially admit me to hospital. I had revealed to a psychiatrist that I was having suicidal thoughts, opting to be fully honest - as advised by my doctor friend who was accompanying me - as opposed to saying what I needed to in order get what I wanted. Perhaps it's good that I was honest, because therapy's not quick, and the only pills that work have a tendency to send me a little hypomanic.

So, I'm still unmedicated. It's been 6 months.

The danger was that I'd become so depressed that I'd commit suicide. My hunch was that my suicidal thoughts were being driven by the fact that my life was disintegrating and I had absolutely no control over it. Doctors can't act on hunches. I can though, and I was right - as soon as I started earning money and there was hope that I wasn't facing financial ruin, a lot of my suicidal thoughts disappeared.

Another danger is that I'll start getting delusions of grandeur. However, we should examine quite closely just how delusional I really am. Am I really delusional?

The phone rang. I answered it. A man told me he had a project. Could I do it? I replied that I could. How much money did I want? I told him. Could I start on Monday? I said I could. I didn't speak to him again, until I met him for the very first time, 1,200 miles from home.

If you think that my mental illness is about some kind of lifelong condition that I need to take tablets for, you're wrong. Every single thing in my life - my environment - predisposes me towards mood instability. If you think about the kind of feast and famine stressfest that my boom and bust financial situation has given me, then perhaps you can start to see that I harbour no delusions. My days were numbered. Only bankruptcy and a life of poverty lay ahead, quietly pill popping and watching daytime television, while collecting my meagre benefit cheques. Then, suddenly: an investment banking IT contract lands in my lap.

"Yes, but you're resting on your laurels; relying on your reputation" I hear you cry.

It's true that if it wasn't for friends who've vouched for my good character, I would have been screwed long ago. However it's a non sequitur to say that I'm able to hide my mental illness by burning bridges. How did I build my reputation in the first place, if I'm no use to anybody?

If you were to read through the two and a half years that I've been writing my story, you'll see that I have burnt some bridges. However, you'll also see that my actions are always quite deliberate. I often burn bridges to stop me going back to places. If you look at my whole working life in its entirety, you'll see that the big wads of cash that I get offered to do work that's utterly incompatible with my mental health, is always too much of a temptation. Even places where I've spectacularly burnt bridges, my name isn't total mud. It's been very hard to completely destroy my reputation and good standing, and make myself un[re]employable.

Are you getting the idea at all? Are you understanding the theme?

Perhaps my most astonishing rags-to-riches feat was when I went from homeless and bankrupt, to working on the number one project for the biggest bank in Europe. The exertion of it cost me my sanity. The exhaustion of living in a 14-bed dormitory and working 120-hour weeks; trying to keep my suit and shirts clean and crisply pressed hanging up on my bunk; trying to save up enough money to get myself a place to live... it was too much. I burnt out and plummeted into suicidal depression when I ran out of energy to keep up appearances. However, can you imagine how I felt, when I upgraded from a hostel bunk bed to my own 2-bedroom apartment on the banks of the River Thames, with glorious panoramic views over London. Do you think you'd be mentally 'well' enough to cope with that kind of life turnaround?

Stress and sleep deprivation will have fairly predictable effects on most people. To deprive a person of sleep and then declare that they are mentally unwell seems disingenuous. What about taking a person who believes they're a complete failure and parachuting them into a life of opulent wealth? Do you think that it would have an effect on somebody, if they miraculously avoided certain financial ruin, destitution and homelessness? What happens when the mentally ill junkie homeless bankrupt loser reinvents themself overnight?

Of course, we don't normally let people sort themselves out.

Criminals, the mentally ill, addicts and alcoholics are very keen to club together with their own kind. Like crabs in a bucket, any crab that tries to escape will be pulled back down by the others. I shan't be adding a link to this website on my CV anytime soon. Joining any kind of community where I'm encouraged to wallow in my shame and define myself by my shortcomings, seems like a terrible idea.

In defiance of those who tell me I have delusions of grandeur for expecting more than a pot to piss in, I continue to pursue a two-part strategy: I'm doing incredibly well remunerated work and I'm candidly sharing my story publicly.

"Who are you to tell your story? You're nobody. You're not famous" I hear you grumble.

"Who are you to earn so much? You've failed. You should earn peanuts" I hear you protest.

Don't you understand? The whole system is set up to make you feel inadequate; unworthy. Every exam you ever sat; every job interview you've ever attended - the whole sham was concocted to make you feel grateful for the pittance you receive. The fact that you feel like you're not allowed to write your autobiography or otherwise blow your own trumpet, is by design - you're supposed to feel like a nobody. You've been indoctrinated to feel worthless.

On my travels - and I don't mean geographically - I've encountered a lot of people who've been less fortunate than the investment banking types who I'd usually come into contact with. The only difference between me and my fellow hostel mates, is that they never believed they'd even get within 100 feet of the front doors of a massive investment bank, let alone land a job there. The difference is attitude: act like you're supposed to be there. Life's all a confidence trick.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've faced the horrendous realisation that I'm unexceptional. I mean, I'm on the right side of the bell curve, but I'm not an outlier. What special achievements set me apart? What proof have I got of my intellect? Of course, the answer is that I'm distinctly average; perhaps even a little below average in some areas, thanks to excessive consumption of drugs and alcohol. I should have been swinging towards hypomania, but instead I've been suffering from an almighty self-doubt crisis.

Imposter syndrome has driven me to try harder; to concentrate. Anxiety and the sheer terror that I'm incapable of doing the job I've been doing for 20 years, is being slowly replaced by the welcome return of some belief in my own abilities.

Of course, now comes the threat of overconfidence. Perhaps now I'll swing hypomanic? Perhaps soon I'll declare myself Jesus Christ re-incarnated? Perhaps those doctors were right all along, and only pills can prevent the inevitable mood swing upwards?

I don't think so.

I worked on a long project last year and I was stable. The role was incredibly boring, and it was very hard to stay motivated, but money got me out of bed in the morning and money kept me at my desk until the end of the working day. Last year was a triumph of money's ability to restore mental health, through wealth. It's no accident that the countries with the biggest rich-poor gap also have the worst depression and anxiety. Anybody who tells you that rich people get depressed too, or that poor Africans are really happy is just perpetuating anecdotal nonsense - being poor in a rich country is incredibly toxic to mental wellbeing.

It's true that I've sorted myself out financially a few times now, only to throw it all away, but that's dual-diagnosis not mental illness. Bipolar has allowed me to have a lovely life. I don't want to change from feast and famine; highs and lows. However, undoubtably I'll be tempted to take drugs again once my bank balance is replenished.

If you're wondering what's going to stop me from relapsing into addiction, once I've dug myself out of the hole, then I'm afraid you're going to have to wait. Recovery from an acute episode of dual-diagnosis - depression, hypomania and substance dependency - is well beyond what I'd planned to write in this single essay. I'm going to have to revisit this topic, because it's fascinating to me: my life depends on it.

My train from London to Wales fast approaches Swansea, completing my 2,500 mile roundtrip. Of course, it's been a much, much longer journey than that.

Tags: #bipolar #addiction #career

This is a story about obstacles...

Today is my 5th day without medication for neuropathic pain. I'm not in too much physical discomfort, although my foot/ankle is painful due to nerve damage, but anxiety has been a terrible problem. I thought things would be improving by now. I've been OK in my comfort zone, avoiding stress and responsibilities. I decided to take on a technical task - akin to the kind of paid work I usually do - but every time that something went wrong I found myself becoming unpleasantly anxious.

My confidence is a little shattered to be honest. Negative thoughts like "oh my God this is harder than I remember" and "I can't overcome this problem; it's too hard" popped into my head. My stomach leapt into my throat. I felt a kind of fear and frustration that I would never normally feel when dealing with technical challenges.

It's shocking to me that I'm feeling like this, having done the hard work of getting myself off alcohol, benzodiazepines and pregabalin. It's upsetting that I don't feel better, but I guess recovery is going to take longer than I thought.

I really want to go back to some kind of moderate drinking. I don't think I was designed to not have something to "take the edge off" the general stress and anxiety of life.

The thought of walking to the pub for a pint of beer is something I'm highly motivated to do. I don't crave alcohol; I crave the absence of the incredible amount of anxiety I'm suffering. I would also just like to taste some beer.

I'm not going to start drinking again this week, and maybe not even next week - I'm not going to rush anything. Any changes that I do make, I'll be making slowly. It's remarkable just how difficult I'm still finding simple tasks I've done a million times before, now that I'm debilitated by medication-withdrawal-induced anxiety.

Getting off these damn pills is bloody awful.

Tags: #anxiety #alcohol #medication

This is a story about relapse...

I've downed a whole pint of cold crisp refreshing lager before I've even realised I've done it. How I came to be in the bar in the first place is unclear, but I've greedily drained the contents of the pint glass and replaced it on the tabletop. A sense of "what have I done?" sweeps over me. Although I feel guilty - I have let people down; I have failed - I immediately decide to have another pint, and another, and another... until I wake up.

This morning was the first morning all year - more or less - that I didn't wake up and immediately think about reaching for a packet of pills.

"Addict!"

Hold your horses - things are a little bit more complicated. What would you do if you suffered from chronic pain? Would you just grin and bear it?

Perhaps the medication I have been taking for pain has inadvertently helped me to stay off the booze. Now that I only have one more day before I stop taking pain medication, a subconscious desire to get drunk has returned with a vengeance.

Every time I see beer & wine, I imagine that it would taste amazing and I get a mild craving to consume some. However, thankfully I can remember that alcohol didn't taste very nice after I stopped drinking for a period of over 4 months.

There's no reason why I'd stop taking my prescribed pain medication and become a teetotaller, except that I want to clear my head - I'm desperate to see what my brain is like, without the intoxicating chemicals I've been putting into my body.

My dream last night was very vivid, and the feeling that I had accidentally failed in my mission to temporarily abstain from mind-altering substances, was the strongest feeling: I was devastated. Then, in my dream I decided that if I was going to fail, I was going to fail spectacularly.

The fact of the matter is that I haven't failed at all. I'm spectacularly successful. Very few people are able to beat the demon drink, and especially not at the same time as quitting physically addictive medications and overcoming a heap of other shit too. I'm a motherfucking world-leading expert on sobriety and getting clean.

Skin-crawling anxiety, suicidal depression and a warped perception of time, means that the hands of the clock barely move as I wait for my brain to recover sufficiently, so that I can feel slightly better.

I wait. I wait and I wait and I wait.

To say that I'm white-knuckling the journey to being totally clean from all substances, is cruel and unkind. To accuse me of being some kind of "dry drunk" or to suggest that I'll always be an alcoholic and an addict is ridiculous. If labels and stigmas are going to follow me around forever, I'll be more than happy to return to substance abuse. I aim to confound prejudices - there's no point in suffering pointlessly.

Trust me - I'm suffering a million times worse than I ever did before, even when I was in the depths of stimulant psychosis. Even when I was in deep shit and completely messed up, that lasted for the blink-of-an-eye versus the round-the-clock awfulness I'm having to endure at the moment. I might've thought I was going to die at times, but now I really wish I had died.

Tomorrow I have 24 little hours to endure and then my recovery starts properly - every day after tomorrow takes me a little bit closer to normal brain chemistry. Every day that I manage to stay clean & sober after tomorrow will allow my body to restore itself to its natural state of homeostasis.

It's going to be like the world's shittest Christmas Eve.

Tags: #addiction #alcohol #drugs

This is a story about neurotoxicity...

What's happened to the left hand side of my face? My eyelid has drooped; my face is no longer symmetrical. Why do I have a facial tic? Why is my speech slow and slurred? Aren't these all symptoms of cognitive impairment; brain damage?

I decided to read back through some of my blog - I read from February through to June, when I was very unwell. I was surprised that a lot of it was gibberish - I thought that I had written with lucidity, but I had mis-remembered things.

As is so often the case with me, I dice with death and I dodge bullets. I'm still very sick, but I'm getting better. I'm going to make a full recovery. My speech is normal; my face doesn't tic and my eyelid no longer droops. The brain is a remarkable thing, but I do need to stop abusing my body.

A month ago I was livid; I was unbelievably angry. I was fighting for my income, my home and my liberty - I was fighting for my legal rights - and I was spitting venom; I was furious at being abused; mistreated; taken advantage of.

I re-read the lengthy blog post I wrote a month ago, which started OK, but then I got plunged into repetitive thoughts - you can tell that my brain was stuck on a loop and I repeated myself several times. It's surprising that I could express myself fairly well, given the circumstances. I imagine that it took me a long time to compose what I wrote, and I clearly struggled to remember what I'd written at the start, as I reached the end.

It's tempting to edit and airbrush history, but it's much more interesting to maintain a public record of exactly what I was thinking and feeling at a certain point in time. Inadvertently I also capture other details about my state of mind in the way in which I express myself.

I've now been writing for long enough to capture two periods of total abstinence from all mind-altering substances, including alcohol, caffeine and nicotine. I'm a lifelong non-smoker. I stopped drinking caffeinated beverages in 2013. During this particular period of abstinence, I've not drunk any alcohol for 35 consecutive days.

What's the net result of all this?

Nah, I'm only kidding... that was me when I was twenty years old. However, I'm sure there's been a marked improvement now that all the crap is out of my system.

A few friends spoke to me soon after I arrived on the psych ward. Although I sounded like my old self and I was in good spirits, my recovery was only just beginning - friends who see me and speak to me on a regular basis report that I'm much improved from how I was a month ago.

My hair, my skin, my nails, my teeth, my breath, my sweat and most importantly, my brain - all of these things are completely different, now that I'm not glugging gallons of booze and popping loads of pills.

I cringe with shame a little bit, to think that I made myself very exposed and vulnerable at a time when I was very unwell - the public got a little bit of a behind-the-scenes peek at me when I was extremely poorly. You can go digging in the archives, if it pleases you, or you can take my word for it: there's no surprises and there should be no pleasure in gawping at somebody when they're sick.

If we've not spoken for a while, I highly recommend that you get in contact and we actually speak on the phone - my email is nick@manicgrant.com. You might be very surprised to learn that your friend is in possession of most of his marbles, and not the raving lunatic that you might have guessed I would be, after such a traumatic couple of years.

Here's another one for the photo album, taken only seconds ago. My left eye is not yet 100% and I'm still suffering a lot of brain fog and other recovery-related problems - it'll be a month or two before I'm fighting fit. My face still tics when I'm stressed, but it's less pronounced.

I'm struggling with horrible anxiety, depression and confusion; memory problems. None of this is a surprise to me - it's to be expected, given what I've been through and I'm still going through.

I've got no idea what I'm really writing about, or what my purpose is now. Is this still the world's longest suicide note, or am I now campaigning to end the stigmatisation and discrimination that our less fortunate members of society must face: the mentally ill, alcoholics, drug addicts and homeless people... the dregs that nobody wants to touch with a bargepole. I know that I want to be the voice of the voiceless, although I know how clichéd that sounds.

I'm swimming through a fog of confusion, but I know I'm slowly getting better.

Tags: #mentalhealth #recovery

This is a story about being counter-productive...

95% of my fellow patients smoke cigarettes. There's nothing to do on the psych ward, so I can see why they would. Cigarettes are a way to pass the time; to deal with boredom; to relieve some of the stress of being locked up with a load of mentally ill people; to self-medicate for all manner of problems.

Nicotine is fiendishly addictive and a psych ward is not the right environment to kick the habit. As a non-smoker I'm well aware that I'm not involved in the activity that dominates the lives of my fellow patients - obtaining tobacco, rolling cigarettes and harassing the staff to be let outside to smoke.

There is a small outdoor area which can be accessed via some steps, enclosed in a cage so that nobody can jump and injure themselves, or attempt to escape. Every hour, the door to the steps is opened for 15 minutes, and the smokers all cluster around the top of the steps, getting their nicotine fix. Nobody goes down the steps into the outdoor area - they remain in the cage.

I challenge the staff - why don't they leave the door open the whole time? Nobody could escape from the outdoor area, because it's surrounded by high fences. The outdoor area is well covered by CCTV, and it's no harder to keep an eye on people than any other part of the ward.

The standard response from the staff is that it's "promoting health" to deny nicotine addicts access to the only place they're allowed to smoke. I call bullshit on this, because there's no data to support the hypothesis. "Look around - everybody smokes... nobody is smoking less because of this rule" I say. The staff argue that the NHS can't be seen to be "promoting" smoking. This is a completely ridiculous idea. The nurses and support workers hand out the cigarettes and cigarette lighters - the NHS is intimately involved in the whole process of smoking, far more than if the patients were given the choice as to how they dealt with their addiction.

I'm in a dorm with 3 other men. It's a lot quieter than the single room right next to the TV - the TV blasted out for 19 hours in every 24 at full volume. The noise was unbearable. My fellow patients in my dorm report that they're lulled off to sleep by the rhythmic tapping of my keyboard, as I pound out these words. I was concerned that I was being a noisy nuisance, but they reassure me that it's quite the opposite - it's a kind of white noise that's relaxing, like hearing raindrops falling on the roof or hitting the windows, driven by the wind.

A guy is coming out of my dorm, but he doesn't sleep in my dorm - he has his own room. What's he doing down at this end of the ward? Then, my nostrils are assaulted by the smell of smoke. I push the door to the bathroom open and it stinks - there isn't even a decent extractor fan to get rid of the smell. I write a note and secretly pass it to a nurse, pretending to pass her my laptop to be charged in the office. I scurry away down the corridor but she yells after me "tell XXXXX about the smoking in the toilet" waving the note, right in front of the guy I'm dobbing in. I cringe - does she not know that snitches get stitches?

Another nurse comes to our dorm and she starts accusing one of my dorm mates of smoking in the toilet. I leap to his defence. "Who was it?" she asks, and then bellows out his name when I whisper the answer. The fact that many of my fellow patients have a criminal past and have been in prison, does not seem to concern the staff members. Perhaps there aren't fights in here. Perhaps they never see any violence. Perhaps my fears are unfounded. Am I being paranoid?

The fire escape is padlocked shut, there are no fire extinguishers or sprinklers, the break-glass buttons are enclosed in plastic boxes that prevent the fire alarms from being set off - a fire in here would be catastrophic. Yet, I am certain that there are at least 2 cigarette lighters that are being used in my dorm. The patients smoke openly when the staff are doing their handover between shifts, when there's absolutely nobody around.

I make subtle enquiries with my fellow patients - how do they feel about the restrictions on smoking? Everybody agrees that the restriction on access to the outdoor area is more about control than it is about "promoting health" - they feel that the staff have created a system that allows them to exercise dominion over their inmates. "Smoke time!" demands one of the more aggressive patients, banging on the window of the office. "Calm down! Stop shouting!" yells back a staff member. This is an artificial and avoidable situation - why does it exist, when it's creating conflict between staff and patients, and making people stressed and unhappy?

When I was confined to the ward I would have made use of the outdoor area to walk around, get some fresh air and get some natural light. However, I couldn't get past the gaggle of smokers clustered around the top of the steps. To leave the door open all the time wouldn't create this ridiculous situation, where all the patients are fixated on this controlling aspect of their lives.

It's saddening, to see 19 men all hanging around waiting to be given a lighter and be let out, like they're animals; pets.

In defiance of the pointless draconian controlling bullshit, a handful of patients have smuggled cigarette lighters and tobacco into the ward - it's not hard when some patients are allowed unaccompanied leave from the ward. "Have you got any bottles or lighters on you?" a nurse asks me when I get back from an outing - I'm not breathalyzed or searched, even though I'm carrying a bulging bag.

I suppose the privilege of being allowed to leave the ward could be revoked, as a punishment for misbehaviour. The chance of being discharged early and allowed home is also under threat, for any patient who's troublesome. Most patients are here for a 6-month stay. It's up to 6 months, but it's more often longer, not shorter. The reaction to not being allowed to go home is rarely handled well - can you imagine that people who are unwell are able to remain calm and represent themselves clearly and articulately, when their liberty is at stake?

In terms of mental health, nothing could be more stressful, adversarial and paranoia-inducing, than having doctors and nurses discuss you behind your back, having been peeked at through the curtains every 15 minutes - patients are literally spied on and judged. Life, liberty and free-will are all interfered with in an institutional environment that's a cross between a prison and a school. Notices on the wall tell us they promote "independence and well-being" while also telling patients the very strict times that they need to be at the dispensary hatch to get their medications. At 8:54am I'm harassed by a nurse to go for my 9am meds... I'm well aware what the time is and also well aware that to be early is to be turned away empty handed. At 11:54am I'm harassed to go and stand in line for some food which is not even being served until 12 noon at the earliest, and is often delayed.

I'm aware that I'm lucky to have a sought-after psych bed - many people who are having a mental health crisis will have no access to inpatient care. To bite the hand that feeds me seems churlish, but I do feel sorry for my fellow patients who can't articulate their frustrations effectively.

The only patient I know to have attempted to file a complaint is the guy who's relentlessly trying to get 8mg more Subutex out of the doctors... unwilling to go along with the treatment that will wean him off his opiate addiction and quite determined to sabotage his recovery, perhaps.

Nobody's stopping smoking because of the "health promoting" rules around access to the outdoor area, but I'm certainly missing out on exercise and fresh air because of it.

It all looks rather counter-productive to me.

Tags: #addiction #hospital #mentalhealth #nhs

This is a story about winning a prize...

This week's big climber in the UK top 40 is a new single from the National Health Service. This band has been churning out smash hits since 1948 and is loved by tens of millions of fans. Here on Top of the Pops tonight, you'll see a live performance from this sensational act. Keep watching to find out what the UK's number one hit single is, at the end of the show.

Here on this page are the dry words of a deranged individual. How will you choose to interpret them?

Language is a rather crude and imprecise tool to fully express ourselves. Ambiguity creeps in and the thoughts and feelings of the author are not communicated with high fidelity - each reader will arrive at a different impression from the text.

As a software engineer who's been building systems for some of the world's biggest companies for over 20 years, I could easily copy Uber's dastardly tactics of diverting any web requests from a certain region of the country - e.g. a specific city in the North of England - in order to display a different page.

Most of my readers are using smartphones or tablets. Readers who are using Windows XP and Internet Explorer are quite unusual, and it's easy to flag up those anomalies - they stand out in the data that I gather about my visitors.

It's not hard for tech companies and technologists to present something that has been customised and tailored for each visitor. You might think that you'd see the same Google search results as somebody else, for example, given the same search terms, but Google works very hard to identify individuals, even in their anonymised dataset.

Traditional print-media widely reports that we are living in social media bubbles, where we are fed things that we like, because we're more likely to share that content and spread it 'virally'. What is less well reported is how wedded we are to the walled gardens that we live in - Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat et. al.

How long are you going to keep reading for? There's nearly 700,000 words here. Are you gonna read it all?

The best defence against anybody who would seek to jump to the wrong conclusions and make silly assumptions, is to present more data than can be reasonably processed - information overload - such that the farcical nature of reducing the complexities of life to some pathetic synopsis, are exposed as pure stupidity.

Of course, we would all love to feel that we understand all the laws of the universe. I've fried my mind with stacks of books and papers on theoretical physics, attempting to understand the fundamental nature of reality itself. Emotionally, I don't want to admit defeat, but digging deeper only seems to reveal even more unfathomable weirdness. Some of the quarks are called strange, charm and beauty. I love that.

Are you bored yet?

Can you not see that my intention is to create a maze of complexity that's impenetrable? It's not possible to know my mind. Even for me, I struggle to understand fully why I say and do the things I do. If it's hard for me, it's going to be impossible for you to dissect or categorise me; to judge me and to simplify me into something that can be captured by written language on a sheet of paper. What are you going to write in your report or your email?

There's mockery and disdain here, but if you dig a little deeper I hope you see that I don't have disrespect for anybody whose intention is to help and support me, and I have no intention of damaging my own treatment and recovery, nor anybody else's, nor cause any difficulty for the hard-working staff of the National Health Service and the ancillary support services.

Today, I'm a free man - an informal patient - but that puts me in an additionally vulnerable situation. I could be discharged from the hospital without a discharge plan - no place to live and no income. I'm sure some pen-pusher somewhere sees the opportunity for a quick win - am I just a statistic on a monthly report?

It upsets me that front-line staff have been cut, while middle managers have plenty of time on their hands to justify their pointless existence. The managers have survived the cull, the pay freeze and the excessive demands placed on the over-stretched people who actually do the damn job. Police, NHS workers, teachers - to name but a few - are getting a bum rap.

The first thing that I'm excited about doing with my newfound freedom is going to a protest at Tory cuts and austerity, to co-incide with the start of the Conservative Party conference, in a certain Northern city. The establishment are coming to me, and I will thumb my nose at them and boo them. A friend suggested that I could throw eggs and if I got in trouble with the police, they'd probably just bring me back to hospital on a section 136... put that in your damn report.

"Risk to the community - possibly going to throw eggs at Theresa May, to protest against cuts to front-line services and damage to the NHS, as well as undue stress on the police and other workers who care for and protect our most vulnerable members of society".

Tags: #hospital #politics #nhs #police #socialmedia

This is a story about customer service...

Amongst a small group of my friends, we have all found that a medication called pregabalin - marketed as Lyrica in the UK - has been useful to us, but also has adverse side effects and is difficult to stop taking. Pregabalin is quite good at combatting anxiety and improving sleep, which are obviously the desirable effects: most of us have stress in our lives, and struggle to get enough high-quality sleep. Personally, pregabalin is an effective treatment for the phantom limb pain I feel, due to damaged nerves - I can't feel my left foot. Pregabalin is far better than the opiate painkillers, which left me sweating and nauseous at times. However, stopping taking pregabalin leaves me feeling anxious and gives me insomnia - what goes up must come down.

Soon pregabalin - "the new Valium" - will be scheduled as a class C controlled substance, which makes it much harder to obtain a prescription, and possession without a prescription could be punished with a criminal conviction.

Here on the psych ward, a man screams for a "blue tablet". Perhaps more blatantly obvious as an addiction, another man attempts to wheedle more Subutex (buprenorphine) out of the staff - he's been droning on about having his dose restored from 8mg to 16mg, because he is being weaned off the synthetic opiate he is addicted to. I can hear this guy, who is obviously no stranger to our prison system, chopping and snorting drugs his room. The man who screams for a "blue tablet" is actually asking for a 10mg diazepam pill - blue in colour - which is Valium. Our screaming friend decides he wants to leave hospital, and the staff tell him he can't leave because he's going to take heroin. "It's my body! I do what I want!" he screams. Then, he starts getting abusive.

Early on in my hospital detention under section 2 of the Mental Health Act, I ask a nurse if she can nip to the shop to get me a 4-pack of beer. We lock eyes for what seems like an eternity. I maintain a completely straight face. Then, we both snigger and she regains her composure. She jokes that we should have a big piss-up on the ward. With a different nurse, I tell her with a straight face that they have forgotten my methadone and she immediately unlocks the cabinet containing the opiates that are so coveted by some patients here... I hastily tell her that I was joking, but she still continues to search my medication chart. Do I look like a junkie? I certainly don't have track marks on my arms or other identifying features of an injecting drugs user, such as abscess scars.

A doctor comes to take my blood. She doesn't shut my bedroom door. Three men, who I know were heroin users, peer into my room and I feel bad that I didn't ask the doctor to close the door or get up and close it myself - surely the sight of a needle going into a vein is going to be a terrible trigger. There's good evidence that addicts' brain reward pathways are activated when they see drugs and drug paraphernalia for just 33 milliseconds, which is less than the 40 milliseconds that a single frame of cinema film is shown for.

Having been detoxed from my physical dependency on benzodiazepines and alcohol, I find that I crave nothing more than a few drinks in the evening - some wine or some beer - to take the edge off the stress and anxiety of my situation and help me relax during what is a fairly dreadful clusterfuck of issues with employment, housing, accommodation and my health. However, I don't want to sabotage my treatment and recovery.

I'm incredibly grateful to the NHS, for accidentally detoxing me while they were treating my deadly deliberate overdose - my suicide attempt. Being physically dependent on a medication is to be shackled to it - to stop taking it would cause seizures and potentially death. There wasn't a 'buzz' that I was chasing with booze & benzos. I was using mind-altering substances to soothe my jangled nerves: self medication.

Am I glorifying drug taking, or making light of serious matters? Don't be so ridiculous.

An epidemic of illicit opiate use sweeps across the United States, with the number of overdose deaths and addicted babies born, skyrocketing in the past few years. An epidemic of mental health issues has pushed the services that are there to support those who become unwell, to breaking point. Only a wilfully ignorant person would turn a blind eye to what's happening all around us.

Carfentanil - a synthetic opioid - is so powerful that an aerosol of it could be sprayed in a packed metropolitan area and cause hundreds of people to die from respiratory arrest. This drug is being sold as an adulterant in bags of heroin, in the United States today. In the UK, carfentanil's less potent - but still deadly - chemical cousin, fentanyl, is quite common now in batches of street heroin. If you're worried about terrorism and weapons of mass destruction, these things have already arrived on the shores of the US and UK, in the form of incredibly deadly chemicals that are available for sale to anybody with the money.

My fellow patients are unrelenting. There's been a 2-day nonstop assault on the staff, as the patients attempt to get a tiny amount more synthetic opiate out of the doctor. There's not much else to do on the ward, and whatever medications the doctor has decided to write on their chart will remain fixed for a whole week. I guess they've got nothing to lose apart from their 30 minutes of escorted leave from the ward. One patient has done a runner, sensing that the doctor's decision has not gone the way he would prefer.

"You've not done anything wrong. You can come back and you won't be in any trouble" a stressed looking nurse is saying down the telephone, to the patient who has gone AWOL. Meanwhile, a patient takes breaks between harassing the staff for 8mg more Subutex, in order to chop and snort lines of white powder in his room - presumably he has a plentiful supply of his own drugs, which he wishes to supplement with a legal prescription.

I try to calmly await my section tribunal, despite the chaos outside my bedroom door.

It should be noted, that the quality of care does not vary with one's behaviour - the staff are supremely professional - but good manners are declared as the number one thing that every staff member wants, on a notice board that tells the patients a little more about the team of people who look after us.

Good manners cost nothing.

Tags: #hospital #mentalhealth #drugs #addiction

This is a story about therapy...

Everybody's an expert on my mental health, it seems. I need to be exercising more, eating a balanced diet, abstaining from alcohol and mind-altering substances BUT not the ones the doctors want to give to me. But which doctors? Every doctor has a different idea of how I should be treated - which doctor should I listen to? Perhaps somebody else knows, because people have some very strong opinions on what I should be doing, considering that only a handful of individuals with whom I am still in contact, have known me for any length of time and have followed along. Only I know what I've tried before and what I haven't - what works and what doesn't.

Here, there's a student nurse whose dissertation investigated the benefits of exercise, in terms of potentiating - that is to say improving - the efficacy of medications. Not considered for a single second, was the control study which would have investigated the efficacy of exercise alone. This student nurse, who I find passionate and intelligent, was eager to suggest that I tried sodium valproate or lithium - both life-shortening medications prescribed to people who have regular episodes of mania where they believe they're Jesus reincarnated etc. Everybody thinks they've got a cure to a problem I might not even have - it was under a very dark cloud that I entered hospital, one must remember.

Externally, the perception of a psychiatric ward is that it must be a place of therapeutic activities and meetings with doctors to fine-tune my medications and cure me of my madness, making me safe to release back into the community again. Internally, my fellow patients perceive staff members as persecutors, jailers and masters of everything from food & drink, to bedtimes and bathtimes - a cross between a policeman, a teacher and a parent. Certainly, to have a blackboard on the wall is an incredibly dated nod to the classroom days of our youth. Note that the list of activities for the ward is completely blank, which I find quite accurate... not that I'm complaining.

The UK's stringent fire regulations for institutional buildings - hospitals, schools etc - mean that they look very similar. A company that manufactures and supplies the fixtures and fittings for a school will probably also supply those same items to a hospital. Everything needs to be built to last in this incredibly abrasive environment, where the footfall in the corridor would destroy even the most hard-wearing of floors, laid by a contractor who normally worked in regular houses. The finish is not just high standard, but the selection of the materials used has been honed over the years to create an interior that is easily mopped and wiped down, and very hard to damage.

As a patient, I find myself recalling my schooldays, as a dinner lady ladles goo onto plastic plates and I sip juice from containers that are identical to those that I had in my boyhood. Just like school, nothing much really happens except for crowd control. There is a little sifting and sorting, so the naughtiest boys end up in the shittest parts of the hospital, and the golden child will find themselves in the top class. However, it must be remembered that staffing a hospital is a job to quite a lot of people, and over the many years that they will work their job, any ill-founded notions of making a difference, will be thrashed out of them by the system. Nothing changes very much or very fast in massive organisations - you can't fight the system, or else you will drive yourself insane... that goes for both patients and staff.

It's very hard to not be driven mad by being hospitalised. It's a chicken and egg situation. For sure, nobody gets hospitalised without putting some effort into it. It's very hard to get a psych bed in the UK, unless somebody's gonna pay £5k/week for you to go into a private place. Of course, the patients here are here for a reason, but I have also experienced the terrifying moment where I realised that my liberty has been restricted. I just heard the jangling of a massive bunch of keys, carried by one of the staff members, as she passed my bedroom door. If I was to draw back my curtains, I would see bars on my window, to stop anybody climbing in or out. There are constant reminders that I'm here under lock & key, and to escape would require a little more social engineering (or climbing) than another secure ward that I was on in 2015, where I could have just walked out behind somebody who was leaving the ward, and then run away. To run away now, I would need to request an escort off hospital premises, and then I would simply get an Uber or perhaps I might have arranged a local cab company to have my getaway car waiting. I came into hospital with £1,150 in crisp £50 notes, so I have the financial means to grease whatever palms I need to.

Why would I want to escape though? Yes, you're right - to discharge myself prematurely would be a mistake. This isn't a very therapeutic environment, because staff spend so long spying - quite literally - on patients, which is absolutely dreadful for mental health: creating an us & them culture and exacerbating even the slightest hint of paranoia. If you value your dignity, privacy and liberty, psych hospital is not for you. There aren't any therapeutic activities. However, it is a safe place where my rent and bills are paid, I get 3 free hot meals a day, I get my own bedroom/office type thing which is quite generously proportioned and has an ensuite bathroom, and I don't need to cook, clean or otherwise worry about the responsibilities that burden nearly every other creature that was unfortunate enough to have been born.

Sounds nice, doesn't it? Perhaps you too would like a stay - mandated for up to 28 days on a section 2 - in the hotel "psych ward". Perhaps you imagine that it's a calm and restful place, where I get to sleep lots and read books. I think perhaps you're getting confused with that holiday you took to Tuscany last year. On a psych ward, you get woken up in the middle of the night by alarms going off, staff running in the corridors, yelling and screaming. On a psych ward, music blasts at top volume from patients' bedrooms, because headphones are not allowed lest we strangle ourselves with the cables. On a psych ward, one must evaluate the level that one's fellow patients are intoxicated by their cocktail of medications, and whether one has the energy to engage in their psychoses that are extremely repetitive - I've been here a week and I've learned a little of everybody's "thing"... their particular identity on the ward, which is characterised by an apparent madness, which is why we must remain here. I wonder what mine is? The staff tell me that I'm lazy - always just sitting with my laptop. Yes, that must be me right? Probably just watching mindless Netflix rubbish on it, right?

Ward rounds - when important decisions about "leave" are made - happen on Fridays and nothing else happens apart from waiting and hoping. Most patients here are hoping to get some leave. Some have not left the ward for nearly 6 months - considered too much at risk of running away, if they were allowed out of this super secure part of the hospital, accompanied by a staff member.

Gossip is rife, and everybody on the ward knows that I arrived with a wad of cash and was granted leave from the hospital almost immediately. I try to downplay these things, and now people have forgotten. When takeaways or shop orders are being placed, I feign not having any money, in the hope that I can alter my perception in the eyes of my fellow patients and the staff. I remember being called into the office, simply because some of the senior staff members wanted to have a look in my envelope, containing all those fifty pound notes. It's totally vulgar, and an accident of the illness that was stimulated into existence by the ridiculous sleep deprivation, stress and disruption to my medications and routine, over Tuesday / Wednesday / Thursday of last week, which followed my near-fatal suicide attempt... it should be expected that my behaviour would have gone a bit haywire, under the crushing pressures I faced.

Perhaps I will be "stepped down" to a less restrictive ward today. I had to pack my bags last night, because I thought I was being moved. I should have remembered that nothing happens very quickly in the National Health Service, but sometimes if you're quick, you can nip in before the system decides that actually you're getting ahead far too fast. I'm not really in a rush to go anywhere though - this ward is perfectly decent and I know the two spots where I can get 3G signal.

I'm here to recover, but I'm not here to feel completely isolated. Who do I know in the local area who can come visit me? Two months ago I'd never set foot in this city, and the company I've been working for has cut all contact and has been skulking around in a most unusual manner. I have nobody - it's a real ball-ache for any of my friends to travel, just for a 2 hour visiting slot. Even my fellow patients, who are locals, do not have visitors - the hospital environment is not exactly somewhere people would like to spend their free time.

Should I immerse myself in the daily rhythms and routines of the hospital? Should I hang around by the door to the kitchen, looking for food scraps to be tossed out? Should I hang around by the door to the yard, hoping to be let outside? I'm not a fucking dog. I find it immensely useful to maintain contact with those who are still in full possession of their marbles, while I'm in an environment where staff humour the patients - "is it Tuesday today?" one asks, and is told that yes it is, even though it isn't... is that useful, helpful, therapeutic?

I was very sick when I was brought in, without a doubt. Some incredibly stressful things still hang over me, like Damocles' sword. I have little power to influence the speed of my recovery, nor the speed with which those who have wronged me are forced to offer recompense. At least I'm in a safe place to pursue what is rightfully mine: to get money that is owed to me and recover my possessions. I'm in a safe place to make arrangements for housing and income, so that I don't fall flat on my face, as soon as I leave.

I'm glad I'm here, at the moment.

Tags: #mentalhealth #bipolar #suicide #depression #hospital