BY PETER M. Dogsville means rock-bottom. When I’ve relapsed and had no sleep all night, the following day is usually Another Day In Dogsville. The voices, on these occasions, are usually constant. That means I can hardly get one of my own thoughts in edgeways. It’s around half a dozen voices nowadays, old friends and family members mostly, both living and deceased. They call me demented, puddled, thick and stupid about ten times a minute it feels like. Seriously, it’s like a running commentary of relentless insults. Then they say it’s time to go, game over has arrived, the end is nigh, I’m surrounded, there’s no way out, I knew it was coming, I’m about to be murdered and have my death covered-up as suicide—suddenly I’m as paranoid as a rat in a trap. I hear these voices through the walls both inside and outside my head. I swear, it’s scary as hell. They tell me I’m going to die in the next two minutes. They get me fidgety and all in a panic. I get myself on window patrol, pacing up and down, watching out for any home invaders. It’s like they supplant a negative series of brainwaves into my mind, setting me on a course of pessimistic nervousness. All I can do is sit on the edge of my bed and wait to die, it feels like. Being on the end of numerous threats makes one very alert and dubious. It’s no fun at all, believe you me. The voices feed on my fear. Often, I hear these final messages from friends, saying it was good to know me and things like that. I feel like I’m going to be murdered very soon because that’s what the voices are enchanting and who am I to stop their prophecies proving true. When outside, almost every stranger has hateful vocals directed my way. They say things like ‘he deserves it’ and ‘he’s got what is coming to him’ without any provocation from myself. They say profound things too, like linking me to sex crimes for instance; these are people who I have never met accusing me more or less to my face in passing. I believe I am the victim of multiple slander campaigns. I encounter quite an extreme hostile sentiment from complete strangers. I never respond angrily; to do so would be to gift them with a reaction. I feel ostracised and victimised on Dogsville days, because I can hear my close family suffering. I hear their screams and cries all day. They beg and plead with me to kill myself. I’m bombarded with suicide requests. I resist with walks outdoors and alcohol. And then I write this. Because, apart from being tormented, that’s about all I can do—document things.