End Of Block - Part 5

They moved the goalposts at the last minute again during my so-called discharge meeting, as is not surprising. I have to stay at hospital for one night a week. One night a week! What’s the ruddy point? It’s a safety net, in their opinion, in case things get too bad at home (they’re aware I’m not happy at my flat). They just can’t fully discharge me without having their fish hooks embedded for one flamin’ night per week! I can’t get rid of this bloody mental health system! Still, I guess you’d have to say that I’m out. Six days and six nights out classifies as more or less out proper. It was tough, acclimatising. The culture shock was chronic. One thing I didn’t miss in hospital was the ongoing noise campaign from my gangstalking neighbours. It’s started up again as if it has never been away. Waking me up, and keeping me awake. It’s the last thing I hear at night and the first thing I hear in the morning. A tortured prisoner in my own abode. 

My partner has changed things in the flat since I’ve been gone. She’s thrown stuff away, moved stuff about...after a life of living alone, sharing my living space with her and her son is more than difficult. I can’t put up with it for much longer, so she has to move out. For a while it looked like she was getting deported, but now they have decided that they can re-house her. That’s good news. If she was deported, we might never see each other again. After four years in a relationship, that would be an ill-fitting outcome. I want her in my life. Just not so close so as I’m tripping over her on my way into the kitchen.

Time to get on with my crippling porn and amphetamine addiction then! Ah, freedom! There’s nothing more exciting and I’ve missed it a great deal! I know, I know, I shouldn’t even be admitting this, but part of being a writer is being brave about what you write. I’ll tell Facebook anything, who cares, I’m sat here at the computer in my dressing gown and I don’t give a shit. Honestly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck. It all comes out in the wash. I’m proud of who I am, targeted individual or otherwise, flaws and warts and all. I never knowingly go out of my way to hurt anybody, I live by peaceful principles, I’m not persuaded by any dogmatic religion, I have my own righteous set of ideals...the world is much badder than little old me. It’s time to accept oneself for what oneself is, albeit a slave to his own harmless bondages. All I do is sit at home, I don’t deserve the evils that come my way. I’m denied a normal existence, but I take that one on the chin and get on with things. Not every person out there is a hostile gangstalking perpetrator, and there’s something about the light shining brightest when you’re so accustomed to the darkness. I meet people with beautiful hearts, and it warms my soul. I confided in someone about the TI experience, about the constant harassment, the never-ending anxiety and fear, the unrelenting round-the-clock surveillance, the satanic voices in the head, and, get on this for a solution, he recommended lavender! Bless his sacred spirit, he was only trying to help! Just because I’ve been mentally tortured more than most people who have ever lived doesn’t mean I don’t recognise the shining light within the majority of most walking men. It’s a joy to come across, when one does.

My addictions won’t go away though. They make me who I am. I’m grounded by them. For years they chewed me up, but abstinence has made the heart grow fonder. It’s okay in the face of self-acceptance. It’s all okay. I’m doing nothing wrong. I am who I am who I am. I’ve faced myself in the long harrowing tunnel of total self-awareness. Life’s too short for guilt and remorse. We all have temptations and desires. It’s just that some are a lot more depraved than others. Shame on them low-lives who take their desires to the utmost of perverted extremes.

Shame on them motherfuckers.