Reprieve

I should be in psychosis now, hallucinating with a mob of evil phantoms. I planned to use last night. I’ve had no intentions all week but yesterday afternoon the addiction crept in and put my relapse in the post for me. I was counting down the minutes as usual by late evening. My money normally goes in at half nine. I meet my dealer at the cashpoint every time. I had my porno DVD set up and everything – Kacie Castle was waiting; only, to discover, much to my chagrin, that my money hadn’t gone in. Disaster!

I tried half an hour later and half an hour later after that, then decided to cut my losses and get a pizza with some high-strength lagers. I sat there drinking and smoking thinking I was missing out, I should be snorting some nice lines by now, but eventually, after an hour or so, I got over it. I was more worried that my cash flow had been stopped, and the money wasn’t going in at all. Fortunately, I’ve checked the bank this morning and it’s in. It’s gone in!* But the problem still remains. Will I use later, when my dealer finishes work?

I felt so fresh waking up today, clear-headed. I could get used to the feeling. Normally, I’d be bogged down by voices. Maybe it was my higher power giving me a night off, away from the drugs. It’ so nice having no voices, life is good and the world is a great place. With them, it’s just so miserable. They’re so negative, it rubs off on me, plus all my brain chemistry is mixed up and scrambled beyond all recognition. All that besides a host of other neutralizing cons. It would be super to stay clean and get through this payday again, I was forced to do it last night, but only because choice was taken away.

It’s Easter weekend, a time of year earmarked for holiness and divinity, and I want to feel good about myself during it. I might even go the cemetery again and try and will Apocto into being (the giant pair of lips I witnessed hovering in the sky), as something special always happens when I go to the graveyard and mutter a mouthful of sincere prayer. There’s a little special place where the infants are buried and I’ve considered going there to ask their souls for assistance in my stand against evil, only if it’s not a burden to them of course. I did something similar once before in the dead of night, with the spirit who I call Cam lee. We were both charging across the graves in the dark and I was shouting for help from the dead at the top of my voice because I kind of collect ghosts around me. I knew that they were present and I just needed a bit of support from their realm.

“I’m in a real struggle for my life here dead people. If it isn’t too much to ask can you please spare some time aside to help me conquer Lucifer? I wouldn’t ask and I hope you don’t mind but I’m desperate and my eternity is at stake. Thank you.”

I remember going to a mass grave on some hospital grounds and saying a prayer, only to see several spirits rise up from the soil and join me. They looked like semi-invisible transparency. It was an uncanny spellbinding moment which pleased me greatly because one of them looked like Plain Jane, one of my favourite characters from one of my favourite books which I written myself. It was so pleasing to know in my heart that she is onside. Being with her makes me feel childish with giddiness and glee. I was inspired to create her as a character from a porn movie. That’s happened on several occasions. I spent so much time with porno women, I wrote about them and made them real in my books; that carried their legitimacy on into the spirit realm. It’s extraordinarily fascinating. As an apostle of an all-powerful mighty God, my life is charismatically magnetic with fanciful energies and mysticism at times. I need to focus on this positivity later when my dealer comes knocking with a £240 bag of coke for sale, which will more or less drive the Devil into my consciousness with a thunderbolt. Not needed, and not necessary. I prefer to hang out with angels, preferably.

I’ll probably use, although I have large doubts. I’m kind of using against my will if I do, because I really want to cling to this freshness of mind I have at the moment. It’s worth clutching onto tightly. I’ve come to the library first thing today to get out of the flat, and after this I’ve got a Soup ‘n’ Chat meeting at the local mental health drop-in with Fiona. Then it’s a Positive Thoughts group at Pathways, and I’ll probably have a pint after that. Soon after my dealer will be finishing work and I’ll have a decision to make. It’s just so boring without drugs, there’s nothing to do, even though they always make me end up in tears. It’s that familiar bed of nails I’ve grown so accustomed to lying upon. Hopefully, with a bit of luck, determination and will power, I might survive Payday Mark 2.0. Whatever happens, I wish you a great and happy holiday period.

*“It’s gone in!” is the commentary by John Motson to my favourite ever football goal, scored by Steven Gerrard in the FA CUP Final against West Ham, 2006. Got me out of my seat.

Apocto

I’m only just over my last blowout and payday is here again already. I’m not sure how to approach it. Part me has already posted the relapse via a permission statement to use again, but more than half of me has had enough with the resulting psychosis and doesn’t want to use. It’s Easter weekend, a special time of year for me, as Easter was when I first saw one of my best protective spirits whom I call Apocto. I’ll tell you about the visitation:

I was walking around the cemetery two Easters ago, depressed and forlorn, surveying all the graceful Hail Mary statues and cherubim left on graves. The statues’ beauty was really getting to me, they were so holy and beautiful, I’d never seen shapely exquisite adorableness like it in my life. My mood was very receptive, my mind was like a sponge for their polished loveliness. The Angel of the North materialised out of nowhere and flew away over the horizon; it was just like that structure in Newcastle except it was all white. I took it as a portent of God, and now believe firmly that I can summon angels from any good graveyard at will, if my psyche is in the right place. It was almost too quick to be real however.

When I arrived home I lay on my wheelie bins and started projecting my mind towards the clouds, putting energies and shapes and textures onto the sky. If anything is there, I thought, please answer me. A giant pair of holographic lips appeared on the blue firmament and started talking to me. They declared undying love eternally forever and ever. They were so illusory and phantasmal, so spectral and expressive, they seemed to convey the rest of the missing facial expression – talk about strange lights in the sky. If it hadn’t of said it loved me it would have been terrifying, but because it did it was utterly magical.

I first thought it might be the U.S. or Chinese government, using Project Blue Beam. PBB, as far as I understand it, is holographic images in the sky from drones and satellites which can, via induced fake hallucination, create mass hysteria.

“Give him abbie back,” she said. Abbie is the leader of my spirits and I’d been without her for seven weeks because the Devil had convinced me I’d lost her. For the best part of two months I’d been in a loveless limbo, it had been awful. She reappeared in my mind and we had a dance together. My God was back, my spirits were back, my love was bang back, and I was immersed in signs, miracles and wonders, like the apostle of God I truly am. It was wonderful. Those giant lips the size of an up-close spaceship were such a random spectacle, it was maybe the best thing I had ever seen. Professing eternal love!

It wasn’t a hallucination. It was actually there in the sky. A humongous pair of smackers! I was on the highest high of my life, but I was skint, so I had to lend a tenner off The Badger to buy 4 beers and some cheap blaggy smokes. Every second mollycoddling him for it was a second wasted when I could have been getting pissed and thinking about the marvellous unusual phenomenal rarity I’d just witnessed in the heavens. It was great to go home and listen to some music with a beer listening to all the voices in my head go into a confused blabber about Apocto.

“He doesn’t deserve that power,” and “Why should he get that?” they said among themselves. My schizophrenia was flummoxed by her. I was loving every minute of it. I had an especially peaceful evening for the rest of that day.

 

First Bomb

We are now White Voiding. How’s it going? I want to impress upon you today how I felt when I first used amphetamines. I’ve got a little testimony from someone here, whose experience is better than mine. His name is Jonah. Jonah, take it away:

“It was a Friday night. We were all gathered around at my best mate’s uncle’s flat. It was the go-to place before we went out for the night. There were drinks flowing, friends in place, a few of us were even arsing about pretending we could uphold a game of poker. We were sipping our first lagers of the night, as it had been a long week in college, immersed in Dickens and spreadsheets. Now was the time when we could cast our wings far out wide, and make something of the weekend. It was freedom, it was privilege; it was exemption from staying at home with the pops. Wow. What a time to be excelled in youth; alive, fresh, daring, foolhardy, gallant and gutsy. We were immortal, and confident at playing the game of life. We were conquerors.”

HOW WAS THE FIRST DROP, JONAH?

“Mark, the uncle, supplied it. A £5 bomb. It nestled in the psyche like a darling, like a rare gem. Before we knew it we were out of the flat and walking to a party or do or something, anything that was going. It was a mission, through the woods and shit, off the beaten track, but we were ‘coming up’, clutching a four pack of beers, supping Oranjeboom and smoking red Embassy like they were going out of fashion. I saw a bat and started nearly tripping off on one about it away from my head – wowsers, wildlife off speed! Our destination felt like miles and miles away but it was all about the journey. We were walking like Watchmen on Ritalin, like the Avengers on Columbian marching powder. There was an upheaval of the physiological system going on, our brains were feeling levels of special chemicals they had never experienced before; it was radical.”

AND THE DESTINATION, WHEN YOU ARRIVED?

“I met a girl. She was fat but horny. She’d swallowed a batch of ket and turned to stone. I’ve seen more animation in one of those heads from Easter Island. She couldn’t move a muscle. One of her friends filled a saucepan full up with water with every intention of splashing it over her boat race (face), but I stopped her, saying she would get all her clothes wet. Just let her be. Then I could sneak in then you see and start sucking at her nice little nipples. I cleared the room for this purpose, buzzing off my tits. The cellulite on her hamstrings was turning me on, and her adornments, like the ear rings and spangles and chains. I was hard as a house in my kecks. I’d never been so excited. It was like I’d just learned where my loins where and what they were on about. The fact that she was docile got me rock. She was like a doll for the taking, with no chit-chat back. A deaf mute. I’ve never been one for vocal women in bed. They sound like f*ck-wits when they’re orgasming, if you ask me, a bit stupid and doolally like. Just lie back like a sack of potatoes and leave it to me, I say. Until I go spassy-legged and blow my beans right the way up your c*nt.

DID YOU CRUSH HER PUSSY?

“No, because we were disturbed. This nutter welding a hockey stick walked in from nowhere eating glass. The dude had taken a bite out of a tumbler, and was chewing on the fragments. Jaws from James Bond had nothing on him. I couldn’t believe his powers. It woke the girl made from stone up out of her trance, and she started ringing ambulances because his lip was bleeding. That was my first outing into the amphetamine world. A girl made of stone and a man eating glass.”

THANKS JONAH

 

Back From Blowout

Howdy peeps, I feel a lot better today. I’ve shrugged off the difficulty of thought which arises from a blowout. It was hard yesterday, I have to admit. I was getting a lot of intrusive mind patterns. It was highly uncomfortable. This morning I’ve had my regular debriefing from my mate The Badger, who is currently serving time in a mental institution. We enjoy daily conversations on the phone most mornings, apart from when I’m off my head. It was good to catch up after three days away.

It’s so good to be back so soon after feeling completely debilitated. I’ve got another blowout lined up for midweek but I go forward towards that toss-up happening very reluctantly. Do I really need another one so quickly? The bliss from the coke only lasts a couple of minutes. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a heavenly feeling, but it’s too ephemeral. The comedown, on the other hand, lasts for at least 48 hours.

I had some terrific dreams last night, on the astral plain. That’s why I feel restored and refreshed. They had happy endings, I was crying in my sleep at one of them. I could hear a woman playing a violin, and the beauty of it brought me to tears. One of my dreams had a voice-over too, like a DVD commentary. I feel so alive at the moment, so happy to be here with you again, that it is almost unreal. I’ve got my precious songs playing, I’m about to enjoy a few scoops of jar, and then the rest of the day will take care of itself. What’s to complain about?

I value things a bit more now, after my current spate of sin born of fap and drug and porn. I value long-lasting dopamine in the brain, which I’ve just learned, in my case, I get from interacting with people. Fellowship. It’s what it’s all about. I love conversing with God’s children, they’re the most valuable commodity in the whole of the known universe. They’re incredibly remarkable & inconceivably unique & unbelievably spectacular & overwhelmingly noteworthy & unconditionally loveable. That’s what I think about the human race today, whereas yesterday I was thinking they were just a bunch of sinister arseholes. Strange, the law of perception, isn’t it? I value that as well. My perception, my fellowship, and my long-lasting dopamine.

My mate Courtney, who now goes by the name Cee, told me about long-lasting dopamine last week, in Peer Support group. She said that it comes about from writing stories or finishing pictures and stuff like that, rather than a 5-minute buzz from a line of coke, which in turn leaves you depleted. I know which I prefer from now on in. She was showing her boobs off last week, she has a fantastic rack, but because of how gifted she is and how the light of God shines from her, I can’t look at her sexually. She’s above and beyond the degradation and base carnality which comes from sexual desire. She’s more like a much-wished for soul mate. Thanks for the wake-up call, Cee x 

 

After Blowout

I’ve had my blowout; the world is now a different place. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t. There’s always time to change though. It’s not all it’s cracked out to be. Nothing lasts and everything soon shall pass. It’s taken a valuable three days of recovery away from me. And it has made writing this blog post harder than it should be. I’ve just been to attend a SMART group at Pathways only to find out that I’ve mixed up my times, and it isn’t on. Which brings me here earlier than I ought to be. I haven’t blogged since last Sunday, when a date with a porn star seemed heavenly. Now, it feels a bit hellish. Isn’t it amazing how plastic the mind is, how it wants one thing at one time and then another thing at another time?

I failed to read my bible once the deed was done, so I missed out on God talking to me. I’ll be reading a bit of it later. I’m currently on Ecclesiastes, the wisdom writings of the Old Testament. At the moment it is saying that basically everything is meaningless, a chasing after the wind. I like it. It’s different to anything else in the bible. King Solomon had it all but thought nothing of it. They say he was the wisest man in the world.

I hate the fact that it makes talking to my White Voider feel like a chore. I should be happy here, sharing with you, I should be buzzing; opposed to that, I feel slightly down in the dumps. The comedown from all that coke on the brain and the nervous system is bound to make me feel like that, I suppose. What goes up must come down. It’s a side-effect of fighting all these dark forces I’m up against.

The only thing I regret about blowing out is the psychosis I discover myself involved in when it’s over. If it wasn’t for that I’d have no issues with being an addict. But this mental-in-the-membrane madness has to go, I have to put it behind me. And that means stopping, once and for all. I’ll be okay in a couple of weeks, this gloominess will be like a distant memory. It’s a journey, life is, not a race. I know from experience how things usually turn out. The main thing is that I’m not afraid. I’ve curtailed my fear. For years I was spooked out, running around in circles in the middle of the night, scared of my own shadow. But that was when I was Godless.

I always try and write at least 500 words in one of these posts. I’m currently struggling to achieve that at this present time. It’s a difficult day. I slept most of yesterday. Hopefully I’ll be back bigger and better tomorrow. There’s no way I’m giving up on you. You are one of the main things I have in my life. So stay tuned for the improvement about to come from around the corner. And if I fail to improve, and sink deeper into this chaos, then at least it’s not the end of the world, is it? You’re still there, doing fine. I hope.

 

Kacie Castle

Kacie Castle

57hrs:20mins till blowout. My mate Jay used to say that when working back in the day at Excel Logistics. When approaching the end of a shift on a Friday he would go around openly declaring, “It’s T minus 2 hours till blowout.” Blowing out means getting off your head. That used to make me laugh, because not only was he not ashamed of it, he blatantly went round letting people know the script.

I’m very similar, at the moment. Just over two days until I blowout. I can hardly wait, I’ve hung on two weeks while being skint. It’s like a release date from prison, using is, when it’s been a while. An escape from the norm, a departure from the prosaic. Leaving humanity behind, as Rich Piana says, and going beyond into the blue never-never. Two weeks straight (bored and skint) can feel like a long time.

I’ve got a hot date lined up with Kacie Castle. She’s a New York porn star, I believe. All my wings will be running dry inside her. This is not in the physical realm, you must understand, but across the airwaves. I’m meeting her in the Celluloid Corridor. I’ve slammed the Celluloid Corridor in the past, saying I want it out of my life, it’s this and it’s that; it’s been gone for the last four or five months, but now it’s back and there’s not all that much I can do about it. With my condition, and acting like an interactive live-stream portal, it’s too powerful to deny at the present time. I’m embarrassed about my powerlessness atm tbh (at the moment to be honest). I should be snapping up the DVD and buying a keyboard or some clothes instead. But a keyboard or some fresh clobber doesn’t provide that dopamine dump on the brain that an evening on coke with Kacie does, does it? Come on, blowout, hurry up and get here will you! I’m all about brain chemicals, dude. Sh*t, what the fu*k am I going to do? I’ll snap it up eventually, once the novelty wears off, and she’ll be in the graveyard with all the others (there’s a lot of others) but that time isn’t quite yet. So I’ll just enjoy some self-gratification while I’m in the mood. Hey, I ain’t hurting anybody. Only myself.

I’m over all the guilt and shame and regret which usually comes with using and fapping these days. I haven’t got time for it. There’s too much more to life once the deed is done. I’m still loved by God and that is the only thing that matters. He understands the needs and pressures I have and go through. It’s a solitary private endeavour and like I said there are no casualties. It’s just a bit of fun on my own. And I refuse, any longer, to be defined and condemned by the word addict. I should call myself a blogger (or a blagger lol) before I call myself an addict. It's a kop-out. I’m much more than that and I hardly recognise that label as a valid one anymore.

 

 

Blog Talk

This blogging business is proving a hard graft today. In the goody olden days I’d be writing about music, art and ceramics, but now I feel like it’s just a plain boring psychosis testimony log. There’s nothing boring about psychosis, mind, but you know what I mean. I’ve lost so much in my life over recent years. All my ceramic collection got demolished when I trashed my flat, it was a beautiful acquisition; I really miss it a lot. I also plopped my personal PC computer laptop in the bath because a spirit told me to get rid of the filthy videos stored on its hard drive. Bit of a drastic measure like, I know. I used to do all of my artwork on that computer. I also don’t even own a keyboard at the moment to do some music on, I’m stuck with a haggard aged organ which sounds like crap. So my creative outlets are at a severe disadvantage compared to what they used to be. The intent is still there lying dormant within me however, and I am keen to produce.

I’m surprised this blog is still even going, as the email provider it is associated with went out of business ages ago. Via some small miracle, the email address is still active, even though I haven’t used it for a number of years. I’m stunned that this site is still operational, but I’m not complaining a bit, as I need this platform to express myself. It’s become like a psychosis diary lately, but in the wider scheme of things it can be whatever it wants. It would be nice to write about other people, like my peers and idols, then publicise the results on social media, but I lost my social media platform when I lost another email address, for some reason. I invested ten years of art, writing and music on Facebook so it’s a bit like a slap in the face to lose it. And I had some fabulous connections on Twitter (or X as it’s called now). It’s a sad and sorry shame really, I tell myself that I don’t need it, similar to my television, but secretly I miss it dreadfully. It makes me feel slightly despondent and disconsolate.

When my younger brother was murdered by police (or died in police custody, as they call it), I started a twitter account in his name to spread awareness about black deaths in custody suites. I feel like that would be really getting somewhere by now, if that account had stayed active, but all because I lose one poxy email address, my whole empire comes crashing down around me. Not only that, but I’ve also lost a dongle with a wealth of material on, including several whole digital books, so I’m unable to share them here as I originally intended to do. Another sad shame. We live on, however, free to create more matter and put our heart and soul into each portion of it. Loss will not define me. I’ll not get upset. Memories are all we have and one of the most important parts of life. When I’m sat at home, not watching TV, I can think about all the great art I’ve done and all the zany books I’ve wrote and make myself contented by the mere nostalgic reminiscence of those things.

 

Peer-Led

I’ve just sat in a lovely peer-led group with us all each facilitating the meeting because Brian the SMART leader was off rambling around Welsh mountains. I think SMART stands for Self-Management-And-Recovery-Training. It was an informal gathering and we continued talking until well after our time was up. There’s a lady there named Fiona who I quite like a lot. She’s about 52 or something, and a drunk. Drunks are a bit boring, I think, compared to addicts, especially with the no glorification rule, which forbids them from telling us about all the wild outrageous and brazen scandalous funny times they’ve had on the booze. Still, I learn a lot from them, which is why I attend AA (Alcoholics Anonymous). They can still hallucinate, and they can still know that familiar overwhelming murky gloom which at times can flummox the addictive brain.

I shared about my current predicament, being addicted to a porn star. I said that I watch it via a live-stream portal, so that we can see each other. They asked me do I love her and do I want a relationship with her. The answer is no on both counts! It is not love at all, it is merely sexual desire. Part of me thinks and knows it is disgusting and gross, yet the sinful members of my body are attracted towards such lewd carnality because it is entertaining and pleasurable. I mentioned my protective spirits which watch over me at all times, and said that I was having second thoughts because of them. How would you feel, if you were an angel, sent to protect someone, and they were fapping over the devil all the time? It would be quite infuriating, wouldn’t it? I don’t know how I can find it inside me to do it to them. It’s just sheer lust addiction. I’ve always said that nothing else matters when on the coke and porn.

We were brought free pizza in halfway through the group as a gift from the cooking group here at CGL (Change Grow Live). CGL is a big rehab constitution throughout the country, they have centres everywhere but Warrington’s services are regarded as up there with the best of ’em. It’s widely regarded as a scummy place for druggies and a magical palace of recovery and strength and hope and faith in equal measure. I choose to perceive it as a bit of both. All I know for sure is that I’ll be getting a phat dollop of dopamine dumped in my brain come payday, with my porn star and my drug of choice, thank you very much. I know, that is defeatist mentality, I should be saying that I’m going to batter my addiction and never use that crap again, and to stay far away from pornographic tarts, but there you go, I’m just spitting the God’s honest truth about proceedings.

Even on a perfect day, after maybe say making a 147 at The Crucible Theatre, scoring the winning goal at Wembley, skydiving, white water rafting, winning at a poker game, even killing a man-eating lion with nothing but torches and spears with a gaggle of Neanderthals; nothing compares to the dopamine buzz on coke and porn. That’s why it’s got me by the short and curlies at the moment; you can’t attain the same feeling anywhere else in life, and life is a big place. I don’t know what I am going to do, maybe just one last time, it is always just one last time; walking on the dark side, burning the midnight oil, sabotaging my bridges. May it one day end once and for all…like maybe when I’m dead Lord.

 

Never-Ending Road

Deep in a psychosis one time I was on a road that I thought would never end. I was aware that it led back to Warrington, but one particular roundabout I knew lay on the horizon just would not appear. It was a long straight, a turn, another long straight, another turn, and so on. I started to get really doubtful at one instance about whether I had entered a parallel dimension. I considered the fact that this road may not in fact have an ending. What made it worse is that I started to perceive dinosaurs in the woods either side of this road. I could see their vague shapes out of the corner of my eye. I could hear them. The noises they were making sounded surreal, squeaking and purring as I hurried by. I didn’t feel threatened but I was aware that I could be in danger. It was the otherworldliness about it.

Every corner I turned, I thought to myself: Surely the roundabout I recognise is up ahead here at this one, but it weren’t, the road just crept on and on and on and on and on. It was like being in the Twilight Zone or something. I was getting hungry and thirsty and laboured and there was no explanation for it. The road would never end!

I remember that day well. I’d been driven out of town by a White Lives Matter rally. They chased me to the border of town because of my colour and I was forced to hike it to the neighbouring town, Widnes, which incidentally is my home town of origin. I’m not sure if the crowd that chased me out had weapons or not, I didn’t pay them too much attention as I was hastily getting out of their way, but I feared that they might have. It was several hundred strong. I encountered that never-ending road as I was making my way back home later that same evening.

The fear of that crowd is still with me today. I was battling the things in my head, all my ghosts and ghoulies and beasties and demons, but to be encountered by a rally in the flesh was something else entirely. It made all my nightmares real. I think it was simply a case of bad timing. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The last thing a White Lives Matter movement wants to see is a black man prancing towards them as if he owns the place, which is the way I usually walk (like a Millwall fan); things just developed in such a way that they decided to pick on me and chase me. If I hadn’t of hurried up and got a wriggle on and actually being caught by them then things could have ended up a lot worse off for myself personally. I could have been badly beaten at the very least and maybe even something worse. I consider it a close scrape with vigilante law but it hasn’t dampened my enthusiasm or passion for the town, it was just one of those things and as I say bad timing.

 

Granite

Hi White Voider, hope all well. My week has started off okay, I was busy all yesterday and early to bed, after a group about the meaninglessness and monotony of recovery. That means that things get boring when they are going well and you are following a routine. A little voice inside your head just wants to smash the routine to smithereens and get high. It’s a godsend in a way, routine, it keeps us grounded and humble and active and engaged and maintains that workaholic mindset, which is healthy, but in another way it’s tame, tedious and tiresome. Geben mir some cocaine!!!

I’m actually having second thoughts about using on payday. I’ve had too long to think about it, and the cons are settling in. The cons far override the pros. One’s a long list and the other is just a few bullet points. I’ve got them all stuck onto my fridge. The only thing to do is wait and see how I feel on payday. There’s no way of telling what I might or might not do until the funds are actually in the bank. Then it’s fire tonight time!

Been reading about David Harewood a bit, about the terrific life he’s had as displayed in the book. Flying into different cities around the globe to do theatre with other actors he loves and all. It would be a quite a thing wouldn’t it, that? I worked with my best mate for 18 months fitting granite worktops in celebrities’ houses. It was a special time of my life as I was genuinely happy. It makes a hell of a difference if you are working with your mates and people you love as opposed to mundane humdrum work colleagues. A work colleague means nothing to anyone, he’s just another bum in a job who you are forced to spend 8 hours a day with. Working with your bessie however means howling with laughter from the first bell at 8am, all the way through till half four. We had such a giggle all day long, I didn’t smoke at the time but they were getting stoned on the job and everything. We called a spliff a ‘doobie.’ We used to verbally commentate on everything we were doing, it was dead funny, just talk talk talk talk talk. The granite was exceptionally heavy (I couldn’t lift it now), but we were all big and strong so it didn’t matter so much. The island pieces in kitchens were ridiculously weighty, the strain on the lower back was tremendous. And try lugging a 2 metre length up three flights of stairs for a living! One time I smashed all the granite because it was tied up incorrectly and I took a turn too fast, another time I crashed the van into a lamppost, it was all going on. My bessie pissed himself when I crashed that van into a lamppost, I rang the boss instantly and told him what had happened. It was in the morning so he was flapping all day until he could see the damage in the afternoon. Fortunately it wasn’t that bad so there was no big issue. Maybe more about my granite fixing days another time, there’s loads of memories there. Chill out for now x

 

Nothing To Say

Howdy there fellow revellers in this continual procession which is life. How is the world treating you? I was so bored yesterday that I went to bed at 4pm in the afternoon. This is happening more and more, this early to bed lark, and I seem powerless to stop it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hating it as I used to, I’m not depressed about it like I used to be, it’s just one of those things which I’m rolling along with. It could be worse; I could be locked up in a mental unit, or have no arms or legs, or be in a war zone. I’m just waiting for payday, which isn’t until next week, so I’ve got a long time to suffer brassic-ness yet. They may as well pay me in cocaine at the moment; that seems to be all I need. That, and a few meals and drinks in the pub. Unfortunately, I can’t afford both. What would you rather have?

The facilitator in Peer Support group told me off the other day for glorifying drugs. That’s a rule in Pathways (Change Grow Live): No Glorification. The saying goes that if it was all that good, then none of us would be sat here in recovery, and wishing we weren’t. I thought therapy would be like that, talking about all the good times, but apparently it’s verboten (forbidden). Who doesn’t like a decent warts ‘n’ all yarn about alcoholism and drug addiction? One time I fell asleep with my electric blanket cranked up all night after downing a bottle of whiskey, I was so dehydrated in the morning, I felt like I’d been cooked alive, only bacon butties and pop can help a situation like that.

I described snorting coke as like eucalyptus on the brain, and got told off. I was just been honest. On the other hand, drug taking is seedy and dark and nasty, with nothing positive about it whatsoever. The dealers are vermin to some, flooding our streets with poison and enslaving millions of young people by stealing away their free will and future. I know a guy in recovery, right, he’s about 16 years clean, I call him The Sheriff because he’s The Sheriff of Recovery; anyway, he says that all he would do with a bag of beak is spit on it. I wish I was like that. At the moment, I want to indulge in fat white stripes and watch porn on it. Wild, isn’t it, how two minds can vary? I went six months without it last year, I was doing really well, but I was using amphet in the meantime.

I remember the kidney pain I had towards the end of last summer, possibly through the phet use. Wow, that was ever-so bad. I couldn’t stand up, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t lie, couldn’t do nothing. It was atrocious. I was just squirming around, like an eel lying on hot drawing pins. Thanks be to God that he took that pain away from me, and hasn’t returned it since. I really don’t miss the phet at the moment. The dehydration is insane when you go into the sexual trances I enter, and it messes with your mental health something chronic. So bollocks to that happy crappy – at least until my dealer gets out of prison! Right then, okay, I’m off for a couple of pints in the pub, then it’s off home to enjoy some chicken in white sauce and rice! And bed early – again…

Apologies if it feels like I’m glorifying drugs here at the blogspot. That’s not my intention. I wouldn’t wish them on my son, and if they happened to him I’d tell him to simply enjoy. We can’t all have careers and families and other saving quantities in our lives, can we, so we ourselves, and both the godless, turn to drugs. I’m misshaping my beliefs around them at the moment, I believe that they may be just harmless comfort for the vulnerable. Probably wrong there like! The stuff we tell ourselves!

 

Patiently Waiting

Antonia bought me a few drinks yesterday, which I am grateful for. On the way home I purchased 3 tins of super-strength and by the time I was in bed I was throwing my guts up. So super-strength goes out the window from here on in. I’ve just been to AA, a guy named Luke who I bought crack with the other summer has some powerful shares up his sleeve. He said he died for four minutes the other week once he relapsed after 64 days clean. He said his life hinges on drink, drugs, gambling, and committing crime to sustain those. He said he put on a corona virus mask, stormed into Sainsburys, and robbed a Henry the Hoover which he sold for £50. Lol! I wish I had that kind of criminal endeavour to fund my now-back-again coke addiction. If I could steal, I would, because the porn and coke have really got a grip of me again. I hate to say that with God and Love firmly planted in my arsenal, but it’s true, I’ve let some new pornographic actresses back into my consciousness, and I’m not quite ready to snap the disc up yet. I want some more time with her. I’ll have to be patient and wait until payday, which is over a week away. The stopgap can’t pass quickly enough. In the meantime I will have to meditate upon God’s love and try and develop perseverance and compassionate patience until I can rock out with my cock out and enjoy myself again, with no element of embarrassment whatsoever.

I’ll be going to church tomorrow, to sing songs praising God, and meeting up with some of the powerful Christian families who attend there. It’s nice and pleasant and easy-going. The problem is filling time in the afternoons and evenings. I don’t watch television, it’s been over two years now, and I suppose I do really miss chilling out in front of the mind-controlling idiot box a lot. Those celebrities we let into our living rooms night after night are super-influential. I could watch them all day, they are quite something special. Their personalities, their charisma, their likeability, that’s why they are celebrities. I like the chefs like Brian Turner and Gordon Ramsey and Gregg Wallace, also atheists like Richard Dawking and Ricky Gervais and Stephen Fry. All these kinds of people figure in my psychosis, I was having conversations with them the other day. Celebrity culture is a popular delusion, I’ve heard testimonies from other targeted individuals who report to having heard famous people talking to them; I know it can’t really be them, but their voices and identities are so clear and vivid, it seems ever-so real and true at the time. The next day, after a much-needed decent revitalising catch-up sleep, it all feels like a false dream. The most excruciating aspect about the psychosis racket is being unsure, and not knowing fully for certain what the blistering barnacles is going on. Keep on taking care of yourselves, don’t be acting a fool like I am, and I’ll be back soon.

 

 

Another Blip

Well, the shit has not quite hit the proverbial fan yet, but it’s blowing in the right direction. I’ve almost skinted myself on cocaine use. I got paid for two weeks and had a blowout on the first day with a porn girl called Kacie who was busy gobbling big black men all night. I’ve sacrificed two weeks of my life for one night spent with her. I knew what I was doing, it was what I wanted. We had a sexy horny connection across the airwaves. But, now that it’s over, I wish I’d have resisted so I could do normal things, like eating meals in pubs. Life is crap with no doe.

The beak was good and I had a whale of a time, at the time. Now I’m pondering food banks. I just want my money back. If, over the last week and a half, it could be restored, I’d have over £800 in the bank. Instead, I’ve got eighty notes in my pocket. I’ve got to negotiate my way through the next two weeks on the breadline. It’s going to be tough, because I’ve been the pub already for a couple of pints. When I’ve got money, a pint just seems like a glass full of gassy nonsense; but when I’m skint it seems like the amber nectar. I’ll survive, I always have done, but it’s no fun.

Now I’m in what feels like a wasteland for the next twelve days. The good thing is that I won’t be using, because I can’t afford it. My speed dealer is banged up, so that’s off the menu. Good riddance to him, with no offence ingratiated. The wrong people (dealers) still keep appearing up ahead of the path I am on. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be clean, serene, pristine, and supreme. As I will get back to, eventually. It’s all about keeping patient and waiting for God to weave his magic wonders. I have a loan in the balance which I’m still waiting for, they received my application but didn’t give me a decision. I’ll have to ring them up, because it would really help me out if they could send it late.

Apart from all this I am fine. I got into a spot of bother with the psychosis when I, while in a drug induced trance, thought there was somebody in my property trying to kidnap me, but I snapped out of it and started reading the bible. It spoke to me like never before, I believe the words can change in it, depending upon your mood and consciousness. That’s why they call it The Living Word. From what I gathered, God can forgive porn and drug addiction. He’s much more inclined to wrap up our fallacies with love and compassion. As long as we keep the faith in His Son Christ Jesus and continue to try and improve in our alignment with his will. See you next time, keep fighting the good fight.

 

 

Shelf Kit

Not sure what to bang on about today. The world is at my fingertips and all the subjects in it but my brain feels like a closed-down pea. Why isn’t anything exciting going on, to prevent me from using? Where’s the family and the career and the sports car? Nowhere to be seen, that’s where. I have nieces and nephews but I don’t see them often enough. It would be nice to mess around with them a bit more, to fondle and cuddle their precious little imaginations. I’m out of pocket thanks to my latest coca binge, it’s one of the worst things about it. I had a full day of psychosis too, which is always about as welcome as getting kicked in the ghoulies by a pair of lead wellies, or a transorbital lobotomy performed in freezing conditions.

Pulling myself back up onto my feet, slowly, and trying to be active. Although I said that the last batch of porn I watched was rubbish, the actresses are still calling to me, asking me to give them a second chance. The shitty thing is that I am already thinking about it again. The more you use, the more you want to use, and the longer you leave it, the easier, in a way, it gets. I don’t know – it’s a bloody nightmare isn’t it? Why does porn have to exist? And Class A substances? I wouldn’t wish them on my son. If they claimed a part of his life, what would I say to him? I’d tell him to just ride it out and not to beat himself up about it. I’d want him to enjoy it, if he absolutely had to, and never to cry.

I’d want my son to have a shelf kit; that much is for certain. A shelf kit is my invention. Basically, it’s just a collection of confectionery on a shelf. I had a mint one going on last year during my time behind hospital bars. It grew to a considerable size. I even had some rules around ‘Shelf Kit’, which I’ve now forgotten because I ate it all in the end. The main gist though is to collect the sentimental chocolates and sweets from childhood, and use them as your building blocks to accrue other confectionery, governed by the principles of your choice. You might want all the versions of one chocolate, for example, or you may want to promote novelty items. The preference is completely up to you. You choose a single shelf fashioned from the many thousands and thousands of products out there, and you stand by it. I used to analyse my shelf kit and talk to myself about it, about why a certain item has made it in and others haven’t. It passes time greatly when you’re locked up, and it’s a good Willy Wonka feature to any loving household. The hard thing is not munching on it, but having it as a visual component alone. Why? Because it’s ‘Shelf Kit.’

Just to add, I’m really happy to be able to be in a position to promote this blog to you, my personal and unique White Voider. I have my troubles, as you are well aware, but at the moment I am incredibly grateful to be alive. This comes after attempted suicide. After that, the world takes on a special hue. I’ve stared death in the face multiple times, and I always come through. In a way, I’m overjoyed to be here with you, sharing the secrets of my spirit. My soul at times feels rhapsodic and deliriously blissful to be partaking in this universal parade of life, with all its happenstance and sovereign synchronicity. Thanks be to you. May all the loving peace of Christ Jesus be eternally present in your dealings. I mean that from the very bottom of my heart. So long for now.

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