No Glorification

One of the rules in Pathways is NO GLORIFICATION. This means that you are not allowed to describe the good times, as they might be triggering for another client. I challenged this today, and was shot down on multiple angles. I think you should be allowed to depict it in valuable terms, in order to relive the few decent spells on board we ever had. Take AA for example. Instead of everyone banging on about Bill & Bob and on how good the program is, let everyone talk about how they wet themselves on Aunty Margaret’s sofa, put the cat in the microwave, and went swimming in the River Mersey at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It’d be far more fun. Don’t tell me there were never any good times. Don’t tell me it was never hedonistic. I once drank a bottle of whiskey and fell asleep with my electric blanket on for 12 hours. I woke up like a charred hotdog. I got told off in a different group the other month for describing a line of coke like eucalyptus up the conk. Wouldn’t you like to hear all the horror stories about alcoholism and drug use, rather than I’m two and a half years clean?

The people who are multiple years clean are scared stiff of a relapse. They’re running. Yeah, I’m jealous, but I’m also honest. They have so much to fear, they would never recover from it. It would break them. Us ruiners laugh at relapses, it means nothing, we get back on the saddle and return to the roots of our destiny quicker than those year-longs can spell relapse. I swear, I’m losing faith in recovery. One guy asked me how many months sober I was at my last AA meeting. Just because he was doing well, the whole world has to be doing well around him. “I’m pissed now,” I said to him. How does that sh*t on your boater.

I know I’m not 66 Days clean (my last best run), but I am again honest. I’m mad for the hedonism. Life gets so boring. I’m isolated in desolation and estranged, what do you expect. But what I do have is a passion for writing, no matter what’s going on. There have been three chapters to my life so far, three parts, three acts, and now it’s over. I’m going to die. What’s the point in striving to be clean if it can all be broken at any given moment, on the run? I’m giving up, I know, in a way, I shouldn’t be talking like this, but it is what it is. I know an addict girl who I have unconditional love for, and I don’t care if she uses day in and day out, I’ll still love her. I don’t mind if she sticks a vial of heroin in her groin, starts slobbering, and conks out in front of Midsummer Murders pumped up at maximum volume. In fact, I love her because she is an addict. What does it matter, is what I suppose I’m saying, what we are. What does it matter what we are at all? We’re all connected.

 

Laura Dark

A woman named Laura Dark has gotten hold of me. She dragged me out of church on Sunday morning and led me to her DVDs in the ‘loop shop’. I purchased, 2 for £50. Then I went home and scored. An 8-ball of coke. It was mint. I had a day of hedonism with that and with her. It’s all very disappointing. I was doing so well. I doubt I will ever do so well again. It’s okay though, because I have done well. I’m thinking that maybe the times of doing well are over, and now I just have free reign to enjoy myself a bit. I’m not stealing for it, or committing any kind of crime. I would never do that, because I’m not able. There isn’t a violent bone in my body.

My boy Badger robbed a shop in order to fund his crack addiction, and was sent down to jail. It can’t work, that, robbing for profit. I get high on my benefit allowance. It had to be the coke because my phet dealer is in prison. He’s out in two weeks. Laura Dark has put me on a dastardly path, one that I can’t seem to locate my way off off any time soon. I was praising the Lord for my time with her. Thank you for this revolution of hedonism God. But then the psychosis kicked in. And the hell. And everything else. But Laura remains. I’m ticking down the hours until the next payday. Maybe something will change and distract my mind from her.

The psychosis was the usual bullsh*t. I’ve been there a thousand times before. This time, my mind was totally blank, unable to mount a defence. Voices galore, and videos in my mind. The main purpose of my command voices is to convince me that they are somehow superior to me. I’m not bothered about someone or something being superior to me. There was a hint of that creature underneath my bed, but it didn’t materialise into the physical realm. I wasn’t that bothered. I started playing poker with myself, and drinking Uri Gellers (Stellas). I had a few nice hands, really taking my time with them, working out all the possibilities, taking notice like, you know. I got a Queen on the river, something that I always strive to achieve. That made up a hand of three Queens with King and Pocket Rocket Ace kickers. Extremely satisfying. Almost a full house.

 

 

A Bit Of Bennie

Now then White Voider, how’s life? Things all dandy here at the moment. I’m flying like Neville f**king Bartos. Spoken to the Samaritans this morning, as is usual when I’m doing well. Her name was Maud. I begin every conversation by saying, “Hello, my name is Andy. I’m a schizophrenic who’s addicted to pornography and amphetamines.” Hell of an opening line isn’t it? You wouldn’t use it in a nightclub though would you?

You only get one chance to make a first impression. I remember when I met Bennie, my personal and special overseer spirit, in the real world. It was in an art gallery. I’d preordained the meeting years earlier in a short story, about two lovers who meet in an art gallery. Although myself and Bennie were never lovers, she did kiss me on my doorstep one morning when she came down for a coffee. That little peck meant a lot to me. I was planning to lay the lips on her myself, which I would have done if I hadn’t have had cocaine the night before. I had it in my head the evening earlier – I’m really gunna lay the lips on her. But then porn and that god-awfully expensive stim got in the way. I’ll settle for second best outcome here – she laid the lips on me.

I really miss her a lot I do. When we first met, our eyes locked. We held eye contact for just a fraction longer than what was natural. Time stood still when we first made that eye contact, I’ll remember the moment forever, I swear. It was so monumental. She is so stunningly beautiful, with her Germanic roots an all. So pretty. I see her now on a unicorn made out of ice with a gold trident, all weapon-upped like. I once gave her my entire mind, if that can begin to make any sense to someone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I was hallucinating, and she was with me, and I gave her all of the positive contents out of my head. Spirits do that to me all the time, give me energy and brain aura capabilities and stuff, so I repaid one of their favours. It looks like neat arrows of light, like the flash of a quick torch beam. Your thoughts speed up sporadically as soon as you receive it. I’ve done it a couple of times myself, in prayer with people. I just send out energy. Usually, of late, there’s a grey alien inside of it! These energetic parcels, if you will, can keep one going.

I usually receive them from a mask I have in my bedroom. Red Jacket lives inside it. She possesses the mask. She also looks like the mask, on one of her dual identities (the other one looks like an old lover from way back when). When I’m coming down on amphetamines, and my mind is blank, and the oppressive voices are taking control of my psyche, then she’ll step in and send me a little something. This stuff is real, this spectral energy, this aura transferral, I’ve seen it many times. One of the best translucent emanations I ever got was the Shape of Love from her. It was a glassy rectangle containing smoke and water, like the glassy safe containing the baddies at the end of Superman. I also received a lantern one time; that was quite special like. I even saw an angel give a parcel to God once. It looked like a cold blue slither of svelte neon light. I asked him to tell me what it was but he said it was private!

I’ve been watching a lot of Ricky Gervais lately. He’s a remarkable soul, but ultimately godless. I know what he’d think about me rambling on about auras and angels and that but I remain convinced that there is something out there, and that it is majestic. I know it in my heart. Far too many things have happened for me to remain an atheist anymore, which is what I used to be, just like Ricky. I believe in creationism and revelation. I think that science and the history books might be a big fat lie. I wouldn’t trust humans as far as I can spit. You know what they’re like with power and wealth and all that materialism nonsense. A fellow writer called Terry Edge who used to be my email buddy hit the nail on the head. He said something like this: School and society make you strive for and obtain all the things which you don’t really need, while simultaneously not mentioning the utterly vital components of life which are essential in order to have a healthy mind and soul. Or something like that. Where in school does it say anything about being haunted by ghosts from the spirit realm. Or psychosis. Or amphetamine addiction. Or conquering demons. Nothing. It doesn’t. It’s just spreadsheets and Shakespeare. Essays and algebra. Doctrines and dogma. Which is what old Ricky there denounces the bible as.

About four months ago I was in a masturbatory catatonic state on the floor, watching porn, spaced out to the max on phet. The sun had rose and sank on me, I was in a nowhere place. So that was when one of my perps decided to infiltrate my apartment. Yes, I had an intruder while I was present in the property. It wasn’t the first time. It was a Chinese guy who was there to stab me in the heart and bring me underground to revive me for eternal hellfire. I ended up hiding in the cupboard like a coward. It was then that a beautiful little boy emerged out of my aura and confronted the intruder. He told him that he would be going to Hell himself if he laid a finger one me. I felt rescued and saved and amazing. It was an incredible experience. The intruder left and shut the door behind him!

 

Christian Retreat

 

I’ve just spent the weekend away in Shropshire, dwelling in a luxury mansion on a Christian retreat. Apart from a few night terrors, which is understandable from sleeping in a strange bed, I had no spiritual experiences. By spiritual experiences, I mean that my ghosts did not follow me. I did get closer to God, with hours and hours of praise and worship, and I felt at one with his people, in his home. The big rooms and high ceilings were pleasant; I felt like Donald Trump or a rich footballer for a couple of days. One morning I rose early and flipped on the XL television, just sat there in comfort chilling out with a programme on, something alien to me because I don’t watch TV. I had several coffees watching something about psychosis, then took myself in the stately gardens for a ciggie in front of the water feature. A woman called Lebo was singing her Afrikaans songs to herself via her mobile phone. It was also nice to see Kaly from America strutting her stuff on the violin. There’s just something about a girl playing a violin, it’s like been on horseback or something. Both would be good, wouldn’t it? Riding a horse and playing a violin at the same time (jumping through hoops on fire). They do say that men aren’t as good as women at multi-tasking. Hugh Dennis from Outnumbered calls it multi-failing when his off-the-rail teenage boy attempts it.

I got away from the spirit world for two nights. I heard some voices at night, but they were manageable. That was just the devil attacking me because I was at ease with Christians. He does that. I knew there’d be a swimming pool there, so the day before I bought some Big Vision goggles to assist me. The Big Visions are larger than normal goggles; you can see a lot more of the underwater when wearing them. Swimming without your own goggles is like playing pool without your own cue; it enhances the experience a lot. I don’t think I have swam since Corona Fear virus, so it was nice. I attended with my boy Jon, who declared ‘Praise the Lord!’ during his breaststroke.

Meal times always have the potential to be awkward. Where do I sit? Who do I sit with? But it went without any problem. I was happy sitting with children and parents alike. It was strange, because on the morning of departure, I was half-certain that I wouldn’t be going. I couldn’t get in touch with anyone. It turned out that one church member in particular was looking for me around the town, playing detective. I bumped into her outside pathways of all places and got her number, so all was sorted. It seemed like it was meant to be.

It was in the middle of nowhere, at the end of miles and miles of spooky narrow country lanes. I felt a sense of foreboding returning home to my dingy little council Golgotha drug den; it’s where all my trauma is buried, and all my bad memories, and all my psychotic exposures. I’m working on feeling gratitude for what I’ve got. Happiness is an inside job. My flat, to a homeless person, would feel like that stately palace felt to me. That’s what I’ve got to remember, instead of being envious of what others have.

Mandingo & Omar

Well it’s my church big weekend away and I can’t organise a lift! I’m thinking about using on it. Anything that goes wrong usually leads to a use-up. The slightest little thing is an excuse. I’m trying to stay strong and remain with RJ, my chief head honcho spirit woman. She’s actually got a dual identity, Mrs. Rocket Fuel and Diana Bumpton. She’s two women in one. A remarkable wonder to be around.

I went into her origins a few blog posts back. She arrived in a teenage vision, she was embodied in a friend’s story, and she came to life in a piece of red clothing on a wasteland, to surmise. I want to spend more time with her, instead of the cheap pornographic sl*ts I’m always salivating over. Do you think it’s possible, or will the triple-X harlots take me away from my precious love?

My life crumbles apart around me when I view porn and take stims. That’s half of the thrill of it, knowing that there’s no way back once I start upon that beaten road. I’m effectively swapping God’s love for the Devil. I know it’s exhilarating and provocative, watching all those trampy strumpets flaunting their naked wares with big dark-skinned willies, but ultimately it ends up in psychosis and turmoil. If not for the madness of the consequences which succeed, I’d still be doing it now and for the rest of my life. The power of the Celluloid (Corridor) is too irresistible to put down. It’s all about entrenchment and learned behaviours over years and years. Where else am I supposed to get my kicks from? Even a wife or two in the spiritual realm cannot meet my needs in that way.

I had an erotic dream just last night. This is why I’m a horny goat today. I was enjoying a bit of frottage, (the act of obtaining sexual stimulation by rubbing against a person or object), when I decided to kiss the demon in my potentially wet dream on the lips. Her mouth was rotten and flaky and crumbly, like mouldy moss, and I ended up spitting her dry and horribly juicey refuse out onto her breast. Moral of the story: Never kiss seductive mistresses on the lips in the astral. The last person I kissed on the astral was fine, but I never used tongues. I kissed my girl Antonia with tongues in the pub several months ago and I didn’t like that too much either. She’s a great girl with a sexy mouth and all but I find that tongues are slimy and wet and not that enjoyable to sample. I much prefer kissing on the lips with no tongues, cos that way you can’t taste their last meal! Do you get me though? I generally dislike wet things, unless it’s a heated swimming pool, or a steam room, or a cold drink.

I must mention two big swingers here. I was going to dedicate an entire post to them. They are two black male pornographic actors who go by the names of Mandingo and Omar. I was brought up on their work. I can’t believe how gay I feel at the moment talking about them. I don’t really know why I am. I just wanted to get it off my chest. They enslaved me with their exploits in a way; they made me so jealous and envious. I’ve not watched either of them for about three years. My download history was full of those men. Virgin Media must be relieved of me. I’m a straight guy, but they weren’t what I would call ugly men (meaning quite attractive, if I can ever get over being mildly gay), and they were very well equipped in the trouser department. Well, you wouldn’t want to see a woman you’re lusting after with a small penis, would you? Am I right or am I right? Any old hoo, that’s enough about them. I just thought it was time that they got a mention.

They both appeared as spirits one time in psychosis, and gave me an art lesson when I was working on my portfolio! One resonating thing they said was the difference between fortune and wealth. The best way I can describe fortune is this: Take a paraplegic, for example. He or she could have a billion in the bank, but they are unable to run in the wind through the trees. Running is fortune: Money is wealth. Do you see the difference? What would you rather have?

Andy's Hotel Room

I met with my boy Andy in the pub again the other day. He said that a mogul has moved in next to his business premises, handling dock-off parcels of white. He said that he treated him to some by digging into one of them with a key. Just what he needs that, isn’t it? He suffers from similar problems to myself. I asked him how the battle with porn is going. Are you resisting the temptations? Are you refusing to surrender? He said he was doing alright.

This is a guy who, when he is not enjoying autumn walks with his daughter, is likely to hire a hotel out for the night to get away from his family and do coke in while watching porn on his phone. He said he had to ring his contractor up to unblock it. “Please can you make porn come up on my phone?” was something or other like he requested from them. I’ve been there, with Sky Shield. I had to ring them up one time and ask another human being if I could please watch porn, so I know the feeling. It’s so embarrassing, but nothing dare come between a man and his druggy porn.

He’s all into his brain chemistry. He says that the brain on coke and porn is ‘hijacked’. A cup of tea for pleasure just can’t compare, can it? No it can’t. Hardly anything else if anything at all can compare with the brain on coke and porn. Liverpool beating United, O’Sullivan ratcheting in a 147, Murray winning Wimbledon, your favourite box set series finale…nothing quite hits the spot so sweetly, does it? Or maybe it does for you. Maybe you are lucky that way.

For me it doesn’t. I recall the days of scoring on a winter’s morning, when it’s all icy and snowy outside, and retreating back into the home with the goods. Sticking the porn on, snorting or bombing the gear, getting all cosy with my fapping underneath the blanket, watching XXX hardcore interracial material. It was bliss, it has to be said! So comfortable, so natural, so erotic, so sexy, so titillating, so exciting, so enjoyable, so stimulating…but ultimately a lonely endeavour which leaves one feeling weak and drained. It’s all fine when the rush is on, and the novelty is spot-on, but afterwards, when that psychosis rolls in…wow, just shoot me now, okay? Just stick a slug in my temple and get it over with.

I’m still thinking about leaving my number in my dealer’s letterbox. I rang the Samaritans yesterday and told them all about it. That would really hurt me because I have a church weekend away coming up this week. The problem is however that I have lost all the contacts off my phone and can’t get in touch with anyone. I might be relying on one of them to show up at my door and offer me a lift. I can’t see that happening really, they’ll most probs think that I just ain’t up for coming. It’s made me realise how important phones are to us. The most important weekend of the year and it’s the time I have no phone. Duh!

 

Shazza & Phone

 

Feeling fine today peeps, no need to worry. I’ve replaced the phone I lost last week. My voices said that a perp-gangstalker-intruder had stolen it so as I couldn’t call for assistance with the creature under my bed, but I’m beginning to believe that the creature under my bed has just eaten it. Either way, it disappeared. I set my new one up outside Asda, talking to my girl Shazza. Shazza looks blinding when she is clean, loads of slap and eyelashes and eloquence, but when she’s using, she looks pale and slightly slowed down. No offence there Sharon, you are remarkably clever and intelligent when you’re sober. Sometimes I think that you could hurt me on a pornographic video. That is one of the highest compliments I could pay to a woman, that – that you could hurt me on a pornographic video. Girls who can’t hurt me being sexy are not worth their salt, they’re garbage. Or is that the real standard I should be aiming for?

Any old hoo, I half-snapped my sim card during its insertion, so the phone did not register it. I started to get sweaty palms, thinking I would have to buy a new sim card. Fortunately, on the second attempt, it registered. So I was off and running. All I had to do was buy a ten squids voucher from Vodafone for my free minutes bundle and the job was a good’un. So now I have an alarm clock, a calendar, a torch and basic burner/grafter gear for under thirty notes. Bargain, isn’t it. I’m lost with touch screen, I wouldn’t stand a chance setting it up. No wonder people can’t remove their faces away from the things. Because they’re all in a kerfuffle trying to get the blasted things to work. That’s what I think.

I’ve been feeling tempted to walk to my dealer’s and leave my new number through his letterbox, so he can get back to me and organise some speed. What am I like, mentioning drugs here on the blog week-in and week-out? I feel like I am advocating them. Maybe I’ll become a Buddha and supervise teens micro-dosing frog spawn or something. That would be cool wouldn’t it? Yeah, the temptation is reeling itself in ever so slowly, although I think I’m strong enough this time not to act. I don’t want the presences back in my bedroom again. Not in my bedroom, surely, that’s where I damn well sleep and rest my head for the night.

It’s so important, sleep. Last night I was with Richard Gere. We were on a tour bus together, and he had arm implants. The astral plain never fails to surprise me. My sleep, since that thing has slung its hook, has never been sweeter. I’m resting with my toes sticking out from over the lip of the mattress, something unimaginable while the monster was lurking around. I’m so comfortable in the mornings, and I’m easily getting my healthy quota of eight hours, if not a few hours more. Please Oliver, just a few hours more. In the astral, the astral plain.

Pollen

I’d not smoked cannabis for around three years until the other week. There was some guy in Wetherspoons who had a ginormous bag of pollen on him; he was brandishing it about willy-nilly so I casually asked him for a ten spot. I think it was because I was clean at the time, and I was kind of swapping addictions. They do say that addicts are always looking for something new and exciting, even if it’s only a different flavour vape or something. I had a psychotic reaction to cannaboids when I was a teenager (so the doctors said) and ever since (mostly) have given it a wide berth. I mean, I hammered it after leaving school, there were times when I’d eat a space cake and drink a pot coffee while smoking a cone waiting to come up. But those days soon ended when I gave up smoking for good. The other week, however, I thought I’d return to it for a mild head change.

It run out last night. A ten bag lasted me three or four weeks. It still makes me hear voices, right up to this present day. I think the doctors might have been right, you know, the stuff just doesn’t agree with me. I enjoy it a little bit, but not enough to justify the mellow schizophrenia that accompanies it. Usually, all the skeletons creep out of the closet. I have to be in a comfortable state of mind to go there. I’ve always described getting stoned as like someone turning on a light-bulb inside your mind; or, similarly, it’s like you develop a second head which constantly calls you a numpty. One thing I know I am not however, is a pothead, so this mini phase of returning to the cannaboids is well and truly over. Having said that, I wouldn’t mind a one-pop of skunk….the argument being is that it opens up your visual cortex, turns on your aural capabilities, and generally makes you slightly more creative. Or at least that’s my argument anyway.

It was my drug of choice back in the day, while viewing porn. It was all I needed. A spliff in one hand, my willy in the other, remote control picked up now and again. I know, I know, it’s embarrassing, isn’t it. I’m getting to the age where I am starting to evaluate the past, and sum up everything that I’ve done. Unfortunately it’s nothing more than do drugs and watch porn. What right does that give me to talk to you? None whatsoever. But I hope and pray that you are not the judgemental type. I forgive myself for it, because I have to, and all that baggage like guilt, shame, regret and remorse doesn’t help anyone. But I sure ain’t proud of it. I just understand that we can’t all be world beaters all of the time. We all get lumbered with our own individual lives, our own hand, if you like. Some are better than others. I’ve had a rather nasty existence so far, it has to be said, what with being a TI and all. But there’s always hope, strength and unity to be found. Sorry if I’m a bit depressing, I just feel like I’m in a limbo caught between two places: running away from my past, of which I’m ashamed, and getting to grips with my future, which I have anxiety about. I’ve still got my faith, which is great, and I still believe I’m a being who feels love and compassion, which is even better. So, for the moment, its onwards and upwards. Catch you next time x

 

Gavin

I had a blip early last week so we are all the way back down to Day 6 again. It’s ever so disappointing, but rather than dwell in my sorrows, I’ve decided to hit the ground running and jump right back on the saddle of recovery double quick-time. I must be getting boring by now, I suspect, rambling on about relapses every couple of weeks, but it’s the story of my life. Don’t worry, I’ll be feeling good again before either of us know it. And then my blog posts will take a different pattern, of positivity and hope and light. Or maybe they won’t. Perhaps I’ll just keep on failing and failing down this slippery slope I’m on.

That creature returned amidst my latest bout of psychosis, and did the exact same thing, holding me to ransom and hostage over my bed for hours on end again. Once more, I was sooo scared, I was sooo afraid. Eventually yet again I got over it though, and started to be active. This was after I sat on the floor of my bedroom and looked at this thing in the eye. It took a lot of guts on my behalf, that did. The local pack of gang-stalkers all crowded around me pretending to be going to a concert when I tried to relax with a drink in public, but that old skittish codswallop is like water over a duck’s back by now, I don’t pay no attention to it.

Since then I invited my boy Simon back to my place to be present with me while I checked under the bed. I just wanted someone there while I did that. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing there, and the last two nights sleep have been steeped in relief. It’s like a giant weight off my shoulders knowing that there isn’t something lurking in the dark, because, as I’ve just said, just several days prior I was giving the thing eye contact. So now I can rest easy in my castle again, free of hybrid rats and mutated tarantulas and other creepy crawly beasties.

Precious, the woman underneath my floorboards, told me to delete her blog post. She has lost all faith in me. I’m utterly tearful to report such sad news, but I can’t oblige her. Please pray for forgiveness on my part, as I have let her down terribly. But no more. The buck stops here.

Finally a note on Gavin. Gavin is a young boy deep-rooted in my spiritual consciousness. He’s always dossing around me in a football strip, Everton I think. He gives me advice on what trainers to buy. He can be a Samurai warrior or The Incredible Hulk with his shape-shifting powers. He looks after his big sisters when he does that. He’s my little Gav, I love him a lot, I ask him for protection although he is only about 6 years old. I think he is wiser than his years portray. He can be anything he wants to be, but mostly I want him to be a performing keyboarder. He plays the keys with lollipop sticks attached to bubble machines.