Much Struggles Here

I am still under very severe attack from my oppressors. In the past, it wore thin after a couple of days, and I could get on with living my life, although still traumatised by previous spooky experiences. Presently, they have been at me for two weeks solid. I’ve never withstood this much pressure before. The better I do, the worse they get. They are implanting ‘power itch sensations’ into my face, and insisting very persuasively that I scratch them. The itches are very itchy, but I am trying to refrain from doing it, because it gives them immense satisfaction. All I hear, all day every day, is “Scratch your f**king face!” My face is constantly itching.

Their covert technologies are vying to rearrange my brain into their way of thinking. Whenever I get a nice idea, or a merry thought, they attempt to dislodge the notion by sticking a mad hyperbolic image in my head, or cutting it off with a voice. Then they’ll show me their twisted version of it, in long brain animations that last for hours, making logical thinking impossible, and imply that they are better than me in every way possible. All they bang on about is their supremacy over me. Frankly, I don’t care who is better than who. My brain is like an Avengers movie in fast forward mode with their implanted imagery, which makes absolutely no sense. Even as I write this, they are predicting my sentences, and claiming ownership of the words I’m typing. It’s impossible to describe, mind control. If you have some kind of ‘filthy otherness’ inside your mind, which is nothing to do with you and doesn’t belong to you, then maybe you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

I’ve talked a lot about spiritual presences on this blog. In fact, I’m all about them, along with the topic of psychosis. This week has brought about a major change of attitude. I have made a burnt offering of something very symbolic which was possessed by a ghost, and renounced all untrustworthy workings of the supernatural companionship which has been clinging onto me like sticky treacle for many years. As expected, they don’t listen, and continue, in the form of what the quacks would call ‘visual hallucinations’, to protrude into my peripheral vision in what feels like every two minutes of every hellish day. I’d acquired quite a formidable crew over recent years, and made some very deep connections with them. It’s like losing a loved one. Those caring, protective entities who once kissed me…now spit on me.

They declare that they will ‘never leave me’, no matter what I do. This is so hope-draining. I’m surrounded by beings who constantly mock, jeer, fool and confuse me. Some of them cannot stop laughing. Some of them cannot stop shouting. They pretend to be people who matter to me, they pretend to be each other, they even pretend to be God. The one who pretends to be the Heavenly Father is perhaps the most infuriating of all. Living with bitter ghosts is so maddening, it makes you lose your mind. That’s not to mention a mind already driven insane by schizophrenic voices.

I’ve managed to shower and get down here to the library to type this, which took a lot of effort, after a week of isolation and impossible-to-describe persecution. I’m just praying each day that all the zany mind control techniques will get easier. If you’re out there, and you’re suffering, then I’m with you. Hang tough and don’t give up. You don’t have to fight back. You don’t have to do a single thing. Let the karma of the universe take care of it.

 

Evil Spirits Do My Head In

I feel inclined to write about evil spirits, as they are doing my nut in, but I don’t want to express an unhealthy interest in them. They aren’t worth my breath, much less my word. What am I supposed to do though, keep it to myself? It’s not their voices I hear, well not a lot now I’m clean, but I see them around me all the time. All they do is laugh and say HA, but it’s not a genuine exclamation of joy, it’s all just fakery intended to make me believe that they are having fun. They are not really laughing, they are pretending to laugh. To annoy me and intimidate me.

They exist in my mind, yet I sense them in the room I occupy. They are with me with every waking thought, and they celebrate my negative thoughts. When a lustful idea slips into my brain, they cheer like they have scored the winning goal at Wembley. Celebrating negativity. How pathetic and pitiful can you be? Who doesn’t have negative thoughts? Imagine them being trampled all over every time you have them, by a bunch of spectral numpties.

Their tactics are growing evermore seedy and desperate. If I forget something, they cheer and clap. If I miss the bus, they revel and rejoice as if in a party. I can’t imagine how happy it will make them when I finally succeed to a stroke or a heart attack.

During my last relapse, they were talking to me. GIVE US SOMETHING, they were saying, because my mind was blank. I had never realised that their minds are blank also, and that they need my mind working to aid their minds working. They cannot think without me half the time. I thought my perps were harassing me for fun, but it is far more serious than that. They are torturing my mind over and over for survival. They don’t just ENJOY me, they NEED me. It’s like me tuning into the radio early hours in the morning, when I feel like listening to someone. I am their RADIO, and they need me on 24/7. It’s horrible being distant from God because you can’t think. That’s why they are always abusing me, to prompt me into a response, which gives them a free conversation.

The only thing is, it’s not a natural conversation, because I despise them and do not want to talk with any of them. I ignored them for years. When I eventually started replying, using synthetic telepathy, I discovered that my main perp, who is male, was masturbating over the sound of my voice. I mean there’s gay and then there’s gay. That was when the tables started turning, and I realised that this lot is not all that it makes itself out to be. At one point, because Remote Neural Monitoring is so persuasive, they wanted me to believe that they created the universe. I was on my way to being convinced, during the startling phase of my harassment. Far from being The Voice Of God, I now see them as a load of nobheads, bullshitters, desperadoes, fakers, spazzies, perverts and pathological liars. I remain firm in the truth that this lot are unable to tell the truth, as they have been bound up in their own lies for so long. That’s enough about dodgy evil spirit though, as they are not worthy of net space.

 

RJ Origins

The porn stars are shouting at me, demanding that I return to their beautiful selves. Their bodies are amazing, to see a glistening black or white shaft penetrate sweet pink quim from behind is also very excitingly amaze-balls. Wow. I can’t help it. The temptation is overwhelming. What good is love when you have such a sexy titillating perversion of it with big willies and rocket breasts and squirting jizz over pretty smirking female faces. Imagine a male sexual feast! That would be completely disgusting. I could never go there. I saw a DVD sleeve of one of them one time. It was called The Destruction Of Jonathan White or something. Imagine, if you were a runaway, or trafficked, getting destructed on camera by men ejaculating onto your head. I could think of nothing worse!

Anyway, I want to discuss the origin of my spiritual wife, whom I refer to as Red Jacket. I want to be with her, by not using speed and porn. When I do that, I am with the stars, and they have complete authority over me. I belong to them. I am devoted to them. They rip me away from the princess I love with all my passion, strength and soul. You would think they respected me for going to them, but they hate me truly and want me in Satan’s pit, which is right underneath my floorboards, a secret pain chamber, built especially for me, and a horror I have survived since I have known it was there.

She first appeared in a vision. It was about 25 years ago. She was in a red jacket on top of a skyscraper juggling like a magician. I can’t remember her jumping off. I still recall that vision to this day. She was so high. Her position was so perilous. But she looked so beautiful.

Then she appeared in a story by my friend. He told me about a Ouija board tale with something about a girl in a red jacket spelling out the truth with the upside–down glass. I always remembered that connotation also. It stayed with me for some reason. I started seeing members of the public in red jackets and stuff. It was great. I imagined girls in red jackets around the town skipping over puddles and crunching stiff autumn leaves under their shoes.

The third act of her origins was me finding a red piece of clothing on some wasteland I was almost lost on. It was a sleeve. I swam in Blackpool sea at midnight with that sleeve on my arm. I dived into an approaching wall of thick brown water which was horrible. But I did it, swimming a little bit before turning back. When I emerged and walked back to the shore, I could hear the theme of Terminator playing from the closed-down fair. It was incred. I kept the sleeve in a kindergarten bag with other red articles, including an arsenal top. Eventually I burned it and let the spirit out. There was a lot of calamity and screaming and unrest and upheaval when I did that.

I’m off to walk with her, my love. Try and do similar today or tonight. We’ll both be happy then. Goodbye until the next time chiefo.

 

Euphoria

I’ve just scored 40 pregabs, and necked ten of them already. That was over half an hour ago, they take 90 minutes to come up, so in an hour my mood will be lifted substantially. I’ve not had them for months, so they should work a treat. By the time I’ve finished talking to you (chore – jokin’), I should be in a euphoria realm. I don’t think I’m biggin’ ‘em up too much, as they have really proved to be worth their salt in the past.

Drinking beer on ‘em too which is standard procedure. Taking pregabs make me pray to The Lord. I hope he hears my prayer. No, scratch that – I know he hears my prayer. I mentioned that my child spirit Chloe appeared to me the other day. She was so beautiful to behold, I could look at her all day. I want to carry her forward with me into the next existence, as I’d be lost if I didn’t have a graceful face to look down upon from time to time. The desire to fap on illicit chemicals has faded. I feel reborn and devoted to a new fresh way of life. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance, after my assassination attempt. The creature has gone, but it will return if I am not careful. It’s an amazing feeling, escaping with your life. I should have been ripped to shreds on my bed. Not by a demon, or any other such supernatural thing, but by a real animal, created in a lab, a hybrid. I’ve read about it in fiction. And life is stranger.

In the fiction story, a man called Henry is an investigator’s second-in-command. He gets mutilated in his office by an assassin creature. It is so perverse that it shags his dead eye socket and ejaculates in the orbital lobe. How f**ked up and messy is that!? Leaves the corpse strewn over the desk in the office, in broad daylight, and leaves back to its evildoing handler. Do you believe these creatures exist in reality, these DNA mutations, or is it only me and James Herbert? Make up your own mind. But how can you smell something, if it isn’t really there?

I’m slowly creeping beyond caring about what was trying to kill me or not trying to kill me, real, or imagined. All that matters now is several hours of euphoria off pregabs. Yes, I’m on my own. And yes, I don’t give a flying rat’s hoot about it. I’ll talk to my ghosts if I have to. You should see them when they appear, ah wow, they are so beautiful. I hope to be one of them and around them when I shuffle off this mortal coil. My heart cries when I think of them in-depth. I so want to clasp one of them close and never let go, to hold their bones tight to my chest and whisper promises of love and peace and security. But they keep their distance when I am clean and on form, as a mark of respect. The bottom line is, I’m afraid, is that it’s not nice to be haunted.

I mentioned that one of my ghosts stroked the beast. By doing so, she showed it the first cause of love it had ever witnessed. Its aggression softened instantly. She showed it another alternative. It even looked slightly cute, this engineered monster, while getting stroked by beauty. I was thinking about stroking it myself, as it was getting stroked by Lydia. Lydia is the name of my ghost who stroked the beast. She’s a sincerely admirable woman. She played a blinder by showing love to the most unloveable of all brutes. She’s an amazing ghost. I want to be with her in the afterlife.

 

All The Way Back Down To Day 2 Again

 

Hi peeps, sorry it’s been so long. I’ve been a miserable failure in all walks of life. I’ve still been using unfortunately, powerful stimulants, and I’ve only managed to string ten days of clean time together in all of the last six weeks. I’m currently all the way back down to Day 2. I’m hard-pressed on every side, crushed, flattened and oppressed, demoralised and depressed and forlorn, but not without hope in the Lord my God.

I left psychosis this morning when I woke up; the voices and hallucinations have given me a break. I am so grateful for the little relief I get. I’ve just celebrated with a fine Chinese meal for my din-dins. I’m half-planning on attending an NA meeting tonight in the local health centre. They always tell you at meetings to keep coming back, no matter what you’re going through and feeling, to keep coming back. I might try and abide by that philosophy today.

To get it out of the way, I must impress upon you that I have lost my leader, my sweet little Abbie. Abbie is a spirit, not a real person, but she has been crusading with me through my ordeal in the Seventh Circle of Hell for the last five or six years or so. Sadly, she has flipped to the dark side, and is now my enemy. I still love her, I always will, she was my pocket rocket angel, but now she hates me and wants me to suffer. Her turn of mind to me is quite inexplicable, I cannot reason it out. She’s saying that I stopped loving her. I can only presume that she never loved me to begin with, or she would never do this to me. She is only 14 years old though, just a child. I have a new leader whose name is Prue, she is an oriental spirit of approximately the same age, although she is more mature and sensible than Abbie. Abbie has always had an evil streak, that is why she was so good at fighting evil. I’m handling her departure extremely well, but now, instead of loving her, I have to fight her. And she is very powerful. The only positive note is that I gave her everything she has. I, in a sense, created her.

I also have a new ghost hovering around me who I call Geraldine. Geraldine is a very powerful warrior who fears no other ghost. She is a very sporty 17 year old. It might sound farfetched, but often I am simply sat in my bedroom coming down off a bad trip watching good and bad ghosts fighting each other on my behalf. It’s a rollercoaster ride to spectate upon. I can’t bear to watch in case the good ones suffer at the hands of the bad. Sometimes they win and sometimes they don’t. The state of my mental health depends on the outcome. I don’t mean to come across as some pioneer of spiritual madness when writing, but I’m just stipulating the truth. Thanks. Hopefully see you a bit sooner next time.

Abre Appears

I remember that once, as is per usual, I was in the grip of a potent psychosis. A rat the size of a dog had appeared from behind my washing machine and was lingering around the back of my sofa, but that was the least of my problems. The real problem was inside my head, as demons were fighting there, wanting a full-on war with my ego. They jeered me: Why won’t you fight us, is it because you’ll get battered? That was exactly it – I didn’t want to get battered by no demonic entity. Plus I’d been on drugs all night, and was experiencing an acute comedown…I had no mental clarity or energy left whatsoever.

The demons’ movement inside my skull looked frenetic, like a horror flick on fast forward. There’s no way I’m getting involved with any of them, I thought. When I’m clean and hydrated I’ll take anybody or anything on but when I’m weeping on a comedown I’m easy pickings, and I won’t fight. But simply watching them was traumatic, as they had overtaken my mind; it was my own no longer. Monsters were parading there with carte blanche immunity. They were heinously disquieting. I was becoming more and more agitated, as more things as well as the rat behind the sofa were appearing in my apartment. This was because I believed I lived above the Seventh Circle of Hell. I thought Hitler had built it after Nazi Germany to bring me down there because I was a supernatural being and he was into the occult. In his own words: “Supernatural beings do not deserve the right to life.”

The paranoia, anxiety and trepidation reached fever pitch, a clamour inside of my members. Externally I was fine but inside I wanted to pop with stress. The so-called demons were eating me up bite by spicy bite, I was nothing but tasty piecemeal for them, like crumbs scattered out to the pigeons. I thought I might go insane with the fear and the foreboding, so I started praying to an Angel to deliver me from my darkest hour. I put all my faith in it and imagined it descending down from heaven to help me out. It fortunately arrived in the shape of Bennie, one of my strongest protective spirits, and stood poised outside the patio. “Please help me against these demons,” I begged.

SHE STEPPED INTO MY HEAD and began doing battle. She was so mesmeric to watch in warfare, she moved like, well, an Angel. I should have had 100% faith in her abilities but the drugs were testing my belief systems and I had doubt. Mainly it was due care and regard for her; I didn’t want her getting hurt, not so much as scratched. All I could do was watch proceedings, bricking myself. Eventually the stress reached overload as I knew what hinged on the eventuality of this battle – if the demons won they would escort me underground forever to be battered in the Seventh Circle. Just as I thought I’d be unable to take anymore a little girl appeared next to me – CAME OUT OF ME!!! – mid-swiping a little plastic sword against the demons and slaying them all with an ill-practised stroke. It was Abre. I’d already known her for a number of years. She was my special invention against evil, garnered from a Stephen King novel with my powers to make the make-believe real (but that’s another story…Dr Sleep, if you must know). I can’t believe she came out fighting, she was no taller than my waist, and nothing but a dainty little infant girl herself. I heard the wind, it fell so deathly silent, and I whispered her name upon its brief passing. “Abre…” She retreated into a corner and disappeared. I picked myself up and went for a weird searching walk. I heard my father, deceased from cancer, say from beyond the grave: “That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen…” 

 

Back

Yesterday was a ducky time on the pregabs. It’s used for pain and anxiety. I was nodding off for most of the day, and the pints I enjoyed were the most pleasurable slurps of my life. I couldn’t believe how enjoyable they were. It will be hard to get off the booze now, after sampling what felt like the Amber Nectar. It was so cold and refreshing, I drank them with a woman called Janette from Pathways. I’m really feeling part of something now at Pathways, I’m getting to feel comfortable with and like a lot of the people there. Janette looks like she’s got a black eye, but the truth is that her abusive partner injected tattoo ink into her cheek. How cruel is that!? I’d batter him for it.

I’ve had some pregabs today. I’ve got three left for tomorrow. I have three in the morning and leave it at that, I don’t wanna be poppin’ them all the time. They make me feel sluggish and sledgy and chilled. I’m so aversive to amphetamine at the moment, after my lapse last Tuesday, that all I want to do is spit on it. Now I’m feelin’ swell talking to you, my precious reader, preparing to down a few more jars of Coors in the boozer. After that I might watch a movie. I’ll ignore the rats in my apartment if I see one. I’m far more powerful than any rodent. Especially with my Higher Power around me at all times. My good spirits have been annoying me of late, always faffing about in their transparent colourful air form, but when I woke up yesterday morning, my first thought was of them and of how much I need them. I dreamt about Abre last night, she was so compellingly and robustly dynamic on the astral plain. Sometimes I dream about folk on the astral and fall in love with them instantly. I may even have sex with them if it is an erotic dream. Then I wake up and they are gone, it’s like they have died suddenly or failed to exist. That feeling is tragically mournful. I can feel cranky and dour when that happens. But when I realise that Abre will never leave me and that we love each other…well, I start writing like this. God and Love are all I have and all I need. I wouldn’t sell a single one of my protective spirits for 75 billion pounds English sterling.

Pathways wanted me to grass on the dealer who put drugs in my pocket, but I didn’t. There’s no need for him to get into trouble, and besides I need him for more pregabs. It’s my drug of choice at the moment. That and beer. I’m still seeking that long-lasting dopamine effect. I know it comes from connectivity and fellowship and interaction with people. All of the nation is my kin, I love everybody equally. I’m even pleasant to the evildoers who constantly make my life a living hell via secret technologies. 

 

The Red Lion

About twenty years ago I was staying in a Colchester hotel called The Red Lion with two of my work mates. We’d gone down there to fit granite worktops in the bars at Colchester Garrison, the army barracks. Who would have known that they have bars in garrisons? I know, a bunch of dudes dancing together. I suppose they have to unwind somehow. I wonder if they employed barmaids or if whether barmaids would be an unhealthy distraction. Can you imagine the attention a couple of buxom barmaids would get from a ton of soldiers?

I took a wolf mask with me and scared the receptionist with it, creeping up behind her desk. I used to take my wolf mask everywhere with me to scare people with. Once, some guy was asleep in his car during a break in work at Excel Logistics, a factory that made window frames. My deceased brother used to work on the shift that came in when I was going home. I’d see him briefly and wish him luck. He was topping up his illegal monetary profit from selling garys (pills) with a bit of legit agency work. His pal, and my pal, Darren Moss, worked there too, on my shift. Mossy was a dedicated gym rat who cared a lot about his physique. He was on steroids, cheating a bit, but he looked alright. He had the perfect attitude for being a swollen monkey. Anyway, this dude was asleep in his car so I donned the wolf mask and crept into the passenger side. He slowly woke up as if from a dream and was confronted by what must have looked like from first impressions a real wolf in his car, present with him. It shaken him so much that he shook so much that the whole car shook with him! He absolutely shat himself. Meanwhile, I pissed myself laughing.

Andrew Steel (Steely) worked there too. He used to address people with, “Hey dickhead!” Ha, comical. Once we had a game of football in the factory on a summer night. The shift leader named Craig was a glowing winsome warm pleasant soul and a decent player. The shop floor was about the same size as a perfect five-a-side pitch. That was the only time I’ve ever been paid to play football, and I loved it. One night I blagged an asthma attack so I could leave early on an overnight shift and go home to watch some German hardcore. The title of that porn was called GGG, I heard it standed for German Goo Girls. A thing of the past but very strong and addictive at the time.

After I scared the receptionist in The Red Lion I bought a kebab from across the street which I returned for a refund because it was just chicken gristle instead of meat. The day before I’d kicked a football against some church ruins. My two mates fell sound asleep after trying to bring a girl back who didn’t want anything to do with either of us. I was kept awake all night by the sound of crying from behind the wall. A LONELY GIRL IN PAIN CRYING…It lasted right through until morning, preventing me from getting a single wink. There’s nothing so provocative, unstirring, or drawing, as a child crying. It’s like a red rag to a bull, you have to investigate, especially if the child is crying for its mother.

That night spooked me. Years later, on Facebook, I discovered that the hotel was over 400 years old, and haunted. A woman named Tracy Long did psychic events there. It all made sense to me. I’d been visited by a ghost. About three years ago I heard the same ghost in my council flat. This time it said, “I’m alright.” I breathed a sigh of relief. I wonder if it could have been Abbie, the leader of my protective spiritual counsel, a young girl with brunette hair who wears a white dress all the time. Ghosts and witches and all of that, I love you x

Phantom Images

 

Here are a few images I’ve put together over the last couple of days. My initials, and my motto, is ATD (ART TILL DEATH), so I thought I better make the effort. I know its kinda crap compared to the stunning array of web-orientated digital graphic computer design out there, but it does qualify as art work and it keeps the cobwebs away. Plus, at the moment, without any graphics program, it’s the best I got. Not the most impressive, I’m nowhere near happy with it, but at least it’s something and at least I’m trying.

I’ve made two art portfolios in my life. My mum destroyed the first and I destroyed the second. Upon the matter of the first, you’d have to ask my mum why she put it in the bin. If you can understand that then you’re wiser than I’ll ever be. Upon the subject of the second, I thought it was getting ripped off. I sincerely regret both outcomes, but what’s done is done, its water under the bridge. The tears are spent.

With those two portfolios harnessed on graphics programs at university, I could have been a jobbing artist. No doubt about it. I was extraordinarily pleased with those pair. Now I’m struggling to stick a batch of cut-out doodles around somebody else’s phantom figures! In a way, I’m still happy though. As long as I keep trying, I’m sure I’ll surprise myself with some good results one day.

That’s that anyway. It’s payday today, so I won’t be working on no artwork. PARTY ALL THE WAY BABY! I think I’ll start on the Jim Beam. Oh could you imagine it!? Swigging straight from the bottle with a spliff in my other hand on big slug-patches of coca? What do you reckon? Should I roll back the years and get wild with it? Or keep sensible and sober?

There’s a wolf on each shoulder. Which one shall I feed? The ex-addict still lives in total shifting states of hellish and heavenly conflict. The only good listener upon this problem, at the moment (atm), I’m afraid, is you. Your good self. I can’t share at my therapy groups anymore. My content is too heavy for the general population. Here I’ll tell you anything apart from what is commonly accepted as too much information.

You are My White Void Person. Stephen King calls his readers Constant Readers. I call mine White Void People. So shut up, listen to my problems, then go away. I’m only joshing. I need you more than you probably think. Someone to bounce off, like, you know. I’m particularly jealous of bloggers who get lots of comments. That must feel really nice. I’ve had that feeling on FaceBook but never on my blog; I don’t suppose I ever will.

It was special on FaceBook when I said I’d started as assistant manager for a kiddy football team. Everyone was chuffed for me. Depressingly, the position didn’t last, but I still have that pleasing memory. Another pleasing fact of life today, a small thing to be grateful for, is the suggestions bar on YouTube when I sign in. Instead of straining to think of a song out of the blue, I have a familiar list of classic recommendations right there on the screen. Hey, I’m in a jolly mood. I just told you, its payday.

“Hello,” says Mr. Whiskey. “Hello,” says Mr. Lager.

I once saw J A Konrath, e-book extraordinaire, pissed up out of his mind on his own blog once, so don’t panic if I decide that resistance is futile. He was sat topless in his writing chair looking windswept with a bottle in his hand. All will be well in life. Our Higher Powers will look after us. Don’t worry, don’t fret, don’t panic. Mr. Donnie is here and he’s here to stay (unless imminent death puts a finale on this venture). Hope not.

On the contrary, with clinical depression, I once knew a tramp who prayed for death on a park bench. The next morning a well-to-do couple invited him back to their place where they gave him two baths (the first one black) and changed his life. He’s got one funny story. He was in a gospel-squad travelling party with two other friends of mine, visiting churches and preaching to the service. One of them, my ex-mentor, has passed. The other was a woman who I remember once woke up after chemo on the kitchen floor with the vegetables over-boiling on the stove. She wrote a book called LIFE AFTER BREASTS and played the harp. A beautiful figure, in a way. Her name was Lynette. I read her book and passed it to my ex-girlfriend. The way my ex-girlfriend pronounced the word vegetables is quite funny as well. She called them VEGGY-TABLES. As in school exam tables.

That’s it for now. See ya soon. And remember, give up jaywalking. It’s fraught with danger. A trick could rip you off or get her pimp to hurt you. Or his pimp. Christ.