Calling From The Depths

Day 42. I went for a pint this morning only to be knocked back at the bar because it wasn’t 9 o’clock yet. I didn’t think there were licensing laws anymore. I thought you could drink as soon as the pub opened. Apparently not. I had to wait twenty minutes to get served! Just been breakfast club for the usual cooked-on toast. I’ve got AA, SMART, and a visit to Pause to look forward to. No rest for the wicked eh?

It all seems so tedious and mundane, walking around the town from place to place, but it’s only when the options are gone when you fully start to appreciate what you’re missing. At least I’m active, and I value being active, out and about. Being trapped behind those closed doors in psychosis is gut-wrenchingly terrible, I can’t stand it anymore. So I’m grateful that that isn’t the case today.

I’ve got enough in the bank for some porn and two 8-balls, if I want. But hey guess what – I don’t want. Well I kinda do, but I’m not going to. Because it always ends in tears. The voices will come back, the hallucinations will come back, and the Devil will gain a foothold in my life again. I seriously don’t miss that cretin.

My main persecutory voice I call Mr. Banana. It’s my new nickname for him. I miss him even less than the Devil. I wonder what he’s up to now that he can’t harass me anymore. For some reason he only harasses me when I’m strung out on drugs. I think I’m too powerful to harass when I’m clean and straight. There’s no point, I’m too strong, I’ve got all my mental scenarios and my inner voice rip-roaring along at 200mph. There’s no room left in my brain for hate-mobbers. It’s clogged with the General Commission. The General Commission is the collective term for my Protective Spirits.

I’ve got a new scenario, apart from the swimming podiums. The General Commission are all playing on a sinking ship and I’m a King watching it capsize, entranced by their beauty, unable to tear my eyes away. It’s a revamp of the end of Beowulf (2007). In that, Angelina Jolie plays a demon bathing in the waters, enticing the new King to join her in the depths. I would walk over hot coals to be within winking-distance of my General Commission. They are so gorgeous (because they are Angels), I’m so lucky!

They are playing guitars and doing cartwheels on the sinking ship. It’s on fire as well. Prue, my oriental schoolgirl angel, is floating in the waters. It’s sunset. You can see a hint of cleavage above the lapping waves. She’s made of gold, and she teases me in with her eyebrow. I can’t remove my eyes from them, and I take my first step in. I must be with them, in this eternity or the next, it’s destiny, it’s meant to be, it’s all I want, all I have ever wanted…

 

Day 38

 

Day 38 in my challenge to stay clean. I’m doing really well, aren’t I? It’s important to pat yourself on the back now and again, as nobody else will do it for you. I know a person who is doing that a bit too much to himself, he was on death’s door last week and now he’s walking around saying he’s smashin’ this and he’s killin’ that. Bruv, you was out for the count a minute ago! And there’s another broad who’s exactly the same, last week she was pissin’ her knickers in a doorway and today she’s a Champion of Recovery. You find people like that in this game, there’s a heap of phonies and fakers. I went to a meeting last night (NA), and left straight after the main share, by Hazel. I’m finding it a tad pompous, as I think that I’m the only hardcore addict in Warrington. Seriously, how many other dudes are fighting the dual addiction of amphet and porn, coke if I’m lucky?

I’m not having many sexual thoughts. That’s half the battle. The more you watch the more you think about it. Triggers everywhere. Girls in tight trousers or short skirts. At times it’s almost impossible to see just about anything else! It gets into the mind, it seeps into the soul, every day I ask God to humbly remove my shortcomings. I get this loan I’ve been on about on Monday, it’s only £350, but it’s enough for 3 porn DVDs and an 8-ball of coke, should I desire. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I secretly tell myself. Except then I play the tape forward. Playing the tape forward is a SMART tool technique to combat The Urge. It’s like fortune-telling, you simply look forward to the future based on past experience and envisualise where your drug taking will take you. In my case, tears. It always ends in tears. During my last relapse I prayed to God that he would not let me suffer anymore; that eventuality, I’ve since realised, lies in my own hands. I was making myself suffer, with my behaviours. I often used this quote, when it came to addictive substances and porn: “It makes me weak, yet it keeps me alive.” It’s from a song called Keine Liebe by Eisbrecher. I would hang on for pay day, and I mean really hang on, to the point that when it finally came around, I couldn’t consider myself bearing one more day without using. Honestly, I couldn’t stand the thought of one more day without drugs or porn. There was this song as well, by Moonspell, it was called A Walk On The Darkside. I swear, this song was like a permission statement to use again. Every time I listened to it I used shortly afterwards! “And you walk…the darkside…again…” And I did walk the darkside. Many, many times. But, hopefully, fingers crossed, no more.

Been drinking to the healthy balance reacquainted in my mind’s equilibrium. I’d drink for or against that though to be frank with you. When things are going well, drink, when things are not going well, drink. My mate Mike has put me onto a new trick, by adding a drop of lime to a pint of lager. My health is in danger though, fellow bloggers, because of my smoking. I been getting breathless in the mornings, and relying on my Ventolin inhaler too much by sucking on it like a dummy. I truly need to quit, I sense a Hay Fever attack lying in wait around the corner if I don’t. Anyway, it’s been nice knowing you.

I fear I am running out of stories too. I been putting all my psychosis experiences on here and now I’m at a loss as to which direction to turn to. I might just start making stuff up. That’s what someone said about my blog, once upon a time, he said: “It’s just full of made-up crap.” Easy on the compliments there. I know that. Except that most of it is true, I don’t need to make anything up, art imitates life and fact is stranger than fiction, everyone knows that.

Bullet Proof

Day 37. All is well with the world, my Irish Eyes are smiling. Yesterday was quite a tough one, I was fighting the Devil all day. He never leaves me alone for even an instant, it feels like. It’s just an elongated game of tennis between Him and my Protective Spirits. I’ve got a new scenario swirling around my head. Scenarios are important, I regularly pray for them. This one is of my Protective Spirits lined up on diving boards, about to have a race-off in an Olympic swimming pool. Well, not boards as such, but shall we call them podiums. I’ve lined up my seven wives and they’re about to go hell for leather. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to watch Angels in action, in a competitive field? They would be quite something to behold, wouldn’t they?

I’ve not progressed into the actual race yet, because I can’t pick a winner, but I do like to line them up and observe their little pre-race rituals, like adjusting their caps and putting their goggles on. In fact I’ve now made them into “flesh-eating zombies” to boot, so they are gorging on human hearts and other organs on the starting block. All very angelic behaviour.

Red Jacket is my good demon. She’s the split personality, made up of two different women. One looks like the pop star Katy B and the other looks like someone I used to sleep with. She wears a size 50XL waist for humour, because the person she is based on went fat. Yesterday, up against the Devil, was a full day of humour. As Russell Crowe says in The Pope’s Exorcist (2023): “The Devil hates jokes.” I always thought that the Devil had a sense of humour, but apparently not.

I’ve started feeling a shred of compassion for him. This you would think would prove impossible considering he hounds me on a daily basis; but it’s true. It must suck to be the Devil, despite all his acclaimed power. Where does he choose to use it all the time? – on little old me! That’s what I don’t like about him. What is it with me? Why is it that my enemies get bloated on my suffering all the while? They’ve even given me a supernatural title. I’m not about to repeat it at this moment in time but one day I might tell you.

Many supernatural things have happened to me, but this is not because I am a supernatural being. I am simply surrounded by a hive of supernatural activity. I was thinking about becoming a psychic at one point. Perhaps the strangest and most wonderful thing to ever happen to me is the time when a bullet bounced off my head. It nearly knocked me off my feet but it didn’t floor me. Bullshit, you might be thinking, and I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that, but what I say to you is 100% true. It was an assassination attempt on my life in the local supermarket car park. What else could it have been, to knock me off my feet? God stuck out his arm and deflected it. 

White Orbs

I recall visiting the cemetery with my younger brother to pay our condolences to the dead. We took a few drinks (we always drink together), and spilled out a few slurps onto the hallowed ground to commemorate the deceased.

Our Stephen lost his best friend Callum just after I lost my dad and my brother. It’s said that the white cider killed him off. He was only in his early twenties. Since then our Ste has refrained from touching a drop of it. I’ve never been a fan myself, always opting for the powerful stimulants rather than Crack, Smack and Scrumpy Jacks.

I’d just like to say anyway that I witnessed thousands of tiny white orbs in the graveyard while we were there. They were floating in the sky, majestic and mesmeric against the backdrop of clear blue. I’d been seeing them often during that phase of my life but never quite so obvious as that time in the graveyard. I told myself it was the ghosts of everyone in the cemetery, but I can’t be sure. They definitely belong in the angelic realm, they’re captivating and entrancing. The way they move…they bob and weave and bounce and dart and shimmer and sparkle the way genuine orbs do. I learned to control them, to some degree, and when I did this I noticed that the very next day the planes started flying in pairs, almost within touching distance in the sky, as if scared to go it alone with My Orbs. Coincidence? You decide. My mind is already made up.

Just thought I’d put that out there. Another time I witnessed them they seemed to abound from the moon. It has to be daylight for them to show their hand, they can’t exist at night. They look like a gazillion pinpricks of sunshine, dancing around as if on a subatomic scale, utterly fascinating to watch.

The Devil (hate to mention him), almost convinced me that he’d stolen them from me, because their movement changed almost overnight. He lies a lot, doesn’t he?

I’ve been reading my bible today to help me defeat Him (I know, again). I’ve finally finished Isaiah, it’s taken me weeks to labour through it, and now I’m firmly motoring through Proverbs. Proverbs is easy to read compared to Isaiah, and it’s chock-full of inspirational advice and wisdom. Something to get my teeth into, you know?

I’m not counting the days but it is Day 36 in The Rarefied Atmosphere challenge. That’s 35 days of loneliness, because in Popsville the voices never shut up and I’m outnumbered for company, but soon after I’m left all alone again. I know a song called Toddespiel by the German band Heldmaschine; it has screams embedded within its soundtrack. In Popsville, those screams are apt. Popsville is the name for the mental state in my life which is governed by psychosis: The Rarefied Atmosphere is the opposite.

I sincerely hope that, whilst currently in the process of Being Rare, I can view My Orbs again in the not-too distant future. Amen to My Father, My Brother, and To Callum x

 

Mum On Fire

I remember making a shrine in my bedroom as a teenager. Things weren’t working out at college, I was falling behind on my grades, my personal hygiene was slacking, I didn’t have enough pocket money, the cannabis was doing my head in. It started when I was getting stoned for the first time in my bedroom with my mate. He was on the bottom bunk and I was on the top. We’d just smoked a powerful spliff each, and were talking in tongues to each other. My mum appeared at the door, shouting and cursing, saying I was never going to amount to anything and that she wanted me out of the house. She was proper freaking out like, as if I was injecting heroin or something. She was more off her head than we were. I thought I was hallucinating; I thought she wasn’t really there.

“Is my mum really stood there shouting at us?” I asked my mate. We erupted into fits of laughter, she was off on one. She revealed the home family photo album – only last week I’d erased my face out of all the pictures with Tippex, because I no longer wanted to be part of the family. Well, she’d just found them, and she wasn’t happy…

“What have you done that for you stupid imbecile!” she shouted. The polaroids tumbled through her fingers onto the floor. My mate thought that that was well funny.

“You’ve, like, totally eradicated your family history,” he said.

“Maybe I don’t belong here,” I replied, chonging on the remainder of the spliff.

That’s when my mum went full retard, and started destroying my special shrine. It was a little altar with poems and artefacts, nothing much like, a bunch of laminated bible passages and the like, but it was my most precious possession in the world. There was even a supernatural mask from the joke shop on there. I thought it was possessed by the love of my life. She scrunched it all up and left my room with the mask, so I shot up out of bed, followed her downstairs, battered her, and tried to tear the mask from her clutching hands. In our struggle it ripped an eye socket and this pissed me off royally, so I made a  beeline for the garage where I kept a jerry can full of petrol, came back, and poured it over her.

“Give it me back or I’ll set your arse on fire!” I told her. Now I WAS hallucinating and my mum was looking like a real-life witch. I had thought she was a secret witch for years. My mate appeared next to me, pleading with me that I calm down. But I just wanted the symbolism of the love of my life back. How dare this witch desecrate my holy shrine!

Needless to say, I got done for attempted murder, even though no spark was lit, and sectioned off for a year or so. My mum embellished the story, saying that I tried to torch her with a Zippo lighter. It’s all in the past, and we get along fine these days.

 

Scoreboard

Hello there, I hope this is reaching you well. I am quite well myself. Each day in my life equals 3.5% on my score board. My score board is very private and personal to me. It’s those numbers in the sky again. Every day I don’t use I get three and a half percent. When I use it reduces to zero. I call that mental state Popsville. Popsville is a horrible place to live, full of voices and hallucinations, anguish and pain and regret and shame and remorse ad sinfulness. The Rarefied Atmosphere is much more pleasant. I’ve just been the pub before church for example, pregabbed up and loving every minute of it. I couldn’t dream of pubs and churches in Popsville. I’m at home with the rats for company in Popsville. I call it that because everybody has a pop at me, insulting my teeth, commanding me to do certain stuff I don’t want to do, and generally being ball-ache.

I call the collective name for all of my voices Katy. Katy is so powerful, she has all the voices covered in my Thought Prison. I once knew a golden soul of a person called Ricky. Once he asked me could he borrow six rollies. Not one, but six. That’s Ricky. But he also used to say this: “Andy, can you think of anything? Can I think of anything?” I said of course I can think of anything, I can think of a pink elephant with an Indian Princess riding it, throwing flowers out to a crowd of hungry beggars. And other stuff like that for example. But can I really? Why an elephant, way a dragon if I chose so? Is that all there is in the universe? I want to think of anything! Not stupid elephants and dragons, anything! In Popsville, with Zero Percent on the score board, I cannot think of a single thing, my mind goes blank, and that’s where the devil comes in, to bum me from the rear and empty my pockets when he reaches around. Lol.

In The Rarefied Atmosphere I can breathe and think. The vermin in my flat don’t bother me, I’m bigger and better than them. Walking into a predominantly white pub doesn’t annoy me, nothing gives me a headache; I’m fine all the time. No such thing as a bad day, because the Good Lord makes good days for his children. I truly believe that, and my faith sustains me. It is so uplifting to know Our Lord and Saviour, the loving Christ Jesus. I have just ate his flesh and drank his blood in communion. Oops! Sorry, Jesus. Don’t worry, it was just bread and cranberry juice. My protective spirit Apocto, sent from God, reminds me of eternal love, which she promised from the sky. I have two girls called Air Monroe guarding my score board. It’s a split soul, don’t ask me why there is two because that is another story. My number is currently 114%. I can live with that, it’s a candy-coated number to work with. Please say just a two-second prayer for me, so I can carry on. Thanks.

 

Big Numbers In The Sky

I’m seeing big numbers in the sky. My life is defined by them. As you know, my target has always been 28 Days. After 28 Days away from porn and drugs, my existence changes beyond compare. I feel fresher, brighter, more chatty, more social, more everything. I don’t have bad days. I have too much power to be combated by depression. I have God, the main dude, on my side. Life is great like this. It’s got nothing to do with PGs (pregabalin). I’m floating, maaan…

I scored the PGs late last night. My dealer dropped them off. I don’t even class them as a drug, they are more like a mood stabilizer. If the doctors were human, they would give me a big tub of them. They really help with the general mood and feeling. Instead the doctor injects me with an antipsychotic bullshit which hurt like mad the last time the nurse did it. She rammed that needle so hard into my arse bone I almost head-butted the wall. Bitch, learn how to do it properly.

I did a mountain walk yesterday. It was so tough, my lungs and my muscles were busting out of themselves. I was getting angry with bitter resentment at the leader, as he kept lying about how many steep hills there were. At one point on the hardest part I exclaimed, “F*cking Hell!” “It’s a gentle slope, you won’t feel it,” he replied. The sense of accomplishment once you reach the summit however is splendid, with a panoramic view. There was a small family at the top to greet us. It was a scouse fella with strong legs with a young baby and a very stocky XL Pitbull dog. His missus’ face was red with exhaustion. It was a terrible slope at the end!

Just been to the biggest SMART meeting I have ever witnessed. We were talking about grief a lot. I mentioned the time after I buried my father. I resorted to Lesbian dildoe sex on pure ecstasy. The pills delivered me into comfort, away from grief and disaster. It was so warm and welcoming and winning. It was all I had at the time. It helped me cope. I could hardly wait to get them down my neck. Ecstasy was my drug of choice in the beginning, before powerful stimulants came into the equation.

I’ll just wrap this up with a thank you for reading. Keep returning, as I’m here forever. I’ll always have a comforting word so long as The Lord is involved. I’m so glad I don’t worship the Devil, he’s a bad nob head. God is the one to be with, for ever in eternity with his Son. I’ve met his son several times, in a deep December psychosis, and his power was sweet and lovely. He helped me out when I really needed it. Jesus Christ is the Lord I serve, God’s only Begotten Son, Prince of Peace and Lord of Lords and King of Kings. Amen.

 

The Twilight Zone

The time I entered The Twilight Zone was perhaps the most unsettling time of my life. I simply had no whiff of an idea of what what was going on. I was Godless at the time, with no protective spirits. I had no Abbie or Victoria; no Chloe or Prue or Mathilda or BeeBee or young Gill; no Red Jacket, no Bennie, no Lydia, no Lucy, no Meredith, no Gonia or Apocto; no Gilbert, or The Father. I was completely alone in a world of hate mobbers, brain techers, supernatural spirits and schizophrenia. How did I survive?

I survived by keeping on my toes, and walking around in expansive circles, that’s how. It started in my flat, when creatures started appearing from out of goddamn nowhere. One of the worst was a big dock-off dog-sized brown rat with blood-stained square human teeth. That one really disturbed me. It still gives me the creeps a bit now. Another was a hybrid between a human and a scorpion looking at me from an upside down position on my tree. It gripped the tree like a squirrel. This one I believe was the Devil himself, making a personal visit to claim me. At one point my room was like a zoo; I was forcefully striding up and down in order to defend my territory. They had already taken my office space, and my sofa; now all I had was a slim walk space through the middle of the carpet. Of course, eventually, I left the apartment. I was overrun. This was the whole point, I can see now in 20/20 hindsight vision, to make me leave.

If inside was a zoo, then outside was a jungle. There were oxen in the park, and lions in the bushes. It took a lot of nerve to walk past one particular lion. I wouldn’t call it bravery, although others might. I’d just call it a total inability to do anything else; I couldn’t go backwards to where I’d just come from, and it was the only option available. The rats from my flat where leading me, always thirty or forty yards ahead, knowing where I was going. There were hefty ones chasing all the cars, as big as the cars, and keeping up with them quite easily too. When a 25 metre tapeworm arose along the kerbside and started wrapping its coils around me, I almost gave up.

In the distance on the horizon were tarantulas the size of skyscrapers. I took heed of the possibility that this might be like War Of The Worlds or something. I thought they were all biological weapons sent from the Russians, invented in laboratories and formed for war. I had no choice but to walk towards them. They moved and looked like spaceships. One of them followed me home. I was strolling between its legs. When I got back inside my flat, its porous legs were in there with me. Every time I passed through one I felt a tingly prickly vibe throughout my whole body. Very distressing were the pig-sized mole rats, as they kept repeatedly snapping at me with their large goofy gnashers.

Let’s just say that I’m glad it’s over, and praise be to The Good Lord that I’ll never have to go through anything like that ever again. Trials and tribulations make us stronger, they make us like steel. It wasn’t painful or anything, but it made me numb inside. The disbelief was staggering. I couldn’t compute the logic of what was happening and it has affected my day-to-day reasoning skills for ever. I still don’t know how to react to everyday potentially-dangerous situations because I don’t know if it is real, semi-real, or bullshit, to be ignored. The stuff to be ignored can feel like a 24-carat threat and the real stuff can feel like a dream. As Al Pacino so famously said in the movie Insomnia (2002): “I don’t know anymore.” What I am sure of however is God, and that’ll do me. Amen to all.

 

Dreaming My Life

I remember my first admission into a forensic unit after a psychotic break due to cannabis. There was nothing psychotic about it. All I did was set fire to my house with my mum and sister tied up in the cubbyhole after I’d battered them both because my pocket money was late. I wasn’t hallucinating or hearing voices. I was just peed off, irate and exasperated. Anyway, they picked me up from school and whisked me away down the back lanes. I was in there with bog ole scary murderers and everything. One night around chrimbo they plied us with bottles of Port to celebrate. All the patients, including me, were sloshed. Except I was stoned as well, as my mate had smuggled me in some more cannabis. I was throwing up in the crapper and holding onto the floor to stop the room from spinning. One Irish man had a boiling kettle of water, threatening to throw it over the nurses. Another was tossing darts at people. It was rad.

Twenty years later, after a genuine psychotic episode, I ended up back in that same observation room. I thought I’d had a twenty year-long nightmare. I believed that I’d dreamt my whole life. My life was just a deluded fantasy. I woke up after two days of looking at a door and thought what the hell, why here, oh no not here.

I’d arrived strapped into a wheeled cart with a mask on, just like Hannibal Lecter, flanked by a vanguard of nurses and doctors. During my most recent admission, when I was being transported from Clock View to Hollins Park, there was a helicopter present. They obviously think that I’m some dangerous nutter who might go full retard at any moment. The truth is that I’m a big softie, chilled & mellowed out on pregabs!

People say that they wouldn’t hurt a fly. I actually tried to save one from death. It had landed in water and almost drowned. I fished it out and placed Healing Cards in its vision. It responded by talking to me. Its voice sounded like the voice of The Universe. If Deep Space could speak it would sound like that fly. Previously I’d written a short story entitled The Fly That Wouldn’t Die. It’s one of my faves. Unfortunately, this one died. But before it did we had a conversation. It made me both cry and laugh at the same time, what I call the Ultimate Emotion. It’s a wonderful sense, crying and laughing at the same time. I did it one time when I thought my girlfriend had being murdered by hate mobbers (that’s what I call gangstalkers); I was in a despairing heartsick attitude when suddenly I saw Alan Sugar on The Apprentice giving some slick wannabe grief about not selling enough Salt & Vinegar Fudge. He’s some monster enterprising bigwig worth millions and what has he got his wishful up and comers hawking? – Salt & Vinegar Fudge. I burst out laughing. You had to be there.

The psychosis around the second admission, in my early to mid-thirties, was all-consuming. I thought that my nemesis was crafting and fashioning actual matter. I was seeing buildings that weren’t there, and skylines that looked supernatural. I thought he was an omniscient satanic being because he could read my mind and know exactly what I was thinking. Now, by the grace of God, I know that he is just an ordinary guy (be it an evildoer), with access to secret technologies that interfere with the brain. Namely mine. He can’t invent sleek ice palaces on the horizon, and he can’t batter Me. 

Chat With Keyworker

 

I got called into an urgent meeting the other day. My key worker, Ste Illingworth, who I call The Illingworth, had a bone to pick with me. He said that me taking myself along to the pub for my customary two pints of beer between groups was a problem. Basically, he said it wasn’t fair on the still-suffering alcoholic. He suggested drinking after groups, if I had to drink at all. But they have ninety minute gaps between groups!  This comes during a week when my best friend (a still-suffering alcoholic), said that he wanted nothing to do with me if I carried on drinking. He said I was triggering him by saying that I’m having a brandy on the phone. This happens to be The Badger. He’s currently locked up in a mental hospital. He usually rings me every morning to debrief me but he said he’s going to stop for a week to give me a chance to stop. I miss his debriefings, but I’m not going to be held hostage over a friendship. If that were me, and I was detained, and my mate was wankered over the phone, I’d be happy for him. Do you think he’s been out of order?

Anyway, back to The Illingworth. He said my breath might smell of alcohol and that that might trigger the vulnerable alcoholic in groups. What would it do, make them drop what they were doing and go running to the boozer mid-session? Unless I go teetotal mate I’ll bloody well have a pint at whatever time I want. End of story.

More disturbing than The Illingworth was the group facilitator’s comments. He said that I was presenting as two people, and looked like I’d never been to a group before in my life. Imagine saying that to a person suffering from DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). I know two girls with DID, one very well called Cee (who used to be called Courtney). Presenting as two people! What, am I The Exorcist girl or something!? And never been to a SMART meeting in my life? I’ve been going for six years!!! I class myself as an elder when it comes to CGL! (Change, Grow, Live.)

THIS IS THE WAY I SEE IT. I was genuinely cheerful and chatty off the pregabs last week and went on a little mini rant about God and the Devil during my check-in. I think the facilitator felt uncomfortable about my forthright persona. When a Targeted Individual torture victim (which is what I am) gets real and honest, people can feel…well, shall we just say that their bums can get squeaky. There’s a lot of scary stuff in my heart and I don’t mince my words when sharing in public groups: I’ll tell you about the time the Devil stole my children. I’ll tell you about the tarantula in my bed. I’ll tell you about what grit and determination I’ve had to muster over the years. And I’ll spit it as poetically and as humorously as I’m able to. Because I’m a conspiracy theorist, and because my beliefs are a tad wacky, I’m bound to upset a few people along the way. Especially when I’m on fire, as I was last week when this happened.

I was slightly insulted but I didn’t show it. When they learned of my schizo-affective (I’m not even a real schizophrenic anymore) disorder, they relented a touch. But it felt like a telling off for being completely natural and open in a group (whilst high on pregabs lol). Anyhoo, no hard feelings anywhere. I’ve forgiven and forgotten. Let’s see if The Illingworth and the facilitator does too.

God

I’ve just been to church. Before I entered I prayed that my singing would be worthy for God’s ears. I tried my best. The sound of the congregation singing was sensational. Our God is a sensational God.

I scored my pregabalin by the way. That’s why I’m floating instead of sitting down. The last few days have been nice off them. I’m cruising along with the alcohol as well. All is good. I’m 60% Rare. Rare is a mental state achieved by abstaining from coke, speed and porn for 28 Days. After 28 Days I feel clean and restored to sanity. It’s currently Day 17. I’m having no urges or cravings. And I’ praying quite often, plus I’m reading Isiah.

God breathed the stars into place and he knows every name for them. How phenomenal is that? I only know that Mintaka is one of them in Orion’s belt, and that’s it. I know Betelgeuse, and Sirius, but hardly any more. I’ve just realised that I need to up my game on star names. I think it’s important, as they are the most beautiful things in the night sky. I used to lie on my back upon the grass and observe the night sky. I saw plenty of shooting stars and strange lights. I’ve seen about over a dozen UFOs, one of them clearly and distinctly meant just for me, a thundering gold craft piercing the clouds. I believe that God has gifted me the discernment to glimpse UFOs. Thank you, Father.

God also knows every single hair on every single scalp on Earth. Isn’t that just as remarkable? Every single hair on every single head!? C’mon, no wonder there are athiests. But I personally believe that it’s true, and I believe you do too, maybe deep within your hidden heart or gut, or you wouldn’t be here, listening to an apostle of God speaking waffle about his Creator. I always believed there were three obvious examples that a living and loving Creator had been at work here on planet Earth: Orion’s belt, DNA, and snowflakes. They just jumped out at me when I got thinking about it. Have you ever thought about it and come up with some personal evidence yourself? What do you think? I’d love to hear them; that would be a devout and upright treasure to my wing commander tackle (ears). We could have a drink and bomb a few pregabs and chat away on the breeze about evidence of the Creator. I reckon we’d have a top chat.

I could go into more about that evidence, but I have a lot extra. For example, My Protective Spirits. God sent them as angels for me, as the Devil had dug a pit underneath me with plans of destruction for me down there (I’ve never mentioned that). It’s true though, and he has become trapped in his own snare with all the other evildoing gangstalkers who have been making my life a misery over the last decade. Because my protection will not allow it. They have gave me the strength to overcome the Devil. The bible said that I would.

 

Alien

 

Did I tell you about the time I saw aliens? They appeared outside my garden, lurking around the sparse bushes. I should start with Ruben.

Ruben is the son of my good friend David Abraham. I know David from church. He laid hands on me with his family one time and got me saved. That puts my name in the Lamb’s Blood Book Of Life, or whatever it’s called. David’s wife had an affair on him with somebody else from the church and ruined what was otherwise a beautiful Christian family. They had prepossessing and comely portraits on the wall. They had the lot. David is okay now because he has found another woman and had another child (he doesn’t hang around). I was with David when I found out that my younger brother had lost his life to the police. I also trained a young football team with David. He was the manager and I was the assistant. I remember when he battered Ruben, his son, because he fouled another child. The violence was a bit excessive, and definitely not Christian. But what can I do? He raises his kids how he wants to.

Anyway, why I touch upon Ruben here is because one of the aliens had him in its mouth. It had skinned his head and scalped him then made a Mohican out of the rippled flesh. To see Ruben, naked, hanging out of an alien’s mouth, skinned and scalped and mohawked, had a detrimental effect on me to say the least. My fear however was tempered by wonder. I couldn’t believe these creatures. One of them smiled at me with gold teeth, acid dripping from its trap. One of them caught a bird in its mouth and then let it go. Do you know of any other creature capable of catching a bird? That’s how quick they are. Their speed was hard to fathom, it was just otherworldly. Because of the distance between us, and because my window was locked, I felt safe from them. There was luckily no apparent threat.

Eventually one of them got into my bedroom. I was masturbating (fapping) at the time, high on chems, so I didn’t give a shit quite frankly. But eventually when I stopped and the drugs wore off and it was still there grinning at me from the laundry basket I started to get the jitters and crap myself. I left the flat and jumped on my bike. It was accompanied by a tiger but that’s something else entirely. It was the tiger that scared me more to be honest (tbh). Even glorious tigers are boring compared to aliens. I cycled to MacDonalds. My bike got robbed from outside there that night incidentally. There were aliens and big cats in the restaurant. I thought they were going to materialise and eat me at any given moment.

Like I say, my fascination with H.R. Giger’s alien overrides most of the fear. They are a joy and a pleasure to watch. It’s just a shame they are so f**King evil. But their pace and momentum…wow. I would say they could do the hundred metres in 2 seconds flat. It’s tough to comprehend but it’s true, they just glide and hurtle at incredible velocity. Marvellous man.

Wolf

Did I tell you about the time I punched a wolf? It appeared on top of me and bit me, waking me up from slumber. It was snarling at me as if I’d just burned its offspring alive in front of it; sheer animosity and hatred emanated from it. Its venomous hostility was hard to understand. As soon as I woke up properly I started punching it in the gob. My hand made contact with it. I then knew that it was real. The most difficult aspect of psychosis is defining what is real and what isn’t.

It fled after a few digs to the mush. Battered. I fell back to sleep as if nothing had happened. But I recall it so clearly; it was visibly there and solid to touch. Jet black, with gleaming sharp white bared teeth. I’m not sure which shape-shifting spirit it was, I think it may have even been my head honcho protective spirit Red Jacket, trying to teach me as lesson or something. I know her true nature is a wolf, I’ve seen her with my own eyes in my bedroom being a wolf. She is so beautiful to me, Red Jacket, she has fights with the Devil over me, and gets stuck in to protect me. I’m so grateful to Red Jacket, over what she has done for me. Who knows have many other fights she has had for me?

One time when she fought the Devil for me she split into two people. I get two for the price of one. One of them looks like Katy B in a cat-suit, and the other looks like an ex-girlfriend who now says she is my wife. She announced that last New Years Eve in hospital. She said she has waited 60-odd years for me. I know she has being around me for about 25, without my knowledge. I also know that I enjoyed kissing her several weeks back. She said that my breath smelled like halitosis, tooth decay and cigarette smoke. My breath made her face really itchy. I wasn’t offended, we are all really honest with each other. I accept that compared to true spiritual energy, I am living in a rotting corpse. Saying that, I don’t think she would have said that yesterday when I got into a cold bath and bathed thoroughly. I think of Chloe when I get a cold bath. Chloe is a spirit of a child who looks like a cutey-pie Victorian. I describe getting a cold bath as “Easing the nipples in.” When I lie back into the freezing water I always come out with that expression, and it’s as if she is getting a bath with me, and we are both saying, “Now we’re easing the nipples in…”

I pray to Chloe. I ask her if she can send my prayer up to Red Jacket who in turn can pass it onto the big fella. I believe she does exactly that. Thank you for listening, Chloe.

 

Ale

Had a right old time on the ale come Monday night, with my younger brother, and his mate, Mike. Mike has this thing where there’s never enough beer and he makes late night excursions to always buy more than what is needed. He bought three bottles of brandy and two cases of beer. It turned into an all-nighter. By the morning we were pouring the brandy down the sink, it was just far too much, there’s still a case of beer left over, I’ve just had a tinny then before I come out. Now I’m just sat here typing after getting over the worst of it. It was payday last night but I didn’t use, I’m quite silently proud of myself. The urge has gone away and I’m not complaining, for a few weeks there I was falling into the I’ll-use-on-payday-trap. It’s a cunning and baffling enemy.

I’ve lined up a score, however, for later. Just pregabs. I’ve not had any all week and I feel a bit flat without them. They put you into a good mood. They help me talk to God. That can’t be a bad thing, can it? I can’t wait to get my little grubby mitts on them, they’re my new drug of choice. Harmless, but highly addictive. The day isn’t some long wrought out chore on the pregabs, but something doable and manageable. And pints of beer taste so goddamn refreshing on them. I said I’d take Janette from Pathways for a pint this afternoon, after SMART group. She doesn’t get paid until the 26^th. I know the feeling. It was nice to get a few quid in my back burner last night, I tell thee. I bought a 12” pizza, meat feast with extra jalepenos and pineapple. Before that I attended a bible study at Megan and Tom’s house with a couple of more Christians. We read John 1, not the gospel John but the John just before Revelations. I’m saving myself for Revelations. It inspired me to write a play called Mordecai in high school. I used to walk around everywhere in college with a copy of the New Testament in my pocket. It sent me a bit nuts and preluded my psychotic break with cannabis. Beth was there, she’s a GP. When she told me she was a doctor I was dead impressed. I wish I had a rewarding career…or do I? If I had one, I would probably not want one. The grass is always greener, isn’t it?

I’ve just made my 500 word limit for today’s post. That was hard work lol. I still don’t feel 100% recuperated and I have an AA group in the next half hour. I thought I’d stop by and just write a little something. Not really all that much to say. Things might be different tomorrow if I get inspired by something and can chill out on the pregabs. The lad is going to Manchester later to pick them up. The sooner the better.

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…” 

 

Getting My Head Cut Off

My Stories Never End…And as I was saying, it was a hectic time before the Machete Man tapped his weapon against my window. I was masturbating at the time, watching pornographic actors who looked like members of my family banging a woman from a different planet who had the biggest knockers ever in the world. The man at my window spoke…he said that the content I was watching was illegal and that I deserved to get my head severed from my neck in return for it. I tried to delete all 18 videos one by one but I was too wasted off high-grade cocaine to think properly with the fear. I managed all but two before I slapped the personal PC computer laptop shut, pulled my kecks up, and run away out of the flat.

The darkness enveloped me. My neighbourhood is a burrow, a tight, mingling, intertwining, hive of nooks and crannies. I turned left, then right, then back, then forward, I was running in circles, I wasn’t getting anywhere. Then I thought to myself, I know this hamlet better than anyone, I’ve lived here 12 years, there’s no way I’m getting lost. So I envisioned a straight line escape out of the borough and stuck to it. I started getting somewhere, hopping over fences and trampling through gardens, it was mad.

There were more than one of them, and they were soldiers. I couldn’t shake them off. No matter which dark alley I tried to elude them, they still remained. Eventually I ended up in a dead end, and I felt safe there. After that I chose the railway tracks, storming down it for hours and hours in the unalive dead of night, soldiers and head choppers swiftly following on foot either side, making me feel like I was almost out of my misery, ready to meet my maker, almost perished and pushing up daisies. But something kept me going.

A train passed me on the tracks. It was only feet away. The breath of its blasting airstream gave me vitality. If only I could reach the next station, I would be okay. They’ll get stuck in the deep bush any minute now; but they didn’t. Eventually they got too close and scary that I stopped running down the rails and crept into a scrubby bramble. I wriggled so silently through dense thickets that you might have thought I was a ninja. When I got far enough into this unknown jungle I paused for breath and relaxed. That’s where I encountered Heaven, but that post is the 2^nd of July 2023. What I’m talking about here are the events leading up to that.

They found me. I had my head in my hands, hiding away, burying my noggin in the sand like an ostrich. He started smoking, and I saw the smoke above my head, very real, 100% not an hallucination. The intrepid alarm, dismay and terror/horror were mind-blowing. It was lucky I didn’t piss myself. By the grace of God I survived. Because just as he was about to cut my head off, I disappeared and went to Heaven.

 

 

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