Bailey Clay Suffers, But She Does Not Self-Harm

One thing I’ve never done is cut myself. I believe that deep in my addiction I   was self-harming with substances, but it’s not the same as tearing your flesh open. I’ve heard of pill addicts snorting 40 a day. I would bomb the whizz like it was sherbet, taking more when I was already FUBAR (f**ked up beyond all recognition). The sensation of feeling too-much poison course thru your veins is vividly dismantling. One time I found myself in the woods hunched over in a ball promising myself that I would never ever be doing drugs again.

I could feel my cells dying over my skin and disintegrating off with the wind. I vomited brown bile.

Another time I committed spiritual suicide by necking 28 rat poison tablets, mistakenly thinking they were ecstasy pills. I thought I was dying with a red-headed pig-tailed quintessential young Russian model in a strange drug-induced vision. I ‘periodically’ consumed more chemicals than listed on the ‘periodic’ table.

But bloodletting on yourself!? I’m seeing some horribly disfigured arms lately.

How do these young beautiful girls do it to themselves? How would you address your teenage daughter if she was running rampant with a blade? They have to be stopped. Or do they? I’ve heard it stated that they need to feel the pain once they’ve started. It’s the only way for them to block out the voices. Or the bullies. Or the eating disorder.

What is so bad that it needs blocking out with self-harm? It speaks of the world we live in today, doesn’t it? This is what the world drives me to do. This is what society thinks of me. I’ll show them…

I knew a girl called Sarah who was well practised at it. She said she had ‘presences in her head’ which dictated how many calories she could consume. In essence, they wouldn’t let her eat. She was restricted to an apple and a bowl of rice krispies a day. They weren’t even real rice krispies, they were corn pops from Netto. The head presences tormented her if she went over her daily calorie count. She maintained that cutting her arms was the only way to get them to shut up.

She was such a likeable young girl, Sarah was, a real million-to-one shot, full of vitality and vigour, nice head of blond hair, sparse pastel make-up, own car, job in a mental hospital, which was convenient, as she got sectioned there, neat little tidy physique, approachable and engaging personality, I bought her a dreamy waltz bouquet of florist-arranged flowers once, then delivered them in person to her battered wives home for the young, or whatever it was where she lived, I think more of it as rather a homeless institution for the wayward, she wasn’t in at the time anyway, so I left them with the manager, balding and beer-bellied, who probably slapped the occupants around.

Girls with mental health are prone to being abused.

I would never abuse the vulnerable myself, as I always like to help. I truly preach that the meek shall inherit the Earth. This is why I declare Constance Bell now and again in my morning prayers. She was a wonderful endangered character in a special tale I won’t mention by name. She inspired a homage from my good self called Bailey Clay. Just a brief word on BC.

As of today, Bailey Clay is still alive and well. She has stopped shopping at Sports Direct and started buying better labels like Louis Vuitton and Goldigga and Moschino from her boyfriend’s phone. Oftentimes she’ll get lucky and snag a bargain in a charity shop. Last time we heard from her, she said that she was, quote, “Too busy for schizophrenia.”

Her useless persecutor, Samil, still harasses her on a daily basis, with clandestine technology uncovered by law, beaming his annoying voice into her head and projecting his ugly face into her dreams. She describes this ex-monster as, “Desperate, bored, needy, and lonely.”

Her boyfriend said that when he gets a hold of Samil, he’s going to bash his conk flat on his boat race (face), and go to a lifer’s jail with a smile on his lips. Bailey pledges to visit every week, taking him magazines, confectionery and offering financial support. Her boyfriend, who doesn’t like being named, only receives Universal Credit. She gets full whack PIP (personal independence payment).

“I impel him to forget about Samil, the same as I try to do,” says the Bailey, known as Rumpole to her mates, “but he’s single-minded about revengeful bloodshed one day in a fair dual to the death over a girl they are both obsessed with. When Samil is down, I might just stamp on his head or kick him slyly in the ribs. Then again, I might turn the other cheek. We’ll see what happens if he’s ever big enough to grow a pair, instead of chatting me up forever non-stop with microwave hearing.

“I was talking to my shrink about microwave hearing before I signed myself off off and over and away from all that ancient bureaucracy about forcefully administered pain medication and visiting hours during detention recall and next person of interest and all that, he thought I was on about talking air fryers from PC World. Harder to believe than psychosis from a kitchen appliance is a computer junk shop selling air fryers! My girl Franny has one. She batters Turkish Delights in it…”