Introduction:
What I love the most...
What I love most about the under-rated genre that is television is that it takes risks that Hollywood studios and cinema rarely do. I love it; cherish it, when a show does something so unlike itself, so risqué, the audience has no choice but to sit there in dumbfounded awe at the sheer audacity on display. Love and Monsters[1] is one example, Once More With Feeling and Restless two more[2]. The conclusion to Children of Earth had me admiring the gigantic balls (obviously borrowed from Adelaide) of its makers and Weeds Season 4 had me dropping my tea in “funny” feelings shock. They play with convention, stick two fingers up to what’s acceptable and laugh in the face of established rules like a meerkat who’s shot up on nitrous oxide.
I’ve written a lot of posts on this blog, thousands upon thousands of letters telling my story trying to cope with depression, self-harm, bipolar and suicidal ideations. All those sentences sharing my loves, passions, kinks, secrets and desires with the world…but always skirting around the one thing which gets my blood pumping and makes this old body of mine feel alive. Dr Who, Faerie Art, Scotland, Potatoes, Australia, Playing with my Sonic Screwdriver, Wombats, Whipped Cream, Jelly, Canada, Jam (who doesn’t like jam?) Yet the main one, the one that excites me yet scares me beyond all other? The one that fuelled the root cause of everything?
My primary passion? The nacho cheese? I’ve never spoken of that in detail, though most know what it is.
So as this blog draws to it’s finale (which is most likely going to be Smallville Season 8 rather than Buffy Season 2) it’s time it was brought to the table. To truly know and understand me, to get to the nitty gritty of all that I am, all that I ever was, I have to pick up my rule book, douse it with an incendiary and toss a match on it…then curse a bit ‘cause the bloody match goes out, fumble to light a fresh one, then…WHOMP! It goes up in flame!
For the root cause, the one which both excites and scares me beyond belief, my primary passion (and this will come as no surprise to the female contingent) is women.
I am, after all, a guy (a relatively feminine one) but a guy none the less, and what more does a guy like than
it’s like Steve said
so of course I like
but that’s not what I’m getting at. That’s not why I just ignited the rule book.
It’s basic common knowledge that aesthetically the female body is far superior to the male’s in every detail – just as it’s common knowledge that the female is far superior to the male in every distinct detail, period. No, the reason I just went all (arsonists name) on the rule book is because this post isn’t really about breasts, bottoms, penetrating sexy eyes, heavenly smells, sultry pouts, secret gardens and deep all knowing intelligence.
To truly know and understand me, to get to the nitty gritty of all that I am, all that I ever was, I have to take you on my battles with social anxiety disorder: the root cause of everything.
I have to take you on a journey which began in a small Scottish town in the mid-late ‘80s and ended in a sun drenched Australian metropolis in 2009. A journey which spanned three continents over 24 years. A journey in which I met fourteen beautiful souls and how – for big or small, better or worse – they changed me, and became some of the most important people in my life.
This is my story.
This is the story of how I died.
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CONTENTS
Part One: Fourteen Beautiful Souls
I - Wolves, Crimson Cheeks and Cherry Scented Literature
II - Love, Friendship and The End to War
III - Camels, Best Friends and the Red Hair Guarantee
IV - Is that what you think?
V - All of the shit...
VI - Hidden Disability
Part Two: My Song Ends
I - Stigmas in the Corner
II - Bunch of Flowers
III - What Were You Expecting?
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Fourteen Beautiful Souls
for
Hannah, Nats, Beth, Annie, Rachel, Lucy, Kathy, Grace, Sally, Mae, Diane, Steph
and
{screwyou@}
I
Wolves, Crimson Cheeks and Cherry Scented Literature
The first crush I ever had was when I but a wee tyke of 8. I was, back then, a small somewhat round boy with a bowl haircut, freckles and a brace filled naughty grin. I spent my days playing in big piles of smelly mud, splashing about in brooks, pretending to be a wolf and always ensuring I was home by 5:35pm to keep myself abreast with the shenanigans of Charlene, Scott, Jane and Henry. I spoke in a hilariously broad Scottish squeak and in all honesty remember very little about the woman in question other than blonde hair, blue eyes and a weird protruding wrist bone which I became obsessed over. Now, I’m not saying I have a fetish for weird protruding wrist bones, I do have several odd fetishes[3], but wrist bones aren’t one of them. It’s just one of the small insignificant details I remember about HANNAH. The more significant thing about Hannah was how she made this wee tyke with a naughty grin feel “funny” and he loved being around her…and then she moved to Ayr, which was only a few hundred miles away but to a wee tyke of 8, may as well have been in Australia. No longer did we get to wrestle in smelly piles of mud, get all wet or howl together…and no longer did I feel all “funny”, just sad. Then, months later, she came back and was standing on my doorstep with her delicious wrist bone[4]. I remember her smile, I remember my smile. I remember squashing an earwig by accident as it wriggled it’s merry way across the doorframe. That “funny” feeling I enjoyed so much tingled through me again. I remember thinking girls are cool, very very odd, but cool. This girl especially so. She had friendly eyes, made me smile and laugh and she had the most beautiful wolf howl I’d heard…and she was back! So we could talk and play and be friends and maybe do what Scott and Carlene did on the TV and…and then I moved away and never saw or heard from her again. Hannah, the girl who opened me up to the intoxicating addictive world of women, the first girl who had the power to make me feel all “funny”…
…and before we go any further I want to make something abundantly clear. This post is called Fourteen Beautiful Souls not Fourteen Hot Chicks I Want to Tear the Clothes Off, Crack Open a Bottle of Baby Oil and Get All Jiggy With! Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I fall tits over ass in love and lust with every woman I see. Men and Women can be just friends without handcuffs, ticklesticks and sweat glistened nipples getting in the way. It is the soul which makes a person and it is the soul I burn for. Just because I think you have an excellent bottom doesn’t mean I want that bottom in bed with me. In some cases hell yes! (I am a guy after all) but in others, nope, sorry, I’m just someone who’ll be around to help you find someone who does want that excellent bottom of yours in bed, and listen to juicy stories afterwards…
…in the case of my second crush, as we enter the heady hormone filled teenage years, hell yes! for her bottom was indeed exquisitely excellent! Alas though, there are no cherry scented tales to tell here, for that pleasure you’ll have to hop over to Google and search for “cherry scented adult erotic literature” or “porn” for short. This post is about me, and the souls who changed me, and pornography is rarely about anything other than grunts and groans and smacks and slurps and sweat and bouncing and throbbing and all those things with fill our brain during those critical hormone filled puberty years. What happens to us during that period is often what shapes us for the rest of our lives. Our brains are growing, maturing, and like anything fragile can be broken easily…and bullying breaks people. The bullying I experienced through primary and secondary school – for the most part, and importantly, from girls – broke my self confidence and made me feel like a joke; useless, worthless, that no-one would ever like or want to know me. Gone were the days when I could howl with Hannah with ease and unabashed excitement. What the bullying did was make it pathologically difficult for me to speak to anyone. The actions of others creating long term implications which may never have been intended…
…Natalie – or NATS has she has been referred to before – was the most beautiful girl in school. Ravishing brunette hair, soul stealing eyes and a smile which could ignite the room. An overweight guy with a weird accent whose naughty grin had been made into a mere cheeky lip curl from endless taunts, teasing and attack didn’t stand a chance! Especially as her bottom (whether in those black school trousers or wiggling behind her delicious school skirt) redefined excellence to a calibre which would not be surpassed until soul number 4 arrived some eight years in the future. Unlike Hannah, Nats and I never did anything together, no matter how much I hated it my shyness had control and I couldn’t shake it. As always though I did try. I would smile at her in the hall or attempt conversation if we ended up alone in class, which generally resulted in incomprehensible gibberish on my part and confused looks of pity on hers. Anyone who understands true shyness knows only too well the pain of a tied tongue or crimson cheeks. My two strongest memories of Nats were both from sixth form. The first was years after I had begun fancying her and I was running late for school (naughty me!0 I was approaching the school grounds when Ni saw a car pull up and a face I recognized only too well getting out. As were the only two around it would have been rude to ignore her so I considered leaping behind a nearby strategically placed bush! Alas she had seen me and called me name, and as I had no concrete reason to explain spontaneously leaping behind a bush other than, “oh, vole!” (which I didn’t think she’d understand), I had no option but to walk to assembly with her: and thus began the longest conversation I ever had with her, a great day making one minute and twenty three seconds! The second was at the school prom, she looked stunning in her deep red dress and I spent the night consuming alcoholic beverages to work up to the question “Would you like to dance?” – I didn’t. By this point the bullying had caused so much damage I was a prisoner to my anxiety. The last time I saw Nats was about two months later, we exchanged pleasantries in the street and I was a besotted with her as I had been when I’d first seen her smile in class. What always annoyed me about that prom night though was – there was Nats, a woman I craved, who had shaped so many of my “funny” moments over the previous few years, someone I wanted to get to know better – and I couldn’t string together two words around her. However, I could chat up and ask my maths teacher to dance. It would take me years to understand why…
…so as I said way back in 2007; the bullying, shaping my fragile pubescent mind, had started in motion everything that would follow for the next several years. A month after my last meeting with Nats I hit a deep depression (which was completely unrelated to Princess Diana’s death that same month). I was tired of not having any confidence, of having dreams dashed by my confusing and controlling mind, so I did what anyone would do when scared – and ran away![5] I spent a week in Scotland, I visited Glenfinnan for the first time and loved the aqueduct, and, as always, kept trying to show others who I knew deep down I was…
…if I hadn’t gone to Scotland that week due to the depression from shyness and Nats I doubt I would have gone backpacking there two years later. And if I hadn’t gone backpacking I would never have met soul number 3, without whom soul number 4’s excellent bottom would never have been sighted. Without soul number 3, soul number 6 would never have been met, and it was soul number 4 who helped me say “yes” to soul number 6’s question and if I hadn’t said yes to that question then the remaining souls on the list would never have entered my life. Everything is connection, and those we love, shape our destinies…
…so it is September 1999, over twelve years since I first met Hannah and two since I had last encountered Nats. I’m a brace free, less round guy with (shock!) black hair, a disastrous fashion sense and (obviously) have yet to experience cheery scented adult erotic literature. Physicality aside, my month traveling alone has given me a confidence and enjoyment I hadn’t felt since those wet and wresting moments with Hannah. I still froze in the presence of people, especially women, and my cheeks still went the colour of raspberry cordial whenever anyone spoke to me. But I just didn’t feel as worthless, for I was Andrew. I first saw BETH weeks before I first spoke to her and I was supreme jealous of her confidence, humor and intelligence (and yes, delightfully excellent bottom). Those thoughts from the early days of Nats bubbled back: I didn’t stand a chance of getting to know her, but I persevered. As the weeks became months I got better at communicating. We used to sit up at night playing scrabble, jenga, drinking wine and smoking. Even though I kept myself hidden I found myself able to talk with cohesion, intelligence and eve get a laugh ever now and then. As long as Andrew wasn’t the topic of conversation I was fine[6]. Over time Beth became the first friend I ever had and the first person I loved. We would go away for a couple of nights, play on playgrounds to treat our inner child’s and those months with her and the others at the hostel became some of the best periods of my life. One of my strongest memories of her came when we visited the Isle of Berneray, the sun igniting the sky as it set. I knew then that she was special and this place was special. She helped me to understand my dreams and without her I would never have traveled to Canada where I would meet two more should who would change everything…
…including, and beginning with, the woman I have already mentioned. She who redefined the very definition of the phrase ‘excellent bottom’ which had already been set so highly by Nats, in fact she redefined everything because in June 2000 I met the most gorgeous woman both externally – and more importantly internally – that I had yet seen in my life. They say that everyone has someone in their life who is the one that got away. Well, men do, and serial killers, but I want to make it abundantly clear that at no point did I ever want to tie this woman up and torture her until she squealed…well, ok, maybe in a playful way but never in a Zodiac way. If you’ve ever met this woman you’ll know how incredible she is and how deep she gets under your skin…
…when I met ANNIE I was 21, still a virgin in both kissing and cherry scented adult erotic literature and devoid of knowledge in all things intimate. I was fitter than those Inverscneckian days and my hair was slowly blossoming into the mane it remains today. She had the naughtiest and most contagious grin I’d ever seen and we’ve already established the rest. To all intent and purpose, with my past considered, someone like this should have reduced me to a sweaty, gibbering, incoherent mess whose cheeks looked like they’d been smacked silly. But this is where things took an interesting turn, and I’m not talking cherry scented adult erotic literature (you’ll still have to hop over to Google for that), because I’m talking about something much better…
…and before we go any further this is the opportune time to explain something. There is one thing ever woman on this list shares, one common factor. If you’ve read a fraction of this blog or know me at all you’ll already know the answer: all women intimidate the hell out of me. Especially the ones featured here! They scare the living shit out of me! It may be because you’re so much smarter than men (women know that, men know that) or it might be because I have such low self-esteem, beaten into me through years of bullying at female hands that I don’t understand why such vibrant, stunning, smart, creatures such as yourselves would want anything to do with me so thus feel massively intimidated by your company due to unrepressed pubescent trauma and what do you think this is? A psychology inspired blog? Surely it’s because you wear bras. Yep. That’s it. Intimidation by brassiere – get rid of those over the shoulder yada yas and my social anxiety would be cured! Anyhow, that’s the link, and now it’s been pointed out…
…the interesting turn of events with Annie was; she could have been towering before me in full dominatrix garb, cracking a whip whilst yelling put-downs and threatening a good spanking if I didn’t obey, I was that intimidated. I just didn’t care! Bring it on! I don’t know whether it was the traveling, the crisp clean air, the Brown Bears or she wasn’t wearing a brassiere but for the first time I was talking to someone within hours rather than weeks or months. It felt fantastic and by Jove we had fun, or as I can’t speak for her, I did. Hiking, swimming, boating, spa-ing, camping, driving, talking bollox. It was sensational, goddamn I was sensational – and saying goodbye to her when it was time to move on was more painful than usual…
…even weeks alone didn’t dent my mood and I tried talking to everyone. I seized the opportunity whenever I could, even if it meant asking a sultry French receptionist for a bottom bunk in Montreal’s native tongue. I didn’t understand her bewildered and frankly rude reaction until I checked the meaning of fessee in the dictionary the following morning. Humiliated? Not really, could have been fun. So when I rolled onward I was still firing great guns when…
…I met soul number 5 in Halifax. We would sit around drinking whisky, chatting about art, reciting Shakespeare, having random laughs, all the things which make my own soul sing. We would talk about Annie and she would do what only soul number 8 ever thought to do; scold me, tell me I was an idiot and slap me for being a fool. So of course I would retaliate by throwing peanuts at her, as all men do when they’ve been slapped, and one would spiral down her top and fuck me I’m welling up a wee but (told you I was feminine) because soul number 5 was RACHEL and I miss her and her story has been told…
…and that slap caused me to change my plans and I enjoyed six days on a train to spend some more time with Annie, an offer she had made. Rachel had inspired me to tell her how I felt, better a rejection than a what if. Then I found out she had a boyfriend and, no matter how much Rachel had said the risk to our friendship was worth taking, I’m an idiot with morals. It was a bloody good time though, more fun, more laughs and more “funny” feelings I thought possible to experience without spontaneous explosion in the middle of Garibaldi Park. Rachel would scold me after for her lack of vocarious cherry scented adult erotic literature and she knew, as well as I did, that the boyfriend was an excuse of sorts – my brain was still telling me I never stood a chance, not with anyone, especially Annie, someone who I enjoyed being around so much. I never did see Annie again after I left Canada, we exchanged the occasional email and phone call for a while but as with everything life gets in the way. She’s married now, as gorgeous as ever, and I hope very happy. She, like all in this post, deserves it. Annie made my trip to Canada, without her fun, friendship, excellent bottom and radiant soul, it just wouldn’t have been the same….
…when I enter a depressive episode my social anxiety suffers badly. After the heights of Canada I came down badly. The stress and bad memories of bullying which college threw at me increased the episode and Rachel’s suicide sealed it. I returned to Glenfinnan, to that wonderful viaduct, to suicide myself. But you know what? I hadn’t had a cherry scented adult erotic literature moment yet, so to honor the incredibly year I’d had, decided to go to Berneray for New Year. To remember Beth, Annie and Rachel. I didn’t know at the time what fate had in store for me. Without Beth I wouldn’t have been there, without my feelings of failure over Annie I wouldn’t have had the strength to keep fighting. When asked the question I would probably have panicked and leapt into the ocean like I had considered all those years before with Nats and the bush, but instead said “yes” and that resulted in me meeting the remaining souls…
…for the question was “Can I kiss you?” and it was asked on a cold and windy December evening during the last days of 2000. I had arrived on the island in the early afternoon to find the hostel empty, so partook in a hobby of mine. I made myself a cup of tea and began writing cherry scented adult erotic literature[7] in my journal[8]. Only I didn’t call it that, I called it kimnyk, because I’m odd and make up words which are inherently meaningless to hide the truth from any eyes who may have pried into my journal. A few hours later, as I reached my conclusion, a couple walked in: an elderly English gentleman with a moustache straight out of Dickens and his very gorgeous wife. We’re talking eyes which don’t leave you, cute as a button nose, magical smile, great figure…and yes, this was one bloody lucky Dickensian because I’m talking about his wife. Annie had a boyfriend and now she was married. Typical! I couldn’t tell at this point if she had an excellent bottom, it’s a little hard to distinguish such information when it’s entombed under approximately 18,000 layers of clothes. Coming from the milder climes of Australia she wasn’t ready for the watermelon-nipple inducing cold of the Outer Hebrides in darkest winter. Over a communal game of scrabble that night I learnt this wasn’t Mrs. Pickwick, but LUCY and her gentleman friend merely someone she’d hitched a lift from. I went to bed that night wondering how much coal I’d need to stoke on the fire to get her to remove those layers down to her purple PJs. As it turned out, I wouldn’t need to. Twenty four hours later came the question; and my astonishingly woeful (on my part) first kiss. You could have covered me in latex and sold me as the world’s most powerful essential female accessory I was shaking so hard! Twenty four hours later came the answer to the question I’d asked myself; speechlessly excellent! A short while later came…well, something came, which would get all you filthy pervs off Google but I’m not going there. However, I will say that, sure I was 22, but how many people lose their virginity on their favorite Scottish island, which also happens to be their favorite place in the world, during the first moments of the official new millennium. For the first time someone wanted me…wanted me…Andrew.
II
Love, Friendship and The End to War
Five days after meeting, Lucy and I were living together. After eighteen odd months in the UK she wanted to return home and went first, a few months later, I followed. When you’re in love with someone there’s nothing you won’t do for them. Together we built a life in Australia. We shared our lives, grew together. Now much less round, more fashionable and sporting the goatee which would become my trademark, I was more confident and still fighting hard to beat social anxiety. I had Lucy, yes, but no other friends. I secured a job in an industry which would challenge my fears and worked to create the skills I’d been denied making through those formative teenage years. Things were working out…for a while…I’ve never held Lucy any ill will for her affair, but unlike soul number 7, I don’t believe there was any malicious intent to cause damage. We all make mistakes in our lives, we’re not robots, but what makes us human is our ability to forgive[9] and move on. I forgave Lucy long before we parted company in mid-2006, in the end it wasn’t what broke us up. She has one of the most beautiful should on this list and I could write for weeks – months – on how she changed me, the wonderful things we did and the beauty we shared together. Lucy was the first woman to love me, the only to truly want me. She made me feel cared for and for the first time, necessary to the world (only one other soul has made me feel that) After Lucy and I broke up I felt alone for the first time in nearly six years, the continuation of my depressive episode had not weakened since my suicide attempt in March, five months earlier. However, unlike all those years before on the viaduct, I had something I’d never had; friends, plural…
…and none better than soul number 7, who has been spoken of so many times on this blog that just a quick mention of her name will reveal to most my feelings for her. It’s Kathy. What else can I say? So let’s move on to someone else, an unexpected addition. Soul number 9, Kathy’s best friend…
…someone I barely knew, only a half dozen exchanges in two years. Her cascading golden hair and classic Hollywood beauty would see her feature on a lot of guy’s ‘must have’ lists, especially with that super excellent bottom and stern librarian glasses. I am not most guys thought, and the closest she ever came to giving me “funny” feelings were the occasional dreams she ventured into due to her slotting perfectly into one of my primary fetishes – something shared by only two other equally strong and assured souls mentioned here. If she’s ever reading this, I mean that as a compliment, it takes an amazing woman to hit my dreams, and I mean no offense. I don’t recall the first time I met SALLY. I remember spending time at her place in the lead up to Kathy’s 21st birthday, remember her slapping Kathy’s excellent bottom in jest, remember being jealous of the closeness and intimacy of their friendship. I remember dancing with her at a party and allowing my nerves to get the better of me. Aside from that, only one other thing, and the reason she is here is simple. She is the reason my confidence took such a huge leap in late 2006/early 2007. Much like my “funny” feelings for Annie six years earlier had given me a kick, Sally’s presence in my gave me a sharp whack on my (most excellent) bottom. Here was a woman who I liked, admired, looked up to and felt intimidated by like no-one I’d met since soul number 8…someone with talent, heart and desire…and she really didn’t like me. She hated my low self esteem, my introverted nature, how I could never speak to people. It wasn’t just because she was Kathy’s best friend that I wanted her to like me, I wanted her to be my friend because I thought she was awesome. The only way I could do that was to show here, and everyone, who I was beneath the mental illness which had ravaged me. Who I was deep down: Andrew. The one other thing I remember about Sally was that she was one of only two people who asked how I was feeling during the week that destroyed me in February 2007, but because events went as they did she never got to see who I knew I was, for our possible friendship was annihilated along with everything else…
…just as my friendship with MAE was damaged. It’s always hard remaining friends with mutual friends of an ex, not that I ever felt Mae took sides with Kathy, but she was someone whom I had to distance myself from to stop the possible spread of abuse through elongated contact with Kathy. As soon as distance becomes a factor a friendship is ten times harder to maintain, especially when you weren’t that close to begin with. I always liked Mae, her sunny smile and sharp wit brought a grin to my face and she shared a love of photography and art which we never spoke of much due to my inability to share my thoughts. Mae’s wisdom and heart helped me to believe more in myself at a time when my belief was already skyrocketing. After my breakdown she was one of only two people who didn’t judge me and this non-critical attitude gave me courage when I had little left…
…because Kathy had taken it from me by instigating a situation which annihilated my life. The most pivotal soul here. A soul without whom my confidence wouldn’t have gone from it’s highest point ever to it’s lowest point ever, my mental health wouldn’t have collapsed, I would have a home, career, friends, life…
…and before we go any further can I just remind you this post is called Fourteen Beautiful Souls not Thirteen Beautiful Souls and One Evil Grinch[10] who Deserves to be Tortured and Burnt in hell for all eternity!…
…because no account of my life would be complete without my first best friend. Sure, it took 26 years, but I finally had one J The first time I saw Kathy was in 2005, nearly twenty six years since that round, bowlcutted, brace filled naughty grinned tyke had had “funny” feelings for Hannah. These days I was much more fashionable (kindof), far less round, my hair a shaggy shoulder length mane of wonder and the (now officially) trademarked goatee amply complimented my (still naughty) grin. Kathy was a vision of most (in)sane person’s dreams. Long dark hair, magical eyes, confident bounce in her step and a belly which was every belly fetishists wet dream. Now, I’m not saying I have a fetish for bellies, it’s just one of the insignifica…oh who I am kidding, of course I fracking do! Line ‘em up and crack out the whipped cream! She bounced into the reception of my hostel like a slightly nervous Tigger to my confused Eeyore and after a short conversation her CV was on my pile and I watched her marvelously excellent bottom wiggle out the doors…
…and before I go any further can I just remind you I – AM – A – GUY! And if you haven’t worked out whether I’m a breast, butt or leg man yet you’re an idiot! Guys check women out, deal with it. I’m not objectifying you, I just like looking at beautiful objects. SLAP! Okay objects NOT the right work! All women are beautiful regardless of shape, size, hair colour, clothes, everything – just as everyone on this planet is beautiful so get over this whole worrying about a miniscule blemish, it doesn’t matter! You’re you just as I’m me…and for the record all women check men out so quit the whole I’m objectifying you shtick because that’s what women do when they check a man out. To say a man is a sexist pig when you do the same thing (and you know you do) is both hypocritical and sexist so before I dig an even deeper hole…
…walking back to my desk I did not have any “funny” feelings. She was just a women who had applied for a job, seemed an awesome person and I’d had a quick peek at excellent bottom. It was the ‘awesome person’ part which got her the job. Like always she intimidated the hell out of me; beautiful, smart, confident, sickeningly smart. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and got it, no matter what[11]. The more I got to know Kathy on both a work and non-work level the more I believed she truly liked me as a person, the more I trusted her, and I took a leap. Remember what I said earlier about keeping myself closed to protect myself? (footnote 6) Well I opened up with Kathy; she was the first person I told about Lucy’s affair, only the second I told about Natalie (Lucy being the first obviously) and my childhood, I dipped into my depression and dropped siren sounding indicators of my suicide plan in March 2006. As 2006 and it’s events continued, old wounds which had started bleeding again, were helped by her friendship. I still had issues talking but Kathy helped me believe in myself; that I wasn’t a useless, worthless, waste of space the bullying had made me believe all those years ago. She made me believe my dreams should be pursued and that they were attainable. As the months progressed my “funny” feelings for her kept growing – and with her flirting, near kissing me in April ’06 and body language joining my own flirting, near kissing her in August ’06 – it became impossible to ignore, especially as it was impacting dramatically on our friendship, partly due to the social anxiety. If she hadn’t been my best friend it would have been easier to act, but I stood to lose so much if rejected; my friends, progress, everything. What if I’d misread her signals? Her reactions to my flirting? After Lucy and I had broken up Kathy and I had an action packed day to cheer us both up which culminated in a “colossal funny” feeling after seeing her deliciously excellent bottom in a bikini for the first time. This, combined with her spirit and sublime soul, made me realize we weren’t friends anymore and for the first time (albeit in a fraught near catastrophic series of events I, and my social anxiety, had fuelled) told a woman about how I felt about them…
…so from October 2006 to February 2007, through a combination of damned hard work, determination, self belief and the friendships of Mae, soul number 8, Sally and Kathy’s love I achieved in five months what I had been failing to do for fifteen years. I stabilized my mental illnesses! Depression, social anxiety, self harm? Whatever! I am me. Me! I am Addy. I can do anything…yeah, sure, glandular fever and CLL popped up to screw me over and hinder my ability to show what I had done, they’re physical illnesses, that’s what they do, people can see that and won’t hold them against me…whatever! I am me. Me! I am Addy. I can do anything. Talk to anyone, male or female…all I gotta do is get over these pesky physical illnesses and then people can be intimidated by me for a change…but, and not matter how excellent bottoms are, there is never anything beautiful about a but with only one ‘t’…
…beep, beep…beep, beep…
…like that moment in Fight Club when you realize everything you thought you knew was wrong[12]. It’s called a reveal, and it flips everything sideways and changes everything…
…no-one, no matter how hard they worked or how many friends they had could have survived the avalanche which hit me, Addy, that week in February 2007, and it just kept coming. I never liked you as a person, I never thought of you as a friend, I was just pretending because I wanted to change you and Your voice is so boring and monotonous you should kill yourself to stop inflicting pain on people and You’re like cancer…and Mae doesn’t think of you as a friend and You’re a terrible kisser and You never talk to anyone and You’re useless in bed and You smell disgusting and You do know that no-one really likes you and Mental illness is a figment of people’s imagination, there’s nothing wrong with them, they’re just too lazy and You were a terrible manager and You’re repulsive and You’re hugs are useless and You never do anything for anyone, you deserve to lose everything and You destroyed Nat’s life at school and You don’t work hard enough and Self harm is contagious, I can’t be around anyone who self-harms and You’re not caring enough about me since I broke up with you, that’s proof you don’t care about anyone and You never change, ever and We can just be friends[13] and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and attacking every facet of me mentally and emotionally, sometimes physically. Everything I had believed, all I had worked for; best friend, relationship, college, self belief, self worth and mental health stabilization – gone. In her own words what we’d had, all of it, had been a lie, a fallacy. After the bullying, after all I’d done for me, for her, after everything, how could I believe anyone again? How could I trust anyone? The loss and emotions were too great and my brain shutdown. It stopped functioning and I hovered with confusion over the point of no return. What had happened? What did I do? Why? What the FUC…
…I will never know why Kathy ended our relationship and friendship in such a sudden and harsh way. I’m not arrogant enough to say I didn’t make any mistakes or do anything wrong, of course I did, as I said, we’re humans not robots and anyone claiming to have never made a mistake is lying to themselves more than anyone else. But no-one, Kathy included, could ever tell me what? or why? Her answers and statements that year were confusing, hypocritical and in some cases pure contradiction. Everyone needs an explanation, someone with a history of mental health problems even more. Our minds are fractured enough as it is, our guilt over everything takes on a whole new meaning of over the top. We focus on incidents sometimes without wanting to, never allowing ourselves to forget it, or rather that fragile organ of ours does. Even after the devastation Kathy caused, and that’s the only word I can use, her soul is still as bright, beautiful, loved and admired by me now as it ever was. She was the first person to make me realize the undisputable fact I would be running from for over two years, through three more souls, before finally accepting it in September 2009.
III
Camels, Best Friends and the Red Hair Guarantee
So where were we? Fifteen years of fighting, check. Stabilized mental illness, check. Self worth and confidence, I’m Addy, and he equals awesome. Just glandular fever and come to terms with CLL but I equal awesome so it’s doable and think about it, you’re told you might be dying, what’s gonna happen to your inhibitions? Magnify them twenty fold or smash them to smithereens? You might be six feet under soon, why care about what people think? But then Kathy stepped in with her debatable intent and sealed off every possible avenue I had to head inhibition less down. Coupled with the loss of college, my future and the breakdown my mind reverted to a state it hadn’t been in since Nats. After fifteen years of fighting I had lost. I should have listened to those doubts, but I hadn’t misread her signals and reactions as she’d told me they’d been a lie. Or had they? Her responses and reactions that year were far from clear, her answers contradiction layered on confusion. The abuse however achieved her intentions, reinforcing all the beliefs from bullying which I’d described to her. Breaking up with me understandable – the abuse, there is never any excuse for that. It didn’t matter anyway because my brain had short circuited: I was a joke, useless, worthless, no-one could ever like or want to know me. A repulsive human being. Enter the Goth Pooh Bear aka Shay aka Immortal God and his rampage through Adelaide; alcohol binges, chicks, fights, kimnyks and conversation which would have given even Sally an aneurysm in keeping up with. Anything I wanted was mine! Or his. Or whoever I was. Then came the come down courtesy of that G&T and it’s consequences. A heavy swing down into depression that Ian McKellan’s penis[14] couldn’t even bring me out of. Total despair. Suicide. How could I find the energy to fight on, prove her wrong? Yep, I made the second worst decision of my life and these pages were born. On the 21st October 2007 they went live to the world. A month later the address was emailed to the vast majority of people in my address book, including six of the souls on this list. All of the things I had kept hidden from everyone, all that I had refused to speak of for fear of people judging me, attacking me and now liking me were beamed live to anyone with an internet connection. As I said, all the intimidation comes from wanting all those vibrant, stunning, smart creatures who populate this world to like me, and now I was Mr Repulsive, I didn’t care because no-one else did or could. The bullies at school had been right, confirmed by Kathy’s abuse and the G&T. I was a nutcase. No-one could like someone with as many issues as me. How could they? I as a loony, nutjob, retard, moron, useless, a joke, worthless, repulsive. I had to prove them wrong but I never did anything right nor helped anyone so how could anyone believe I was good enough to call a friend? I was Addy still but my brain contradicted that, I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t anybody, I was nothing, I was just…
…proud? What the frack? They’ve gotta be having a laugh, sarcasm maybe? Ahhh, they’re just really stoned. No-one, not Lucy, not Kathy, not anyone outside family had ever been proud of me before. How could they, I was useless, worthless, people had been telling me that for years. Maybe it was LSD, pot, ice, heroin, most likely some random hallucinogenic Latin cacti they’d ingested. But there it was
"I think that the blog is an amazing way of dealing with what you are going through, overwhelmingly positive and constructive. I am so impressed I don't think I can put it into words. Again. I AM PROUD OF YOU."
and it didn’t compute. A contradiction to all I’d been led to believe. Perhaps it was a joke, setting me up for some grand “hysterical” fall, had been there before, but that wasn’t this person’s style. The person who wrote this has been scattered through this post, this blog, like faerie dust from a molting animated Tinkerbell. The person who intimidates me more than an army of Carey and Maggie clones because my brain could never understand why she liked me. The best friend I ever had, the best I ever will, and by far the one I never deserved. Not for a second. Her name is GRACE and I never told her how much I loved her…
…and before we go any further let’s just address that word. I can say love and it’s immediately assumed I want to get all juicy with those handcuffs, tickle sticks and sweat glistened nipples before producing baby Addy’s and live happily ever after. Especially if a guy says it. I love Kiefer Sutherland but I’ve never wanted to accost him with a tickle stick. I love platypi but that doesn’t mean I want handcuff fun with them. I love baked potatoes but copulating with them is surprisingly more difficult than you might think, so baby Spudaddys aren’t on the horizon. I love Grace but I’ve never wanted to make her nipples all sweat glist…and okay, weird image for me, should probably have thought more about the order there. Kiefer can have the sweat glistened nipples and Grace the tic…okay, I won’t go on, but hopefully you get what I’m getting at which is that there is more than one way to love…
…Grace had been slipping in and out of my life for years. In 2003 I’d wanted her to work at the hostel but it hadn’t worked out. In 2004 I’d wanted her to work at the hostel but she was vetoed by my co-manager in favor of someone with the loveliest smile I’ve seen. In 2005 I finally got her behind reception after one of my occasional standing up for myself moments of confidence with my boss. It was months before we were anything other than employer/employee and when Grace, Kathy, Mae and I went to the cinema in February 2006 this may have been all we ever were. For none of them was aware I’d finalized my suicide plans and a friendship with someone six feet under the ground isn’t really gonna work, unless you’re Christina Ricci. It was a quirk of timing which made it possible…
…beep, beep…beep, beep…
…and the pancakes I had with Grace the following weekend were the best ever but I didn’t have the heart to tell her about what had nearly happened. I was ashamed of how weak I was, how I let my depression and illnesses control me. How could she want to be friends with someone so pitiful? So I never spoke of my returning demons, I wanted her to like me, to see me as normal. A want which had governed my fears of connection and self worth since I was a teenager lusting after that trouser clad word redefining posterior. My social anxiety and I convinced myself that if Grace saw my illnesses she would see me for the worthless fool I’d been convinced I was and a possible friendship would be as untouchable as that just mentioned excellent bottom. I must have been slipped some random hallucinogenic Latin cacti! When I had my breakdown it was only Grace and Mae who didn’t judge me. When she finally discovered my self harm she didn’t run in fear like everyone else. When I went dark after Goth Pooh G&T incident she even contacted my parents out of worry. Like I said, best friend I ever had. She is the smartest, most caring, understanding (and intimidating for my weak mind) person I have known. Only Lucy before her had made me feel so necessary in the world, that despite my illnesses, worthlessness, flaws and mistakes – I deserved to be here, to have friends, happiness, life. The tears I saw trickle down her face in May 2007 broke my heart and made me realize I never deserved such a special soul in my life…
…and before I go any further it’s time the word fetish was used again. It’s a beautiful and sublime word which rolls off the tongue in a way that’s second only to my most favorite word. I’d use it more often if I could but then, much like my favorite word[15], much hilarity, confusion and embarrassment would ensue. The definition of fetish is
–noun
| 1. | an object regarded with awe as being the embodiment or habitation of a potent spirit or as having magical potency. |
| 2. | any object, idea, etc., eliciting unquestioning reverence, respect, or devotion: to make a fetish of high grades. |
| 3. | Psychology. any object or nongenital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response or fixation. |
It’s interesting that it’s the psychological community which gave the word it’s most commonly misunderstood meaning, naughty minds they are J Is it any wonder I’m obsessed with excellent bottoms with such a filthy lot inspiring me? (and no, ‘bottom’ is not the word) Based on that definition I have a fetish for women, which is cool, not because women cause me a habitual erotic response (no Grave sweaty nipple fantasies remember – keep up) but in my mind women elicit reverence, respect or devotion. Maybe it’s the submissive in me. But I digress from my point, which was – duh – Supergirl! To say I have a fetish for Supergirl is an understatement, perhaps the cute red skirt, the tremendous power or if you met her as (insert) you’d have to be teased through two layers of clothing…shudder…but in reality fetishes are fantasies and fantasies are never the same in reality. If any of the women here donned that skirt and lycra, even if they had never elicited any “funny” feelings before would immediately elicit from me the psychological definition of my second favorite word. In reality these souls are not perfect, no-one is or will be (and that includes men, so sorry to burst any “I must change him into the perfect man” bubbles, ladies. As I said before, fantasies are not realities and he will always break wind in bed no matter how hard you try to change him) and therefore every Superman, girl, boy, lizard, mole or wombat have issues and need help of their own sometimes…
…the friend I never deserved, is what I said, and I meant it. No matter what Grace did for me, no matter how many times she tore off her clothes I constantly and repeatedly let her down. And by god that sentence could be taken in so many ways other than the Supergirl metaphor I was aiming for! I could cite all manner of excuses from mental illness (the social anxiety does get in the way) to money but in the end there is never an excuse for letting down someone you care about. Especially when they’d flown in so many times in the past for you…
…Hannah left my life because I moved. Nats because of chronic fear. Rachel through death. Beth and Annie through the progression of life. Mae partly for the same but also, as Sally, through her connection to Kathy – who I lost because mistakes, contradiction and confusion. Grace I lost because I was an idiot and I’m not such an arrogant robot to not admit that…
…much like Sally I burned for Grace’s friendship but the social anxiety kept getting in the way. Unlike Sally I received it through the only person to have treated me like a human being and not the labels branded into my flesh by the media and society like so many others have done. She deserves better friends, those who don’t let her down and fail her, which someone with mental illness – a selfish condition, even if the person doesn’t mean it to be – cannot offer them. Someone with a condition which prevents them from showing the world who they really are, someone who cannot even let people know how they feel without getting caught up in the web of social anxiety to the point they can’t even write it in here for fear of what people’s derisive comments may be. It’s been seventeen months since I last saw Grace, only a few since I last spoke to her, and she’s never far from my thoughts or mind. I still hear from her from time to time, still proving how bright and powerful her soul burns. I still think of her pride at what I was trying to do with the blog all those years ago and that’s how I want her (and others) to remember me, now how I let her down or who I’ve become…
…after months of trying to balance bipolar in the UK in the early stages of 2008, I returned home in May of that year. By now my Scottish accent was a distant memory. I wasn’t round and fashionably I was at my peak. The ‘fact’ Kathy had planted in me was being fistycuffed with and my determination in my self to prove her wrong was engorging. As always I was trying, and fought my way to Alice Springs to forge a new front in the red dust deserts of Central Australia. My confidence was a shadow of it’s prime, my strength depleted. I had to prove myself in a new town to new employers, new friends and the sole stand soul that was Grace. I was worthy – I just had to show it. It had been nearly eighteen months since I’d worked, most in near isolation battling both physical and mental illness and a horde of demons. I wasn’t ready, took on too much and things collapsed rapidly: stress, relapse, memories, all colliding to test me and I failed. We all know the outcome, but through the debris was soul number eleven…
…and before I go on let’s explore something. Contrary to popular belief spread by the media and society not all men want to shag everyone with a vagina. Contrary to popular belief spread by the stigmas of bipolar we’re not all sex-crazed shag bunnies when “high”. Sure that Goth Pooh Bear grabbed his share of excellent bottoms, and had a few thrown at him, but like I said to the psychiatrist there are other ways to be intimate. The way I felt back then I could have had several but it is never the woman’s body I want. Annie was sensationally how, but it was ‘her’ that arose those “funny” feelings. Lucy was magnificently ravishing, but it was ‘her’ that drove me to that cherry scented erotic adult literature moment and it’s subsequent love. Kathy could have stopped traffic with her sizzling wiggle, but it was who I believed ‘she’ was that got me craving her. It is them, their mind, their being, their soul Andrew falls for and desires, and when high I’m not Andrew. I’m someone else. But when I say the third and last person I slept with was, I mean that to encompass both Andrew and Goth Pooh Bear. The third and last person I slept with was…
…DIANE. Our first meeting was at the camel cup, a bizarre annual event in Alice Springs, and there she was: a stuffed camel on her back, a thirst for alcoholic beverages, a hunger for sausages (unfortunately for me, I couldn’t find any chicken ones) and an uber-excellent jeaned bottom. My first thought, ‘nice smile’, my second thought, ‘cool, fetish!’ because I will openly admit to having a huge thing for redheads, natural or dyed, red hair elicits for me the psychologically defined definition that Supergirl costumes ignite[16]. After months alone the “funny” feelings were back, but after the heady highs of the stabilized-feel-awesome months I hadn’t felt this nervous since Annie, eight years earlier. If it hadn’t been for my best friend giving me a push before unforgivably letting her down we probably wouldn’t have for it together, but we did, and things were great…for a while…and by the time Christmas and New Year rolled around it had become clear I was being used. Diane was wonderful, a vibrant adventure seeking soul and there were plenty of smiles, “funny” feelings and tears but like Edward Norton I had already hit the bed hard and whether she meant to or not, coupled with my trust, intimacy and anxiety issues, Diane reinforced all which the bullying and Kathy had sliced into me. That undisputable fact, closer to the truth than ever, no matter how hard I fought now I knew that…
…I had lost. All I had left were the fragmented memories of souls past, of courage I once had and the dream I had almost become. The only arsenal I had left were those five words[17] and the photo in my pocket. It is 2009 now and physically, mentally and emotionally, I am defeated. My mane limp and lifeless, my goatee hiding the pain of years and my naughty grin a distant memory. Sitting in the islands I remembered: the agony of how it all started with Nats, the excitement of Beth, the fantastic time with Annie, the love and want of Lucy, the determination Mae and Sally had provided me, the dream making belief both granted and denied by Kathy, the unyielding and underserved friendship from Grave and the renewed verve of Diane. I thought of the most important soul, soul number fourteen, and how I could prove it to them. And through it all, as always, I kept fighting – but it was much harder now. Those words and the photo were almost meaningless, Kathy’s fact growing in prominence and my own belief I was someone, even if it was just an ember, and then…
…was this fate working as it had all those years ago on Berneray. A chance to prove my strength, that Kathy was wrong? Now I can only confirm one thing about the quality of soul twelve’s posterior and that is to reiterate an undeniable truth of the world, something which I have not been able to prove wrong, ever! Red hair equals yummily excellent bottom[18]. I would never get to confirm this however with her as soul number twelve was Stephanie and her story has been told. From what I could see though all that matters, all that really concerns me; hear, mind, beliefs, passions were beyond excellent…
…and the undisputable fact which Kathy has made me realize, which Diane had seconded, which was backed up by Steph’s action and the guilt of my responsibility and before I even had the chance to breath was confirmed at the click of a button by soul thirteen. She is here for that. She made me realize after nearly two years of refusal to accept it, through her passion, honesty and belief that it was no longer fact: but cast iron truth. Her name was {SCREWYOU@} and at a time when no-one else cared, when no-one else gave me a second thought in email after email after email she did:
YOU’RE A DISGUSTING MENTALLY ILL RETARD
Thanks :)
WE USED TO LAUGH SO MUCH AT HOW YOU COULD EVER BELIEVE SOMEONE LIKE DIANE COULD LOVE A DICK LIKE YOU
Fair enough, had trouble believing that myself :)
YOU SHOULD BEAT YOURSELF TO DEATH. CUT YOURSELF TO DEATH. JUST FUCK OFF AND DIE.
Alrighty :)
THE ONLY THING YOU DESERVE TO FUCK IS A RAZOR BLADE
Is that even possible? Well, yeah, I guess it is if you fashion together some rudimentary torture device. Thanks for the tip. :)
WOMEN VOMIT AT THE THOUGHT OF FUCKING YOU. JUST DO US ALL A FAVOUR, BUY A KNIFE, GO HOME AND HACK YOUR COCK OFF. SAVE US ALL! LET THAT MENTALLY RETARDED BLOOD FLOW.
Have you ever considered seeking professional help, you seem to have some sort of issue here. Just a guess, but there might be something you need to look into?
…I’ll be honest, her first email, I thought was from Kathy. When I told Diane and later my parents of these emails they all thought the same straight away. But they knew things Kathy could never have known, and this wasn’t Kathy’s style, not her soul. I finally discovered her identity in August 2009 after they infiltrated my Facebook account for the second time (and yes, excellent bottom, and no – hell no!) and I ended all associations with them by blocking email and Facebook accounts. It’s an odd choice for the list, I’ll grant you, but when someone sends you upwards of 25 emails a week you have to commend their determination and loyalty. Her words, her strange form of love, had made it the undisputable truth. For the first time in years even those five words began to crumble, and I needed to go home…
…I returned to Australia, said goodbye to Steph and (as always) kept trying. I tried reconnecting with old friends both on and off this list, I threw myself into meeting new souls both on and offline, who if things had been different could have carried the list on. But as homelessness took my body and collapsed my mind, those five words – Amazing Tangiers and Nightingale Whiskers[19] – disintegrated along with everything else and, well…
IV
Is that what you think?
So what? Everyone has problems talking to people right? Why have I just written such a pointlessly meaningless meandering diatribe with little education or entertainment value other than to bring up excellent bottoms and people I’ve loved through my life? So what? You hate yourself, you spent your life looking for validation through the friendship of others when you should have been looking for validation in your own soul. In order to be loved and liked by others you have to love and like yourself. Deep down you need to understand who you are, love yourself, find your passions before anyone else can like you. So what? Well, if that’s your interpretation go all the way back to the introduction and read it again – only this time read it and tell me what’s it about. If you don’t think I understand me, love myself or feel passionate about all that was Andrew than you’re not reading it properly. Look, here’s an example:
In Part II I mentioned an action packed day with Kathy, here is a brief spontaneously written (i.e. no drafting) of that day…
…Have you ever had a day you would never forget? I have, and this is the story of that day. It started early as I made a packed lunch with Josephine watching on. Her accent, eyes, excellent bottom and even more excellent conversation distracted me as we talked about how much I liked Kathy. I told her of my plans for the day as I chose between cranberry (the turpentine of fruit juice) or orange juice before realizing I’d wasted precious time as I was running late. She called after me: “After today there’s not a chance she won’t fancy you!” Pausing in the hall I caught a glimpse of my shadow on the wall: “She’d be nuts not to!” I called back before having to run to the tram, thinking of that unexpected song as the tram rolled into town. The vision of Kathy as she approached that morning was a late morning lullaby for my heart. We started the day of mystery I’d prepared with the circus, then cartwheels in the square, before hopping a train into the burbs. She had no idea of where we were going and her downpour of suggestions didn’t cease until we arrived at the ice rink. For the fourth time she hugged me again, today was turning out well! Fun, merriment, laughter and sore excellent bottoms followed as we slipped and tumbled on the ice before heading to St Kilda, a late lunch in the park before the aquatic center sprung into view as planned. Shortly after, the vision of her exquisitely excellent bottom in her pale blue bikini briefs. An image that will stay with me until I die. The sheer ravishing splendor of her happy soul had hit me like a cannonball and for the rest of the day; a walk into the city, a play at the RMIT, dinner in Little Italy, all I could think about was how much I wanted it – but social anxiety and the fears of a panic attack and I couldn’t help but think I was losing (heart attacks being a common fear of anxiety for me) and by the time I got home and told my other housemate of the brilliant day I’d had, I was knackered. I knew deep in my heart my battle with mental illness were changing. My life, my journey, my song, was changing and little by little I was becoming someone better…
…aside from being really badly written what else, other than the basic events of the day, is that telling you? Did you get any of the following:
my growing self confidence in my body. my least favourite and favourite fruit juice. that i’m no good at ice skating. reiterating a fetish. a love. a fear. that i had more than one housemate. two songs i associate with kathy. thirteen other songs i adore. a favorite album and artist and musical genre.
I know who I am.
I have known who I am for years.
I have known who I am since howling with Hannah.
…like that moment in Fight Club when you realize everything you thought you knew was wrong[20]. It’s called a reveal, and it flips everything sideways and changes everything…
I started this post with What I love most. Why not The thing I love most about television? Or, You know what, I think it’s really cool that TV does this? Because I chose to tell you that this post was about what I love most and through the preceding collection of words I give you a lot of information about me – the things I love, feel passionate about, drive me wild with excitement and passion. They include…
…four favourite television shows. something which makes me shake with anger. a surrupticious hint at a long standing passion and the answer to footnote fifteen without even saying the word. my favourite sub-genre of art. three favourite countries. four delicious foods. favourite animal. two favourite past-times. favourite snack food. an interest in true crime. favourite situation comedy. favorite tv writer. two favourite genres of photography and my favourite photographer. six physical things i love about women. what i cherish most about women. a favourite song. told you how couragious i am. my love of word games and associations and a favourite book…
…have all been told before the main post even begins, then we get…
…four things i loved doing as a kid. another favourite tv show. four favourite characters. my love of insignificent detail (not the wrist bone, before that). seven fetishes. my love of cheesy sexual innuendo and bad jokes (childish, geddit?) my awesome memory. addiction issues. the age i first masturbated. my love of sex toys (i’m a guy, that’s obvious). the thing which gets me most horney. whether i’m a breast, butt or leg men (if you still haven’t got it, you really are an idiot). my love of noses. another fetish (that’s 8 now). my pride in my own victories. annoyance of mass hysteria. my ability to laugh at myself. a favourite soft drink. when i satrted smoking. two favourite board games. my inner child and how i love him. my favourite time of day. my greatest fear about people. my favourite genre of true crime. a favourite bodily sound. my occasional filthy mind…
…have all been covered by the time Annie’s excellent bottom is unveiled…
…my third favourite word. my favourite parts of my appearance. the fact i know my own mind. two more feitshes (10). another fave animal. seven favourite activities. something i hate the most. my desire to fit in. the only language other than english i can speak. my obsession with the past. not knowing something annoys me. a favourite drink. two loves – in one word. another favourite activity. another fetish (11 now). favourite snack food. the things i love and hate the most about myself. the first time i asked someone for something i wanted (and therefore not the last). my favourite place. that i’ve written (and had published) erotic fiction (and the genre it’s in). my first kiss. my love of making up words. the i value personal privacy. my issues with trust. a great fear. that i leap to conclusions. morals. my favourite temperature. fruit. two more fetishes (13). when i lost my virginity (and how old). another bloody fetish! (14 – blimey this is disturbing). that i think women should play with sex toys (and that i want to join in). the fact i’m a romantic at heart should go without saying. my love of teasing. two more sitcoms. my love of pop culture references (the weirder the better). favourite authot. another fetish (15) another author. two characters…
…and all before Kathy’s marvelously excell…and if you still haven’t got it, get that dunces cap on and spend the rest of the lesson in the corner…
…my favourite role-play. anger at gender bias. who i protect the most. frustration of revisionist history. another fetish (16, getting beyond disturbing). body love. first woman i made a move on. favourite and least favourite movie. annoyance for people who are surprised by bloody obvious plot twists. filmn theory. two great paranoias. my favourite nickname (and who gave it to me) what i fear becoming. another literary character. fave actor. fave play (and my favorite play). two personal favorite body parts. body pride. love of important dates. where i want to visit and what happened in adelaide (alebit very surrupticiously)…
…and all before someone’s proud of me…
…my two most lusted after female actresses. favourite movie - favourite animated gif - love of folklore – and more footnote fifteen all in the same sentence. second person i’d turn gay for. more animal love. confirmation of my favourite food. what i want most in the world. how my brain gets locked on. another tv show. another fear (four of them in fact). my greatest desire. what makes me cry. my second favourite word. love of mystery. love of obvious mysteries. love of annoying people. three more fetishes (19, 20 if you include women) something i adore. people who annoy me. two more animals (i could start a zoo)…
…and grace hasn’t ripped her clothes off yet…
…my greatest personal frustration is obvious. my favourite colour. 80s cartoon character. two more animals. my favourite meat (and variety of it) another fetish (21, c’mon) another favorite actor. my all time fantasy. eight celebrity crushes. favourite movie. favourite scene in that movie…
…and by god that’s all I can remember off the top of my head, and that’s without going into…
…the 16 women who’ve meant the most to me in real life, that i’ve loved four of them, had crushes on four of them and have fantasises about 3 of whose left (which made me feel awful and good at the same time)…
…what I’m getting at is that I choose my words carefully, not randomly or inspired by some grotesque fugue bipolar state. There are 240+ individual things that I love, acknowledge, understand and feel passionate about me in this post – and that’s not including the mental health issues, physical health or other issues I’ve been affected by in my life.
Of those 240+ things, 51 are personal and/or sexual in nature.
Does this sound like someone who needs validation of what he loves, desires and is passionate about. That he doesn’t understand or love himself?
This doesn’t even take into account the fact he’s publishing this on the web and Facebook where it can be accessed by anyone in the world – including his family and everyone mentioned in it should they choose to read it.
Does that sound like someone who needs other people to tell him what’s good about him? That he lacks strength, courage or belief? Would you be willing to share so much of yourself with the world? Allow everyone you’ve ever loved and never told to find out? Allow everyone you’ve fantasized about to learn how filthy your mind is or that you have over 20 random fetishes? If you think I don’t know, love or feel passionate about who I am without the love of others then you must immediately re-read this entire blog otherwise I may have to footnote fifteen you ;)
Self worth isn’t measured in how well you know or love yourself. This post isn’t about my lack of confidence because I hate who I am; it’s about my lack of confidence in showing, sharing and communicating who I am to others.
It’s called social anxiety disorder and I told you that right at the start!
If I’d been able to show Nats, Beth, Annie, Sally or Mae any of this in reality they would have been nuts not to want to know me as a friend. If I’d been able to show Lucy, Kathy, Diane or Grace they would have been nuts not to want to know me more. Or they’d have all shot me for being such a disturbing, pathetic, twisted loser.
Who really knows?
Like I said, my battles with social anxiety disorder…
…the TERROR of social situations and interaction has made it impossible to share this in the non online world. My heart stopping FEAR of what other people think and how they’d react has made it impossible to talk about me or the things and people I loved.
What if I’d made a move on Annie and she’d rejected me?
What if people laughed at me for buggering up my French and asking a sultry receptionist for a fessee?
What if Beth had thought me odd for loving whipped cream as passionately as I do?
What if Sally had teased me for having sexual fantasies, about anything?
What if Grace had thought me odd and disturbing for having a thing for something I can secre…hang on, that is odd and disturbing so she’d be damned right to! But Kiefer, or Supergirl skirts?
What if people had disagreed that Fight Club was pure fried gold[21]?
What if… the two most powerful words in existence and kryptonite[22] for the socially anxious who protect themselves from connection even though that’s what they most crave. Unable to handle people laughing, teasing and making fun of their personality, preferences, beliefs and their beautiful souls. Even giving compliments is hard:
What if people are offended by my opinion that they have an excellent bottom? I don’t mean offence[23] or sexual objectification. I don’t intend to upset them….but they might, so don’t say it. Ever. About anything.
What if Nats had been annoyed if I’d told her how gorgeous she was on prom night and had a go at me for saying so?
What if Annie had taken offence to me telling her she had the most awesome, naughty and contagious smile I’d ever seen?
What if Sally had thought me a twat for admiring her?
What if Grace had stabbed me with an icepick[24] for telling her I loved her like a sister?
Everyone has problems making friends, feeling confident, telling someone you want to kiss them, hitting for a fruit scented adult erotic literature moment, making small talk – but so few understand how much harder it is for the socially anxious.
It’s not shyness, snobbiness or arrogance. It’s pure unadulterated terror of not being accepted. Of being attacked, criticized, abused or made to feel weak and pathetic. At least it is for me.
All those things you want to say, share and explain to forge friendships, maintain relationships, you hold back through fear of panic and the potential reactions you convince yourself will come.
Is it easier to live with the pain (and regret) of a what if or the agony of being made to feel worthless for how you think, feel, talk?
And how do you think the mood oscillations of bipolar, the intimate lies of self harm, the misunderstood lows of depression, the stigma of homelessness, the stereotypes of man (I’m pretty feminine remember) and trauma of abuse are going to combine to affect the fragile organs ability to cope with all this?
…the root cause of everything.
V
All of the shit...
A few months ago I coined a new phrase. All of the shit that’s happened to me, all of the depression, self harm, bipolar, loss – to me, came about from shyness and that is what you need to truly know and understand me, to get to the nitty gritty of all that I am, all that I ever was…the bullying I experienced as a child and teen destroyed my confidence, it made me believe I was a joke, useless, worthless and no-one would ever like or want to know me. My cracked fragile organ convinced myself NATS would never like me, that I wasn’t good enough and thus couldn’t bring myself to talk to her in fear of more pain. This induced depression and I began self-harming to cope with the agony of feeling so lonely, the trigger of the trigger. I wasn’t able to cope with the agony of not being able to do what I most wanted to do, what I desired: to talk to, connect and make friends, share my soul…which became social anxiety disorder…so I did what I always did, fought to show the world my strength. BETH, traveling, the hostel and RACHEL proved I was right, but my inability to act on my feelings for ANNIE played on my triggers and it was less painful to create a what if? than have her laugh at me. The pain of the what if, depressive episode and suicide attempt forced me to draw on my strength and my new life with LUCY began. I was winning, kept fighting, and it started to pay off. MAE believed in me and she was awesome, I wanted SALLY to like me and through the chance of their friendship, my determination grew. I was becoming. I could beat my social anxiety. All those years of my fragile brain making me feel hated, worthless, a joke, useless. Ha! I had my first best friends in KATHY but Lucy’s affair had triggered a depressive episode but I fought on and forged a deep clear belief in myself. I could do anything, be anyone, be me. Addy. But it had all been a lie, all her words and actions mere deception. My physical world collapsed, my mental world followed and my strength vanished…and with the emotional abuse…feeding off the damage the bullying caused, proving them right (I was a joke, useless, worthless, no-one would ever like or want me) I became further alienated and isolated. GRACE, my real best friend, did all her beautiful soul could but I didn’t deserve her friendship and my guilt over letting her down fed into the scars of abuse. I was worthless. I kept fighting to prove Kathy wrong, to prove the fourteenth soul was right. DIANE was wonderful but her lies and heartbreak once again sucked into the abuse and bullying. Why did people always treat me like this? I must be worthless if they keep doing it. My life collapsed again. I tried picking myself up, dust off the debris, always fighting on through my own strength. STEPHANIE, in another life could have been a whole different story, but this was now and I was like a cancer and she died because of my failure, more guilt to feed into the abuse, failure and past fuck-ups. {SCREWYOU@} stole what was left and confirmed Kathy right and the social anxiety disorder…became something else…and despite one last ditch concerted effort…homelessness took my body…resulting in more loss, more isolation to trigger the fragile organ…and collapsed my mind, those five words disintegrated into dust…and social paralysis disorder took hole; the bullies, trauma of abuse, had won…and…for the first time in my life I sat in a park and stared at the stars and uttered three words I could never remember believing before…I give up.
VI
Hidden Disability
Social Paralysis Disorder.
That’s not a real term or illness, it’s just me being true to my old kimnyk days and making shit up to try and explain to myself what my brain is doing, to describe the shift it has taken over the last couple of months.
It’s not agoraphobia because I can go outside, walk around, it just scares me shitless[25] because I’m in a social environment and people are looking at me, judging and intimidating me. Communication with people is no longer difficult of tinged with fear, the fear has become paralyzing; telephone, emails, letters, blog posts, supermarkets, street vendors, support services, Facebook, anything! It is my mind, my brain, erecting a force field of protection to protect (obviously) from any further harm. The bipolar increases it, the lack of medication amplifies it, self harm eases it (for a while) and the isolation and stigma of homelessness has intensified it. To protect from any more abuse, insults, bullying, stares, attacks, betrayal, lies, teasing and loss it has shut down. No-one gets close. No-one gets in or out…The actions of others creating long term implications which may never have been intended…the implications of bullying and abuse, especially on the fragile mind of the socially anxious.
Don’t get close. Don’t make friends. Don’t open up. Don’t love.
No-one wants you. No-one cares about you.
Don’t get close. Don’t make friends. Don’t open up. Don’t love.
They’ll lie to you. Cheat on you. Use you. Abuse me.
Don’t get close. Don’t make friends. Don’t open up. Don’t love.
You are useless. You are worthless. You are nothing.
Don’t get close. Don’t make friends. Don’t open up. Don’t love.
No-one…and repeated over and over and over and over and over and over every single day, every single week, so that my brain literally stops; paralyzing itself to protect me.
It’s not the fault of any of the fourteen souls nor their actions, friendships, love, kindness, compassion nor their excellent bottoms. As I said right at the start of this piece – they are some of the most important people in my life – and I will love, care, relish and hope for them until my last breath.
It’s my fault.
My mind.
My brain.
My “mentally retarded”[26] thought processes.
My fear of what may happen if I said hey, fancy a drink or can I kiss you or you have an excellent bottom or wanna go out sometime or there should really be a scene in 24 when a terrorist accosts a naked hog tied Jack with a tickle stick, don’t you think…or any plethora of things which people say, think or let slip in the routine of their day to day lives. My inability to offer help, care for, love and be there in my external red underpants for all those I love despite trying to be. As a small puppet once said before he went all shit in CGI: there is no try. Why would anyone in this fast paced superficial must have me me me world want to be friends with someone who has been known to collapse in panic (literally) at the mere thought of seeing someone? Who nowadays has that patience? That insight?
If you have one left you have a physical disability. Blindness. Deafness. Whatever.
If you have something wrong with your mind, a mental illness, is that not a hidden disability? And yet people penalize you for it; hold it against you, judge you for it.
That’s called stigma.
And that’s important.
How can you be all that you know you can be when all that you are, all that you ever were has made you into someone you don’t even know? When not even any of those 240+ things make sense anymore beyond memories of who I once was.
All that I am, all that I ever was, a journey which began in a small Scottish town in the mid-late ‘80s and ended in a sun drenched Australian metropolis in 2009. A journey which spanned three continents over 24 years. A journey in which I met fourteen beautiful souls and how – for big or small, better or worse – they changed me, and became some of the most important people in my life.
This is my story.
This is the story of how I died.
To Be Continued
(right after these short messages)
(and we're back!)
Part Two:
My Song Ends
“All of those lines across my face tell you the story of who I am. So many stories of where I’ve been and how I got to where I am, but these stories don’t mean anything…”
I
Stigmas in the Corner
All that I am, all that I ever was, a journey which began in a small Scottish town in the mid-late ‘80s and ended in a sun drenched Australian metropolis in 2009. A journey which spanned three continents over 24 years. A journey in which I met fourteen beautiful souls and how – for big or small, better or worse – they changed me, and became some of the most important people in my life.
This is my story.
This is the story of how I died.
On Monday November 12 2007 I posed the question “what is stigma” in a lively somewhat meandering post, which I actually quite like, so read it if you like J The question, alas, is still relevant. Whilst the Murray Cod faces extinction, stigma seems to be growing in strength.
When I wrote the introduction to this blog I ended it with
"Hi, my name's Addy - and I suffer from depression.
This is all that I am and all that I ever was,"
and then in the top left corner of the blog (under ‘70s porn star me) as well as on dozens of locations around the internet I wrote
I suffer from bipolar, depression & self-harm. They are illnesses and do not reflect my personality. I'm tired of the stigma surrounding mental illness - it's about time we gave it a damn good spanking.
which I stand by to this day, because the shame of the growing incidents of stigma are what killed me. If I look subjectively on my life it was never the mental illnesses which caused the problems. My stigma of sharing these illnesses with the world because of the stigma which those people may hold caused the problems. When I finally faced up to what was happening to me it was stigma which caused the downfall. The end of the world Armageddon, Independence Day, LotTL, Mayan Calendar believers type devastation has all (bar one occasion) been caused by the stigma of either mental illness, physical illness of homelessness. Not the conditions themselves – and that’s wrong!
If you have cancer people understand how you feel…they get it.
But depression?
If you have diabetes people understand how you feel…they get it.
But self harm?
If you have asthma people understand how you feel…they get it.
But schizophrenia?
Cancer is an illness of whatever system it decides to attack.
Diabetes is an illness that affects glucose levels in your blood.
Asthma is an illness that affects the respiratory system.
Depression is an illness that affects the brain.
Self Harm is an illness that affects the brain.
Schizophrenia is an illness that affects the brain.
The brain, a fragile organ, which in this fast paced superficial must have me me me world is forgotten in the race to be seen in the right clothes, have all that hair removed, botox the scalp, suck the fat from your (already excellent) bottom, purchase the latest iPod, car, house, guinea pig. Why? Because we’re told to. Article after news report after photospread after viral video after peer pressure telling us what to wear, think, feel, believe, what’s important, say the right thing, look the right way, listen to the right music, own the right guinea pig. In this world of surface and self someone’s mind and soul are not important. And if you think owning the right shoes or purchasing the latest iPhone is helping your soul and making you feel better you’re as stupid as the article, advert or friend who told you it would. The world has become of superficial that no-one wants to understand mental illness or take the time to get it. If you have a mental illness you are automatically wrong. No discussion. People run from it, treat those who suffer from it like lepers, they: attack, judge, misrepresent, abuse, insult, demean, criticize the person who is ill. Would you do that to someone with cancer? Attack the person because it was their fault they are ill. Course you wouldn’t. You’d have to be a heartless grinch to attack someone who is physically ill.
The most stigmatizing thing I ever had said to me was:
“I can’t believe you suffer from a mental illness, you’re too normal,”
How would that make you feel?
“I can’t believe you suffer from cancer, you’re too normal,”
“I can’t believe you suffer from athletes foot, you’re too normal,”
How about it’s other implications?
“I can’t believe you like maple syrup, you’re too normal,”
“I can’t believe you have an excellent bottom, you’re too normal,”
“I can’t believe you like listening to Mistletoe and Wine by Sir Cliff Richard for it’s contagious festive spirit, you’re too normal,”
What the hell is normal anyway?
Ah yes, normal is what all those news reports, photospreads, viral videos and peer pressure tells us is right…and if you’re in any way unique (i.e. without the fluffy wool and love/hate relationship with Shep) you’re wrong…because the media tells us so…and the media is never wrong and always right.
I suffer from bipolar, depression & self-harm. They are illnesses and do not reflect my personality.
I like dungarees, Supergirl costumes, Goosebumps, red hair, excellent bottoms, Dr Who, wombats, tickle sticks, baked potatoes, cheese, bellies, bellies and whipped cream, kimnyk, wrist bones and etc and etc and etc and click anywhere for this list to grow…
I’m not wrong. I’m not a lesser being. I’m human. I’m unique. I’m right. I’m wrong.
The media says so.
Society says so.
I’m weak…
...but hold on, you try experience a panic attack at the mere thought of going outside or experience the hourly/daily/weekly mood swings my imaginative bipolar affects me with whilst also being attacked, judged, misrepresented, abused, insulted, demeaned and taken advantage of…
…yep, I’m weak, because the media says I am, because I’m not normal so therefore wrong, because I suffer an illness of the brain and thus, this is all I am, nothing more.
Read Section IV of Part One again or close your eyes and click any page link on this blog and apply what I told you there. Anywhere you go, even the external links, are there for a reason. My loves, my dreams, my desires, fetishes, terrible writing skills, secrets, foibles, failures, regrets, tears, pain, hopes, beliefs, lusts…they ooze from every corner of this blog like, ummm, a runny nose when you have the flu (!) If you think this blog has been about mental illness you’re wrong. Yes, there have been posts about specific conditions and ways to help sufferers or sufferees but if this blog was about mental health why didn’t I write crisp, clean, anesthetic scented essays which wouldn’t have looked out of place at a university. I could write like that is I wanted, but I chose not to.
All that I am, all that I ever was: My Journey with Depression not My Journey with Depression: All that I am, all that I ever was. The emphasis on what comes first.[27]
If I wanted to post photos of Carey Mulligan or a semi nude excellent bottom, I did, they’re hot.
If I wanted to post videos of Dr Who, Beyonce, The Fray or Life on Mars, I did, they’re cool.
If I wanted to post an animated gif of a dancing alien or someone burning themselves, I did, they’re damned funny.
If you were writing a thesis on mental health, you wouldn’t consider doing these.
If you were writing a thesis on me, you would have to.
The only way I could fight stigma on my turf was to do it my way – and that’s where I made the mistake – by sharing my whole life, my soul, with the world. I was annoyed at being seen as wrong or not normal. I was sick of the arrogance and ignorance of society for seeing only one aspect of me…
…when I met Annie I was 21, still a virgin and she was just the finest piece of ass I’ve ever seen. Man, those weeks together, damn, all that time staring at her…
…Kathy’s best friend is someone I barely knew, but hell, that’s not gonna stop me having “funny” feelings fun about that tremendous ass and that’s why I wanted to know her, who wouldn’t want to get to know something so fine…
…and I watched [Kathy’s] marvelously excellent bottom wiggle out the doors and I just knew I had to give her a job because then I could just perv on those glorious globes every day…
…Annie, Sally and Kathy are more than that. Everyone is. Yes, their bottoms are excellent. Just as Hannah, Nats, Beth, Rachel, Lucy, Mae, Grace, Diane, Steph and {screwyou@} all have excellent bottoms. Were they offended by my mentioning them, focusing on an aspect of who they are? Most likely. How would they have felt if that’s all I’d written about – reduced them to their bottoms. Pretty shit I bet.
How do you think I feel when people reduce me to me mental illness, homelessness of physical illnesses alone?
That’s what the media and society do to me all the time with their stigma and inability to get or understand mental illness.
I suffer from bipolar, depression & self-harm. They are illnesses and do not reflect my personality. I'm tired of the stigma surrounding mental illness - it's about time we gave it a damn good spanking.
Perhaps it is those with a stigma who should be spanked, perhaps then they’ll know the pain I feel every time someone attacks me, judges me, misrepresents me, abuses me, insults me, demeans me or reduces me to just one aspect of who I am…at least in their case the pain won’t last long, not the lifetime of hurt I’ve had to live with.
But that’s where I went wrong. Instead of becoming James Spader I ended up being Maggie Gyllenhaal in the bathroom (only without the sudden realization it’s just not the same)
· Do a search on the internet for me, what do you find? It doesn’t take long to find this blog. How many of the 3000+ employees I’ve contacted in the last three years would have done that? Contrary to naïve bullshit (such as this) employers will not be understanding about mental illness. If they had a choice they’d choose someone without bipolar in a heartbeat. It must stay hidden at all costs.
· Stephanie found this blog. She’s dead now – after talking to useless me who never helps or cares about anyone. She killed herself as I once attempted (and wrote about) on the second anniversary of my attempt in May 2007 (as I wrote). If this blog wasn’t here, would she still be alive? How many others are there?
· Not including {screwyou@} (who found my email through this blog) I’ve received 97 emails of an abusive/attacking nature from people who think I’m a twat and disagree with the blog.
· And really, how many people have I educated? If those 97 emails are to be believed, not many. The stigma is as strong as ever, if not stronger.
This blog helped contribute to the abuse which I’ve received my whole life, it has seriously affected my ability to find employment in order to live a normal life and has cost the lives of at least two beautiful souls. Then there’s the rest.
The whole world, my family, friends, every last soul with an internet connection, ability to read (and with a knowledge of subtext) knows everything about me. Does that make me brave, strong or an idiot? Perhaps all.
This blog has changed opinions, views of me have been revised. If I’d been respected or admired, perhaps I’m a laughing stock now. If Annie had thought me cool back then, what now? Sally has been proved right, Kathy would be throwing a street party and Grace is wishing she had been on some random hallucinogenic Latin cacti.
That’s the thing, all my life I wanted to be me, who I was scared of showing to the world for how they would think of me. The power of mental illness, guilt and social anxiety. That fragile organ. Now that it’s all out there, part of the media, society, how could anyone see me as me (passionate, caring, true, kinky, strong) they just see the blog and the weakness. I must be weak because of depression or self harm or my fear of talking to people or that I was once given a bunch of flowers or I have panic attacks or that that the only members of the audience not suddenly going What! What! What! Like some demented Dr Who finale are those who understand that I make words up to hide myself from the world and what really goes on.
Because obviously I mean something much different (and yes, this blog is called all that I am, all that I ever was so it’s time subtext got fracked!) when I say ‘a bunch of flowers’…
II
Bunch of Flowers
“I could tell you ‘bout me weekend. That’s all it was; it’s a party, it’s some downtime, it’s a breather. That blew me apart like a supernova and left me on the bathroom floor, feeling dirty, trying to scrape myself clean,”
July 2007, Adelaide
I found in Adelaide that the best way to get a woman’s attention is to slap her excellent bottom and await the reaction. Now guys, that is not advice you should follow because the only reaction any self respecting woman will give to this action from a stranger is:
a) SLAP!
b) Drink over the head…then SLAP!
c) PUNCH! Drink over the head…then SLAP…as you try to get up!
But Goth Pooh Bear aka Shay aka Immortal God didn’t care because the world and everyone in it was his. However, immortality doesn’t exist outside of fiction or the delusions of a psychotic mind. No matter how powerful you feel you are it’s very simple to leave someone on that bathroom floor.
Whilst out on the piss one night in pursuit of the feisty fillies who populate that strange South Australian city, I began to feel very strange myself and until last year remembered little detail of events which took place due to my fragile organ sealing them up. Things had been pretty traumatizing enough that year and my brain – especially since the breakdown – wasn’t coping. Even directly after the even I knew only what happened and fragments of specifics I leaned in time. This was an effect of the drug (commonly referred to as a date with bunch of flowers drug) that had been slipped into G&T as I pursued a flaming red head.
One quote I’ve always remembered from the great Methos is Just because I choose not to fight doesn’t mean
I don’t know how because it applies to me. I may look like someone who, if he slapped an excellent bottom during a fruit scented adult erotic literature moment, would produce only the feelings of a feather landing on her flesh – but if I want to, I could leave a lovely handprint or two. I can, only if necessary and/or provoked, defend myself and/or others in danger with a violent Spike-like relish. It’s very un-Addy of me not to. That night however, because of the drug, I was unable to. Which meant that when some guy opted to give me a bunch of flowers there was nothing I could do to stop him.
When I came to the following morning I was groggy, badly bruised and in a fair amount of pain. I’m used to bruises, I’ve inflicted enough on myself over the years, but the drug fuelled amnesiac petals from the flowers I didn’t know what to do with. I felt dirty, repulsive, degraded, insulted, weak, angry, shameful, guilty, confused, hollow, guilty, and in pain…so I dealt with it the only way I knew how, more pain followed by the internet.
I returned to where I was staying and showered (scrubbed for hours. With my flesh still rare and creeping I took a knife and cut myself to ease the pain (the irony of self harm) and on some level punishing myself for being weak.
Once the bruises and cuts were tended to I went to the nearest internet café to take my mind off things with a trip to Lizzy Sam land, random sites, self help sites and emails. Ahhh, Kathy, as always with the perfect timing! They very last thing I needed was more attack and abuse. I severed contact and threw myself into a tree.
A trip to the hospital and I said nothing of the flowers I’d been given. The cuts which accompanied the bruises and welts made it easy: I was just another naughty self-harmer. What was the cute nurse gonna do, spank me? The “high” I was still floating in made it easier to maintain the lie and I left with some sedatives which knocked me out.
I’ve always believed the sedatives added to the amnesiac effect but I’ll never really know. Nightmare images continued to flash through my head and not even Megan Fox’s denim clad legs could shake them. My mood, it was becoming clear, had started to end. I thought about telling people what had happened, but who? Mae was too closely entwined with Kathy’s life, and the last person I wanted to know of this latest event was Kathy. She already thought me weak and repulsive for not working hard enough whilst I had glandular fever and the mental illnesses. She would have adored the bunch of flowers bestowed on me, seen them as the beautiful payback she believed I deserved for not helping or caring about people enough. Maybe that’s what they were for anyway. Grace, also, too close to Kathy. Plus, they were both female. I felt degraded and emasculated enough as it was. My family, nope, not going there. Psychologists, too expensive. Mensline I tried, but couldn’t. It was like Kathy had said, I was weak and worthless and I was like a cancer, I deserved it and so much more – she had already taught me what to do anyway.
You must always hide your problems and pain from the world. If you don’t, you’re liable to be dumped by text message and abused for five months for not making everyone happy. It’s what we must do, always make people happy and never share our problems. Ever.
From those chaotic traumatic times I self-harmed a lot and the isolation from those I cared about increased the depression I was slipping into. Three memories stand out:
1. A night stay over in Ararat where I spent the night in tears trying to make sense of the previous few weeks. I needed a hug. I needed a friend. I needed to be strong. Always.
2. Sitting on the balcony of the flat which was home for a while in Melbourne, Grace’s number lit up on the screen of my phone; she would be angry for going dark, annoyed at being bothered, she was going on holiday so I couldn’t upset her anyway. You have to make everyone happy, always, never share problems.
3. The opening and closing scenes of Gridlock, which reminded me even my hero can feel pain
As the months went by the bunch of flowers remained bloomed as I pushed onwards to prove my strength. Physically the bruising had healed and all I had to deal with was a renewed polynoidal sinus and infection which I have always assumed was a result of the flowers. Then everything that year got too much.
October 2007, Dandenongs.
That wacky day of fun!
With all it had had to deal with my brain erected it’s own fences and fertilizers that were needed to protect me from memories and all that was left after a few weeks were the fallen petals around my sweat ravaged bedsheets every morning.
August 2009, Alice Springs
For some random reason my brain decided to unleash that bunch of flowers into full bloom as if in some grand 3D glasses cinema glory at this moment in time. I’ve never been able to figure out why my brain was so evil. The colours, smells and feelings the flowers had provided me came back, affecting all in my ‘new life’: new town, relationship, friends, bipolar, job and associated stresses. The impact was immense. As I ran from the petals my mind collapsed, medication increased, friends lost and damage ravaged. I tried to tell Diana in light detail, but her reactions were laughter. As suspected, never tell anyone your problems, must make everyone happy, always. A joke. I was a joke, just as the bullies and Kathy had said.
The bunch of flowers cost me much: relationships, friendships, intimacy, trust and more issues to deal with. It played into all Kathy and the bullies had ingrained, fed off my mental illnesses and made everything so much harder.
Now, Melbourne
It is just another event for me to deal with and never speak of. Like all traumas it leaves long standing scars: it’s doubtful I’ll ever return to Adelaide, smells, clothes, gin and memories remind me of those times and petals, whilst my trust/intimacy hopes have been badly damaged. If not smashed forever in conjunction with issues from Lucy, Kathy and Diane. As I said, it played into all Kathy and the bullies had said, and I believed them more, always will, like the song says.
“I’ve got a tattoo, of a bleeding heart and a moon inside a sun. I wear it everywhere, it’s a part of me and how I see everyone,”
Note
A guy admitting to be given a bunch of flowers it unlikely to be believed, fine, do whatever you want I don’t care anymore. However, this has been spoken of and referenced on this blog as far back as the day begun plus in several emails, phone calls and other incidents in real life. It’s called subtext. It’s called not being able to talk about the problems we have in life.
III
What were you expecting?
Now, we all need something to put a smile on our faces. Well, I do at least. So here is out always favorite
bunny with a pancake on it’s head. What? It’s the finale, there’s always nods to the past in a finale. Have a look at Chosen, Not to be or Call of the Wild if you don’t believe me. Then there’s more of the same, albeit in somewhat more grandiose ways
so we can marvel at that for a while whilst we digest the knowledge that since 21 October 2007 I have told the world everything about me that is personal, secret and hitherto never been spoken of. All that I kept inside from those I wanted to love and love me. Every question posed, conundrum raised or query fired has received an answer. What’s left to say. I suppose I could ramble about Lily for a while, I mean this post is epically pointless enough as it is…what? You were expecting something more than Lily Allen’s butt as the finale? What were you thinking exactly? What did you think the last few words of the blog were going to be. I know, I’ve known for years…
…badger?
…wombat?
…excellent bottom?
…cheesecake?
….terminal?
…chee…
…ahhh, but hold on, for that is a very interesting word with a whole heap of baggage attached.
–verb (used with object)
| 1. | to look forward to; regard as likely to happen; anticipate the occurrence or the coming of: I expect to read it. I expect him later. She expects that they will come. |
| 2. | to look for with reason or justification: We expect obedience. |
| 3. | Informal. to suppose or surmise; guess: I expect that you are tired from the trip. |
| 4. | to anticipate the birth of (one's child): Paul and Sylvia expect their second very soon. |
Such as the baggage attached to the expectation of a finale:
For those of you expecting wondrous words of wisdom and intelligence, you ain’t been reading this blog properly!
For those of you expecting a great revealing shock and a couple of surprises, well, you got them…so toodle, oo :)
For those of you expecting me to try and instigate a manic phase therefore become Goth Pooh Bear and use my zany deviant mind to pull myself out of this situation, well, watch this space because I seem to be writing a LOT and that’s a good indicator that I’m a little “high”. So maybe… J
For those of you expecting yet more posterior in a post already obsessed…
...who am I to refuse? But hey, shaking things up there…one for the ladies :)
For those of you expecting a happy ending where I ride off into the sunset on my trusty pet wombat with my flame haired, dungaree clad beautiful souled wife (who happens to have a Supergirl costume and a bun in the oven), please, my name was Andrew. I don’t get happy endings…haven’t you been reading this post…
For those expecting my death, well, this is the story of how I died, so go figure!
For those of you expecting nothing, good on you, because expectations – like dreams or fantasies – are cruel twists and never amount to anything in reality other than pain…
…my expectations as I entered 2007 were simple…
…cue Mr Blue Sky…
…It was going to be the best year of my life. Through pain, heartbreak, friendship and hard work I had stabilized the mental illness which had held me back for so many years. I was attending college which would give me the qualifications I needed to enter university, which would give me the opportunity to do whatever I wanted. Through college and uni my social network would have expanded ten fold. Through Kathy, Grace, Mae, my housemates and Mae my social contact would have been strong and deeper friendships (and new friendships) grown. Through my work at college I would have had writing published, a short film made and, I could have accessed, a PT/Casual job in the writing industry through connections and work experience placement as part of the course. In short, my dreams and hard work were paying off and my reality was changing (writer, film-maker, friends, stabilized mental illness) as I skipped happily and merrily down the street (as soon as pesky glandular fever was dealt with of course)
Expectations – like dreams or fantasies – are cruel twists and never amount to anything in reality other than pain.
Lesson of the Blog #1: NEVER DREAM or attempt to make your hopes a reality as it will end only in pain, misery and heartbreak. Life = pain; nothing more.
Lesson of the Blog #2: IF YOU DO ACHIEVE HAPPINESS SOMEONE or something will come along and tear it apart. So best not to try. Just accept lesson #1 and start learning to cope with the pain.
“You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything…affects everything.”
As has been discussed earlier, the text message I received on a Monday afternoon from Kathy has gone on to affect every aspect of my life. Just as it did then with glandular fever/CLL/college and mental health. The abuse which followed has infiltrated and effects every thought process I’ve had. Did she realize at the time that decision would end with poverty, homeless and death? Doubtful. She was doing what she felt right and ending a relationship, which is fair enough, but removing that relationship at that moment was always going to have consequences. Just as any decision as consequences (this blog cost Stephanie’s life and my employable future). The skill in life is sometimes knowing what needs to be said and what doesn’t, and holding off until the right moment. With the knowledge Kathy had of my life at the time it wouldn’t have taken much to with-hold that text message a few days, hence the devastation would never have happened. Just as I could have written about the bunch of flowers at any point in time, but wasn’t ready in my own mind to write it, hence the veiled references scattered throughout the blog as the petals fell and the mind struggled to repress the emotions.
That text message which affected everything cost me any chance of that flame haired/wombat/Supergirl costume happy ending I desired so much.
Just as Kathy had told me, that undisputable fact: I never liked you as a person. I never thought of you as a friend. I was just pretending because I wanted to change you…well, she succeeded…
Lessons of the Blog #3: NEVER TRUST A WOMAN for they will lie, manipulate, cheat, betray and never give anything emotionally. Treat them in the same way, they will cut your dick off and claim self defense.
Lessons of the Blog #4: NEVER TRUST A MAN for they will give you a bunch of flowers and eliminate what little trust for humanity you have left.
Lessons of the Blog #5: BEST NOT TRUST ANYONE!
…the other problems with expectations are those we put on other people. Expecting them to do this, achieve that, feel this, react like that. They are unfair and create unrealistic expectations of what we feel we should be doing. The expectations put on me at school made me feel like a failure, the expectations people have with university made me feel like a failure for I didn’t have the education they did, the expectations put on me by Lucy, Kathy and Diane made me believe I was useless. Would you expect a cancer patient to dance when they’re in crippling pain. No. Why then a glandular fever patient? And when he can’t…have a go at him. Just emigrated – you’ve been here a week – where’s your job? Just been fired – why are you not looking after me, it upsets me much more than you. It’s unfair to put so much pressure on anyone, let alone someone with mental or physical illnesses, they have enough to deal with as it is, and from time to time they need some help, love and support too. Just because I am a man doesn’t mean I should deal with everything alone, women, sometimes, have to be there to cheer the men in their lives up. It’s called life, It’s called being a human. It’s called having emotions. Just because we have penises doesn’t make us immune. But the expectations put on men (and women) to be like their gender stereotypes causes more pain, and more stigma…
Lessons of the blog #6: NEVER ASK FOR HELP as I said, it will be refused and result in having a text message cause you more pain. Like I illustrated with lesson #1 – Life = pain; nothing more.
…because she did change me.
Okay, all those lessons. Forget them. I’m illustrating a point. I know my advice used to be things like Drop a wee present into their letter box, leave them a card or letter, surprise them with a nice creamy bun or Three words: naked...pillow...fight! or Just give 'em a kiss for fracks sake! or Those flannelette PJs may very well be back in fashion, especially if they’ve got cute little ducks on them...but the first step to helping you get through the day is to get those PJs off! Yep, you heard me. Strip! Believe me, I know how hard that sounds - so have fun with it; do a little striptease and dance nekkid to get those giggles going for the rest of the day but that’s the point, that’s how she changed me, that’s the undisputable fact. The truth. What I didn’t realize until I gave up. Like I said this is the story of how I died and But emotionally; because death, ultimately, occurs when the soul is destroyed.
I’m sure there is happiness out there for some, and there fracking better be for people like Hannah, Nats, Beth, Annie, Lucy, Kathy, Grace, Mae, Sally, Diane and {screwyou@} and my family! Otherwise I may have to start footnote fifteening people. I’m sure there are people out there who don’t deliberately destroy people’s happiness. I’m sure women can be trusted (sometimes) and I’m sure men can be trusted (sometimes) and sooner or later everyone has to trust someone and ask for help.
It’s just from my experience, the way my brain processes, the way the illnesses work, they all apply in some way and with everything that’s happened my soul kinda vanished.
I just don’t believe anything anymore.
Who I was, Andrew – Addy – whoever wrote these pages: that’s not me anymore.
Over the last few years I’ve had to deal with…
…losing everything and one I loved, my future and all of it’s associated dreams…My mental illnesses; bipolar, self harm, anxiety and several suicide attempts…I’ve had to process and learn to cope with the trauma of both emotional and physical abuse as well as a bunch of flowers…and I’ve done all this whilst trying to educate the world and spank the stigma of mental health whilst sharing and baring myself to the world. And despite attempts to help those who need help, have received only betrayal and death as a result…all of which has led me to nights sleeping under a blanket in a park with only mosquitoes for company.
I’ve been…
…told so many abusive things I can’t bare repeating them any more…lied to…manipulated…used…cheated on three times by two women…refused help when homeless because of my lack of substance abuse problems….without human contact for nearly five months, and only one instance since February in face-to-face contact.
Sooner or later the events chronicled on this blog would destroy anyone’s soul.
The best advice which can be mustered is you need to prove how strong you are. Well, see the contents of this blog…there is only so long you can fight, so much strength you can muster, when nothing ever really goes your way. When, over the last few years, the closest you’ve come to experiencing something you want is when it’s been refused with the repeatedly used comment I’m not going to do that because you would enjoy it. Like
Kathy used to say, I never helped or cared enough, so I don’t deserve anything.
Everyone needs happiness in their life - and there fracking better be for people like Hannah, Nats, Beth, Annie,
Lucy, Kathy, Grace, Mae, Sally, Diane and {screwyou@} or my family! Otherwise I may have to start footnote fifteening people. Try living without any and see how long you can hold it together. Happiness gives us joy, brings us love, bestows us with passion and blesses us with hope. Everything…affects everything…and without hope there’s no passion and without passion you are truly dead. All those 240+ things, gone, and I fracking hate it – I really do!
I miss those days of wee presents, naked pillow fights and flannel PJs, I really do. I just don’t know what to do anymore.
I can fight depression.
I can control self harm.
I can battle bipolar.
I can take on all of that and more…
…I just don’t know how to repair a soul, and with Addy gone, I can’t write this blog anymore.
The ONLY lessons to take from this blog #1…
The best medicine for someone with a mental health problem is friendship. It helps reprogram the chemicals in the brain. Trust me. I stabilized everything remember, I won, and I was happy.
The biggest problem is the stigma, and as we can’t go around spanking people willy-nilly, there’s little advice I can give to combat that, other than:
The ONLY lessons to take from this blog #2…
Someone with a mental illness is a normal human being, they just have a health problem which affects the brain. They are not wrong or evil or anything other than just like you – only a little different. Like everyone is. Wouldn’t the world be a boring place if everyone acted the same way?
Conclusion:
Final Words
As for those last words, easy, an answer to the only question I haven’t answered yet…
…what made it possible for me to runaway in 1997, travel to Scotland and Canada, talk to Annie, answer yes to Lucy, emigrate to Australia, rebuild my life, open up to Kathy and Mae and Grace.
…what made it possible for me to fight self harm, depression, social anxiety, bipolar and multiple suicide attempts.
…what made it possible to open myself up to the world on this blog, pursue my dreams, talk to girlfriends of desires, fantasies and stand up for my beliefs no matter what the odds.
…what made it possible for me to deal with all forms of abuse, betrayal, lies and manipulation.
…what made it possible for me to love whilst keeping to my morals and codes of belief.
…what let me down on several occasions, but I still kept on trying.
…what made it possible to be me. Andrew…Addy.
“...but these stories don’t mean anything when you’ve got no-one to tell them to,”
--
"Hi, my name was Addy,
and I suffer from a whole shitload of things.
But, you wanna know something,
all that I am and all that I ever was,
was the most goddamn courageous fracker you will ever meet!”
--
be safe
be well
be happy
be loved
be hugged
be kissed
be teased
be fracked
be yourselves
be anything you want
just accept other people and
have the courage to make friends
--
[1] Doctor Who: Series 2
[2] Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season 6 and 4 respectively
[3] Dungarees (obviously), Goosebumps, the toe next to the big toe, one that’s way too embarrassing to mention but get to secretly enjoy frequently without my girlfriend knowing, kimnyk, knee length boots (hardly odd) to name but a few…
[4] Okay, maybe a teensy-tiny fetish
[5] …this post has been lost along with www.myjourneywithdepression.com, sorry :(
[6] the less people know about me personally (my loves, desires, deviances, past, history, mistakes, feelings, all that makes me “me”) the less chance there is of attack and a return to those days of abuse and bullying.
[7] …which has received some warm reviews
[8] …and hey, just because I was a virgin doesn’t mean I didn’t think about sex, or have any sexual fantasies. Plus, if you say you don’t have any sexual fantasies you’re lying to everyone and more importantly yourself. Get some courage!
[9] “Forgiveness is an act of contrition Buffy, we don’t give it because someone deserves it, we give it because they need it,”
[10] …doesn’t anyone watch How I Met Your Mother?
[11] …in hindsight I should probably have taken this omen of observation into account! J
[12] …or if you surprised by the most obvious twist in cinema history, that bit in The Sixth Sense when you learn Brucie is actually dead. Wow. Never saw that coming!
[13] “You’re not friends, you’ll never be friends, you’ll be in love til it kills ya both. You’ll fight and you’ll shag and you’ll hate each other til it makes you quiver but you’ll never be friends. Love isn’t brains children it’s blood, blood screaming inside you to work it’s will…and I may be love’s bitch, but at least I’m man enough to admit it!”
[14] …RSC performance of King Lear, it is an excellent member (can’t say penis as it’s bad luck) – as indeed my own. Seriously, when fully “funny” feelinged –wow – it’s impressive J
[15] …which has been used several times on this blog, you know what it is, but if you don’t, seek it out ;)
[16] …just a random thought: If a redheaded woman with an excellent bottom approached me in dungarees and knee length boots on a certain date and stripped off to reveal a Supergirl costume before ordering me to nibble the toe next to her big toe which would send Goosebumps rippling across her skin, I may just die.
[17] …this post was lost with www.myjourneywithdepression.com and told of five words I would think of when in need of courage and strength in order to keep fighting.
[18] …proof? Alyson Hannigan, Isla Fisher, Rachel Nicholls, Rose McGowan, Rita Hayworth, Maureen O’Hara, Franke Potente and Bernadette Peters to name but a few. Look, I told you, fetish for redheads. Yummy!
...see :)
[19] …obviously these aren’t the actual words, I don’t go around drawing strength from such a random collection of digits.
[20] …or if you surprised by the most obvious twist in cinema history, that bit in The Sixth Sense when you learn Brucie is actually dead. Wow. Never saw that coming!
[21] …favorite sitcom – ever!
[22] …a love of all things Jerry Siegel perhaps? How about my geek knowledge?
[23] …there is a point to all that anyway, as most people will have worked out by now.
[24] …two things there!
[25] …unless I’m oscillating up, then nothing scares me!
[26] …cheers {screwyou@} “)
[27] ..and yes, I’m aware of the hypocrisy here. The reason the domain was called www.myjourneywithdepression.com was (a) that is easier to remember and type and (b) false advertising to get people to join the journey as to what the blog was really about.
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