What Have I become?
(Johnny Cash)
For my Bunkey.
Mah Fookin’ Life...
(For my little friend).
An autobiography-ette: born 1970; not dead yet.
“Life; Don’t talk to me about life.”
“Life” as we understand it is merely a transitory period of an ongoing existence, the greatness of which we don’t yet understand.
Where to start?
Am I being self-indulgent in writing this? You be the judge if you wish to judge me. For me this is therapy and an outlet.
For starters I’ve been advised to write this as a work of fiction, as no-one will believe that the truth which is my life is – well – true. Here goes...
The first few notes just happen to be Doh, Ray, Me: me; a word I call myself (others call me different things, mainly words beginning with “C”: Card, Character, Charismatic. There was another one but it eludes me); Far, a long long way to run. If only I could! If only I could open my skull, remove my brain and put a simpler one in: a planet would suffice (the mice from Hitch Hikers’ Guide to the Galaxy?)
Talking of all things space, I’m currently residing with The Mother Ship: that’s my mum. I’m here in Tonbridge because I fucked up yet again: Doh! (A deer; a female deer).
Danielle: the love of my life, or so I thought: fucked it up, lost the lovely flat we’d put together, together and got kicked out. Our relationship was, shall we say physical? More on that later.
Before Danielle, there was Jill; the mother of my two beautiful children: Louis (almost 9) and Lola (almost 7); no matter how old though, whenever I’m asked how Louis and Lola are, I simply reply, “Louis and Lola”.
“How’s Steve?”
“He’s Steve.”
Back to Jill and my life, as was: I fucked that one up as well, lost another home, the business we ran together and now have limited, supervised access to the kids. I have violent tendencies; never towards the kids but I’ve had the aforementioned “physical” relationship with Danielle and others before her. Too much information? As I said, I wear my heart on my sleeve: judge me if you wish. Disown me; show true colours as I am mine.
If this stream-of-consciousness, outpouring-of-emotion, (call it what you will) seems inappropriate, you can always leave me alone. A cry for help? I took an overdose of Mirtazipine this week and got a fucking good nights’ sleep! There’s me wearing my heart on my sleeve again.
I’m clinically depressed (on Fluoxetine), alcohol-dependent but receiving treatment for both (Dear Heart, meet sleeve again). This is prescribed therapy for me, the writing. Too much information for a public forum perhaps but if one person gains something positive from what I’m doing here then I’ve served some purpose. Judge me if you wish. I don’t judge others. Everyone comes with baggage (they’ve lived a life) and everyone deserves another chance.
I’ve lost friends, alienated my family and been barred from my old local: The Railway Tavern in Bexley, wherein I left many friends behind. And all because of my love affair with the demon drink. It’s been more important to me than all the wonderful things I’ve allowed it to take away. But it’s my fault and I know that: I admit it. Now I just want my life back. I won’t get Danielle back, nor Jill, nor various homes, nor the business, nor friends and family. The closest of the latter are still bearing with me and I’m grateful. I only wish I had the means to thank them all. I’m trying; that being the operative word I guess.
People say they want me back too but “me” is the person I am when I’ve been drinking: the one who cracks inappropriate jokes; says things aloud that no-one else would dare but has never been beaten up because my mouth should have landed me in trouble. I don’t have Asperger’s though, nor Tourette’s (fun though that might be). I am ill though: I hope people can understand that this is an illness.
Do you want to read further? “Do you wanna come closer?”
(Johnny Cash)
For my Bunkey.
Mah Fookin’ Life...
(For my little friend).
An autobiography-ette: born 1970; not dead yet.
“Life; Don’t talk to me about life.”
“Life” as we understand it is merely a transitory period of an ongoing existence, the greatness of which we don’t yet understand.
Where to start?
Am I being self-indulgent in writing this? You be the judge if you wish to judge me. For me this is therapy and an outlet.
For starters I’ve been advised to write this as a work of fiction, as no-one will believe that the truth which is my life is – well – true. Here goes...
The first few notes just happen to be Doh, Ray, Me: me; a word I call myself (others call me different things, mainly words beginning with “C”: Card, Character, Charismatic. There was another one but it eludes me); Far, a long long way to run. If only I could! If only I could open my skull, remove my brain and put a simpler one in: a planet would suffice (the mice from Hitch Hikers’ Guide to the Galaxy?)
Talking of all things space, I’m currently residing with The Mother Ship: that’s my mum. I’m here in Tonbridge because I fucked up yet again: Doh! (A deer; a female deer).
Danielle: the love of my life, or so I thought: fucked it up, lost the lovely flat we’d put together, together and got kicked out. Our relationship was, shall we say physical? More on that later.
Before Danielle, there was Jill; the mother of my two beautiful children: Louis (almost 9) and Lola (almost 7); no matter how old though, whenever I’m asked how Louis and Lola are, I simply reply, “Louis and Lola”.
“How’s Steve?”
“He’s Steve.”
Back to Jill and my life, as was: I fucked that one up as well, lost another home, the business we ran together and now have limited, supervised access to the kids. I have violent tendencies; never towards the kids but I’ve had the aforementioned “physical” relationship with Danielle and others before her. Too much information? As I said, I wear my heart on my sleeve: judge me if you wish. Disown me; show true colours as I am mine.
If this stream-of-consciousness, outpouring-of-emotion, (call it what you will) seems inappropriate, you can always leave me alone. A cry for help? I took an overdose of Mirtazipine this week and got a fucking good nights’ sleep! There’s me wearing my heart on my sleeve again.
I’m clinically depressed (on Fluoxetine), alcohol-dependent but receiving treatment for both (Dear Heart, meet sleeve again). This is prescribed therapy for me, the writing. Too much information for a public forum perhaps but if one person gains something positive from what I’m doing here then I’ve served some purpose. Judge me if you wish. I don’t judge others. Everyone comes with baggage (they’ve lived a life) and everyone deserves another chance.
I’ve lost friends, alienated my family and been barred from my old local: The Railway Tavern in Bexley, wherein I left many friends behind. And all because of my love affair with the demon drink. It’s been more important to me than all the wonderful things I’ve allowed it to take away. But it’s my fault and I know that: I admit it. Now I just want my life back. I won’t get Danielle back, nor Jill, nor various homes, nor the business, nor friends and family. The closest of the latter are still bearing with me and I’m grateful. I only wish I had the means to thank them all. I’m trying; that being the operative word I guess.
People say they want me back too but “me” is the person I am when I’ve been drinking: the one who cracks inappropriate jokes; says things aloud that no-one else would dare but has never been beaten up because my mouth should have landed me in trouble. I don’t have Asperger’s though, nor Tourette’s (fun though that might be). I am ill though: I hope people can understand that this is an illness.
Do you want to read further? “Do you wanna come closer?”
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