It's just because...

THE WRITER'S LIFE

I don't know why. I don't know why I'm sitting here now, listening to Suzanne Vega and drowning in my face. This doesn't happen to me. I actually think it's because so much that's good has gone on recently in my universe. I don't mean my own success in publishing books, but family things. Things which I wish I could write about, but then I'd be judged for being somehow sanctimonious. Truth is, everyone who's still in my life agrees that my breakdown was somehow for the best. Freedom of information only goes so far and anyone who still doubts me would see I'm telling the truth. If they bothered to ask. Ask my family and friends. It's paranoia. That's all it is, and that's one other little cunt I need to kick, punch or headbang into submission. I suppose I just want to kick some heads, or content myself with words.

Never mind that I donate any royalties to causes more worthy than me. Nor that I will never stop helping troubled teenagers while those who think too fucking wrongly think there's something "wrong" going on (in your fucking head, cunt. Come and swap places). No matter that I'm supporting someone who's got a bit lost and found themselves almost where I was three years ago. No, fuck all that. I'm a cunt. If I'm a cunt in your mind, then I'd like to remain as such. Because ignorance doesn't recognise ability. As for my mind, you are gone: You are dead and you never even existed. Who? I forget.

And although I brush it all off, like so many other things, the constant feeling of being watched never leaves the paranoid android. I have plenty to say to those who abandoned me for dead three years ago, if only to say I don't blame them. In any case, sometimes the quiet suffering prompts something. So I took to Facebook with a late night introspective:

Like many others, I'm okay. I don't expect to be asked how I'm doing, because I know that most people fear the reply. Truth is, I'd rather I wasn't asked. Same goes for many others.

We know we're impossible to understand. I've got an IQ of 147 (I've had it measured at UCL) and I don't understand it. I'm a writer, and yet I still can't convey it truthfully, despite my many words.

We have good and bad days. We never know which will be next, or when one will turn from good to bad in what could be the last blink or beat.

If there's one thing which can truly break a human heart, it is the human brain.

I don't expect anything from this. I'm posting in the dark hours so that few will see it. I'm just like the rest who are governed by their minds' inability to shut the fuck up.

We don't know what we want. We don't know how to tell others how to deal with us. We treat people like we don't care, when we crave contact. But we don't know what with. We only want contact on our own terms, when it suits us. We are fucking impossible. No-one can answer our questions and we know that we're frightening.

Don't pity me. I just hope that my ability with words has enabled some to read this far and think a little deeper. Those of us with depression do that all that time and we need a conversation. Why the fuck would anyone sane want to try to have a conversation with a mental? Why would you try to engage with someone who just kicks you away?

No, we don't know either.

But this is how it feels, right now, and all the time, before we finally decide to break. The headline picture speaks many words: Not as many as I wish I could write, but it goes some way.

I don't know why I decided to just cut and paste this, but I did. Like the rest of this blog, it was done for one reason I suppose: So that it's indelible and so that I can tell people, "Just read my fucking blog."

Just, because. I don't know.