This is a story about inevitable disappointment...

Oh no! Bad news!

Time to press the FUCK IT button and self destruct. I just can't take shit like this any longer. Life is one long string of let-downs and anticlimaxes. Life is like being fucked up the arse with a red hot poker, until the day you die.

But, isn't this what separates the winners from the losers: how do you handle the bumps in the road? Do you fall to pieces, or do you pick yourself up, dust yourself off and get back on the horse?

How much can you take before you inevitably conclude that the world's got it in for you? A life of happiness and contentment just aren't on the cards. You're consigned to your fate, which is misery, failure and then death.

You could try to be philosophical and look for a silver lining in every cloud. Maybe the reason why you didn't get that job was because it wasn't meant to be: there's a better job waiting for you just around the corner. Maybe the reason why those shitty things happened was to toughen you up for the challenges ahead.

You could try to be pragmatic; realistic. Give up and get a cat, because you're going to be single and unemployed forever. Nobody wants you. The world's trying to send you a message and that message is crystal clear: fuck off and die.

We seem determined to build an adversarial zero-sum world, where our lives are dominated by stress and rejection. Instead of cooperating, collaborating and sharing, we want to have winners and losers. Instead of everybody having what they need, we want to create a world of haves and have-nots.

I read something the other day suggesting that participation medals for coming last place in a running race were a terrible idea, because they made victory taste less sweet. Supposedly, we'll be less hungry to dominate our peers if we start doing away with the spirit of competition. Yes. Yes, that's the point.

"That's loser talk" I hear you say.

Yes, if you think you're pretty great at something, you can get a bit carried away, can't you?

Remember: there can only be one ultimate winner, in a competitive world.

Taken to its ultimate conclusion, there'll be one person who has all the money, all the sexual partners, all the power. There'll be one person who's the best at sport, music, art, acting, writing, science, adding up numbers, memorising facts, spelling. Anything that you think you're good at and you enjoy... you'll find out you're inferior. Trust me, you're not going to like it.

You might think you're a big fish in your small pond, but remember there are 7 billion people crawling all over the surface of the planet, trying to fuck each other over. Your delusions of grandeur will be shattered and you'll find out that you were simply being used by powerful people, to further their ambitions.

You might think that competition is natural. You might think that survival of the fittest means that humans are evolved to fuck each other over, but in actual fact the success of our species is cooperation not competition.

We have baked adversarial practices into our society. We have the government and the opposition in politics. We have the prosecution and the defence in law. We have legal and illegal; right and wrong; black and white. We have native and immigrant; us and them. We pay our sports stars obscene amounts of money and we have football hooliganism in support of our favourite team.

This is a mistake.

The competition is with nature, not with each other. A hurricane will flatten our houses, so we should cooperate to build stronger buildings. A drought will leave us all thirsty, so we should cooperate to dig a well. Crop failures will leave us all starving, so we should cooperate to store our grain. Lions and tigers will eat us, so we should cooperate to warn each other of approaching danger.

So far as I can see, all the misery and suffering in the world is a man-made problem, because we refuse to rein in the horrible power-hungry and greedy aspects of humanity. Why do we celebrate celebrity, wealth and status? Instead, we should punish and shun the freakishly vain and selfish people, who consume and hoard more than their fair share. Democracy has been perverted to serve the interests of a few rich people, instead of the masses who toil in the factories, fields and build the houses.

If you ever wonder why bad shit happens to you and why life is such a struggle, the answer is fairly easy. In an adversarial competitive system, everybody has to suffer so that one person can be the 'winner'.

I'm now playing a waiting game. I'm clinging on with my fingernails, just waiting for the whole house of cards to collapse and the proletariat to rise up and strike down their cruel masters. Humanity has been enslaved by capitalism for too long. It doesn't work for 99% of humanity, and that's fucked up.

Tags: #politics #capitalism

This is a story about referees...

Here's me travelling to work by boat during the tube strike. But why do you even have to go to work anyway? Why do we need the fancy towers of glass, steel and concrete? Why do we need to move millions of people away from their homes and into the cities every day? Why do we need to inflict untold agony on a huge proportion of humanity, just so we can keep some office chairs warm?

Imagine the global economy to be a game of football: the defenders are the police, army and healthcare professionals; the midfielders are the builders, farmers and fishermen; the attackers are the engineers and scientists. So, who's the referee?

The banks are the referee: they're the ones keeping score.

Banks are simply supposed to keep a tally - a balance - of who's winning the game. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. You can play football without a referee, but it's supposed to be a fairer game if you have somebody impartial to be in charge of the match, running it according to the rules and without cheating.

Why the hell would over 80% of our economy be given to the people keeping score?

If you think about it, most of what goes on at head office is administration. Administration never put food on the table or a roof over anybody's head. Administration is an unnecessary overhead, not a business in its own right.

For sure, administration is hard and complex, but that doesn't mean it's valuable. Just because you've been to business school and got your Masters in Business Administration (MBA) doesn't mean you know fuck all about building a profitable business that adds value to humanity. In fact, you probably got a bit confused and you started to think that administration is the same as business.

If you don't pay your taxes, the government will shut you down. If you don't follow the trading laws, your business is going to get big fines and may be forced to cease trading. However, following the regulations isn't actually the same as running a business.

It's easy to believe that because your business is well administered, your book-keeping is well done and your taxes are all paid, that you're doing a great job. In fact, that's utter horse-shit. What does your business actually do?

So much money is wasted building fancy head offices and filling them full of administrative drones. One office block I worked in actually had a worm farm in the basement in order to eat all the useless paper that was generated by the bean counters.

Do we really need all these people doing bullshit jobs? Do we really need all these records and processes? Is it really helping humanity? Is it making anybody happier?

Today, London was paralysed by a tube strike, but what's the fucking point of those miserable journeys into the office anyway? What got done today? What wouldn't get done if nobody turned up? Would the world end? Would people go hungry or not have a place to live?

"But what about money? What about mortgages?"

Fuck those things.

There are plenty of resources. There's plenty of land to build houses and grow food. There are plenty of rivers and reservoirs. There's plenty of wind and solar energy to be harvested. Fuck sitting at a desk shuffling paper around. Fuck kowtowing to some bean counters.

You've been mortgaged. The reason why you have to do a pointless bullshit job that adds no value to humanity, is because the natural world is being destroyed to create more phallic towers of concrete, full of administrative drones, to add some more fucking zeros onto the digital bank balance of a small-penised oligarch. Does that sound like a useful endeavour to you? Is that how you want to say you spent your life?

It maddens me that we have to get up early in the morning in the middle of winter and struggle to get to 'work' on overcrowded commuter trains, because our bullshit economy worships the referees; the bean counters. The banks are supposed to grease the wheels of commerce, not hoover up all the fucking wealth.

It disgusts me that the lawyers, accountants, bankers and other financial service leeches are wallowing in cash, doing precisely fuck all of any value, and mandating that humanity has to commute across the country twice a day in order to shuffle paper around a desk and move digital money in increasingly pointless complex ways.

In financial markets, we talk about 'naked' positions. That is to say, the trading of a financial product with no need to do so except to try and make a quick buck in the global casino. Futures contracts were invented so that a farmer could sell his corn before it was harvested, in order to buy a combine harvester, and so that the corn flake factory knew exactly what the cost of their raw materials would be. Futures contracts were NOT invented so that some wanker who flies a desk could make an easy buck without so much as breaking a sweat.

The whole fucking system has gone berserk. Money is supposed to be exchangeable for labour or scarce goods, but instead money's just casino chips that have no use outside the global financial markets. We're all paying a heavy human price for our financial services, accounting, legal and administrative world, where we've ended up toiling over ever-growing mountains of worthless paper, instead of trying to build a better life for ourselves and future generations.

What the fuck are we doing, when our most brilliant minds go off to work in head offices, doing administrative and accounting type jobs, writing legal contracts, banking and other kinds of referee type bullshit? What the fuck are we doing, running a football match with 22 referees and a kid with two left feet who can't kick a ball?

Referees don't make a football match. Head offices don't make an economy.

Tags: #capitalism #banking #economics

This is a story about vanity projects...

Do you really and truly believe in altruism? Do you really do random acts of kindness for the benefit of strangers? Are you truly charitable and selfless?

It's fairly obvious that charitable giving and sponsored fun runs are all about the warm fuzzy feeling you get, thinking of yourself as oh-so-beneficent. You're reading this page in English on a computer, smartphone or tablet, so you must be amongst the wealthiest 10% on the planet. Don't you feel a little guilty about that? Quick... give away a tiny fraction of your wealth to make yourself feel a little better!

What about that sponsored skydive or abseil?

"It was so scary and I raised so much money"

Yes, it was scary, but you still wanted to do it, didn't you? It was a tick in the box: something that was on your bucket list. You basically emotionally blackmailed your friends into paying for you to do something you've always wanted to do.

"I ran the marathon and it was really hard"

Yes, but you wanted to run a marathon so you could tell people you've run a marathon. You might like running, or even if you don't, you like telling people that you did something that was really hard. I bet you tell people that you eat things you really don't like the taste of, because they're healthy. You're a real martyr, aren't you?

The point I'm making is that all projects are vanity projects. We can't help but wonder how we're going to be perceived at any moment. Every photo you share on Facebook or Instagram, every word you write on your CV, every time you get dressed... it's all driven by vanity.

"Oh no, not me. I don't care what I look like"

Actually, you do. Perhaps you wear scruffy clothes and leave your hair all messy. But, that's your identity: you like telling people how much you don't care about your appearance. In fact, you've very deliberately cultivated a look. You care very much that people think "hey, look at that person who doesn't care about their appearance" but those people have been duped... you care as much as anybody else. It takes effort to not care as much as you do.

What do we have to do if we want to avoid being accused of being self indulgent and vain? Sit in silence, naked in the corner of a room facing the walls? Never have a personality of our own, an opinion or tastes and aesthetic preferences? Are we supposed to step aside and let the writers, artists, musicians, photographers, actors, dancers, models, poets, interior designers and everybody else do their good work because they're humble and authentic, but anybody else would be vain and self indulgent if they were to attempt self-expression?

I write a lot about my thoughts and feelings. I write a lot about my personality: who I am and where I've come from. I write a lot about what makes me tick. I relate every part of the human condition to my own experiences. I'm totally egocentric, aren't I?

How else are we supposed to understand and relate to the world, except through direct comparison with our own unique set of experiences? Am I supposed to only talk by sharing dead philosophers' quotes and dry academic articles, full of meaningless statistics gathered from faceless opinion polls and psychological tests? Am I supposed to bury my whole personality and shut the fuck up, because only great minds have the right to write and publish, and the hoi polloi exist only to buy and read their great works?

I've given a few university lectures and done a bunch public speaking and let me tell you: it feels good. They say that public speaking is as terrifying as anything you could ever do. I've jumped out of aeroplanes on my own with no instructor holding my hand, and it's true, that first time you stand up and speak is quite scary, but then you relax into it and enjoy it. When people laugh at the right moments and you look at all those attentive faces in the room, lecture theatre or debating chamber, it's a rush; it's a buzz.

If a teacher doesn't have a certain theatrical flair and a desire to be adored by their audience, are they going to be a good teacher? It's always a little stressful, standing up in front of people and performing. There's always a chance that you're going to say something wrong and have a whole bunch of people laughing at you. There's absolutely no way that anybody would put themselves through that kind of ordeal unless they were getting a kick out of it.

I'm not saying teachers and lecturers are bad people; I'm just saying that there's a certain amount of vanity involved. We wanna be adored.

We all want an audience. We all want to be rock stars. We want Twitter and Instagram followers. We want people to read what we write, look at our photographs, like, comment and share. We want to be noticed.

I'm kind of an introvert. I get tired of people and the social performance. I get tired of being on show and playing a role: good boyfriend material, an attentive and loyal friend, a well behaved schoolboy, an obedient slave. Sometimes I just want to draw the curtains and be alone with my thoughts.

However, we all need a stage. We need to feel smart and funny and likeable. If you're sharing passive-aggressive memes on Facebook, you're cultivating the image of somebody shy and introverted, dryly humorous, ironic, witty. If you're putting videos of yourself on Youtube, pulling funny faces and talking nonsensically, you're broadcasting your carefree extrovert big personality. Either way, you want to be adored and you care what the world thinks.

Show me one person who's not self indulgent. Show me one person who's not vain.

Even the most quiet and stoical are well aware that they've become known for being quiet and stoical. We grow into roles, and we feel like we have to maintain that image, because it's so integral to our identity: it's what people expect from us and we don't want to let our audience down.

So, I make no apology for the lack of utility to my writing. I've given up on the idea that "if I can help just one person with my writing, it will have been worth it". Fuck that. I want readers, and millions of them. I want fame. ADORE ME!

What the actual fuck is wrong with a little vanity? Vanity props up self esteem. Vanity makes us feel self-confident, which allows us to get good jobs, attractive sexual partners and be popular amongst our friends. What the fuck is wrong with that?

Excuse me. I now need to go and stand in front of the mirror for a few hours, staring at my own reflection.

Tags: #selfesteem

This is a story about captive thinking...

How long did you have to stay in formal education before you were allowed to investigate your own hypotheses, pen and publish your own papers, unfettered by outside influence?

Your entire schooling was a sifting and sorting exercise, to allegedly find the 'brightest' minds. We have independent and selective schools. We stream children into sets and the 'smartest' are in the top set. The children all sit identical exams which are marked by people who are looking for specific answers: box tickers. The very last thing that our school system encourages is independent thought.

The most obedient and unquestioning children - completely devoid of any free-thinking tendencies - then carry on to university, where they will learn that further education is about massaging egos. The 'right' answer is the one that panders to the person who will be grading the work. You simply need to regurgitate answers that will satisfy the particular academic fetishes of the question setter, re-asserting the status quo and re-affirming the preconceived worldview of those seeking and holding tenure. Nobody ever got anywhere in academia by going against the grain.

Eventually, those who emerge with first-class and 2:1 degrees from red-brick universities, are a single homogenous mass of privileged middle-class people, who have had virtually identical life experiences. Any streak of independent thinking has been thrashed out of 'the cream of the crop' by an education system that attempts to make everything uniform and regular.

If you're learning a dead language - ancient Greek or Latin - then there's a finite limit to what can be studied. You read the classics and then you're tested on a subject which is unchanging, because you're poring over the few available texts. Plato and Socrates aren't going to be writing any more.

Many subjects have a common feature to the academic fetish: the enticement of studying something which you believe you can master, because the pool of available evidence is very unlikely to grow, given that the authors are long since dead.

In order to get published, you need a publisher who is prepared to print your work. Penguin won't even consider authors who are not at least undergraduates. Essentially, the body of literature is shifted away from a reflection of reality and towards the thoughts and views of the handful of people who demonstrated least capacity for free thinking.

Facebook started in universities, as a tool for sharing photos of student nights out. You can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends. All this talk about sophisticated algorithms feeding us fake news and things that we like: utter bullshit.

We have a natural propensity to build groups of socioeconomically and educationally similar people around ourselves. Your Facebook buddies are all from your top set in the selective school that you attended, university friends and people in professional roles just like you. It's your network that chooses what gets shown to you: no fancy algorithms needed.

And so, in this bubble - this echo-chamber - of groupthink, you've learned what to say to get your buddies coo'ing in agreement. You know what is speakable and unspeakable. You have learned never to challenge the status quo or say anything controversial.

If you're looking for a test of this hypothesis, let's look at grammar.

Why is it that when you detect bad grammar, you can't see beyond it? Whoever is expressing their point of view, it doesn't matter how astutely observed and significant their words... if there are grammatical errors, then that's all you can see. There's a kind of force-field that shames people into keeping their mouths shut, no matter how important their contribution.

When Michael Gove said that people don't want experts, in a way he's right. Of course, it's completely ridiculous to suggest that we want a layman flying a plane, performing brain surgery or even fixing the plumbing, but there's a point that's been overlooked by people who consider themselves well educated: you don't know fuck all, mate. Yes... and you did understand the double negative, didn't you?

Just take a look at recent events: a complete failure by politicians, journalists and other professional commentators to read the national mood and have even the slightest idea what's going on right under their noses. To paraphrase the immortal words of Donald Rumsfeld: you didn't know how much you didn't know.

I hate to use this turn of phrase, but ivory towers are rather called to mind. How can you even call yourself an expert, when your expertise is worthless? It's intellectual masturbation. Pointless make-work.

The monopoly that is held on thinking, through the control of publishing, the media and academia, means that there's a single uniform narrative that doesn't chime with reality. Nobody ever got fired for going along with the status quo. Nobody ever failed to get a research grant or lost professional credibility, because they were part of the pack: not challenging or advancing our thinking and theories in the slightest.

For sure, if you want qualifications, kudos and a safe job, it's best if you toe the line and kiss the arses above you. There's bound to be some powerful old man somewhere, who needs his ego regularly polishing. That's your real job: making powerful people feel smart.

This is the fundamental reason why everything gets bogged down with a lack of change: nobody is seeking truth, beauty, simplicity, incontrovertible fact, testable theory matching observable evidence. Instead, we're all just kissing the arse of somebody 'above' us: the question setter; the person marking the test; the old man who controls the money.

There's no place for free thinkers in the academic, political or commercial world.

Tags: #politics

This is a story about keeping a diary...

I nearly wrote about what I had for breakfast. I used to write a blog post and then throw it away and write another one: it was a useful warm-up exercise. Now, there's less quality control: I'm dealing with a lot of competing pressures and I have to write when I really don't feel like writing. It upsets me.

The very last thing that I want to do is start writing about movies and TV that I've watched and other totally banal things that are happening in my uneventful life. I could share pictures of food. Maybe I could write about a really big pooh that I had. No.

There's so much that needs to be written about and so little time. I have no time for shitty diary entries about whatever's grinding my gears at a particular moment. I hate when my writing is so tainted by the immediate demands of bashing words out at a given moment, rather than a natural flow of thoughts that have been slowly brewing and bubbling to the surface.

I was feeling horribly hungover until about now, so I didn't feel like writing earlier. What's the point of doing something when you don't feel like doing it? It's hardly going to be my best work, is it? What's the point of spending your most productive periods watching shitty TV, and cramming your creativity into snatched moments when you've just woken up, or you're tired?

I don't know why I'm so cranky, but I was feeling super annoyed with myself for publishing what I wrote earlier and I deleted it. I actually rewrote my original blog post about not drinking. I'm a little happier with it, but it's a reminder that I want and need to take my pet project seriously. Who wants to read about what I had for breakfast? Who wants to read crap that I wrote when I'm tired or hungover? What's the point of churning out crap?

The Internet is full of crap, and I'm not saying that what I write is great, but you've got to at least try, haven't you? The whole point of my project is that it's something I can be proud of. It might be low quality, but if it's not the best that I can do, then I'm knowingly doing a shit job, which is shameful.

Ideally, I'd like to write at 3pm every day. That feels like the sweet spot. I don't know why, it just is.

But.

Sometimes I want to write at 11am, because there's something I really want to write about.

Also.

I want to write at midnight, because there's a thought bouncing around inside my head and I just have to express it.

And.

I want to write at 8am, because I can't stop thinking about something.

One more thing.

I want to write at 5pm, because I want to write every day and getting it done at five in the evening means that I can relax for the evening.

However.

I want to write at 8pm because that's when it suits me at that particular moment.

Essentially, I'd rather write when it fits naturally, because then I'll write something that I'm pleased with, rather than something rushed. It's not a case of writing for writing's sake, even though it is. Who can possibly say in advance, when they're going to feel like writing?

I've noticed that I have a load of half-finished ideas and forgotten titles: things that I would have ordinarily written about. Instead, those things are lost. I need to start carrying a notebook and to keep better notes. I make a note of the title of a blog post when an idea really speaks to me, but I've written up none of those ideas up because I've not been in the mood when I've sat down at the keyboard.

I feel like I'm losing my mind, because there are so many things rattling around in my head, but they remain unexpressed.

How can I get what I want if I can't express what I want? Am I impossible to please?

It's impossible to know, when my world has been travelling, socialising, fitting in, people pleasing.

Everybody's going to go back to work soon. Time to go back to your job. Party's over.

For me, TV goes off. Writing starts. Writing is my work. Thinking is my world.

Tags: #writing

This is a story about a year in review...

Are you sitting comfortably? Good. Then I'll begin.

For anybody following along at home, there are a few highlights buried in the 600,000+ words I've written to date. There's some required reading for anybody making a study of my psyche.

I decided I wanted to write something more popular and so I drew some graphs explaining mood disorders, like bipolar. It was my most read blog post of 2016.

Along the same lines, I wrote about the onset of depression and attempts to treat it.

I wrote a letter to myself.

I was an inpatient on a secure psychiatric ward, so naturally I came up with a bizarre thought experiment. I even did a drawing of my quantum suicide experiment.

When I was bored out of my mind at work one day, I wrote a short story called The Factory.

If you ever wondered why I have a semicolon tattooed behind my ear, this is half the story.

Everything you never wanted to know about addiction.

But, is it art? This is a good example of me rambling while strung-out. I'm surprised I could even see the keyboard. I just like the title and it's a bit of a private joke, sorry.

There's a 3-part account of the time I lost my mind and started hearing voices.

That'll probably do. There's a lot to get through there.

Of course, there's also the first draft of my novel if you have time to read 53,000 words. I'm going to start editing it tomorrow, so any feedback would be gratefully received.

I've slightly bent the rules, because I have a bit of a warped sense of time, but these are all significant pieces of writing for me, that I associate with the events of 2016.

Happy New Year's Eve.

Tags: #writing #bipolar #depression #suicide #physics #addiction #mentalhealth

This is a story about discipline & routine...

"You can finish that later" she says. Only, there won't be a later if I don't have some scaffolding - a framework - on which to hang the shreds of my life.

Writing isn't just an idle pastime for me. It's a project that gives me some control over my own life. It's something I can work on without some waste-of-space middle manager denying me the opportunity to let my creative juices flow. Who knows when I'll get another job: it's not my decision. What have I got to feel proud about? What reason have I got to get out of bed every day?

When you start taking the odd day off here and there, why not the odd week or two? Why not have a month off, or a year? It's a slippery slope. I know not many people are reading, but knowing that I write every day does give a reason to keep coming back.

When I was writing my novel, I was touched when friends would ask where my next chapter was. It was also really hard work to catch up on my target word count when I got behind. I hate feeling rushed, too.

Of course, you can't really get behind on a blog, but my target is to write every day, not to attain a certain word count by a certain deadline. However, both disciplines are important, if you're taking a writing project seriously, which I am.

Why am I serious about a non-commercial venture that makes me so vulnerable on the public Internet? Why am I so serious about sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings every single day, without fail? Well, it's because it's the only lifeline I feel secure about. People can let you down. Stress can get the better of you. Circumstances can conspire to make your life an unliveable Hell. However, I need nothing more than a screen, an Internet connection and a keyboard, in order to ground myself; to feel content that my story's still being told, by the most reliable source: me.

Obviously, I'm an unreliable source. I can go off the rails; relapse. But, when that happens I'm acutely aware that anybody who's been reading occasionally, will notice that I've gone quiet: I'm not keeping to my routine. It's an early warning system and it's also a role; a duty. I feel a little duty-bound to write every day, in the same way you feel like you have to get up and go to work, even though you don't want to.

You could skip work - bunk off - but you won't. There's something that keeps you going and going, in whatever you do. There are people who are counting on you. What will your boss say? What will your colleagues think?

I broke the spell and I have the kind of job where I can take long chunks of time off anyway. Contracting doesn't mandate that I spend 52 weeks a year flying a desk. If my contract has ended, who's gonna tell me that I need to keep working? The boss? I'm my own boss. The downside of being in charge, is that I'm free on my own recognisance. It's up to me to structure my life: find work and try not to relapse.

I can't leave my writing until "later" or "tomorrow" because it's not some job where I'll get paid my salary anyway. In the world of wage slavery, you know your job will still be there, waiting for you. Until you run your own business, you don't really understand what an opportunity cost is. Everything can wait until tomorrow, in the world of never-ending made up jobs and make-work.

I'm not saying what I do is important per se, but it's important to me. To prioritise writing a novel ahead of looking for a job sounds like madness, but I've worked full time for the best part of 20 years, and I was in full-time education for 13 years before that. There will always be more work, or something else to study, but there's only a finite amount of time and opportunity to create something new.

While the bulk of humanity is engaged in the rote-learning of facts, regurgitation of other people's words and slavishly following rules laid down for them, there's a tiny minority who look at that entire world as absurd and ludicrous. The herd isn't going anywhere and it won't be hard to track down when I need it.

And so, for now, to keep my sanity and preserve my progress, I have to zig when everybody else zags. I have no control over when I'll get hired and what the contract will be, so to give myself some kind of stability and routine, I write.

I write every day.

Tags: #writing

This is a story about insecurity...

The self preservation instinct varies by individual. In theory, we should all be equally risk-averse, because all genetically heritable traits must surely code for self-preservation, by definition. Any genes that would make an individual less likely to want to live, would literally die out. However, we know that people willingly jump out of perfectly good aeroplanes, while others are afraid to leave the house.

When life becomes one long unrewarding fruitless struggle - endless anxiety - then it seems logical that you'd give up hope of things ever getting better. "This will pass" people say. It doesn't. They're wrong.

I've done most of the stressful things in life: moved house, made new friends, asked a girl out on a date, got a job, paid bills, started businesses, balanced the books, paid my taxes, fixed a broken down car, fixed a water leak, fixed a gas leak, been punched in the face, got divorced, been arrested, been locked in a cell, been hospitalised, ran out of money, been homeless.

So, I've been through a lot of shit and survived. I've dealt with a heap of very stressful situations and I managed to get through them without having a nervous breakdown. However, I'm not exactly thrilled about having to start over.

I had become careless with my life, because I'd been suicidally depressed for so long that existence offered nothing but unrelenting pain.

My life attitude has generally been this: start today with whatever I've got, and make the best of it.

It's heartbreaking when you try your best for years and years, but you're thwarted at every turn. Imagine you've patiently observed, practiced and developed your skills. You're doing all the right things, but it's not working because somebody is working against you. I try to win people over. I try to get people onside. I try to convert the bad apples into good apples, rather than chuck them in the bin.

I'm named after a heroin addict: Mr Grant. I don't know his first name. If I took my mum's name, I'd be Nick Newton. If I took my dad's name, I'd be Nick Edmonds.

I had a blazing row with my mum when I was a child, over whether it was ever ethical to write somebody off as a lost cause. Unsurprisingly, my unshakeable belief - for as long as I can remember - has been that nobody is born bad, and nobody should be abandoned. Even the idea of casual dating is unpalatable to me: pick a partner and stick with them; be loyal.

My core beliefs have been tested to breaking point. I've lain myself wide open to be taken advantage of, and people have come and filled their pockets at my expense.

"Where are your friends when you need them?" my flatmate asked me a few times. "They're not there when you need them" he said.

In fact, I never phoned my friends for help. Ironically, the one time I phoned my friends for a favour, was to get rid of my flatmate - who owes me thousands of pounds in unpaid rent and bills - when he refused to leave.

Of course, my friends have been there when I've needed them, but I have a strong instinct to take my problems away from the people who I care about. I don't suck people into the turmoil of my decaying life. If I'm in trouble, I don't want that trouble to spill over onto my friends. If I'm going to kill myself, I'm going to throw up barriers - defences - to stop people getting too close to ground zero.

I haven't been ready to have anybody in my life, because I started to believe the bullshit: I started to think that I was a good-for-nothing write-off lost cause.

Now, a couple of people have stuck by me and been physically present through some of the horrors, and we've come out the other side. With every bit of loyalty, love and care that I've received, it's helped me to heal and repair a little more. It's hard to be objective, but it feels like things are getting better for once.

Everybody needs at least one person who believes in them. One person who'll be there when you really need somebody. One person who's trying to help, not thwart.

I find myself writing with consideration for their feelings and how they might perceive things. I'm starting to think about a positive future, rather than just brain-dumping before I die.

This blog was supposed to be a time-capsule; a smoking gun; a suicide note. This blog was supposed to contain all the things that hold some horrible people to account. It's so much easier if the target of your malice goes down without a fight and quietly dies.

She said to me "awwww, you wrote me a love letter" and it's true. In amongst the bitchy sniping at a bunch of arseholes who've screwed me over, there's a new theme developing: I care about hurting somebody's feelings and damaging a burgeoning relationship. There's something precious to me that I want to protect.

It's fairly hard to think "I hope we don't break up" and "I want to die" at the same time. Obviously, it'd be a logical fallacy to hold both thoughts simultaneously. Reason is a very poor way to tackle emotion, but it seems to be quite hard to be suicidal when you're cuddling on the couch... although not impossible.

When you care about somebody, you can feel insecure: "what if I lose her?"

It's progress, of a kind. I wouldn't say that dating is ever a reason to live, but having a significant other who you're crazy about is an improvement on a situation where your own emotional pain fills your world, to the point where you have no capacity to think or care about the people who would be sad if you were dead.

"Suicide is so selfish."

No, you simply haven't understood. It's you who is selfish, if you expect somebody to endure intolerable agony for your benefit. Believe me: people don't want to die because they're selfish; they want to die because they can't stand the pain and suffering anymore.

Guilt-tripping never works, but kindness, care, compassion and loyalty seem to be a winning combo.

Tags: #suicide #depression #relationships #divorce

This is a story about compatibility...

Very often, when you're acutely aware that there's something that you need to avoid crashing into, you'll end up staring at it, unable to tear your eyes away. When riding a board or a bike, flying, driving or otherwise in motion, you tend to go in the direction you're looking. If you want to avoid a crash, you should look at a spot away from danger.

Is this the reason why we don't talk about taboo subjects, because we're worried about tempting fate? We turn our back on the ugly truth and try to pretend like everything's OK.

My Christmas stocking included some bath salts.

Clearly, Santa has the same dark sense of humour as me. That's great. I think humour is a fantastic way to exorcise the demons of the past. First comes talking, then understanding and finally you can laugh and joke about a topic that was originally quite painful and difficult to remember. Repressing memories and walking on eggshells is no way to move forward.

If we don't have honest conversations where we can talk about how we really think and feel, then we build up a load of sensitive topics. Secrets and lies lead to paranoia and weak relationships. Keeping schtum about my parents' drug use - when I was a child - was too much of a burden. Writing openly has been liberating and has allowed me to move on from shame and regret, to regain my self-esteem and confidence.

I remember a desperate scramble to cover up my admission to The Priory. My psychiatrist had made a referral to a "private hospital" for treatment of an acute episode of bipolar disorder. All perfectly true, but there was a certain economic use of the truth. What would most people think, if they found out that I was spending weeks in the UK's most notorious treatment specialist for drug & alcohol abuse? They would leap to the wrong conclusions, surely?

It's so bloody exhausting keeping up appearances. One must be aware of how things can be [mis]interpreted and people aren't likely to share their true thoughts and feelings: "better keep him away from the kids if he's mentally ill" or "I bet he's a raging alcoholic behind closed doors if he's been in The Priory".

We're brought up to believe that our reputation is like a balloon: one little prick and it goes pop. We're scared to take time off work, because we'll have gaps on our CV that need to be explained. We're scared to share details of our private lives, lest our employers decide we're unreliable and judge us on preconceived notions. Who wants to work with a madman?

When it comes to dating, the same applies. Who wants to date somebody with flaws; defects? Who wants to take a risk on a ticking time bomb; an unsteady ship? And so, I should have found myself unemployable and undateable. "Take your pills, sit in the corner and shut up" says society.

However, if you ever meet me in a work or social context, you may gain the [false?] impression that I'm pleasant company: a healthy, happy and capable member of society, engaged in productive endeavours. Strangely, you might have the wool pulled over your eyes so much that you actually mistake me for a normal human being.

Surely this is thanks to the excellent medication that I take?

Well, no. I don't take any medication. I don't do therapy. I haven't had a course of electro-convulsive shock treatment. I don't even have a psychiatrist at the moment.

"But you're going to murder everybody if you don't take your pills."

Yes, that's right. I'm your worst nightmare. I'm out there, on the dating scene, luring unsuspecting vulnerable young women into my web. I'm a dangerous fantasist; a con-man. I'm so good at living a lie that I've constructed an elaborate fable that looks, smells, tastes and sounds very much like an authentic real life, but it's all fake. It can't be real. What about the secrets we now know?

If you take your secrets and turn them into jokes, you defuse that ticking time bomb... or at least that's my working hypothesis.

I certainly feel a lot happier knowing that I've met somebody with enough of a good sense of humour to make a joke on Christmas Day about my chequered past. I feel less sensitive, paranoid and insecure than ever before. I feel like I'm myself, and that's OK.

Maybe it's just a getting old thing: the realisation that we're all flawed in some way. We're all human. We all have weaknesses and strengths, and we all have history; baggage even. It seems better to wear my heart on my sleeve than present myself as some whiter than white, holier than thou saint who never put a foot wrong in their life.

I doubt I'll ever unify my professional and private identities, but I certainly don't regret jettisoning the traditional approach to dating. Honesty seems to have been the best policy in this case.

Tags: #dating #sex #bipolar #addiction

This is a story about family...

I was born in Aberystwyth, Wales. This is the first house I lived in. We moved around lots when I was growing up - I went to 8 different schools - so I don't really know where to call home. For me, home is where I make it: I have a grab bag in my apartment in London, with a tent and a sleeping bag. I'll survive, but there isn't a family home I would visit ever again. Homelessness is the only option.

I was wondering to myself earlier whether I'm a misanthrope or not. I certainly dislike the stress of rush hour travel and battling crowds. You must wonder why I live and work in London, where it's so densely populated, but I find that it has amazing people, food, culture and lots of jobs for my skills and experience. I live by the river and it's actually pretty quiet down on the Isle of Dogs, as is the Square Mile, where I often get contracts.

I've decided that I don't hate people, but a lot of people seem to hate me. Changing schools so much is disruptive to a child's life. Instead of learning how to make friends and become popular, there's little point if you're going to get yanked out of some place you're happy with and dumped somewhere else. It's fairly obvious that the more disrupted a child's environment, the more they will retreat inwards, in search of some stability and consistency.

Bullying was a big feature of my childhood. It was a daily feature of life until I went to college. It's easy to make a child into a bullying victim: just give them something that marks them out as different. Take a look at the way all the children in school are dressed and make sure you dress your kid differently: turn-ups on their trousers, a jumper when all the other kids are wearing blazers, Clarks shoes when all the other kids are wearing Doc Martens. If they're a girl, dress them like a boy and vice-versa. If they're a boy, make them ride a pink bicycle with ribbons on it. Et cetera, et cetera.

My parents' only hobby was drug taking. In their imagination, there were fucking unicorns and rainbows everywhere and everything they said was profound and important. In their minds they were hard working and intelligent. In reality, they were sat around in a dirty house, dribbling like morons and unable to say a single syllable that was understandable. Their brains were intoxicated by drugs and alcohol and they were antisocial: preferring to spend as much time as possible alone indoors with their drugs.

I'm not sure if my parents are misanthropes, but they sure as shit don't have any friends. They have each other and they seem to think that they're the two smartest people on the planet and everybody else is thick as pig shit. When I feign snobbery and arrogance, it's easy because I just imitate my parents. They used to talk about friends and colleagues behind their back. I would get in trouble if I ever let slip a "mum says..." which taught me about two-faced hateful nasty people.

It's kind of fun to gossip behind people's backs, but having been the victim of social exclusion, bullying and also witnessed the nasty nature of horrible people who say mean things about people behind closed doors, I now try to stop myself. I'm not getting up on my high horse and saying I'm morally superior: I just mean to say that I have strong feelings about it, as it's affected my life. It's almost as if I was the one who suffered for my parents' desire to be hostile to everyone.

There I am. It's fairly obvious from those murderous eyes that I'm pure evil and had been plotting to do all sorts of dastardly deeds, while I was a sperm and an egg.

"My girlfriend" is how my dad referred to my mum. He made me call him and my mum by their first names. I wasn't allowed to call them "Mum" and "Dad". There was open hostility towards me, as if I had planned to ruin their drug binge and screw up their easy carefree life; as if my birth was some pre-meditated malicious atrocity. That's a pretty freaky thing to accuse a small child of.

What else do I know about myself?

Well, I was lonely. I was so desperate for secure, loyal friendships, that I would get very overexcited when I got to spend time with friends. I was super intense and hyper: I had to pack in all the friendship I could, when the opportunity presented itself. Sleep was always of secondary concern to maximising the time available, so it was exhausting seeing me for the short intense bursts that my parents permitted.

A number of my childhood 'friends' were the children of people my parents deemed good enough to hang out with occasionally, because they liked to take drugs. My parents made all objective judgements of people based on whether they liked drugs or not, rather than on personality or intellect. My dad rather styled himself on a man known literally as Mister Mean, who charged his wife and young children rent to live in 'his' house. What a cunt.

The biggest event in my life was the birth of my sister, when I was 10 years old. Parents are supposed to be outnumbered. Children are supposed to grow up with brothers and sisters. It's fucking abusive to have lonely isolated miserable children. Guess what? Children like playing together. Children like being children with other children.

It occurred to me that we spend so much of our time and energy trying to get children to act like adults, which is disingenuous and bound to lead to frustration and misery all round. If you want adult company, go make friends with people your own age. Kids need to be kids, which means play and socialising with their peers. Punishing a child for being childish is abusive.

Yeah, I'm banding round the term 'abuse' quite freely and easily. I'm sorry if there's a very specific context in which you find that English word acceptable, but it has a definition that you're at liberty to look up in the dictionary if you need to. I'm calling things abusive, because they've had life-altering negative effects on me and caused prolonged periods of abject misery. If you've fucked up your child's chances to form meaningful, secure happy relationships and partake in society as a well-rounded individual, you've really fucking abused a kid, OK?

This is turning into a bit of a "poor me, poor me" whinefest, but it's the background of the who am I type stuff I've been thinking about. I know it's horribly egocentric, but tell me, which pill do I take to just forget about this stuff and move on?

"Give me the child until he is seven and I will give you the man" -- Aristotle

Finding myself unable to get along with my peers and finding my parents to be disappointed that I wasn't born as a grown adult independently wealthy Victorian butler, I eventually found that friends' parents and some teachers were very nice to me. Having been raised to act with 'maturity' many adults found my good manners and strong communication skills to be charming. While I could do nothing right at home, I found that the adult world was mainly about kissing arse and saying intelligent sounding things at the right time. Naturally, my peers saw me as aloof and arrogant, which I guess I was.

It's easy to see how I got a head start in life: because I was lonely and isolated. I played on computers when others were playing with their brothers, sisters and friends. When I went to my first job interview, I wasn't intimidated because I felt more comfortable in the adult world than I did with children. When it came to making a good impression at work, people judged me on the fake image of maturity that I projected. In short: I seemed more grown-up than I was.

We're all a little insecure, but I desperately wanted loyal friends and a loving girlfriend. That lifelong damage that you do to a kid when you fuck up their childhood, means that they feel unloved, they don't know how to make friends, missed out on childhood sweethearts and feel distant from their peers. That shit carries over into adult life. Where's the confidence, the gregariousness, the outgoing nature? Where are you going to get that stuff, if all you know is bullying, isolation and disruption to your life that destroys every friendship you've ever cherished?

Every time I've been clingy, intense or a little too full-on... that's coming from that hole that was left in adolescence, where most people are swigging cider in the park and having fumbling trysts in the bushes.

But, I've also been affected by drugs. I'm not afraid of drugs. I don't have a healthy fear and respect of drugs, unlike people who've never been exposed to them. I'm in the situation of having in-depth knowledge of drug taking, but I'm surrounded by educated middle-class professionals who know nothing about drugs (except that if you inject a marijuana you will immediately murder a grandmother to steal her money).

It's crazy to think that the spotty, nerdy unpopular awkward geek who was bullied as fuck, took amphetamines and lost his virginity at the age of 15. Is it crazy? Well, a lot of people think drug taking is cool. It's seen by some simple-minded fools as an act of rebellion. Idiots see themselves as being part of a counter-culture movement, when they make themselves dumb and apathetic, spending their money on a trillion dollar commercial industry, never actually doing anything revolutionary or productive because they're sitting around indoors dribbling and babbling incoherently.

Doesn't it seem only natural that with insecurity and isolation, I would follow in the footsteps of my parents? It sounds like I'm blaming my parents for my addiction, but I'm not (directly). The debate about free will and our ability to make choices, is a complex one. 

"Boring! We've heard all this!"

Yes, but I'm retelling. I've been through Hell and I'm trying to understand everything myself. Through my writing, I'm coming to terms with a mind-boggling amount of experiences that I have to slot into place, in order to make sense of the world and where I fit within it. Life is not black & white; good & bad. I can't simplify things to the point of simply saying I'm a "bad kid" like my parents seemed to decide from very early on. Blaming myself for everything has gotten me nowhere.

No apology or even discussion was forthcoming from my parents, so it's up to me to figure everything out and make the correct judgements based on the evidence and rational investigation of the facts. Yes, it's nice and easy to jump on any one particular thing that seems to be the 'smoking gun' pointing to the fact that I must be an evil little shit sent from Hell to terrorise the world, but there comes a time when that story really doesn't stack up.

I've been wondering why I do a lot of looking back. I have very little control over the future. My future is bound up in the hands of decision makers, who will either give me a role that I'm qualified and experienced to do, in order to get the cash that's needed in this bullshit capitalist society. Otherwise, my life will be ripped to pieces by the vultures that prey on anybody who doesn't fit the mould.

Life's definitely a lot easier when you're not penniless, sick, homeless and addicted to drugs, but it's not as simple as that. What's your purpose? Who are you? What's your identity?

Being a vagrant is actually a fairly strong identity. There is something cool about being half-dead. There's something attractive about the hollow eyes, pale skin and skinny body of heroin chic isn't there? If you don't belong to a sports team; you weren't one of the popular ones at school; you aren't trying to get as many letters after your name as possible; you haven't conflated your professional and private identities... then who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing?

Drugs neatly encapsulate both identity and reward. Instead of getting small dopamine hits by bragging about your promotion at a dinner party, you can get a big dopamine hit by staying at home and taking drugs. Also, you feel that you 'belong' to a special club: you learn to identify other addicts and you feel a connection to them... a sense of belonging.

If you can roll a joint and you have weed, you'll have 'friends'. If you have enough money to buy cocaine, you'll have 'friends' and you'll want to share it because you're not an addict, right? Except you are.

I found - by accident - that drugs gave me the self-confidence that had been stolen from me by my parents. I was able to chat to girls. Pretty much most of the time that I had sex, it was on speed (amphetamine), mushrooms (psilocybin) or Ecstasy (MDMA).

Eventually, I discovered - through dangerous experimentation - a drug that was so powerful that it was a far superior substitute for my abusive ex. She was no longer needed. She was abusive, mean, selfish and unpleasant and I was very glad that the spell was broken, even though it cost me a period of addiction and a lot of money. I wasn't strong enough to leave her, without the drugs.

Now, I'm all cleaned up. I'm a good boy.

But, I'm left wondering about that whole purpose & identity thing.

Tags: #childhood #parents #divorce #drugs #addiction