Skip to main content
 

What Next?

4 min read

This is a story about dreams...

Penny

Here is money. Don't spend it all at once. A starving African child would be grateful to have this money. A boomer could buy a house, go out to the cinema, get a taxi home and still have change left, from this money.

A conversation I keep having with a friend who also suffers from existential angst, ennui and general loathing of the rat race, is what I'd do if I was free from the tyranny of rent/mortgage and career considerations. My friend thinks that things would be no different, except perhaps I would be bored. I disagree, but I don't have an easy answer. I have no burning desire to re-train as a landscape gardener or a vet. I have no desire to swap one career - profession - for a different one.

Having had a 23 year long career, and previously - as a child - suffered the consequences of my parents being lazy loser drop-out druggie bums, who refused to get a job and stop scrounging off their parents. My childhood experiences certainly made me want to go a very different way with my life: to be a valuable, productive member of society; to make a contribution; to have a career and a profession. Now, I want to drop out. I want to drop out of the rat race. I want to be a bum; a tramp even.

The time I spent homeless was chaotic, traumatic and stressful at times, but I have very fond memories of a lot of the time, where I connected with people, community; I had a social life. Life was enjoyable. Now it is not.

The friends who I have, who are free from the tyranny of a bullshit job which they can't afford to lose, lest they lose their home, their money, their credit rating and their dignity... they are not bored. They are busy. They spend time talking to people, about stuff other than how horrible the commute to the office is, and other job-related stuff. They find people they like and they hang out with them, instead of being coerced into spending the vast majority of their waking hours, corralled together with people who are equally resentful about having the prime years of their lives robbed so cheaply.

The gap-year-university-I-built-a-school-in-africa-yah-boo-jolly-hockey-sticks brigade are perhaps happy with their lives, because they had pleasant privileged upbringings, in private or selective schools, surrounded by other socioeconomically advantaged kids at all stages, including when they went to university, which continued into first jobs... marry the girl of your dreams and you've always got plenty of money for a house, car, holiday, and school fees for the next generation to carry on doing what you've always done - the best of everything, always.

We must consider that I never went travelling and I never went to university. Couldn't afford it.

I enjoyed a bit of the London young professional scene, but it's quite an uphill battle if you don't have your group of university buddies as a social group.

I found a group of kitesurfers, who became my social group, which was wonderful.

But it all went wrong. They've all got kids now, but I'm divorced. The childless man, who doesn't fit in anywhere. People have moved on with their lives.

Being homeless was great. Homeless people are a community. It's important to be part of a community.

Obviously I don't aim to be homeless, but I am considering it. Such is the extreme level of my misery, that I feel like I'd be happier homeless; cut loose from the tyranny of capitalism, rent/mortgage, career, salary, job, office, commute and all the rest of it, which makes no sense when none of the rewards are there - I'm not supporting a family, I'm not raising children, I'm not benefitting from any work-related social life.

What next? Seriously, I just want to drop out, and to find other drop-outs; other people who couldn't stand the rat race so much, that they ditched their mortgages/rent, careers and other things which are like a miserable trap, unless you are coerced into that system, because you need to provide a decent home for a child to grow up in, which my parents never did. I can be a nomad and at least I won't be fucking up any children's lives.

 

Tags:

 

Give Me One More Chance

3 min read

This is a story about begging for forgiveness...

Path

Relationships are brutal battlegrounds. Relationships are full of push-and-pull; games; mindfuckery. Relationships are an energy-sapping, life-force-sucking, second-guessing, head-wrecking, confusing and altogether mostly time-wasting exercise.

Sure, I love company. Sure, I love to socialise. Sure, I like my friends. Sure, I like companionship.

However.

I don't need the hassle of anyone disloyal. I don't need any backstabbers. I don't need any parasites. I don't need any spongers. I don't need anyone who's going to give me grief, when I'm just going about my business; trying to get on with my life.

From what I see, including my own first-hand experience, an extraordinary amount of time is wasted on people who are undeserving of our time and attention; people who are manipulative time-wasters.

I've screwed up a relationship, or maybe two, which were really worth saving. Through my own stupidity and foolishness, I've thrown away a really good relationship. I regretted it, for a short while, and I admit that I tried for a short while to see if it was salvageable, but I quickly realised that I was wasting my time... it was too late. I haven't wasted any time on regret since then, but I do think it's a shame. If I could live my life over again, perhaps that's something I might do differently, but I can't, so I don't waste time on impossible hypotheticals.

Not living with regret is liberating. Instead of being made to crawl over broken glass by despicable shits, who aren't worth the time of day, instead, I move on with my life. Nobody's got any hold over me. I don't owe anybody anything, except a debt of gratitude to kind and loving friends, and exes, who offered their love and care unconditionally.

I've been a very lucky guy. I've had some lovely girlfriends. I've been loved.

Only a couple of my ex-girlfriends have been... difficult; unpleasant. I've been treated very well.

I find myself estranged from my parents, which has been such a huge improvement to my life that I struggle to find the words to express how liberating it's been to cut those sociopathic, antisocial, alcoholic, addict, selfish shits out of my life. I'm on good terms with my sister, so I can do family... provided it's not toxic.

I'm divorced, but I've had plenty of fulfilling, rewarding, happy long-term relationships. I can do relationships... provided I'm not getting punched in the face.

I've fallen out with friends, which was sad, but inevitable given how chaotic my life was; how unwell I was. I've drifted out of contact with friends, which was inevitable given that they are consumed with spawning brats to replace themselves with. I have old friends and new friends, so I can do friends... providing we stay somewhat within sight, and within mind; I know from being moved around 8 different schools in my childhood, that no friendship really survives geographical hurdles.

I don't have enough friends. I don't see my sister enough. I don't have the social life and support network that I need. However, I've learned to cope. My shitty childhood taught me to cope with my relationships being ruined by my alcoholic, addict, waster, loser parents, who kept moving me around; 8 different schools.

I think to myself "that's a shame" when I think about "the one that got away" but... I'm used to rebuilding; I'm used to starting over again.

 

Tags:

 

Antisocial

3 min read

This is a story about FOMO...

Street art

Saturday night. Saturday night is supposed to be the highlight of the week. Saturday night is supposed to be special. For me, I dread Saturday night, and indeed the whole weekend. I used to live for the weekend. What happened?

In order to dig myself out of a desperately dire situation, I had to knuckle down and work super hard, for a very prolonged period. I was sick for 9 months out of 12, for a few years, which cost me a fortune in rent and bills, when I had no income to pay with. I've been paying a heavy price for simply being alive. I was being crushed under the enormous financial burden of breathing, sleeping and eating.

I've dug myself out of the hole now.

However, I'm still running scared.

In order to get well and truly out of the hole, I've not been on holiday, I've not travelled, socialised, or made any purchases. I've been living a monastic life.

Seriously.

In the space of nearly 6 months, I saw three people. That's about half a person per month. I've been seing less than one person every month, for half a year. That's crazy.

It's not that I haven't wanted to socialise, but my life got pretty smashed to bits, plus lockdown made things complex. Lots of people endured lengthy lockdowns, seeing very few people, but nobody's had a lockdown quite like me. Nobody who's working and seemingly functional, I must say... I'm sure there are lots of elderly people who have a greater claim to loneliness and isolation than I do.

Why aren't I doing anything about it?

Well, it gets difficult in later life. I moved away from London and Bournemouth, where I have most of my friends. Making friends in a new city is hard at the best of times, and worse still when you're 41 years old; worse still in the middle of a global pandemic.

I have my cat. She's lovely. She's my companion; my furry friend. She keeps me company.

A friend invited me out on Saturday evening, and we met a mutual friend. It was extremely nice. Total surprise, to be out socialising on a Saturday night. I hadn't planned for it at all. I was at home getting drunk; drowning my sorrows. Poor me, poor me; pour me another drink... lol not really, I don't feel sorry for myself except the near-impossible task of digging myself out of the aforementioned hole, but at least I have the opportunity, unlike some.

I'm not antisocial, I'm just under a lot of pressure; I'm fighting for my life; I'm trying to get back to a position of financial security - health, wealth and prosperity.

I don't suffer from Fear Of Missing Out (FOMO) because my life has been dysfunctional for so long. When I do go out socialising, I enjoy myself immensely, but I can't see an easy way to get a social life at the moment. I'm lucky that I have a handful of local friends who make the effort to invite me out, from time to time.

I'm not antisocial. I'm getting back on my feet, slowly.

 

Tags:

 

Virtue Signalling

4 min read

This is a story about Twitter boycotts...

Why so sad?

A loathsome gammon was abusing me on Facebook for anti-racist, anti-transphobic things that I was saying. I was accused of virtue signalling which is a ridiculous charge, when the very basic minimum of human decency is to not be racist, homophobic, transphobic or otherwise persecutory towards minorities. Sure, if I was lecturing people - unsolicited - on why they shouldn't eat red meat, and boasting about what a fine person I am for being vegan, then it would be possibly a bit much, but no... I was just sharing some very non-contentions opinions about the notorious transphobe, J. K. Rowling, and otherwise anti-racist sentiment; nothing that should have drawn a vicious personal attack.

Anyway, I need to break my routine for a couple of days and not post this on Twitter.

Why?

Well, it's not because of virtue signalling.

I'm aware that there's a widespread movement to boycott Twitter for 48 hours, in protest at the length of time it took Twitter to remove anti-Semitic content and instate a temporary ban on the account involved. It's not virtue signalling to see something abhorrent taking place, and take action against it. It's not virtue signalling, to call out hate speech, for example. It's not virtue signalling to agree that we need to be anti-racist and to eradicate anti-Semitism wherever we see it. It's not virtue signalling to participate in civilised society, where we all have a duty to police hateful extremism. Hate speech is not OK, but criticising racists, bigoted people, is more than OK; it's encouraged to criticise the hateful extremists.

I'm aware that there are lots of fads which people get swept up with, like when everyone was posting plain black photos as part of a social media 'blackout' but I fail to see how it's negative or otherwise worthy of criticism. Of course, if the only aim and objective is to appear to empathise with the plight of an oppressed minority, then it's a bit pathetic, but it's better than being silent or ignoring the world around us. I'd rather be criticised for a rather pathetically easy gesture, such as not tweeting for 48 hours, than be amongst the racist bigoted bunch.

If you see virtue in my actions, and you think I'm signalling, tough titties. It's perfectly possible that you see virtue because there is virtue there to be seen. Shouldn't we be aspiring - as a human race - to be more virtuous anyway? Why would you celebrate those without virtue? Why is it a good thing to be barbaric and uncivilised? Why would you think that unvirtuous behaviour is desirable?

Donating a tiny fraction of my wealth to charity, or doing something fun that I was going to do anyway, but sponsored, is something that many people do in order to salve their conscience. Because of said acts of charity, we can feel that we're doing something to address the horrendous inequalities in the world... but it's not true. Charitable giving benefits the giver... charities have proven to be completely ineffective at bringing about any meaningful change in the world; they're an abysmal failure. However, those who give charitably and those who work for charities are trying at least; their intentions are good, even if the main beneficiary is themselves, because they can feel smug and comfortable about their contribution, even though it's ineffective and often downright counter-productive. I approve of the sentiment, even if it's misguided.

Nothing will ever change for the better because of a Twitter boycott, but that's not a reason not to take part.

 

Tags:

 

Liberal Outrage

5 min read

This is a story about school bullies...

Trafalgar Square

Whatever happened to the people who I went to school with? My peer group - those friends who were academic high-achievers like myself - obviously went to university and became six-figure salary earning captains of industry, venture capitalists, tech startup founders, renowned scientists and academics, and all-round paragons of success.

What about all the thickos?

Well, firstly, I don't really count the thickos as peers. They were there in the same school as me at the same time, sure, but they weren't part of my peer group. They were languishing in the lower-set classes, resentful that they were legally mandated to attend school, just waiting to leave and go to prison and/or get pregnant.

Of course, some of the thickos didn't go to prison. They are stacking the shelves in supermarkets or sweeping the streets. Those jobs are very useful to society, so I'm grateful to them for their contribution... except on social media.

Yes, social media is the problem, which is the basis of this essay.

The thickos previously had no platform on which to express their retarded opinions, except to their mates down the pub, or to their girlie mates in the baby circle. Their opinions - mercifully - didn't enter public discourse. Their opinions were not dignified with a platform for them to be shared.

In the early days of the internet, when it came in down the phone with a sound like robots screaming, it was the sole preserve of geeks; a paradise. In fact pre-dating the internet were dial-up bulletin boards, which you had to phone up and some of them only had one or two phone lines, so if somebody else was using it then the number was engaged. You might dial up a bulletin board, leave a message, then not go back for a few days to check for replies - a far cry from the current era of instant notifications from a million different apps, the moment somebody replies or 'likes' what you posted.

The technical complexity of getting online "back in the day" was sufficient to keep the thickos offline. As such, most people you might encounter were highly intelligent and highly educated. Opinions lacked the diversity we see today, given that they were mostly white men of a geeky persuasion, but there was a refreshing lack of morons. Having suffered 13 years of full-time education with a vast horde of intellectually challenged thickos, the internet was paradise.

Technologists have been trying to make tech as "frictionless" as possible, which is to say that the thickos can now press the big child-friendly buttons on their Fisher-Price toy phones and share their racist, homophobic, transphobic, regressive and retarded worldview... which unfortunately is presented on social media as equal to the refined erudite educated considered musings of highly intelligent and respectable individuals.

Another thing is happening.

Given that the paradise world of cyberspace has been lost to the moronic hordes, we have reverted to playground rules: bullies are getting a toe-hold.

Donald Trump succeeded because he speaks idiot; he says the things that idiots say. Trump and his alt-right sycophants - who also include Nigel Farage and all the Brexiteers - are all cut from the same cloth; they all have the same moronic worldview. The thing in particular that I wanted to write about is how childish playground techniques employed by thickos, are being employed in the former paradise of cyberspace.

Gone is rational and reasonable debate. Gone is any attempt to discuss the difficult areas of politcal philosophy, such as attempting to wrestle with the meaning of life. In its place, barbaric morons simply repeat verbatim, various things said by Trump, Farage and other influential figures in their orbit. "Build a wall" and "Britain first" they blurt out, without the faintest comprehension of the deeper meaning and consequences of what they're saying... unable to comprehend the crimes against humanity that they are implicitly demanding, in order to serve their unspoken demand for a white ethnostate.

What I fear most, is that liberal outrage is fuel for the 51.9% of society who are racist cunts. That shower of shits failed abysmally academically and in life - now in prison and/or living on benefits - and like the bullying children who hated the clever kids, the only way for them to exact their revenge is to attack those who are smarter than them. The Trump supporters and Brexiteers love it when the liberal metropolitan intelligentsia squeal with frustration. The alt-right will feel triumphant as society crumbles and burns. "We really stuck it to you there, nerds!" they will yell as human civilisation descends into a barbaric dark age.

For my part, I will never stop taking the bait and fighting the moronic fuckers - wherever I find them - because even though I spent 13 traumatic years of my life, legally trapped in an education system which forced me to be proximate with abusive, bullying thicko moronic cunts who made every day of my life a living hell, I succeeded and they failed.

 

Tags:

 

Habit

4 min read

This is a story about routine...

Laptops

Despite the chaotic - and often traumatic - backdrop to my life, during the past 5 years... I have still managed to write on a very regular basis. I've written from a hospital bed on multiple occasions. I've written from a psychiatric ward on multiple occasions. I've written when I've been dreadfully sick - both physically and mentally - and I've documented the path I've taken, from near-bankruptcy and destitution, to stability.

It might not look very healthy, but it is - my writing is a healthy habit.

I skipped writing over the weekend because I was busy. That's OK. I'm allowing myself to skip the occasional day when I'm busy. I'm not going to force myself to write every single day, without fail.

I have decided that I need to get into the habit of writing fewer than 700 words - it's a limit which forces me to be a bit more focussed on what I want to say, and discourages me from aimlessly rambling. Given that I mostly just write my stream-of-consciousness, it makes sense to create an artificial limit, because my thoughts are unending.

As I have repeated oftentimes before - ad nauseam - I am aiming to try to be more forward-looking, and to not dwell in bitterness and regret from the past; to not wallow in my life's misfortunes and my shitty childhood.

I can tell you for certain that I WILL NOT be writing any kind of "things I'm grateful for" vomit-worthy rubbish. Of course I have things I'm grateful for, and I have a great deal of perspective - I know I'm fortunate in many ways - so I don't need or want to have to write down all those things; it's pretty boring.

I'm glad that my skin isn't all peeled off and dipped in salt and acid. I'm grateful my eyes haven't been gouged out by rusty spoons. I'm grateful that my penis hasn't been cut off and stuffed in my mouth...

No.

I spend a significant proportion of my day reading the news, and whenever I see starving African children - etc - then I think "poor starving African children. We should improve the living conditions for human beings". I do not think "I'm glad I'm not a starving African child" because that's just sociopathic. Obviously it's better not to be a starving African child, but I'm afraid I'm cursed with enough empathy to think "we should improve things" as opposed to "I'm so grateful other people's lives are so shitty".

My routine consists of lying in bed reading the news, a shower, feeding the cat, reading the news, catching up on anything I missed at work, reading the news, work, meetings, reading the news, work, lunch, reading the news, work, meetings, work, reading the news, writing, dinner, reading the news, speaking to friends on the phone, watching documentaries about human suffering, social media, sleep... repeat.

As you can see, I read a lot of news.

I do not watch any TV.

I'm certain that I would be happier if I replaced some of that news reading with socialising, but my routine is predictable and somewhat in my control. The only thing I can't control is the human suffering which I see in the news, but I do care and I do what I can - from the confines of my routine - to improve the lives of humanity. Mostly, I do a lot of thinking about the suffering of humanity, but don't mistake me for somebody who doesn't care and doesn't do anything. The emotional labour is exhausting; the mental labour is exhausting. This shouldn't be underestimated.

Of course I want to change my routine. I want to exercise more. I want to socialise more. I want more excitement; variety. However, the routine gives me a great deal of stability, and the stability gives me health and wealth. Stability is very important to me, having had so many years of chaos and trauma.

My routine is important.

 

Tags:

 

Lockdown Improvements

5 min read

This is a story about the Coronavirus pandemic...

Lighthouse

Many people planned to come out of lockdown with new hobbies, fitter, healthier, happier and myriad other unachievable unrealistic things. I think that we have mostly come out of lockdown fatter, more unfit, poorer, more insecure, lonely, isolated, bored and generally worse off.

I started the lockdown drinking very heavily and eating McDonald's breakfast every morning. I decided that if we were going to be suffering the misery of being under house arrest, then I would treat myself. Quickly I realised that I was going to end up with clogged arteries and morbidly obese. I was eating takeaway several nights a week and not doing any exercise.

I started the lockdown physically dependent on sleeping pills to get to sleep, and using two different tranquillising sedatives to cope with unbearable anxiety. I decided it was too much hassle to try to keep stocked up with the medications I needed during the lockdown, and I calculated that I have enough left to be able to taper myself off. I didn't want to run out of medication suddenly in the middle of a pandemic.

I started the lockdown working on my sofa, fully reclined. I realised that my posture and back would be ruined by working in such a position for 8 hours a day, followed by many more hours on the sofa after finishing work.

Things had to change.

I thought the lockdown would last a month or two, but I must admit that I didn't think it would drag on beyond a quarter of the year. I tried my best to psychologically prepare myself for the lockdown lasting for months, but I was hopeful it'd be all over after 6 to 8 weeks.

I bought a desk and an office chair.

I weaned myself off the sleeping pills and tranquillisers.

I cut down my drinking, and even went teetotal for 6 or 7 weeks.

I started exercising. Not, like, exercising exercising. Just going for a 10km walk every day. Enough to keep me a little bit active, but nothing crazy.

I stopped getting takeaways. All those takeaways were costing quite a lot of money, when they were all added up. Sure, I felt like I could justify spending the money to enjoy some nice food, as compensation for the doom and gloom of the hundreds of thousands of people dying all over the world, and the restrictions to our freedom... but it wasn't healthy and it was costing a packet.

I paid off all my debt. This wasn't so much a planned thing. It was something that just happened to co-incide with the lockdown. However, it feels pretty damn good to have some savings now. I have a net worth again, which feels good. I have some financial security, even if it is pretty negligible. It had been a very long time which I'd been struggling to get my finances sorted, and it's a big relief to be back in the black.

My life is extremely austere and simple. I have my house, my job, my cat, my car; that's it. My health is probably OK. My weight is OK, although I am carrying some extra weight I'd like to shift, as a consequence of lockdown. My finances are OK. My job seems OK. My housing situation is sort of OK. My kitten is great, although my cat is lost... overall OK. My car has a big dent where an idiot crashed into it during lockdown, in a virtually empty car park, but there are more important things in life than having a shiny perfect car.

All things considered, I think I'm one of the lockdown winners - I'm emerging in far better shape than I went into lockdown. Some people have lost their job, or are about to lose their job. Some people have struggled with alcohol and food. Some people have struggled with mental health. In almost every area of my life, things have improved; I look reasonably well positioned to weather a difficult autumn and winter.

Although losing my cat was the worst thing that happened, it has forced me to connect with my neighbours and the wider community, so I have even managed to live a far less isolated and lonely existence under lockdown, than I was living before - I speak to far more people; I'm more connected and socially engaged.

I thought that if I retreated inwards, living and communicating through my blog and social media, then I would find it impossible to get through the lockdown. It looks like a reasonably good decision, to have taken a break.

It helps that it's summer - of course - which lifts my mood and generally creates a more pleasant and favourable backdrop for life, but I feel hopeful that I've got a decent position of health and financial stability to fight through the autumn and winter. I just need to book some holidays now... I've worked non-stop since early January, when I was discharged from hospital.

 

Tags:

 

Tabula Rasa

5 min read

This is a story about starting over...

Missing cat

My cat is missing. She's been missing since 26 June. I've posted leaflets through the door of hundreds of homes in the vicinity. I've posted all over social media. I've alerted all my neighbours through private messaging groups. I've spent countless hours walking around, calling her name, shaking her food. I've put her litter, her blanket and her favourite toys around outside my house, in the hope that she'd smell the scent.

All to no avail.

She's gone.

Was she stolen? Was she hit by a car or a train, and the incident didn't get reported; her body wasn't found? Has somebody started feeding her and taken her in as their own? Was she stolen for profit by an unscrupulous rogue? Is she out there somewhere, lost and hungry?

Whatever has happened - and I'll probably never know - she's gone.

Of course, I can play the coulda woulda shoulda game. In the course of my search for her, I've found out that there are lots of cats just like her which are living quite happily in this safe neighbourhood. We live in a leafy, wealthy suburb, plus the streets have been extra quiet and safe because of the Coronavirus lockdown. Perhaps I could have turned my house into some kind of maximum-security cat prison, but why did I need to worry? I live in a nice place and I have nice neighbours; plenty of cats just like her live very happily in this area.

Whatever has happened, she's gone and I can't do anything about it now.

I don't have a time machine. If I did, would I go back and change anything? It's not realistic to put a metal grille over your windows. It's not realistic to install air-lock style security doors. It's not realistic to secure every skylight, window, door and air-vent, which your determined would-be escapee might use in their bid for freedom. I'm trying to live my life, not become a prison warden to a cat, living in some kind of concrete bunker with bars on the windows and heavy metal cell doors.

If I was messing around with time travel, maybe I should go back further and not get the cat.

Maybe I should go back further in time and not give my first cat to my parents, during the messy divorce.

Maybe I should go back further and fix my marriage.

Maybe I should go back further and not even get with that girl who I later married.

Maybe I should go back further... and not even be born.

This reductio ad absurdum reasoning leads me to conclude that it's futile to start wishing to change things in the past, not least because it's impossible anyway. It's futile and unproductive, and it leads nowhere good.

Maybe I'm just covering my ass because my cat is lost and I feel bad about that; somehow responsible. OK so my decision has led to my cat becoming lost. There. I said it. Does that bring my cat back? No.

Anyway, as is often my way, I'm making another point: there are heaps of things which are less-than-ideal in my past, but I can't do anything about them. I've had a really rough bunch of years, and it's caused me a whole heap of problems, but I can't expunge those unfortunate events from history so I'm going to have to live with everything that's happened.

I had a lengthy break from blogging and social media. I felt like it wouldn't be good to be writing every day during lockdown. I thought that the time would pass incredibly slowly if I was writing my blog during the repetitive and monotonous stay-at-home period, where I've been cooped up under the same roof for more than 3 months, with no company except my cat... who has now disappeared.

My intention is to begin writing regularly again, but I hope that my improved mental health, finances and a generally improved outlook to my life - much more stable than in recent years - will provide a backdrop for a period of writing which seems more like a normal happy life; less full of disaster and violent mood swings; less full of powerful negative emotions and terrible memories; less full of bitterness and hate.

Of course, my writing is therapy for me, and part of therapy is venting - catharsis - so I shall no doubt be launching myself into the occasional angry rant from time to time, but I'm hoping to somewhat turn over a new leaf and start with a clean slate as much as possible... although I can never escape my past, and doubly so because I intend to leave this blog in place unedited, containing all the difficulties I've been through in the 5 years I've been writing it.

I'm hoping that by writing a load of new material which is coming from a much more secure and happy place, it will put some time, space and distance between me and the bad stuff in my past.

 

Tags:

 

All The Suicide Methods

14 min read

This is a story about the control of information...

Poisonous Mushroom

As is often the case, something I have read or watched has prompted me to write. Today, I felt the urgent need to write about methods of killing yourself. I felt compelled to document every single method of committing suicide, which I could possibly think of.

The reason why I would write this down is that the thing which most often draws visitors to my website is something I wrote about suffocation - asphyxiation - as a means of suicide. People also come who are desperately trying to cure themselves of their problems with mental health, alcoholism and addiction. People visit my website for all kinds of different reasons, but as a source of information on how to kill yourself, my site is one of many millions. Our libraries are full of books which explain in exquisite detail how people have ended their own lives, since we took pen to parchment, or chiselled runes into rock. For those who seek, they will find.

I've noticed a lot of criticism of the owner/operators of forums where suicide is predominantly discussed, and prominent popular indviduals who have large social media followings have been criticised for their participation in the online discussion of suicide which has coalesced around their digital persona.

We have to be very clear about something here: people need and want to talk about suicide. Making it a taboo subject, and ridiculous fantasies about book burning and the modern-day digital equivalent - banning websites - fails to address any of the underlying causes of why people take their own lives.

People don't kill themselves because they're encouraged by others, online. People don't kill themselves because they're able to easily find the information about the methods of suicide. The reasons why people kill themselves are as complex as the individuals who end their lives prematurely, and to point the finger of blame is pointless; futile.

While it might be true that we see 'outbreaks' of suicides which cluster together geographically, almost like a conventional viral, bacterial or parasitic infection, passed from person to person, this does not mean that newspapers, magazines, TV & radio stations and the modern digital equivalents, should never talk about suicides, or the methods. There is no evidence to prove that journalistic guidelines have in any way reduced the likelihood that fellow friends, classmates and other people in the vicinity of a suicide, will commit suicide themselves. We are missing the point: if one person in a particular area of the country, of a certain age, living a certain lifestyle, is compelled to end their life, then why should we be surprised that there are many others who are living on the edge too? It is absolutely untrue that the media and the internet is in any way shape or form responsible for pushing and/or prompting people to end their lives.

We also have to answer the difficult question: is it ethical to force a person to live a miserable and unbearable life? Is it unethical to force a person to endure unending suffering?

A documentary I was watching particularly annoyed me when a so-called expert came onto the program to say that suicidal thoughts are usually fleeting, and quickly pass; they essentially said that depression is temporary - in a particularly dismissive manner - and that we should shut up and put up with it. This made me furious.

People don't end their lives whimsically. Suicides are meticulously planned. The formation of the idea of killing one's self is something that has taken place during years of terrible suffering. I say that it is unethical to act in any kind of way to prevent a suffering person from achieving relief from the terrible torments which they have decided are too unbearable. It's their life at the end of the day. It's selfish to ask them to keep living an intolerable miserable suffering-filled existence... for what reason? So that you don't feel sad? Get over yourself. Get a grip. Have some compassion. Show a little empathy.

I believe strongly that suicides are 100% preventable, and that we should aim for zero suicides - nobody should ever commit suicide. However, the solutions are well beyond the scope of this essay, and ask the reader to think the unthinkable, such as improving people's lives, instead of fobbing them off with cheap anti-depressant tablets and abysmal "behavioural therapy" courses developed and delivered by a group of people with the collective IQ of a slug. The evidence is clear: suicide is the number one killer of men under the age of 50, and the suicide rate in young girls and women is growing faster than ever before. Yet, the approach remains unchanged: ineffective medications and ineffective psychological therapies. Also, the circumstances get worse and worse: youth unemployment soars, personal debt soars, global warming and climate change rages out of control, and the chance of having a fulfilling happy life diminishes by a vast amount every single day.

---

So, you came here for the good stuff, right?

OK, here are all the ways you can kill yourself, separated into some different sections.

Poisonings and Overdoses

Almost every substance which a normal person can obtain will result in a slow and painful death. Anybody can find a poisonous mushroom or plant - such as deadly nightshade or hemlock - which will kill you, but it will be extremely unpleasant. It's possible to purchase a large quantity of paracetamol, for example, which will easily cause fatal liver failure, but this is a particularly slow, painful and unpleasant death.

Deaths by overdose are hard to achieve with so-called 'safe' modern medications. Your doctor is unlikely to prescribe you enough opiates to allow you to kill yourself, unless you stockpile your supply, and slow-release formulas can make it hard to commit suicide using swallowed tablets. Barbiturates, which are the number one choice of doctors who wish to commit suicide, are never prescribed. There are deadly medications, such as warfarin, but to obtain them is almost impossible.

Were you able to obtain a poison such as strychnine or cyanide, your death would be surprisingly slow and painful. Potassium cyanide particularly, would not be a pleasant easy death, unless combined with a large dose of sedative and a painkiller, because it essentially induces a heart attack.

Blood Loss and Other Trauma

The body has developed very advanced mechanisms to cope with severe lacerations, and blood vessels will spasm and contract to contain loss of blood. The arteries are generally well protected by the anatomy which has evolved to keep us alive.

Generally speaking, cutting the jugular vein(s) is a reliable method of suicide, but there are many variables: the blade must be sharp, the aim must be true, and the cut must be made with force and certainty. It's more likely that you will end up with a profusely bleeding laceration than a lethal wound.

Cutting one of the carotid arteries must surely be the most reliable way of killing yourself with a knife or razor blade, but detailed anatomical knowledge and a willingness to undergo immense pain, while conducting this surgery on yourself, makes the task almost impossible.

Plunging a sharp object in-between your ribs and into your heart or one of the biggest blood vessels in your body will kill you very quickly, but the chance of you hitting your target is low.

The Japanese Samurai favour disembowelment as an "honourable death". Do not recommend.

Self-immolation would be incredibly painful, and your death would be caused by suffocation: the flames would consume the oxygen from around your body, and your lungs would be burned so badly they would not function. Definitely do not recommend.

Falls From Height

Yes, these will kill you. There is a well documented case of a man who survived a fall from the Golden Gate Bridge, which is about 67 metres (or 220 feet for those who prefer imperial units). In rock climbing terms, that's about 1 rope length, and there are lots of documented cases of rock climbers who have fallen from the top of a cliff and survived.

This is all about the height, and the surface you're landing on. Maximum height and solid landing surface = more certain death. I would say that 8 storeys or more, landing on concrete, rock or something similar like that, would guarantee 'instant' death. Bear in mind that you would need to jump and also endure the fall, which would both be very traumatic, but it would be a 'quick' death versus a poisoning or overdose, for example.

Hanging

Most people who have hanged themselves have died from asphyxiation, and have suffered an incredibly awful death. Death by hanging has a high success rate, but we should be mindful that the final period of that person's life was unimaginably terrible. To asphyxiate elicits one of our most primal panic responses - the hypercapnic alarm response - and we know that many people who have hanged themselves have taken 30 to 90 minutes before they have finally expired. This is one of the most unpleasant deaths I can imagine.

For a hanging to be a quick death, the neck should be broken or the body should be decapitated - either outcome achieves the desired outcome, which is a quick death. It would be advisable - although I advise nobody to commit suicide, of course - to err on the side of caution, and ensure that the 'drop' is sufficient to break the neck at the very least, and if decapitation occurs, then it's far preferable to the alternative: a lengthy asphyxiation.

Electrocution

Most modern domestic and commercial electrical systems are fitted with systems to prevent electrocution, and as such you would be unlikely to be able to electrocute yourself by, for example, dropping an electrical appliance into the bath-tub while you were in it.

In the interests of a full and frank exploration of all the available suicide options, I must tell you that it's possible to obtain a lethal electrical current by simply removing the cover of your fuse box, where there are live parts which do not have the protections which you have throughout your house or other premises.

Touching a live electrical conductor will hurt, a lot, but it won't kill you. In order to kill yourself by electrocution, you must first grip something which is earthed - such as a copper water pipe or the earth clip for your house, usually marked with green and yellow striped insulation - and then touch the live source of electricity with your OTHER hand. Then, the electrical current will flow across your body, through your chest, and your heart will either be very badly damaged or at least enter ventricular fibrillation, where it is unable to pump blood, causing you to lose consciousness immediately.

It's possible that you might only receive a 'mild' electrocution, leaving you with very bad burns, tissue and nerve damage, but otherwise alive. For this reason, it's probably inadvisable for anybody except a trained electrician to commit suicide using this method.

Asphyxiation, Drowning, Suffocation etc

As I wrote before, the hypercapnic alarm response, which is your body's natural reaction to high carbon dioxide levels in your bloodstream, will cause incredible panic and suffering. As such, drowning yourself by attaching weights to your body and jumping into water, would be a terrible, terrible death. Do not recommend.

To attempt to suffocate yourself, perhaps by putting a plastic bag over your head or other somesuch thing, would result in the elicitation of the hypercapnic alarm response and you would tear the bag off your head, driven by instinct. Your primitive survival instincts would override the neocortical modern brain, which we have unfortunately evolved, leading us to want to commit suicide in the first place.

In order to asphyxiate in the manner which we would all wish to die, which is painlessly and peacefully, the solution is simple: we must breathe a gas which contains no oxygen or carbon dioxide. To breathe the gas from your oven puts your neighbours and firefighters at risk, because a gas explosion will be the likely result. Instead, a bottle of helium can be purchased inexpensively, for the usual purpose of filling baloons. Instead, the helium should be used to provide a steady supply of gas to some kind of 'hood' which you wear. By breathing an inert gas like helium, you will quickly lose consciousness and death will follow within some minutes, as your body and brain are deprived of oxygen.

Other

There are things which might work, but are more likely to cause you incredible pain and injury, such as injecting yourself with a bubble of air.

You could obviously starve or dehydrate yourself to death, but this would be time-consuming and result in a slow and painful death, with much suffering.

For those who live in places where firearms are easily obtained, I don't know why you're even reading this: if I could get hold of a gun I'd already be dead, I'm sure. That's not to say that gun control is preventing my suicide; merely that there are easier ways to kill yourself in a country like the UK, but I foolishly have opted for methods which were unlikely to kill me, such as poison, overdose and cutting veins.

The number of ways to cause your body a traumatic injury are innumerable, but an example might be to turn off the airbag on your car and then drive without a seatbelt at 100mph into a concrete pillar which is supporting a bridge.

---

As you can see, the options are multitudinous and you really don't need me to list them. You already knew almost all this stuff, and if you didn't, it was available on a million websites; it was one single Google search away.

As for the charge that I am encouraging, endorsing, glamourising or enabling suicide in any way whatsoever, you are barking up the wrong tree. Look again at the suffering. Look again at the causes of that suffering. Look again at the options available to the victim of that suffering. If it was possible for a suicidal person to endure any longer, they would. If there was an easy option, like a magic pill from a magic doctor who lives in a magic building, then we would see suicide rates falling not climbing. The medical establishment claims to want to preserve life, and it claims to be empirical and evidence-based, yet all the evidence shows that medicine is failing abysmally to deal with the number one killer of men under the age of 50; the fastest growing cause of death of young girls and women. Medicine can f**k off - it's had plenty of chances to do something about the suicide and mental health epidemic, but instead it has rested on its laurels and dished out useless pills, and allowed intolerable living conditions to grow, flourish and proliferate.

If you think my article is somehow dangerous and irresponsible, I suggest you seek your first recourse with those who claim to be practicing so-called medicine, when all the evidence shows that the medications and treatments prescribed are entirely ineffective, and the mental health epidemic and suicide rate are the number one public health emergency, yet your doctor is doing nothing about it - they have their head buried in the sand.

For those of you who came here looking for information on how to commit suicide, I empathise. I've attempted suicide several times. If you want to talk to somebody who lives with suicidal thoughts on a daily basis and has tried every conventional treatment you can possibly imagine, who won't try to "talk you out of doing anything" or otherwise patronise you, my Twitter DMs are open and my email address is publicly available.

If you're suffering, I'm sad about that. I wish people didn't have to commit suicide, but sometimes they do, because the suffering is too unbearable.

 

Still thinking about killing yourself? Please read my essay on how to kill yourself.

Want even more? Please read about why I am planning on committing suicide.

 

Tags:

 

Heartless

9 min read

This is a story about self preservation...

Boxed up

I haven't written for over a month, but the general circumstances of my existence would have been repeated ad nauseam, as they cause me untold amounts of stress & anxiety, for reasons I am about to explain.

I have two more months of paid employment and then I'm potentially back hunting for work again. Even in the best case scenario, where I work every single day between now and the end of March, all that money is accounted for - somebody wants it: the taxman, a bank, a landlord... some vulture or parasite.

My rusty old car has bitten the dust and must be scrapped. I managed to limp it along, spending very little money on it, but it finally became uneconomical to repair it, despite the problem being as seemingly simple as a single broken bolt.

What does a 40 year old man who doesn't own a house or a car, or have a job, have to live for?

This is the question I asked myself on December 19th, when I noticed that my urine was full of blood, and later turned dark brown in colour, with a noxious scent. Later that day, I noticed that my bladder was no longer filling and I knew that my kidneys had failed.

The usual response of a healthy happy person when faced with a life-threatening medical emergency is to hastily make their way to hospital. My response was to wonder how long it would be before the waste products in my body would build up to a sufficient level to trigger a cardiac arrest. I imagined that 3 or 4 days would be adequate. I began the wait.

By December 23rd I was suffering from seizures, blackouts, confusion, muscle pain, abdominal pain, weakness and a host of other symptoms related to multiple organ failure, the complications of having highly toxic blood and massive fluid retention.

Against my will but without protest, I was taken to hospital by ambulance, where I spent two and a half weeks having dialysis for many hours a day, in the hope - the doctors' hope, not mine - that it would save my life. My only concern was that my life would be saved but my kidneys would not, thus rendering me dependent on dialysis sessions, 3 times a week, 4 hours per session, for the rest of my life, in order to remain alive. Of course, under those circumstances I would have committed suicide at the earliest possible opportunity.

I was discharged from hospital to discover that my cat had urinated on almost every single item of clothing that I own. My cat is incredibly intelligent, and she had managed to find a way to squat and pee in every drawer, box, bag and other container of clothing.

Kidney failure prevents the waste products from your muscles from being filtered out of your bloodstream and into your bladder, where they can be urinated away. Pickling your muscles in toxins, virtually immobile in a hospital bed, on a noisy hospital ward for two and a half weeks, was something that left me physically drained and very weak. Dealing with the mountain of cat-urine soaked clothing was a task which was beyond my capabilities, while still recuperating from the ordeal I'd suffered.

During the two and a half weeks when I was in hospital, I had three visitors: my ex-girlfriend, a work colleague and a friend. My ex-girlfriend was staggeringly out of touch with reality and stubbornly refused to drop her fantasy ideas about what the National Health Service is. She visited a few times at the beginning and then I never saw her again. My work colleague reminded me that I'm well liked and respected at work, and that's incredibly valuable. My work gives me a great deal of pride and a sense of identity. My friend reminded me that for all my years of struggle, I've been playing a rigged game all along, and I'm the only one who's been playing by the rules; not cheating.

It seems inevitable that in the not-too distant future, for one reason or another, my temporary employment will end and I will lose not only my source of income, but also any reason to remain in both this city and this country.

I have no relationship to stay here for: that's over.

I have work colleagues here, who are wonderful, but I always maintain a degree of separation between my work life and my private life, notwithstanding this blog (which serves as an invitation for anybody who really wants to be my friend to reach out).

I do love my cat, but she urinates on everything made of fabric or otherwise porous, and destroys anything else which she takes a disliking to: my houseplants, my carpet, my furniture, cables, anything fragile etc. I'm sure that I can find her a loving home where her misbehaviour will be tolerated.

My existence appears to be that of an anti-social hermit, but I assure you that there are hundreds of people who I have to deal with on a professional basis, who find me to be a pleasant and affable fellow; a good colleague. I have a very select few close friends who I maintain regular contact with via phone, email, SMS and other text, voice and video services.

Estranged from my family for over 6 years, with the exception of my sister, and single, this might be cause for loneliness and unhappiness, but I live for my work at the moment, which provides ample social contact, and it seems sensible that I move somewhere where I have at least one close friend - I'm in no mood to become one of those tragic 40+ men who join some kind of club or society in the desperate pathetic hope of gaining a social life.

What about suicide? Well, if the opportunity to die - passively - presents itself again, then I certainly won't be phoning the emergency services. It's barely a month ago that I had a few days to contemplate the fact that I was about to die, and I was quite calm; I was looking forward to the rest and relaxation of being dead.

My priorities remain the same as they always have: to repay my guardian angel and attempt to achieve some kind of financial and housing security, and to reconfigure my life so that the vast amounts of stress, anxiety, boredom and misery heaped upon me by the rat race - causing untold depression - can be replaced by either an alternative, or early death (i.e. suicide).

Thus, I might appear heartless, but it's all a practical necessity to maintain the slim chance that a life worth living might eventually present itself; otherwise the choice is clear: immediate suicide.

I sometimes wonder: am I tough? Am I mean? Am I a sociopath? Am I antisocial? Do I lack empathy? Do I mistreat people?

I think the answer to all those questions is: no. I spent the best part of three weeks in hospital with some people who were just as sick as I was, if not more so, and they really wanted to live. They were tough. I was tough too, but we're all tough, so that means I'm not particularly tough. None of us are tough. The answer to the rest of the questions is clearly no, because the evidence points overwhelmingly to the contrary. I'm just surviving; that's all I'm doing - I'm doing what needs to be done to get through every miserable, awful, unbearable day.

If you think I owe you something, believe me I know about it. Believe me, I think about it more than you think about it. Does that mean that you're going to get a gift-wrapped package in the mail with a red ribbon on it, containing what you're 'owed'. No f**king way. Get to the back of the queue, buddy. Do you think I spend a lot of time thinking about what I'm owed? Sometimes I realise that if everybody who's picked my pocket coughed up their debts to me, then I'd have that financial security that I so desperately need, but I'm happy with the way that I've lived my life; I don't regret trusting people and taking chances.

So, where are we? Ah yes, self preservation. I basically need to work every single day I can for two solid months, just to have a bank balance of zero pounds and zero pence and not owe anything to anybody, and not have any valuable assets to my name. When I wrote "self preservation" at the top of this blog post, I did so with extreme sarcasm, because my life is literally preserved without my consent; if it had been up to me, I wouldn't have been born, I wouldn't have been 'saved' all those many times; I wouldn't have survived at all, and I'd be glad of it, because I would be resting in peace.

I do of course have people - and cats - who I love and I would 'miss' (although this is an oxymoron, obviously, to imagine that the dead are capable of missing anybody) and who would miss me, but it's selfish to want people who are in pain to go on living, when their quality of life is intolerable: this is why we euthanise our pets with no qualms; it's more humane.

If you think I'm heartless and lack empathy, you are mistaken, you are a fool, and you're no friend of mine.

 

Tags: