a beautiful revolution: blog

A beautiful: Playschool

At the age of three I managed to pull a pan of boiling milk over me. I cried. I howled and proceeded to have my sixth GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. I spent the next few months in hospital having skin grafts, physiotherapy and getting my arse whooped at table snooker by a black girl with one arm. The only positive thing about this particular stay in hospital was my bed. It was a proper bed – impossible for ginger midgets to poo under.

The Blessed One appears concerned by my tale and asks to see my scar but completely dismisses the humiliation I felt/feel about the girl with one arm. I show her my scar and insist that the black girl with one arm ‘wouldn’t stand a chance now’. The Blessed One reluctantly agrees.

I am now 4. It is time for me to enter the scary world of kinder garden. I do not want to go. No-sir-ree. I cry. I howl. I have my seventh GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. My Mother tries to comfort me, my Father; still angry about the pooing incident just wants me out of the house. I’m amazed he didn’t ship me off to boarding school. Kinder garden was horrible, horrible, but compared to my first day at proper school - it was a breeze.

The Blessed One wants to know more about my relationship with my Father. ‘Why was your father angry with you. How did it feel knowing he was angry with you?’ she asks, her pen poised.

‘Shite’ I say

She writes it down.

I continue my tale of woe

The fear I felt on my first day at school is beyond words. The place was packed to the rafters with bitchy children and evil teachers desperately trying to groom me for their friends. I wet my pants on several occasions. I only had one friend. His name was Ashley. Looking back, I think Ashley fancied me. We used to play in the playground - whenever the girls said ‘lets play kiss chase’ Ashley would pull a funny face and run away. To this day, I feel deeply hurt that Ashley - my so-called friend – never trusted me with his homosexual secret.

The Blessed One and I have discussed my sexuality in great detail and we have concluded, much to my amazement, that I’m not a closet homosexual. I am a ladies man.

I’m slightly disappointed but decide not to share this with her.

A beautiful: Birth

Where do I begin - At the beginning - The day I was born – November 4th 1966 – Maybe the answers lay there?

Both my parents were present at my birth. It was a wonderful day for them. For me, it was the most terrifying day of my life. I cried. I howled. Maybe that’s where my manic depression began? According to my Mother I was born a blue baby - due to a lack of oxygen. Well of course there was a lack of oxygen – I was having a GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK – my first.

My proud parents took me home and for the next two weeks invited strange people, people I didn’t know – didn’t want to know, round to the house to look at me. I hated it. I cried. I howled and proceeded to have my second GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. My Grandfather had to give me the kiss of life. Before I knew it, I was back in hospital, lying in an incubator, convinced that my parents had come to the end of their tether and had decided to abandon me – in a National health hospital. I cried. I howled. The Doctors said I had whooping cough and pneumonia and that I would have to stay in hospital for the next few months. The Doctors were wrong. I didn’t have whooping cough - I was having a GODDAMN PANICK ATTACK – my third.

My Therapist [the Blessed One] is adamant that my fear of … well, pretty much everything, started there, in that smelly incubator. She thinks we should look at that period of my life in closer detail. Excellent, I think, until I realise that I’ve now got to close my eyes and pretend to be a baby … it’s so humiliating … I am very tempted to wee on her carpet.

The next memory I have is that of my bearded Granny and the local Catholic priest whom, as I recall, was called Our Father, performing the lasts rights above my head. I didn’t like it. I cried. I howled and had my fourth GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. My bearded Granny and the Catholic priest [Our Father] were both convinced that Jesus had saved me – They were wrong. Many years later I explained this to my bearded Granny but she was having none of it - she told me to wash my mouth out with soapy water and sent me straight to bed.

The Blessed One also wants to discuss the relationship I have/had with my bearded Granny. ‘Well that’s easy’ I explain ‘I think she has a hormone problem and she thinks I’m the Devils child’

At the grand old age of one I discovered how cruel, evil and twisted my fellow man could be. I was in hospital, again – apparently there was something wrong with my testicles - ‘they weren’t right’. Whilst they looked perfectly okay to me, I thought it was best if I let the doctors put them in the empty bag that sat below my manhood, just like everyone else’s. Anyway, as I lay in my cot, the night before the operation, the boy opposite, I never asked his name - I had other things on my mind at the time - but for the sake of this post we’ll call him Billy, no, on second thoughts, this may be my only chance of revenge so lets call him … ‘Ginger midget’ … climbed out of his cot and proceeded to poo under mine. I couldn’t believe it. What a bastard, I thought, as Ginger midget wiped his ginger arse on a kitchen towel. I was completely mortified. I couldn’t believe a person could be so cruel. The next thing I can remember is Nurse Jones entering the room and shouting at me … at me, for fucks sake. I cried, tried to explain, she wouldn’t listen and so I proceeded to have my fifth GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. I can clearly see the shame on my Fathers face as Nurse Jones explained my evil deed. From that day on, our relationship was over. I had dishonoured him. His Mother was right. I was the Devils child.

Incubo tre

I wish I could write a post, a serious – no gags intended post about the way I feel. I wish I were brave enough to just say it – straight, instead of sugar coating it in self deprecation. I wish I could find the words to express the pain, the shame, the complete frustration of my life. I wish I could - but I can’t – not tonight.

 

Incubo duo

I know it isn't real. I know it's make believe. But everywhere I look, I can see it shimmering, glistening, like petrol in the sky.

Incubo uno

At first I put it down to the weather, being dumped, and the fact that Tony and George were still ruling the civilized world. But after a while it became impossible to ignore, impossible to fight - The Demons were/are back. In fact they never went away. They just regrouped in the corner of my mind and waited, patiently, like a giant Cobra. Hisssssssssssssss.

I wish I could tell you how, why, or when it began, but I cannot. Depression is not a logical beast. It follows no rule of law. It is a cunt. Your very own Frankenstein – I say your, because it is yours, it belongs to no one else. It’s not real. You can’t see it. It’s an imaginary beast. But what a beast it is. Hisssssssssssss.

It doesn’t matter that people like you, love you, are charmed by you – They don’t understand. They are fools. Their words mean nothing – not a Goddamn thing. Hisssssssssssss.