Jan 302019

Imagine being impotent. The desire for sex, to reproduce is a primal, distinctly human urge, it’s almost an urge too strong to be ignored. It’s survival of the fittest, most virile. The youngest most nubile female meets the hunter that provides for the village. If one can’t have sex one masturbates to relieve the urge to reproduce. If one can’t have sex for psychological or physiological regions one takes viagra or inflate one’s phallus with air.

For a working artist, a vocational artist, an artist that wants and needs to live by producing art and makes sense of the world around himself through art, art is as equally important as air, water food and sex, Maslow’s first rung on the hierarchy of needs. The physiological rung, the very base of a humans needs. As important as air or excretion.

I am that artist, that impotent, hungry, asphyxiating, thirsty and constipated artist. My soul is hurting and the art within me is tearing at my insides, competing with my depression to see which can be the most painful. But lack of motivation due to the depression stops me writing or being an artist and not having the means to write or create art feeds the depression. It’s a feedback loop that tears audibly through my head and hurts. Hurts so much that a lot of the time I just sleep it away. Even now. After being asleep literally ALL day, I am hurting inside, physically, even as I write/finish this note.

I decided at the beginning of the year I had a choice. Stay in London to finish what I came back to do or go back to Cornwall and forget ambition and just be okay with the sea, a dog, maybe a few friends and live out my years forgetting I had dreams of seeing the world, creating more controversy, fulfilling certain bucket list goals.

I’m staying put. In West London. Things are hard, very hard. But I’ve been to gigs, made an effort to talk to people but it’s still not enough. Being an artist/writer is a day job. It isn’t part time jolly’s at the Dublin Castle. It’s hard work and effort that pay off. And I struggle to find the strength. There’s nothing more I can add… That is all.

Jan 162019

I’m feeling suicidal right now. (December 21st 2018) Sitting on the Southbank on my own. And thinking. Don’t panic though. However much I feel worthless and that life just isn’t worth the hassle I won’t be doing anything other than crying to myself. Please. This isn’t a pity party, I don’t want pity or lame platitudes and anyone replying with either will be blocked.

I’m doing what we’re all told to do and talking about mental health. If that make you feel uncomfortable. Fuck off as you’re no friend of mine.

This year has been horrible. I’m now even possibly banned from one of the bike groups I ride with for something that never happened.

I’ve felt too much anxiety to go to gigs. I’ve missed far more than I’ve actually attended. Missed all my favourite bands this year. Missed the Damned, The Members, Killing Joke, Penetration, 999, The Cure, Stiff Little Fingers, Lily Allen, Soft Cell’s last ever dates, Rebellion, Undercover and Skegness.

I’ve written exactly no new words for the book, held precisely no interviews and transcribed maybe five minutes of a previous interview.

Again I’ve lost friends that can’t deal with the honesty of my mental health problems. I’ve been turned down by a mental health group I’ve waited two years to be assessed by. The reason? I might be too aggressive for group therapy. The reason I feel aggressive to the public etc? Because they’re idiots, they make no concessions for mental health and especially in London they feel entitled. AND because the lack of help with my mental heath has made me an angry person with no patience.

To cope I’ve stolen, only Oakley sunglasses, Starbucks merchandise and Hot Wheels cars from Sainsbury’s. It hasn’t helped and got me accused by my peers of something that never happened. I don’t expect any of you to understand but five/ten minutes of extreme adrenaline is a break from the painful boiling, roiling pit of depression in my stomach, intensely similar to the feeling of the loss of a loved one, either by death or the breakup of an important relationship. I’m sure you all know that feeling. Try living with it all day every day.

I’ve self harmed. I can’t have the inside of my left arm tattooed because of the unhealed scars. The irony is I wouldn’t self harm over a tattoo and my Asperger makes it such that I wouldn’t self harm anywhere else other than the inside of my left arm. The reason I self harm? Ten/fifteen minutes of intense bright and shiny pain is better than, or momentary relief from from the roiling, boiling agony. Ultimately I still feel the same as I did last year if not worse.

I’ve provoked fights, got smacked in the head a few times. Again adrenaline relief. Ultimately pointless.

On the whole I’ve just let the anxiety win and slept a lot. Along with FFXIV (a video game), sleep is the ONLY time I don’t feel the pain. FFXIV doesn’t stop the pain but stops me thinking. Sleep is obvious even if I cry myself to sleep.

Impulse purchasing. I’m sure Amazon love me but ultimately all I have is a bunch of pointless shit. Sure it’s great looking forward to it to be delivered tomorrow but what about the next day? More shit?

So the year has been very negative and I realise that sitting here. That’s why it seems better to end it today.

The alternative seems too hard. Sid will be thirteen this year. He’ll go from a bouncy happy dog to a very fast decline. He can still jump into the air from standing, all four legs off the ground! He can still walk four or five miles. Amazing for a twelve year old cocker spaniel. I don’t deserve him. But. If not this year, next year I’ll lose the single most important thing in my life.

I’m sick of being single. I miss loving, sharing and the feel of human contact. Eight years is too long. Only two very unsuccessful dates in all that time. Friends that were horrified I felt anything other than friendship towards them thus I lost the friendships as well.

The alternative to suicide is to work on the book. Go to all the gigs trying to blag that elusive photo/VIP pass. Start interviewing again and get the transcription done. I’ve got to actually work on my photography to a deadline. Hard? You bet your fucking life it’ll be hard. Suicide is definitely easier and stops me upsetting my friends.

Ultimately I really don’t like myself, half my family won’t talk to me and I can only guess that they don’t like me much either. I have VERY few friends that would be willing to come over for a bout of Mario Cart or a meal. In fact I may have only two. Shame then one lives in Spain and the other is firmly a family man with lovely kids and an awesome partner. In three years, only one ‘friend’ has turned up unannounced and then only because he was pissed with me and I refused to answer his phone calls. It make me feel very lonely.

I don’t know how to fix or make close friendships.

So as an alternative I have to embrace and accept my loneliness. Made worse if I’m separated from my cycling friends a couple of times a month due to my unfair ban.

Working, going out, writing a new website, start a new company, found a charity, find a publisher, start making money again, working, blagging, giving up certain coping methods, finding a new group of reliable models and accepting loneliness. OMG but an overdose seems so much easier. Neither is easier, but perhaps as people have always said, I’m tenacious and flog a horse even if it seems to be very dead.

I have much thinking to do. What a sad end to another year as I sit on the Southbank attending a Christmas ride I didn’t know was cancelled but was totally looking forward to. A sad end to the year as I sit here contemplating suicide or a brave new life next year. A sad end to the year as I sit here with tears in my eyes.

If you’re still here reading I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I have much to think about…