RFYW

Going off piste a bit here. I’ve been asked to help out on an upcoming film review channel. Honestly, working on something creative – something besides my day job – has really helped my moods.

This is a format demo I’ve submitted: a review of one of the most wretched movies ever made…

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Vlogbrothers – Giving it 1200%

On JJ’s advice I have begun watching the entertaining and hugely informative Nerdfighteria vlogs produced by The Fault in Our Stars author John Green and his brother Hank. Presented for your consideration – Big Pharma in theory and practice:

Where It’s Spent

“That’s inhuman!” a colleague of mine exclaimed last week. I’m consistently waking around 5.30am, which is abhorrent to most people. Further down the spiral – it skips, morning to morning, between 5.23 and 5.25. An unnerving recurrence; a triumph of chaos theory over mundanity.

I like having more of the day to play with. Early breakfast, cup of tea, washed with clean teeth before the paper arrives. Ready for a productive day, beginning with at least two hours of Warframe. Youtube on in the background, playing old episodes of Mock the Week and Have I Got News for You. My wellspring of political thought.

When I’m not killing Grineer, I’d like to be doing this. Typing. Hopefully something worth reading, by myself and by others. Activism is becoming a significant part of my Me, but a consistent failing, as my untrained eye can observe, is when one occupies a single issue, denying the prismatic facets of simply being here.

So being here. 11.53am. Awake for 6 hours, 28 minutes. Waking and reaching for Marina Keegan’s wondrous The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories. Statistically not my thing, but the quality of her writing, the vibrancy of her personality and intellect shine through. Mournfully, so does the significance of her frustrated promise.

I finished Emma Forrest’s Your Voice in my Head. A memoir of mental illness and recovery which doesn’t entrench itself in the minutiae of mental illness and recovery. Love and sex and family and animals and opportunity and self harm and suicide. The tapestry. Take a tapestry and focus upon several threads. If you’ve lived the way I have these past 30 years, you’ll know how well this works.

Read, write, repeat. I need, I want, to fall in love with words again. Actually this is deceitful – I want to love the words of others, which is why (at the start of 4.0) these authors are wellsprings of optimism.

30 years. 6.5 hours. What’s inhuman is not the time you’ve lost. There’s no inherent glory in any time you might have gained. Just don’t frustrate the promise of every second you collapse into.

Read All About It

Apologies for the radio silence. To say things are hectic is lowballing it. From August 1st I will not be working for 3 months. Put simply, I’m exhausted. Emotionally, psychologically, spiritually even. Some days I dread walking into the building, to a job I once loved.

My inspiration is gone. I am very good at what I do, but now I do it mechanically. I’ve become obsessed with making sure my guys can waltz into any position they want. I want my brother and mother and sister and now nephew to be proud of me. I feel responsible for all those I know who cannot work, who can’t defy the demons and limitations forced upon them. I don’t want to die the way my father did; but everything I’m doing holds a mirror up to him.

He cared about his guys but couldn’t bridge the divide when it came to his family. I didn’t really know him at the end, but my impression was always that we withdrew to the point of implosion. Pushing with some vision of an ideal that couldn’t help but crumble.

The consensus is my stepping away is a good decision. One of my guys is taking over from me, and my faith in her is unbound. I have faith in so many people, but deny it to myself. She tells me that its time for me to start thinking about myself.

Part of me is afraid I’m putting a bullet in my career. At least I know that I’ve been judged on my performance, rather than any machinations or schmoozing, and I haven’t been found wanting. Yet again, I’m not engaged in any way I’d describe as healthy. Given the panic attacks, manic freakouts, paranoia, forgetfulness, suicidality, and seizures; I could easily be signed off on medical. I want to take a sabbatical because I don’t want to be a victim. I don’t want the company to pay for me while I’m not working. Sitting at home playing video games would consume most of my time, because I would assume the role of a patient.

‘The self is not something one finds, it is something one creates’. A great many debates can coalescence around words like that. Thomas Szasz said many things, but this stuck with me. Remaining passive, a victim of bastard luck and circumstance, rather than asserting your moral right to exist on your own terms. I can’t always get my head around the principles of the Mad Pride movement; but I engage with the notion that “We” have the right to our own cultural identity. That we’re bound by similar threads and so have a right to highlight and explore the potential therein. I’m kooky enough to think like a Mutant, to want what the X-Men have, because their stories help me quantify my experience of my life and the world we all share.

The immortal Christopher Hitchens described how his father claimed his service during the Second World War constituted ‘the only time he knew what he was doing”. I’ve always felt that about the Clinic. 13 years ago; a teen who nearly sheared his spine leaping from a bridge. Once I could limp from the orthopaedic ward I was transported to a place where I was surrounded by people who understood, one way or another. We talked and we ate together. We played music and made art together. No topic was off limits, because if you can’t share in your darkest hours then all you’ll ever know are shadows.

While we’re dropping names and paraphrasing, I’ll recall something Brody Dalle said in an interview with The Face about 4000 years ago. Her interviewer lightheartedly called her insane. Dalle retorted: ‘sometimes I feel like the most sane person in the world.’ If you’ve ever been in any positions like mine, you’ll get where she was coming from. I don’t want to pontificate or stake a claim to some hidden truth or grand narrative. I’ll say that when you’ve cut down to the bone, the meat and the seed and the rot of it all gives you some perspective.

I have a little time to assess and recreate. I’m going to travel a little, often on a whim I hope, because spontaneity is something I’ve defied. I want to see things, I want to attempt adventures and meet new people. And reconnect with those I’ve missed, for one reason or another. I want to write and I hope you’ll find something worth reading. Because I want an audience; ego does come into it of course, but also because I’ve been told I might have something to say. And, I hope, it’ll prompt people to say something back.

I want to leave y’all with something for now. It says a lot. Some art bleeds from the edge between inspiration, emotion, power and truth. Art like this:

 

Prescription Schism

“Pay £10 to see your GP…” today’s Daily Mirror exclaims, reporting the Royal College of Nursing’s vote to back charges for GP appointments. Beyond the understandably provocative headline, lesser informed cynics such as I aren’t surprised that this has come to pass. Not only because we’re under a Conservative administration, but because the state of the NHS has long emulated the level of basket case.

In England, as of April 1st 2014, the NHS prescription charge stood at £8.05 per item. My repeat script requires coverage for both lithium carbonate (Priadel) at 800mg per day and lamotrigine (Lamictal) at 200mg twice daily . Were it not for my Medical Exemption certificate I would be paying £16 per month for medication that has, arguably, kept me alive.

Curiously I’ve managed a kind of “3 for 2” deal – Lamictal was prescribed for my idiopathic epilepsy, but its often used to alleviate depressive episodes in bipolar affective “disorder”, for which I was prescribed Priadel many years after. In November 2012 Dr Sri wrote a script for an atypical antipsychotic, olanzapine. A third medication addressing the white noise paranoia hissing away in the background, and ultimately a fridge too far in terms of my pharmacotherapy.

That I declined to take the olanzapine is besides the point. My circumstances permit the expense of £24.15 a month, but chronic means chronic, and circumstances can change. I am grateful, I am humbled by the generosity of the British tax payer and, speaking as one of them; I am happy, I am proud that my taxes help provide coverage for others in turn.

But as noble as the National Health Service is, contemplation of its future is likely promote instances of immeasurable terror. I no longer see bipolarism as a disorder, a disease. Living with this disposition, and all of its nuances, I’m inclined to consider it more an immune response than a disease entity in its own right. Dr Sri and I disagree on this point, but his decency and intellect enabled us to work together for my benefit. A calm, reasonable and charismatic man; but also one who – in a stark moment I will never forget – expressed a morbid despair at the limits of the care he was able to provide.

To paraphrase comedian and practising GP Phil Hammond: the best thing the government can do is get out of the NHS. Dr Hammond has turned his hands to many things over the years, including a joint investigation into the disturbing treatment of NHS whistleblowers. Private Eye has, passim, reflected on the disastrously wasteful National Programme for IT – the biggest civilian IT of its kind anywhere in the world, and one reported to have squandered in excess of £12 billion or (as Mail Online noted) ‘…the salaries of more 60,000 nurses for a decade.’

I won’t calculate how many prescriptions that amount would cover. One wonders what Nye Bevan would make of the NHS today, especially since his party, of which I’m a lifelong supporter, has steered it into so many walls.  One expects a Conservative government to screw with the NHS, but its legacy as a force for the greater good is a jewel in Labour’s crown. Tony Blair’s grasp on the NHS suffered a snowballing degeneration, much like his sanity; and after Gordon’s reign of inanity the duty of care and restoration resides with David Cameron.

Or more specifically Jeremy Hunt. A Health Secretary who wanted to exclude celebrations of the NHS from Danny Boyle’s Olympic opening ceremony, has confidence in homeopathy, takes conspicuously ideological positions on abortion and privatisation and was – in the greatest Freudian slip in British broadcasting history – rightly identified as a cunt.

The NHS is in crisis. Depressingly, I cannot remember a time when it wasn’t in crisis. However I can also recall the many acts of dedication and professionalism and kindness that have shined through when it mattered the most. The rapid response of paramedics last week when I suffered one of my worst seizures. The home visits and mobility improvements my grandmother enjoyed. The extraordinary palliative care my aunt received last year as she was consumed by cancerous tumours.

There are practical benefits to the RCN’s considerations. For my part, however, I cannot escape the feeling that such a notion will afflict those the vision of a National Health Service best serves. Those of the most limited means, the poor, the disadvantaged, the disregarded. Those with mental health concerns can require a greater percentage of visits to the GP often long before any diagnosis is forthcoming.

Thankfully a follow up on the Mirror website reported the overwhelming rejection of the proposed motion. The cynic rises in me yet again. What comes next?

Rightfully, Bevan deserves the last word:

Black Eyes

Here I am treading carefully. Trying not to stroke that much-thumbed fetich (paranoid psychosis) in the context of what I’m typing about; although I do have an almost preternatural focus on any tenuous form of synchronicity, so I guess this effort has already faltered.

Let me start again.

As a child of the 1990s, many of my formative years took on a paranormal hue. The X-Files had captured the popular imagination, and pre-millennial tension encouraged a resurgence in “New Age” philosophies and practices. Many people, frequently well-meaning and credulous, took such things to heart; and fostered enduring fascinations within their sons.

Their son recently encountered the ‘Black-Eyed Children.’ Not literally of course, because this rather delicious urban legend is tenuously weighted in reality. Often what repels or intimidates us births our keenest curiosity; and so it is with me and home invasion tales. Alien abduction was my greatest fear as a child; the certainty that I would be teleported from my room the second the lights went out.

Mysterious children, sometimes teens, arriving at your door and attempting to gain entry to your home. “Just let us in. This won’t take long” is a classic gambit, delivered in a hypnotic monotone. The intentions or actions of BECs remain unclear, should they ever cross your threshold. Similarly the rationale of two teenage girls, stabbing a third to appease the entirely fictional Slenderman, is desperately unfathomable.

Fox News took statements from locals regarding the normality and seeming balance of the attackers and their families. With little explanation or justification or causal links, we are again bereft; stranded with the knowledge that sometimes there are no reasons. Or that reasons defy anything rational, anything quantifiable. True horror comes out of sight, and I feel enormous sorrow for all of these children; victim and perpetrators.

Anthony Cotton, attorney for one of the attackers, remarked: “She’s 12 and she has mental health issues,” […] “There’s no questions that she needs to go to the hospital.” Those of a more Icarus bent might frown at the apparent self-evidence of this point. Clearly intervention is necessary, but such tragedies have occurred before and will unfortunately occur again, and it is foolish (dangerous even) to attempt to tie things off like this. No neat bows will get this done, though naturally Mr Cotton’s evocation was far more strategic.

I’ve been distracted I’ll admit, but the backlash against sites like Something Awful and Creepypasta has been relatively muted. And to their credit, Creepypasta posted this heartfelt, sympathetic and dignified statement on June 3rd which I urge anyone concerned about freedom of speech, net neutrality, self-expression or basic goddamn humanity to read:

Statement on the Wisconsin Stabbing.