How Life Turns to Shit in 12 Months or Less OR How to Loose Friends, Alienate Family and Make a Pathetic Ass of Yourself OR Pathetic Confessions to Sins Every One Knows.

Catharsis is good for the soul so they say, since I am a-feared there’s not much of a soul left after these long eleven months and I am currently in a low patch, I can’t really think of what else to do at 6:33PM on a Monday night.

I have been trying to avoid making this post as it will come across as whiny and pathetic but sometimes pride must be sacrificed to heal thy self.

November 2010, work ran dry. At first it was fantastic, no wake up alarms, plenty of X-Box time, rest convalescence. HEAVEN. Then life throws the unwelcomed reminded of reality – No work means No PAY.  I tried to push the worry to the back of my mind and just try to enjoy myself like all good lay-a-bouts.

Then the phone calls and letters came, all saying “Where’s our money? Did you forget us? Where’s our bloody MONEY you lazy bastard!” My family help out as much as they can, sending $300 care packages that kept the roof over our heads for a few days longer. We were in a hole that was getting deeper, wider and a lot fucking darker.

December 2010, still no work. More calls, more letters, more panic. Letters became threats, our friendly landlords turned into money grubbing bastards wanting us out of the house. Panic becomes swearing,   swearing becomes louder and frantic.

Middle of December I finally get my bike back and initially it’s awesome. The awesomeness fades real fucking quick and soon I DREAD getting on the thing. The problem is the accident I had 4 months previous has left a little doom seed in the back of my mind and now it has grown into a full doom tree that starts to drop fruit every time I get on the bike. The doom fruit land with a very sickening thud when I try and ride and soon I can’t get on the bike without feeling sick and so I give up one of few things that brought me happiness.

I force myself to ride to work in January but I feel worse and worse with every day until I can’t get out of bed any longer.

The combination of my hating my job, life, bike and myself, having no money, having no freedom being trapped within my own misery and looking after  my best friend’s house  lead me to my first fall. I take a knife to my arm.

Kate stops me before anything serious happens. We have a long talk which just makes us both feel worse and she calls the Emergency Mental Health team for advice. She said the magic words “He hurt himself” and they are getting a bed ready for me in the psych ward. I argue and yell and scream that “no cunt is taking me to the fucking loony bin” and we delay the dreaded day for 2 months…

(This is going to be a fucking huge block of text so here is a picture of one of my hero's and a fellow loony - Spike Milligan)

January 2011, depression grows deeper and darker, I stop caring about everything, no medication for a few months, don’t care about work, Kate, myself or ANYTHING. I don’t go to work; I don’t leave my borrowed bedroom. Still in the pit, we make a trip to Wollongong to visit my family for my brothers 21^st birthday.

I don’t feel much like partying and being awake is giving me headaches so I slept thru it, it’s easier than being around the living. The next day my brother has a hangover and the shits and doesn’t want to talk to anyone. I have the shits and don’t want to be near anyone. The immovable force meets the very pissed off object and we come to blows. Not my proudest moment.

This makes my blood boil and I leave and walk the 30 minute, all up-hill trip to the nearest train station. Much to my disgust I have a 2 hour wait for the next train to Sydney. I sit and fester and steam in my own self-pity and decide to fuck the train home, I’ll jump in front of it. When it does finally arrive my cowardice wins out and I don’t splatter myself on the rails. Gutless cunts, 1 - 0.

2 hours waiting, 2 hours traveling and still not home. Stuck at central station for another half hour the very angry wheels turn in my mind for plan number 2. I know at home there is a large number of a different size, shape and coloured pills at home from anti-depressants to stool hardeners and a small volume of alcohol. The plan is simple, find the pills, swallow the pills and wash it all down with what’s left of the booze, simple!

By the time I get home Kate has hidden everything sharp or remotely dangerous from me and I am left high and dry again. For the better or worse… January 31^st ends with me still breathing and with everything hidden that could do me enough damage to bump me off, I don’t have much of a choice.

I sleep til the phone rings the next day. My dad calls and tells me to “sort yourself out” there’s a notable pain in his voice which hurts me and I start to cry. This begins a wave of tears that do not stop for a week.

February 2^nd I go to my GP and tell her that I can’t stand being awake, every moment hurts and I want a gun to put a bullet between my eyes.  She does the right thing and sends me to Westmead Emergency to be assessed by the Mental Health Registrar.

We walk back to the car and find that the bastard won’t start. What the hell! The reservoir is empty. 3 2 litter cordial bottles later and the fucker is still empty… Why is there a puddle under the car? Oh fuckkkkkk!  A hose is broken; a very important and expensive hose is broken. One that is right at the base of the engine.  FUCK!!!

Oh well no trip to the hospital today. What’s that? We still have to go? FUCK!!! Kate calls Dave and asks him to take us to the hospital and like a mate… he does. An hour in the waiting room and I am admitted into the ER. 3 more hours waiting and an orderly brings me a sodium free Casserole, surprisingly good - for no salt.  

2 hours later the Registrar pays me a visit and gives me the standard “how crazy are you” exam.  He wants to put me away in the Cumberland Hospital Psych Ward. We both tell him no but he won’t listen. He was a gutless cunt who only wanted to cover his arse.  He is such a gutless cunt, he out right lied about what goes on in the ward. I was promised counselling, monitoring and support. He told Kate that if we did not agree he would have me sectioned. In other words I HAD NO CHOICE.

(another big block of text... Peter Sellers this time, another loony hero)

At 1AM the next morning, a full 7 hours after being admitted, an ambulance crew picked me up and drove me literally around the corner to Cumberland.

By 2:30 I was admitted and they stripped me of my wallet, phone and ciggies. I rapidly found out the ward was not just for the mentally unfortunate, oh no no no no noooo, they also have retards. Retards who don’t know they have to wear clothes in public. Ugly, drooling, simpletons and then it hits me. This is not the treatment ward where I will be helped and healed. Ohhhhh  Fucking NOOOOO. This is where they detain, contain and hide everyone no matter what.

I was given a tranquiliser and put to bed in a room with another guy. I started to cry and slept with my back to the wall. The words “your mine now Prag” (watch OZ for what Prag means) repeated over and over. I tossed and turned and it was a hell of a long night.

This is going to take a hell of a lot of time and text so I think I will end part one here. After all this is just the 3rd of February and we are almost in November... Stay tuned dear readers and only friends.