Overcoming Mental Illness

If you had told me 14 days ago that I would be sitting in an internet cafe in Alice Springs, pretty much in the dead red heart of Australia about to commence a new job and a whole new life - I would probably have guffawed one of those huge belly laughs in your face and hoped not to get any spittle on you.

But yet here I am, in the middle of a town in the middle of a desert surrounded by thousands upon thousands of kilometres of red dust, camels and backpacking tourists eager to take trips out to the Rock (which is 500km away by the way).

So yeah.

Absolutely insane crazy day at the end of an absolutely insane crazy week at the end of an absolutely insane crazy month at the end of an insane crazy eighteen months! Is it any wonder I’m completely and utterly insane on every level? I mean who ups and moves to the middle of the desert without ever having gone there before - potentially for the rest of his life.

Someone who runs from social contact, that would be who!

Alice Springs, however, is a far nicer place than Sydney. I’ll be honest, I seriously didn’t like Sydney. As a city there was nothing wrong with it - but unlike other cities (Vancouver, Montreal, Quebec, Brussels, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Inverness, Melbourne, Adelaide…as examples) that I’ve been to, there was just no spark in any way throughout the entire time that I was there. It was just - yep, that’s a skyscraper, yep that’s a shop, yep that’s a bus, yep that’s a somewhat arrogant yuppified moron who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.

This wee town in the middle of nowhere positively bristles with activity. Tourists buzzing around checking out art and planning their tours and trips and camping excursions before throwing themselves into their swimwear and basking by the pool for a few hours. Not a bad sight I should tell you. Locals buzzing around in a slightly less frenzied state than the tourists, but then locals always do.

So yeah.

All this insane shenanigans, flying thousands of miles, uprooting myself (again), generally not having any time to check the interent, visit my support network sites or just be “normal” (which let’s be honest I hardly am anyway) is taking it’s toll on the state of my mind somewhat but I am (a) too exhausted (b) too confused and (c) too much in an internal mixed state to even begin to explain the ramifications of such activity on the state of a bipolar mind right now.

When the mood has settled down a little, when the mania has subsided a little, I’m sure it will come. Until then I will watch the stars and try and actually stop for two seconds to take in what is currently happening; something I have yet to do at any point in time over the last 14 days.

…and yeah, okay, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what film it’s from - but hey - it’s a great song, and she’s a bloody wonderful singer; so for your enjoyment we have Regina Spektor’s “The Call”…

Contrary to popular belief I haven’t yet dropped off the face of the earth :)

Where and/or when I decided it had become popular belief that this is what had happened to me I’m not sure, most likely a few moments ago as I struggled to come up with a sentence to begin this blog post. I’m not even sure what I want to write about at the moment, but as my online presence has been somewhat lax over the last several days I thought it might be a good idea to post something in case people started thinking I’d taken another overdose or something - and no, there are going to be no random butt photos in this post, so if that’s what you’re here for I suggest you stave off your hunger for sexy butts and hang on in there because I’m sure there’ll be another one popping up someday ;)

I have been in Sydney now for the last six days and I can tell you I have so far seen only TWO of the main tourist attractions of this fair city. A term I have decided to use to not insult any Sydneysiders out there, for when I write my main “Addy in Sydney” post tomorrow (once I’ve seen more than just TWO of the main tourist attractions of this fair city, it will most likely become a little clearer that I haven’t been all that smitten with this city of late.

In fact I’ve been more smitten with pretty much every city I’ve ever been to; even Montreal which I was almost ashamed to explore following a random moment of kinky embarrassment which I suffered after only a few hours off the train.

Just to actually make this post about something, the TWO attractions I have seen are - painfully obviously - the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. Doesn’t everyone who comes to this city for the first time make these world famous icons their first port of call? Well, use that term lightly with me, because my first port of call was in fact a small ludicrously over-priced supermarket as I was bloody hungry and needed some shampoo. Not that I was hungry for shampoo, I was hungry for a vegemite sandwich, which I ate before washing my hair.

So yeah, in the last six days in this city I have seen the Harbour Bridge - my fourth most favourite bridge in the world - and the Opera House, my seventeenth most favourite opera house in the world (I’m keeping the first sixteen spots open incase I ever come across other opera houses, so I guess, for now, it’s my favourite opera house in the world!)

Tomorrow a lot more is planned, so you will no doubt enjoy recounting of my skirmishes in the Botanical Gardens, the joys and wonderment of the Art Gallery and Modern Art Gallery. Plus, if I can actually find any, my review of a second hand book shop; usually I can smell them out within minutes of arriving in a city, with Sydney, no such luck as yet but I’m sure it will happen.

So kinda treat this post as a prelude to a more wacky one which will appear tomorrow. I’m still alive, still doing okay (kindof a good word to describe me at the moment, nothing more, nothing less right now) and hoping tomorrows post will have a little more point!

PS…just to keep you up-to-date, in the great “What Superhero do you wanna…?” poll, the current contenders for most shaggable are Catwoman in the female category (No surprise really…leather! Whip! Purring! Go figure!) and in the male category we have Batman and Spidermanbattling it out for supremecy. If you have yet to cast your vote in this slightly inane and incredibly pointless poll you can do so here.

PPS…33 hours and counting before I goes outback on you all.

The last four weeks have been somewhat action packed for me:

• Saying goodbye to my family once again.
• Saying goodbye to the UK once again.
• Returning to Melbourne; the place where everything in my life collapsed to the point that it cost me everything, including very nearly my life - on a few occasions.
• Working myself to exhaustion with no income, little funds and few meals to rebuild my life from scratch.
• Self harm reared it’s head.
• As did side effects from the medication, which was helping me focus, but still, who likes side effects?
• Few moments of pleasure interspersed between the constant work and interviews.
• Living in hostels, surrounded by people and little personal space, challenged my social anxiety and on many occasions panic ensued.
• A mixed episode saw several manic and severe depression phases which were tough to work through, affecting both physical and mental health somewhat.
• An overdose and night spent at the hospital.
• And all the other stuff which has appeared on the blog in various guises.

And let’s not even list everything I’ve been through over the last eighteen months - we’d be here til Christmas 2056!!

To say I am exhausted is an understatement. I’ve barely slept, my mind has raced with flashbacks and hallucinations. To say I am surprised I’m still standing is an understatement!

But then I think about something, something wonderful and something…interesting.

You won’t hear me say it often, perhaps it’s because I haven’t slept much…

…but here we go…

…I think about just how amazingly wonderfully intensely AWESOME I am!

Seriously, I don’t care if people think I’m useless and pathetic. I don’t care if they think I’m grotesque or not worthy of anything. I just don’t care at the moment. Over the last eighteen months I’ve had so much shit thrown at me, I’ve been to hell and back (many times) and have resided in places I hope none of you ever visit in your lifetime. I have done things I’ve never spoken of and witnessed things which I’ve never spoken of. I have dragged my reasonably cute butt out of the chasm on many many occasions and stood fast and fought hard against all the shit I’ve had thrown at me.

A useless, pathetic, unpassionate man would have curled up and died.

Me?

I kept fighting…kept working…kept battling…kept trying…kept doing everything I could.

Because I’m more passionate, more committed, more caring than most I’ve met.

I have a strength few people ever see, because I usually don’t let them. I will however let you in on a secret.

If you’re looking for strength - if you need some from yourself - all you have to do is find one thing just one thing; a place, person, object or emotion to focus on.
Focus on it with every ounce of your heart and soul and I guarantee the strength will come.

My something, it’s easy, it’s just: 
FIVE (SIMPLE) WORDS 
That’s what gives me strength, it’s what has given me strength for the last eighteen months and what will give me strength through the times ahead.

So for once, just this once, give me this moment.

Give me my modest bastard moment!

‘Cause I’m a bloody strong, amazing and awesome man who occasionally, very occasionally, is an inspiration and should be looked up to.

[PS...don't ask what the five (simple) words are. I can't tell you! I'm not being mysterious. I just can't tell you. There are only about three people I could tell in the RL who would 'get them' anyway, but seriously, I can't mention them here. Simply because they're something I just cannot talk about on the blog and if you knew the words you would understand why that was.]

It’s been about eight months since this blog first started on Blogspot.

It’s been about five months since this blog first moved across to Wordpress.

It’s been about three months since this blog first took up residence this domain.

Throughout this time I have been fighting hard to understand, control, combat and manage my mental illnessesas well as my physical ones. I have battled throughout the majority of this time by myself, with some steadfast wonderful people in the wings to support and offer friendship at times when I thought no-one cared. Then there are the wonderful people who I have met through the blog, and have commented and supported it (and me) throughout it’s various guises.

So it’s nice for me to actually be able to post some good news for a change :)

As most of you are aware things have been ludicrously tough for me over the last eighteen months. Since getting my depression, self harm and social anxiety under control in late 2006/early 2007 things just spiralled unfairly out of control. I have battled and fought hard to make things work, but every time I got anywhere it was almost as if fate had decided I was not deserving of it and consistently threw up barricades and fresh hurdles for me to attempt to vault over. I fell at some, and others I am no where close to overcoming - rather sidling around them hoping no-one would notice and I’ll deal with them in twenty or so years (that’s even if I do!)

Well, all this hard work which has exhausted me physically, emotionally and mentally to the point that even seven days ago I was thinking of giving up,  has paid off a little.

On Monday I was offered one of those jobs you’d be an idiot to turn down.

Just five days ago now…and tomorrow, everything changes, yet again!

For tomorrow I leave Melbourne indefinitely, bound for Sydney for some training and then onto Alice Springs - slap bang in the red heart of Australia - to take up full time employment.

Now I’ve never been to Sydney before.

Nor have I ever been to Alice Springs before.

So the thought of moving there is a little daunting. Plus, it hasn’t sunk in at allyet so come tomorrow I’ll probably be a humongous barrel of nerves and flighty feelings…then when I get to Alice things will be very interesting.

New town.

New job.

New place to live (when I actually find one - man, to have a “home” again!)

Same old hallucinations to keep me company :)

So for a little while I expect this blog veer away from the ‘wacky-crazy-kinky mental illness awareness stuff; with the odd bit of nudity thrown in for fun times’ into more of a ‘wacky-crazy-kinky travelogue of Addy’s escapades in Sydney and Alice; with the odd bit of nudity thrown in for fun times’.

I’m gonna be exploring a new city for the next week, the biggest in Oz, and far more recognisable to people around the world then wee little Melbourne is. So hopefully there will be pictures, ya never know.

So yeah, things have just got very interesting; daunting, frightening and a mite anxiety inducing - but very interesting in another way also; exciting, awesome and a mite smile inducing.

It’s funny how life is sometimes.

For the first time since February 2007 - I have a future “life“, rather than merely a future “existence” :) 

Until Sydney…be safe, be well, be happy.

So yesterday in a fit of hypermanic energy I wrote one of the most random posts I’ve ever written. It seemed like such a good idea at the time, a lovely little post full of spot on observations and theories about why it is so hard to ask for help. A topic close to my heart, considering I’d rather gouge out my own fingernails with a screwdriver than pick up a phone and dial someone who cares about me to say those four little letters.

I should point out that I have never actually gouged out my fingernails with a screwdriver, nor have I even attempted to do so.

What sparked that post was a conversation I’d had on the Wednesday, part featured in the post, and itself sparked from my utterly crazy weekend which had begun on Friday (as talked about in this post) and continued through Saturday night and all Sunday - which is what I’m about to talk about.

To back up my theory about why it’s stupid not to ask for help - especially if someone is there who would help - is that everything I’m about to talk about wouldn’t have happened if I’d just picked up the phone and said those four little letters.

Saturday

I’m having a rough day on Saturday. I’m hungover from my binge drinking session and resulting manic episode of the Friday night. My cheek hurts from a woman with a cracking slap, the second hardest I’ve ever received, but I deserved it! I’m a mite hungry but can’t think about food so spend the day sitting under the trees of the Staff’s Flag trying to recouperate and keep my moods in check. It kinda works, and eventually retire to the internet cafe for blog posting, email checking, Facebooking and MySpacing. Which is probably where I went wrong - the last thing you need when battling hangovers, the spiralling down from a manic episode and a potential serious depressive episode is something which could only trigger me. You see, I’ve written about triggers before, and I know what my primary trigger is - for both manic and depressive episodes - so I have to steer away from this if I’m not feeling 100% in control of myself. It gets difficult, but it is definitely doable.

You see I should have gone to see Prince Caspian instead - that would have helped. Alas, hindsight is such a powerful thing.

Instead I’m sitting at the internet cafe getting progressively worse and then BAM the trigger hits. Like a finger on a revolver unleashing the fatal bullet I spring up, sidle out and I’m away to do something stupid.

This is where I should have picked up the phone, hit a couple of buttons, and had a five minute conversation. I needed help. I didn’t want to bother someone. So I tried to deal with it all myself. If I hadn’t, then the following wouldn’t have happened:

• I wouldn’t have taken more than I should have done of anti-depressants and mood stabilisers in an attempt to numb the emotional pain. I REALLY want to point out that this occasion was NOT a suicide attempt, I would have taken far more than I did if it had been! It was merely me being unable to control my depressive episode, unable to control the pain and just wanting it all to stop. Living with emotional pain every day can be rough, can be very painful. It was stupid, VERY stupid, but for a moment there I thought it would work.
• It didn’t!
• Well…maybe a little.
• I became very weak and docile. I started loosing my grip on reality a little and hallucinating. Somewhat bizarrely that little worms with fedoras were burrowing around under my skin so I had to try and cut them out. That’s really the only hallucination I recall aside from a general slippage from reality into some etheral dark place.
• So as things got a little worse I decided - ummm, hospital - and managed to get my reasonably cute butt there.
• The woman who checked me in at the admissions desk of ER was a gem, a wonderful girl whom I would love to buy flowers, take out for a slap up meal, run her a bath, wash her hair and then give her the greatest all over body massage of her life. Not just because she was darned hot, and had scrubs on (a random kinky thing of mine), but because she didn’t - not once - look down on me, treat me like crap, or speak to me as if I was a naughty little schoolboy for what I’d done. Quite possibly the most wonderful hospital worker I have yet encountered.
• Once in, the ER guys did their stuff. I won’t go into the gory details. There were tubes and blood tests and wrenching and all that stuff…and then after a couple of hours I was lying in one of the beds dozily watching the pulse and blood pressure machine thinking ‘These gowns are wonderfully comfy, and your butt is truly a delight, maybe that admissions girl will come back, see it, and be rather taken by it, you might get something here!’ (I should point out the admissions girl didn’t come back, as far as I’m aware, didn’t say my naked butt in the gown, nor did I get any. Which was somewhat unfortunate.)

Sunday

• Early in the morning I’m moved to another bed and then the MH guys take over. We have a chat, a conversation, nothing I’ve not done before. I’m still pretty out of it so am very zen-like. They generally want to keep me in, I think, just to be on the safe side. I however don’t want to stay in because I start work on Monday and I need time to get myself sorted out. So I manage to convince the MH guys to let me leave (I am very good at pretending I’m far better than I am; years, over a decade of practice in fact!)
• So I saunter away from the hospital mid morning glad the worms are gone and that I’m in fresh air again. There’s nothing quite as nice as fresh air after being in hospital. I’m walking very slowly, feeling very tired, seriously want some company and a smiley face.
• Afraid to pick up the phone still I do the next best thing - track down David Tennant travelling across Midnight on the ‘net - and then promptly fall asleep and spend the rest of the day drifting in and out of conciousness.
• Sleep is good, especially for an insomniac.

See, all that happened to me on Saturday and Sunday just wouldn’t have happened if I’d simply asked someone for help. I know I did by going to the hospital, but if I didn’t have such a problem asking for help then this wouldn’t have happened, I would have been able to stop myself with the assistance of others.

I have hang-ups about asking for help, as I mentioned yesterday. It was doing this which began the long, dark descent into the seven layers of hell. Plus, I have this bizarre belief that I’m not deserving of help because of who I am, a grotesque individual who doesn’t deserve happiness in the way others are deserving of it, which in itself is a result of emotional abuse and the severe PTSD I’ve suffered from the events of last year.

It’s just no matter how grotesque, reviled, repulsive, hated or despised you are - YOU ARE deserving of help just as every other beautiful individual on this planet is. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, if someone cares about you, they will listen and assist in whatever way they can. Trust me, whatever blow it deals your self-esteem and/or pride - it’s much better than a night spent in the ER department, no matter how cute your butt looks in one of those gowns.

Yep, after that last post I have superheros on the brain…so it’s random silly poll time! 

Which superhero do you most wanna spend the night with? What you do is completely up to naughty-little-you ;)

Male Superheroes

Quizzes by Quibblo.com

Female Superheroes

Quizzes by Quibblo.com

Have a fun kinky day :)

Poached eggs on toast with the most ludicrously small portion of spinach I have ever seen. This portion of spinach was so minuscule you were seriously left wondering how eating it would ignite the muscles in your arms Popeye-style and give you the strength to get through the day. The poached eggs were wonderful, as was the bread, just a darn shame about the spinach. Sitting across from me was - shock - not an empty chair, but one of the most beautiful souls I have ever known.

“Why didn’t you phone me?” She asked.

“I wanted to,” I said back.

She just gave me one of her looks, a look I know well.

“I guess I just didn’t want to bother you,” I added.

Another look.

One of the most common and recurring problems in today’s world seems to be asking for help. Everyday people are having problems with work, relationships, finance, legal issues, health, family, their pet wombats…the list is interminably endless. Yet, asking for help with a problem from anyoneis increasingly becoming one of the hardest things in the world. Perhaps fear of appearing weak, needy or incompetent is the primary cause - three things which none of us wish to appear to be, as is no doubt evident from the wealth of posts on my blog dealing with similar issues and frustrations.

For some reason we all like to believe we have red, blue and yellow Lycra suits on underneath our daily clothes so that whenever we feel like it we can loosen our ties (or brassieres) and reveal that we are actually from the planet Krypton - or just someone with a fetish for wearing our underwear on the outside. Now don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind so much if I girl I was seeing dressed up as Supergirl for a night of kinky fun as I’ve always had a self confessed superhero fetish, but reality alas always gets in the way.

“C’mon, when do you ever ask for help?” I questioned.

A pause.

“Do what I say not what I do,”

Such wonderful words. Do what I say and not what I do…oh how many times have I heard those in my life? It’s funny how they always seem to come about when the giving of advice is involved; surely leading by example is a far better way to be. Although if I were to leap off a cliff, break 326 bones, spend several months in traction I would probably then tell someone to not jump off a cliff - which would I suppose be a good example of do what I say and not what I stupidly did which caused me months of emotional and physical pain. Anyway, I digress, for this post is surely about Superhero fetishes isn’t it…

…well, actually not, but then surely I’m allowed to dream ;)

ASKING FOR HELP!

WHY IS IT SO HARD!

We don’t ask Superheros for help do we? They just swoop on in and save the day, that’s why they’re super and heroic and look sexy in their skin tight costumes. What is it about those four simple letters which makes it so hard for the majority of us to say?

I can’t speak for everyone, but what I can do is tell you my story of why I find it so hard to ask for help - and then you can all click on the “submit comment” button and tell me your stories and then maybe we can get to the bottom of this perplexing issue and create a new world order where help is not a reviled word to be feared, but is actually something which proves how strong we are.

Okay, so my issues with asking for help stem primarily from my social anxiety disorder but when I was back in my prime and had overcome depression, self harm and all that in the few months pre-breakdown I was feeling much better about myself in everyway. I actually felt that if I had put on a Spiderman costume (my own personal superhero outfit of choice) I would actually have looked like Spiderman instead of some chubby guy in a suit which caused people to vomit because it was just way too tight for public viewing. So I did actually, on occasion, ask for help. Or rather there was one specific occasion where I tried asking for help before anyone offered it, before I went days or weeks without trying to indicate there was a problem, for the first time in my life it was “frack, I have a problem, I need help, okay, I’m gonna ask for it!”

So I sat down and tried asking for help…

…then came the criticism, the heartfelt words of ‘bugger off your problems aren’t important” then came the dumping and the breakdown and the months of turmoil and loss of social network and friends and everything I’ve had. Me attempting to ask for help with a CLL diagnosis was a major catalyst for everything that happened. 

So is it any wonder I have a pathological fear of asking for help? When one of the only times I’ve ever done it in my life the reaction it received cost me virtually everything in my life bar one thing. My own misplaced belief in myself, which even itself wavers from time to time.

I would LOVE to be able to ask for help more often. I get messed up sometimes, very very very much so, and sometimes all I need in those moments is to speak to someone about anything - crickets, jam, koalas, Tibet, the state of the political situation, Lego Indiana Jones, yaks - and it just takes my mind off things to ease me back into control. Yet, because I don’t ask for help I end up cutting myself, or taking overdoses, or hiking 50odd kms to the Dandenongs with a scarf in hand. 

What’s weaker - asking for help or ending up in hospital staring at blank ceilings when you want to be looking at a friend?

[This post makes no sense. Maybe it's the hyper-manic state I'm in coupled with shock and confusion from the events of the weekend which I still haven't really come to terms with. Maybe I shouldn't even post it.]

I just want to know what others think. Why is asking for help so hard? Why does it make us feel like a shit person? I’ve just explained my reasons, so what do others think? Or am I completely wrong and is not asking for help selfish.

My friend (and it feels good to write that) said to me as I finished off my poached eggs:

“I would much rather you bother me before you did something like that than tell me afterwards,”

Which is true. Because I’m the same. If Supergirl, Superman, Spiderman or any of the whole pantheon of Superheros we drool over each night were to land in front of us a couple of days after the city had been destroyed you’d be PISSED! You’d have a go at them for not helping sooner.

If you don’t ask for help then you won’t get any. If you try and deal with everything by yourself, you’ll end up like me.

Don’t end up like me.

One word. Four letters. H E L P. Use it whenever you need to. Your friends - your true friends - will always listen.

[PS...hands up if anyone thinks I can write a more confusing and badly written post than that. Blimey. I need a drink]

The Alice I’m referring to is - of course - that from the wonderful mind of Lewis Carroll. Which let’s be honest, is really not such a bad thing to have on your mind when you’re thinking of heading toward your bed for the night ;)

Anyhows, much like I occasionally scour Deviantart when depressed and/or not really coping all that well this evening I thought I’d do something different and have a wee look at how people interpret one of my favourite books. The results were eclectic, but several stood out as they always tend to do…

Alice:
But I don’t want to go among mad people.
The Cat:
Oh, you can’t help that. We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.
Alice:
How do you know I’m mad?
The Cat:
You must be. Or you wouldn’t have come here.
Alice:
And how do you know that you’re mad?
The Cat:
To begin with, a dog’s not mad. You grant that?
Alice:
I suppose so,
The Cat:
Well, then, you see, a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.

…and as with most stuff I do there is a reason for the first book I feature in this way to be Alice in Wonderland. Patience though is a virtue few people have these days, but it is something you’ll have to have for a day or so. Until then, skip on down to your local library or bookstore and grab yourself a copy of this fantastic work. It’ll be worth the read or re-read - you know it will be :) 

There’s a new blog on the block, as there are most minutes of most days of most weeks - but unlike some this one is unquestionably worth the read. A joy from start to finish. As the mysterious streetwalkingcheetah points out in their first post:

I didn’t have clue how to start, so I took some of the best opening lines in music history and used those instead. Thanks, Iggy.

It’s a bit misleading, though. Streetwalking Cheetah? Hardly. More like Panda-in-Captivity, except not as cute. Most of my ’streetwalking’ is done between this desk and the coffeeshop, which I don’t really think counts. The rest of the time I sit in my cage (read: 20th floor reception area), doing the corporate equivalent of lazing round, chewing bamboo and refusing to have sex with other Pandas (read: folding things, looking at the internet and refusing to photocopy).

I’m going to pretend I didn’t just descend into the use of office humour or tenuous metaphors; otherwise I’ll have to throw this whole adventure in before I’ve even begun.

Read the rest of this post on Heart Full Of Napalm…

This is a blog which is unbelievably well written, so much so that it puts the majority of my wittering to shame, and in all honesty makes him feel quite unskilled in the realm of the written world…but thems the breaks! So don’t even wait to get the chance, hop on over to this blog and check it out.

My own personal favourite post so far…well, that would be Quiet Up There People, I’m Trying to Work. Not merely because it touches on themes which have been present throughout this blog, but because it is a beautifully crafted piece which deserves far wider acclaim than merely the blogosphere.

Yep, another one of the darned days where I feel like I’m a grouchy neighbour who keeps banging threateningly on his roof with a broom shouting “Heavens to Betsy, would y’all KEEP IT DOWN!” while my fabulous co-tenants party/have sex/fight above me. Except that the noisy co-tenants are my anything-but-fabulous thoughts and the grouchy neighbour is the rest of me and I don’t have the benefit of a dividing roof, or indeed a broom, and we’re all stuck in the one terrifying space together, otherwise known as my body.

That metaphor was so strained I think I might have pulled something.

So while the metaphor-composing part of my brain is off on the sidelines having a rub-down, the rest of me will continue with this increasingly nonsensical post. Those of you who have seen Post Numero Uno (I’m assuming fairly confidently that this blog has an audience of one, and that person is currently inexplicably imagining themselves to be a grouchy old American man with a broom circa 1958, so this is probably unnecessary, but I’ll humour myself) will know that on of the raisons d’etre for this blog is to try and shut up my noisy, overcrowded head. So here we go.

Read the rest of this post on Heart Full Of Napalm

So away ye go now and enjoy, and we can only hope streetwalkingcheetah returns often and soon with more delightful writings.

Visit Heart Full Of Napalm here