If a Picture Paints

16.04.14 (Day 115)

14.42

No picture would sum up the millions of words in my complicated head but here goes…

I wrote something earlier and was talked out of doing what I was contemplating. I had a wobble. I’ve been advised to record my thoughts though, to aid my ongoing benefits claim by backing up the medical note which I’ll have confirming that I’m chronically depressed. Here then are those thoughts, preceded by a letter from CAB to DWP, which will hopefully prove beyond any doubt among remaining doubters that all of this has been true.

Here’s the letter:

Image

And the post:

I’m S-O-R-R-Y

16.04.14

04.42

(I know I am. I’m sure I am).

Image

This is where it ends, soon.

I’m not allowed to mention many people by name so those that have forbade me will be referred to as ghosts; shadows of the past, as they were before. They’ll not be reading this though as they abandoned me. I wish they were reading as perhaps the letter I scanned would prove to them that their doubts of me were unfounded. It’s academic now.

Pretty soon I’ll be a ghost too.

And to those who still nose in and see this as simply a cry for help, maybe it is. Or rather, maybe it was. Go judge someone else to fill your empty lives.

This won’t be the best-written final post as you’ll note from the time of writing that it’s my usual ridiculous O’clock for rising from slumber. That’s because I’ve survived for the last three and a half months on three to four hours sleep, because I’ve had to sleep with the proverbial one eye open. It’s dangerous out here and some of the shadows have blood on their hands for placing me in this situation. Perhaps with hindsight they’ll realise they were too harsh; that maybe they shouldn’t have simply given up. They did and now I am about to.

I should keep going for the sake of my children? The ones I posed no physical or verbal threat to, yet I’m still not allowed to see. They’ll forget soon enough. This too shall pass.

My beloved Danielle: Please excuse my writing. I can’t fight this feeling anymore.

Becca: my Patsy Kensit lookalike (but prettier); my friend.

Rhian: sorry mate.

Sam White: you’re welcome to it.

Emma: such a shame.

Old “friends”: ghosts.

Brothers and sisters; family: adopted, not blood (they abandoned me and have blood on their hands): heed my advice. You know.

New friends: thank you. For trying. For believing. Keep going. Relationships: inappropriate? I thought not but the shadows did.

I am sick and tired: not metaphorically but actually. No-one really ever got me. “I told you I was ill”. But I’m alright (Whoopi Goldberg: Ghost).

I’m grateful to those who stuck around and they know who they are as they’re the ones reading this. They’re also the ones who’ll know where to find me.

Two of those who won’t be reading this are shadows. They’re relevant though as they each have a sealed envelope. I’d be grateful if any remaining readers could track those down.

And those who know where to find me need to know some things:

Whoopi will be on the table, in a biscuit box. She’s got food and water.

I need to spend some time saying farewells and clearing up unfinished business. Once that’s done, I’ll climb the ladder and take the plunge. You know what that means.

I’m sorry.


So thereafter, a couple of people talked me out of it. For a while, I was okay. But it became like this:

Image

I was hoping for this:

Image

And tomorrow I’m due benefits (until someone fucks that up for me) as it’s a long and boring weekend when I’m not allowed to see my kids. If it fucks up, I truly am screwed, financially. There are emergency Bridging loans but you need to be in receipt of payments to receive them.

I think I’m due another wobble,

Didn’t quite work out though, so I may have another go.

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