As some of your may know, I am currently writing a second novel, my first fiction to be released, based on the 2007 independent feature Midnight Heat by Brad Jones. But what you may not be aware is that this is not the only project I have on the line at the moment.
Currently under the working title of The Life & Times of Dermot Cummins, this is to be my sci fi 'epic' in the vain of a Red Dwarf or Douglas Adams. There were elements of the plot I have mentioned to some people to test the vibe somewhat and the reaction I mostly received was praise for my imagination. And that left me wracked with guilt somewhat. And so here is my confession piece. A kiss-and-tell for writer's if you will.
The best fiction is non-fiction.
What I mean by that is whilst all works have some personal stamp affected indirectly by their creators that would not have been present should anyone else have got it (which is why remakes that try and stick too close to the source material suffer the Uncanny Valley effect) it is also true that many writer's write their own lives and character encounters into their fiction to an astounding level. Some become famous such as Arthur Miller's The Crucible. And yet these always get remembered as isolated incidents. A product of a time where one could only talk through allegory for fear of execution. But I find that still continues today to no end. So here I plan to explore the process of how this works, using my own work as an example..
It started with an little chip on the shoulder before I had even thought of publishing my first book, my struggle with jobcentre who had by this time suspended my account over non-attendance due to a court summons for a debt I didn't even have. This type of scenario was regular enough of an occurance that the incident was not surprising, and had even talked on a number of occasions to my MP in regards to the issues. I had been told I should write a book, a big slutty name-and-shame of all these incidents I'd had to log for discourse with the MP, and I kind of liked the idea but feared the notion of a stroppy council kicking up a bit of extra hassle in retaliation.
So I thought to play it safe. What if I changed the names of those involved? Now it was instantly a fictional story of made up character with a part time job and his struggles with job centre. Hm this solved the issue but it needed to be a bit punchier.
So what if we swap the job? Instead of a merchandiser of clipstrips and tights, now he was a plumber - much more indentifiable and builds up a new set of character traits to go with my own (which in turn automatically makes it a three dimensional character that is pretty easy to get into the mindset of for situations).
Now change the date. Add 1000 years.
Three small changes and what has that left us with so far?
A part-time plumber struggling for work is suddenly blocked from finance from the jobcentre for 'too many earnings' on his 4 hour a week job. So now he has to travel the galaxy in search of any given work he can to make ends meet.
Now we just need to swap the "jobcentre" for something a little more general, such as The Federation.
A part-time plumber struggling for work is suddenly blocked from finance
from the Federation for 'too many earnings' on his 4 hour a week job. So
now he has to travel the galaxy in search of any given work he can to
make ends meet.
See how far removed from reality it already sounds? And of course this aspect of the plot is just the jumping off point for a bigger story. But the same is true of characters. I find it's easier to use an existing person in mind, use their name for the first draft to keep them fresh in your mind as you write descriptions / think how this person will react in that particular situation, and remember to find more apt names on a redraft.
Congratulations with the smallest of tweaks you have taken a simple complaint to the dole office into a galaxy-traversing sci fi adventure with a stronger vibe of Firefly than Wigan.
So what are your thoughts on this? Did it help at all, or am I barmy, or did you just completely not give a crap? Comment below for a discussion, or;
Tweet me at @Chromosoner
or email at mpwilliamson@live.co.uk
For a nosy at my artwork, use the link here: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/NerdistStore
And if you would like a copy or just to nosey at the free-bit) of my novel From The Inside Out, click here
Monday 17 November 2014
Wednesday 12 November 2014
Behind Closed Pages of From The Inside Out
When I was a little kid, I would buy 3-packs of these shiny notebooks. They all had a scaled patten to them, and shimmered in a vaguely different colour; one a little more green, one a little blue. and the other a bit pink, but otherwise they were identical. I got these and would make a project for myself - write 3 different books that must fill this cover to cover and are a story that justify the particular shade that embodied the cover style.
The green one was a dark alien horror story, in the vein to what I at 8 years old understood about the Alien films from the video games my dad had let me play of it, and the idea of body-horror really fascinated me (go figure, right?). But I gave up halfway through as didn't feel I could convey the true fear I was envisioning at the time and where to keep it going.
The pink one I recall being a rom-com with a really convoluted plot that went a bit everywhere to make a message and poke at things that irritated me as a kid seeing over and over again in those particular films.
And finally the blue one was the biggest changer for me. It was a detective thriller staring a character called David Rivanstart, and started off as a simple James Bond wannabe novel, but about 1/3rd of the way through it shifted gears into a more Indiana Jones affair. The idea of blending genres has really stuck with me, and particularly trying to take concepts that shouldn't mesh actually blend naturally.
In short I have had a lot of dream jobs in my life, but behind them all was writing, and finally some 16 years after the adventures of Rivanstart got their start, thanks to Sahara Fleetwood-Beresford, Lorna Haymes, Victoria Marie and Gem Will and their #GetYourBellyOut campaign, that dream became a reality with my first published book; From The Inside Out.
The green one was a dark alien horror story, in the vein to what I at 8 years old understood about the Alien films from the video games my dad had let me play of it, and the idea of body-horror really fascinated me (go figure, right?). But I gave up halfway through as didn't feel I could convey the true fear I was envisioning at the time and where to keep it going.
The pink one I recall being a rom-com with a really convoluted plot that went a bit everywhere to make a message and poke at things that irritated me as a kid seeing over and over again in those particular films.
And finally the blue one was the biggest changer for me. It was a detective thriller staring a character called David Rivanstart, and started off as a simple James Bond wannabe novel, but about 1/3rd of the way through it shifted gears into a more Indiana Jones affair. The idea of blending genres has really stuck with me, and particularly trying to take concepts that shouldn't mesh actually blend naturally.
In short I have had a lot of dream jobs in my life, but behind them all was writing, and finally some 16 years after the adventures of Rivanstart got their start, thanks to Sahara Fleetwood-Beresford, Lorna Haymes, Victoria Marie and Gem Will and their #GetYourBellyOut campaign, that dream became a reality with my first published book; From The Inside Out.
The idea behind it came about at a BBQ. One thing I would have loved would have been to have something I could read and know that I was not alone out there with all this confusing crap that had started in my life. Just to know I was not alone like this group had really shown me already. Encouraged, I got to work and through a complete lack of confidence in myself I asked for other contributors. I figured if no-one else showed interest that would be the end of it, a stupid idea like many others. But no, several showed interest, and a couple of them followed through and gave me their stories and now I had thrown the ball into my own court and I had to get to work.
Writing for it was an absolute nightmare at times. What do I talk about? So many traumatic events (particularly during the summer that birthed my condition) but I didn't want this to be a pity story, nor too specific to me. This was about experiences with the unknown - the unnamed feeling that tore us inside, so only the necessary.
After a few months and a couple of dropouts in the project, the book got published, and has been met with fantastic fanfare thus far. Within the first two months of it's release with no official promotion or physical appearances in retail stores, more than 200 copies have been sold. And the best part? Storie of copies being stolen by staff from workplaces who aren't sufferers but want an insight to understand a little more, readers who have broken down in tears and been unable to even finish reading, and everyone who has claimed to be affected by it. My own personal result to this, is that I managed to boost my own confidence and approach a film-maker called Brad Jones about a novelisation for one of his own films Midnight Heat. He loved the idea, and that has been my current project inbetween my own.
But that doesn't mean I am remotely done with this. The project goal is to spread as much awareness as I can, and that is what I will continue to do. Next is a series of flyers, which will be adorned with the #BookSelfie results that became something of a fad during it's initial release, showing the range of readers and sufferers alike for hospitals around any areas I can, directly hoping to find those who have started to suffer and feel more alone than they ever should.
And next will be an updated edition, possibly with a little extra content, in a smaller more standard size, designed to be more aesthetically appealing when dealing with WH Smiths and Waterstones about a contract with them.
I write this blog not to brag about my own book, but to explain whre it comes from, and why it means so much to me to get this opportunity, and the good it's existence can do and hopefully will continue to do so. I love all 4 of the girls for this, and any extra donations to the CCUK pot my royalties can help with, I will continue to do so for as long as I can!
The #GetYourBellyOut community can be found on Twitter and Facebook.
The book is currently available from Amazon in paperback & Kindle format http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE
Tuesday 11 November 2014
Preparation For A Colonoscopy Part II: Hospitals Killed The Radio Star
The walk to the Hospital was in theory a simple one - a mere 50 minute walk max door to door cutting down the canal by my flat - and for that very reason I had laughed off any suggestions to take a taxi there. But now was the time to put my stubbornness into practice.
I still felt the swelling and pulse of the bowels as they contemplated round 12, as my feet crunched down the stone path through the canal. A hole in my converse so not only did I feel every step as to be expected with this footwear, but now I was assaulted with every step too. Joy.
The plus side was that this would be a largely secret trek, free from public for the most part, so my secret shame was safe until I hit the town.
I blended in with surprising ease as walked through the main streets of Wigan, which upon reflection is more depressing than had I been eyeballed. It was only as I neared the hospital, having now clocked in 80 minutes for this 50 minute trek, I passed a group of young girls who could not help but whisper and giggle pointedly. My gut lurched with shame and Moviprep. Great, confirmation of my state. My hair frayed in every direction in individual whisps, my pupils shrivelled, eyes greying and skin bleached and trembling. Sense of direction, fumbling at best. I looked like the lost drunk zombie of Wigan going through a serious crack withdrawal. And now on top of it the hospital was closed.
Fuck. Everyone had questioned if I had got the date right Sunday? No-one operates on a Sunday surely! And they were fucking right. No. Wait. There was another hospital in Wigan. I had assumed this was the one as had been sent here with my specialist to go through it all, and they had not mentioned otherwise when setting the appointment. I checked my phone. Two minutes to get there. Shit. It needed at least 20 in my best state. I shuffled at top speed for a mobility scooter up the hill and to the nearest Taxi office, fielding a particularly stressed call from my mother about my absense. My 5 minute wait Taxi came in 20, but I was not the only one headed toward it. A couple who had arrived maybe several minutes prior were trying to steal my taxi. Even though they would not have heard me book it to the hospital, they had surely seen the shivering pale corpse clutching his Hospital references.
Eventually I made it. "Have you filled in your forms?" What? What forms?! "Urgh. Here. Do these." the receptionist slapped the forms to my hands and eyed me up as an intentional pest. I guess people make regular attempts to shit themselves without the alloted paperwork just to annoy her. I struggled for a grip on the pen, I needed to eat. Okay, done. I got called through into the ward - another waiting room, but one that was themed with a hospital aesthetic of beds and curtains.
A loud sound effect record in the bed next to me, track skipping on "fart" incessently. He didn't really seem to even acknowledge it was occuring, like a coma patient on a whoopee cushion. I took in my surroundings; that didn't take long. Seen one blank canvas of a wall decorated by a gymnasium-mat of a mattress on a metal frame bed, seen them all. Even the curtains were a lifeless blue - a feat I find especially impressive when you consider the liveliness of the colour. A nurse came by and ran me through the options; gas or needle. My mind was already convinced of its choice; I'd already gone through as much as my body wanted to tolerate, that needle could go the hell away from me unless absolutely necessary. "Well, the needle doesn't really put you under per se" she began. Well fat lot of good that anaesthetic is then! "It just relaxes your body to make it easier for us to push in" Have to remember that line in future. "Or there is the gas which is the same we give to women when they're giving birth to stop them feeling pain so it is pretty strong stuff." Right, I'm sold - I'm going to reverse birth a camera and feel on top of the moon doing so.
She smiled in acceptance, scribbled a note (at least I assumed the hyroglyph she had jotted as a note - her writing assured me she would be a Doctor in another life) and left me to wait under the watchful gaze of a grouchy old man who didn't know what on earth had just happened to him, the fart machine and the hospital radio. One thing I learned was that hospital radio died in the 80s. Or it at least felt that way as Human League belted out their domestic differences through a crackle of a speaker that could well have been a vietnam vet in its own right, occasionally switching to eras when Michael Jackson was still free of public stigma, and The Osmonds whose blindingly perfect teeth still managed to work their magic through the stereo format.
A machine was active somewhere else beyond the valley of the side-curtains. A constant bee-bee-beeep on a tight 3 minute schedule a constant reminder of it's prescence. R2 D2 was in critical condition.
And then in stepped The Doctor. His outfit regulation and yet flarred with a care-free personality, the swagger to his walk keeping him aloof to all concerns.
"Hey, yeah?" Oh no. "I'm the Doctor, yeah. So we're going to just quickly run through the procedure if that's okay with you, yeah-yeah?" Great. A doctor who was his own yes-man to every idea he had? This would be interesting. We ran through it all, and he seemed cool and calm enough about it for me to feel this guy could go up my butt and back out without too much trouble. He issued for my bed to be taken in prep for me and I watched feeling it would have been far more convenient had I been on it as it swung to my surgery room. Two hours passed before a nurse returned to say they did infact forget me and took someone else to operate on my bed instead. Great.
Another thirty minutes in my chair, the safety of the half-open curtains enough for me to bolster my inner-rock star as I ran my vocals in a warbled duet with the speaker now running through the rest of my childhood with the likes of Soft Cell, Dead Or Alive, and Blondie. Finally a nurse came through for me. The Doctor will violate you now..
I still felt the swelling and pulse of the bowels as they contemplated round 12, as my feet crunched down the stone path through the canal. A hole in my converse so not only did I feel every step as to be expected with this footwear, but now I was assaulted with every step too. Joy.
The plus side was that this would be a largely secret trek, free from public for the most part, so my secret shame was safe until I hit the town.
I blended in with surprising ease as walked through the main streets of Wigan, which upon reflection is more depressing than had I been eyeballed. It was only as I neared the hospital, having now clocked in 80 minutes for this 50 minute trek, I passed a group of young girls who could not help but whisper and giggle pointedly. My gut lurched with shame and Moviprep. Great, confirmation of my state. My hair frayed in every direction in individual whisps, my pupils shrivelled, eyes greying and skin bleached and trembling. Sense of direction, fumbling at best. I looked like the lost drunk zombie of Wigan going through a serious crack withdrawal. And now on top of it the hospital was closed.
Fuck. Everyone had questioned if I had got the date right Sunday? No-one operates on a Sunday surely! And they were fucking right. No. Wait. There was another hospital in Wigan. I had assumed this was the one as had been sent here with my specialist to go through it all, and they had not mentioned otherwise when setting the appointment. I checked my phone. Two minutes to get there. Shit. It needed at least 20 in my best state. I shuffled at top speed for a mobility scooter up the hill and to the nearest Taxi office, fielding a particularly stressed call from my mother about my absense. My 5 minute wait Taxi came in 20, but I was not the only one headed toward it. A couple who had arrived maybe several minutes prior were trying to steal my taxi. Even though they would not have heard me book it to the hospital, they had surely seen the shivering pale corpse clutching his Hospital references.
Eventually I made it. "Have you filled in your forms?" What? What forms?! "Urgh. Here. Do these." the receptionist slapped the forms to my hands and eyed me up as an intentional pest. I guess people make regular attempts to shit themselves without the alloted paperwork just to annoy her. I struggled for a grip on the pen, I needed to eat. Okay, done. I got called through into the ward - another waiting room, but one that was themed with a hospital aesthetic of beds and curtains.
A loud sound effect record in the bed next to me, track skipping on "fart" incessently. He didn't really seem to even acknowledge it was occuring, like a coma patient on a whoopee cushion. I took in my surroundings; that didn't take long. Seen one blank canvas of a wall decorated by a gymnasium-mat of a mattress on a metal frame bed, seen them all. Even the curtains were a lifeless blue - a feat I find especially impressive when you consider the liveliness of the colour. A nurse came by and ran me through the options; gas or needle. My mind was already convinced of its choice; I'd already gone through as much as my body wanted to tolerate, that needle could go the hell away from me unless absolutely necessary. "Well, the needle doesn't really put you under per se" she began. Well fat lot of good that anaesthetic is then! "It just relaxes your body to make it easier for us to push in" Have to remember that line in future. "Or there is the gas which is the same we give to women when they're giving birth to stop them feeling pain so it is pretty strong stuff." Right, I'm sold - I'm going to reverse birth a camera and feel on top of the moon doing so.
She smiled in acceptance, scribbled a note (at least I assumed the hyroglyph she had jotted as a note - her writing assured me she would be a Doctor in another life) and left me to wait under the watchful gaze of a grouchy old man who didn't know what on earth had just happened to him, the fart machine and the hospital radio. One thing I learned was that hospital radio died in the 80s. Or it at least felt that way as Human League belted out their domestic differences through a crackle of a speaker that could well have been a vietnam vet in its own right, occasionally switching to eras when Michael Jackson was still free of public stigma, and The Osmonds whose blindingly perfect teeth still managed to work their magic through the stereo format.
A machine was active somewhere else beyond the valley of the side-curtains. A constant bee-bee-beeep on a tight 3 minute schedule a constant reminder of it's prescence. R2 D2 was in critical condition.
And then in stepped The Doctor. His outfit regulation and yet flarred with a care-free personality, the swagger to his walk keeping him aloof to all concerns.
"Hey, yeah?" Oh no. "I'm the Doctor, yeah. So we're going to just quickly run through the procedure if that's okay with you, yeah-yeah?" Great. A doctor who was his own yes-man to every idea he had? This would be interesting. We ran through it all, and he seemed cool and calm enough about it for me to feel this guy could go up my butt and back out without too much trouble. He issued for my bed to be taken in prep for me and I watched feeling it would have been far more convenient had I been on it as it swung to my surgery room. Two hours passed before a nurse returned to say they did infact forget me and took someone else to operate on my bed instead. Great.
Another thirty minutes in my chair, the safety of the half-open curtains enough for me to bolster my inner-rock star as I ran my vocals in a warbled duet with the speaker now running through the rest of my childhood with the likes of Soft Cell, Dead Or Alive, and Blondie. Finally a nurse came through for me. The Doctor will violate you now..
Sunday 9 November 2014
From The Inside Out - Deleted Scenes
Note: These are very much in the roughest of rough form (as is rather apt with these being a sort of hangover extra to the party of the actual book) but there has been requests for a little of the extra bits that hit the cutting room floor for being too personal and not IBD enough. I didn't want to feel I was making my book a name-and-shame game, so situations like this, whilst important to my character as a whole, didn't have as much of a direct bearing on my condition.
Deleted Section I:
To my mother’s credit we did talk considerably about the effect this would have, and although we were not the most financially comfortable of families, she and my dad would help pay for train fare so that I could continue my final 2 years at high school without too much disruption that would at this point directly impact my grades, and for this time at least continue to have my friends without having to start my life from scratch, as well of course continuing my Cadet training with a regiment I was already familiar with.
This was nothing new to me. I had at least experienced something of a taster for this some years prior. I had a step dad through most of my childhood with my parents splitting up shortly after I was born, and he and I grew really close and bonded almost like brothers. That was until I was about 7 when he and my mum split for reasons I only have conjecture to go on so will leave that out here. But our locks changed and contact was cut off. At this point I had assumed he had moved away like so many others I saw come and go in life to look after his real son (whose mother was not a fan of me, so understood the trade-off I had placed in my head. No doubt in a back alley of some form). However two years later I would find him, and I would get my answer. The breakup between my mother and him had spiralled him into a depression and he had traded vitamins for prosac, and weight lifting for beer swilling. This is a combined past time anyone with an experience of depression will tell you should be kept as far apart as possible, and they in a sense fried his brain. In that state of frazzled mind he had discovered an easy way out for his feelings that plagued him. He had decided to kill us off like a bad soap opera in his mind.
At 9 years old I had heard this, from him no-less after an archaeological travel to the local Spar had reintroduced us. We had started to hang out again, my mum more accepting of him seeing me but not her, so every weekend I would go to the local snooker centre and be slipped a few glasses of ‘Yellow’ as I sophisticatedly dubbed my preferred drink of the time, and we would hang out. Often able to steal a couple of free games from his connections, or a lifetime on the Q-Bert machine. But one night where I had been planned to stay over for a babysitting, he had gotten very drunk, and that was when he told me.
It’s amazing how much the mind can choose to filter information of choice, and all mine would dwell on was he imagined me dead. He told people I was dead. Why what could I have possibly done that was heinous enough for my own ethereal murder? How had I even died? I mean this wasn’t fair, I had already used up a spare life I didn’t even know I had and yet there was no answer as to how! The gut feeling could probably be summed up with that of reaching into an old pair of jeans you forgot you owned, only to pull out a large fine. And then you got punched in the stomach.
I basically took away from this for a number of years that it must have been me. I had been too childish, he had afterall ditched me, the shrieking little brat who was busy shimmying across garage roofs and watching Fievel Goes West ad nauseum, and here he was seemingly happy surrounded by people his own age. Something had to change lest I encourage some curious running pattern of spiritual murders. For some years after that I shunned anything that appeared remotely child-centric, no cartoons, no Disney, and certainly no make-believe. This got what I affectionately refer to as a breakdown after a few years where I rediscovered Disney and the simple joys in life. But it very nearly cost me my friends in doing so as for the only time to date, I had spent a period of my life pretending I was someone else entirely.
I wish in hindsight I could say I stopped speaking to my step dad after this. Surely this was grounds enough, but no. I had come to accept this was not a fault of his own, the man I knew would never have made that decision. It was the toxic fuel of the drink and antidepressants that had ended me, not him. So, though I never forgave him for it entirely, I would still visit him with frequency. Until one day I entered the snooker centre with hopes of a free glass or Yellow and a bit of a chat, only to be greeted with terrible confusion from the manager. He had done it again. I was done. Kill me once, shame on you, but kill me twice? Shame on you and the laws of reality.
I tell you this not to broach sympathy, or even vent my own demons here - I’d be lying to say it didn’t still hurt in some way but I have come to terms with it being a fault other than my own. But to help summise the difficulty I would later come to when it came to dealing with depression and heavy drinking.
Deleted Section II:
Now, as my years at high school were coming to a close, my illness was still burning on and slowly corroding away all remaining fat and physique but my will was pumping enough iron to topple Arnold Schwarzenegger should it wish. I was beginning to feel stronger than I had ever been, even with a past consisting of boot camps and rugby.
This only brought me so far of course. Now I had to deal with a complete reset. Sure I would still try and keep in contact with my friends, and promised myself no-one would replace them, somewhat foolishly. But now I had to start college in a town I had only learned of it’s existence the week of my application, Leigh. This now took me an extra several miles further from my friends who were already pushing 60. Two years of my ‘nothingness’ of a condition had left me physically weak and bitter to a lot of things, and I taken to fighting this with drinking. Vodka proved a cheap alternative to water in my own body mass with some regularity - I go back and forth on whether I consider myself at this point a true alcoholic or not, but there was certainly some dependency on it.
I had sobered for my first day at college, but was placed in the dead centre of pre-existing cliques. Of course everyone already knew each other, I was the only fucking idiot who had chosen to not bond with the right people. I was fucked. I hid my tears for the day, and spent the next few weeks smuggling in drinks for some little booster to me as I kept myself away from people, permanently convinced they would not want something like me for a friend. It was truly pathetic, but that was completely reasonable. A contempt for myself had resurfaced and it needed to be stopped, even I knew that. I needed some alternative to alcohol. Just something to tide me over during the day and could then have some in the evening as a reward for good behaviour or a comfort for a bad day.
I discovered Coke, in beverage form of course, this isn’t travelling down to a new level of Hell with addiction. Coca Cola seemed almost perfect; a sweet and quenching drink that tasted great and consistently so without getting sickly, and without dehydrating me as many soft drinks do. But also had enough in it to give me a little boost. Not to mention with the likes of B&M I could now quadriple my intake of drinking with this alternative. To this day I still have something of an addiction to Coke, and have tried twice now to quit and suffer bad withdrawal. It is never a problem though, as much as people tease otherwise; it’s cheap enough to not be a costly addiction compared to most, and is a genuine joy to drink so has little downside to it. Maybe one day I will be able to quit and drink it for just a special occasion, but that day is not a priority for any time now. At least nowadays I can trust myself around alcohol as part of a night out, without having to worry about where it could lead.
From The Inside Out is available, with much better writing (I hope) on all good amazon links, such as this one; http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE
Deleted Section I:
To my mother’s credit we did talk considerably about the effect this would have, and although we were not the most financially comfortable of families, she and my dad would help pay for train fare so that I could continue my final 2 years at high school without too much disruption that would at this point directly impact my grades, and for this time at least continue to have my friends without having to start my life from scratch, as well of course continuing my Cadet training with a regiment I was already familiar with.
This was nothing new to me. I had at least experienced something of a taster for this some years prior. I had a step dad through most of my childhood with my parents splitting up shortly after I was born, and he and I grew really close and bonded almost like brothers. That was until I was about 7 when he and my mum split for reasons I only have conjecture to go on so will leave that out here. But our locks changed and contact was cut off. At this point I had assumed he had moved away like so many others I saw come and go in life to look after his real son (whose mother was not a fan of me, so understood the trade-off I had placed in my head. No doubt in a back alley of some form). However two years later I would find him, and I would get my answer. The breakup between my mother and him had spiralled him into a depression and he had traded vitamins for prosac, and weight lifting for beer swilling. This is a combined past time anyone with an experience of depression will tell you should be kept as far apart as possible, and they in a sense fried his brain. In that state of frazzled mind he had discovered an easy way out for his feelings that plagued him. He had decided to kill us off like a bad soap opera in his mind.
At 9 years old I had heard this, from him no-less after an archaeological travel to the local Spar had reintroduced us. We had started to hang out again, my mum more accepting of him seeing me but not her, so every weekend I would go to the local snooker centre and be slipped a few glasses of ‘Yellow’ as I sophisticatedly dubbed my preferred drink of the time, and we would hang out. Often able to steal a couple of free games from his connections, or a lifetime on the Q-Bert machine. But one night where I had been planned to stay over for a babysitting, he had gotten very drunk, and that was when he told me.
It’s amazing how much the mind can choose to filter information of choice, and all mine would dwell on was he imagined me dead. He told people I was dead. Why what could I have possibly done that was heinous enough for my own ethereal murder? How had I even died? I mean this wasn’t fair, I had already used up a spare life I didn’t even know I had and yet there was no answer as to how! The gut feeling could probably be summed up with that of reaching into an old pair of jeans you forgot you owned, only to pull out a large fine. And then you got punched in the stomach.
I basically took away from this for a number of years that it must have been me. I had been too childish, he had afterall ditched me, the shrieking little brat who was busy shimmying across garage roofs and watching Fievel Goes West ad nauseum, and here he was seemingly happy surrounded by people his own age. Something had to change lest I encourage some curious running pattern of spiritual murders. For some years after that I shunned anything that appeared remotely child-centric, no cartoons, no Disney, and certainly no make-believe. This got what I affectionately refer to as a breakdown after a few years where I rediscovered Disney and the simple joys in life. But it very nearly cost me my friends in doing so as for the only time to date, I had spent a period of my life pretending I was someone else entirely.
I wish in hindsight I could say I stopped speaking to my step dad after this. Surely this was grounds enough, but no. I had come to accept this was not a fault of his own, the man I knew would never have made that decision. It was the toxic fuel of the drink and antidepressants that had ended me, not him. So, though I never forgave him for it entirely, I would still visit him with frequency. Until one day I entered the snooker centre with hopes of a free glass or Yellow and a bit of a chat, only to be greeted with terrible confusion from the manager. He had done it again. I was done. Kill me once, shame on you, but kill me twice? Shame on you and the laws of reality.
I tell you this not to broach sympathy, or even vent my own demons here - I’d be lying to say it didn’t still hurt in some way but I have come to terms with it being a fault other than my own. But to help summise the difficulty I would later come to when it came to dealing with depression and heavy drinking.
Deleted Section II:
Now, as my years at high school were coming to a close, my illness was still burning on and slowly corroding away all remaining fat and physique but my will was pumping enough iron to topple Arnold Schwarzenegger should it wish. I was beginning to feel stronger than I had ever been, even with a past consisting of boot camps and rugby.
This only brought me so far of course. Now I had to deal with a complete reset. Sure I would still try and keep in contact with my friends, and promised myself no-one would replace them, somewhat foolishly. But now I had to start college in a town I had only learned of it’s existence the week of my application, Leigh. This now took me an extra several miles further from my friends who were already pushing 60. Two years of my ‘nothingness’ of a condition had left me physically weak and bitter to a lot of things, and I taken to fighting this with drinking. Vodka proved a cheap alternative to water in my own body mass with some regularity - I go back and forth on whether I consider myself at this point a true alcoholic or not, but there was certainly some dependency on it.
I had sobered for my first day at college, but was placed in the dead centre of pre-existing cliques. Of course everyone already knew each other, I was the only fucking idiot who had chosen to not bond with the right people. I was fucked. I hid my tears for the day, and spent the next few weeks smuggling in drinks for some little booster to me as I kept myself away from people, permanently convinced they would not want something like me for a friend. It was truly pathetic, but that was completely reasonable. A contempt for myself had resurfaced and it needed to be stopped, even I knew that. I needed some alternative to alcohol. Just something to tide me over during the day and could then have some in the evening as a reward for good behaviour or a comfort for a bad day.
I discovered Coke, in beverage form of course, this isn’t travelling down to a new level of Hell with addiction. Coca Cola seemed almost perfect; a sweet and quenching drink that tasted great and consistently so without getting sickly, and without dehydrating me as many soft drinks do. But also had enough in it to give me a little boost. Not to mention with the likes of B&M I could now quadriple my intake of drinking with this alternative. To this day I still have something of an addiction to Coke, and have tried twice now to quit and suffer bad withdrawal. It is never a problem though, as much as people tease otherwise; it’s cheap enough to not be a costly addiction compared to most, and is a genuine joy to drink so has little downside to it. Maybe one day I will be able to quit and drink it for just a special occasion, but that day is not a priority for any time now. At least nowadays I can trust myself around alcohol as part of a night out, without having to worry about where it could lead.
From The Inside Out is available, with much better writing (I hope) on all good amazon links, such as this one; http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE
Dancing With The Devil - Short poem
Never listened to, always heard
My opinions and personalities never get birthed
You left me with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
But where can I turn when my scars are on the inside?
And I can hear you say this is a victory.
So who's in charge of my head today?
Dancing with the Devil, or Angel's play?
Schizophrenic without any other side to know
Altruistic but for that, integrity had to go.
And I can't say if we're ever going to be free.
I feel the constant lurching of regret, the sins of my flesh
Liquid courage and an internal sorry can clash but never mesh.
But where else can I go when my body is chasing me?
And where else can I go when my surroundings green with envy?
Tell me, am I ever going to be me?
My opinions and personalities never get birthed
You left me with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
But where can I turn when my scars are on the inside?
And I can hear you say this is a victory.
So who's in charge of my head today?
Dancing with the Devil, or Angel's play?
Schizophrenic without any other side to know
Altruistic but for that, integrity had to go.
And I can't say if we're ever going to be free.
I feel the constant lurching of regret, the sins of my flesh
Liquid courage and an internal sorry can clash but never mesh.
But where else can I go when my body is chasing me?
And where else can I go when my surroundings green with envy?
Tell me, am I ever going to be me?
Friday 7 November 2014
Preparation For A Colonoscopy: Or, How I Learned To Stop Shitting and Leave The Toilet
My eyes ran past the gaze of the box over and over again. Moviprep. Moo-vi prep? Mov-i prep? I never did learn how it was pronounced. But what I did learn was that it was evil.
I cracked open pandora's cardboard box at the seam and read the instructions a dozen times over - one sachet each of A & B into a measuring jug and then a litre of water. A litre? Urgh. I'm something of a pain when it comes to punctuality so it's reassurance of telling me not to worry about chugging it, can take up to 2 hours with it if I wished - clearly doctors envision some casual swilling in my finest whiskey glass of the stuff - to me this registered as a strict deadline. This HAS to be done in 2 hours. Fine, I can manage that. Then I tasted it.
The thick gunk of Toilet Duck ran down my throat and I fought every one of my senses to regurgitate it back. I silently made my apologies to Gordon's gin for similar comparisons years prior and took another swig, hoping a good deal of the revulsion came from the shock value. It didn't. The warmth of the liquid didn't help, despite the water used had been refrigerated, it felt like I had left it out on a hot summer's day for a little while. I managed two thirds of the jug with only two bathroom breaks. Solid. Weird. Maybe it's just not how I imagined it would go? It made sense for it to stop working when I ran out of stuff to flush out afterall.
I was confident now that it was through - it had been a couple of hours now since I started, so surely it's winding down? I planned on a nice long hot bath to unwind, and cut off any muscle pain I could foresee before an early night ready for my ass to give it's best McConaughey impression. Bath run and steam teasing my pores and I felt a rumble. Of course.
My eyes lusted the bath for over an hour as the wrong parts of my body cried, watching every last whisp of steam die. By the fourth hour I had started throwing up too. Just a litre of Moviprep they said. It will be quick and easy, they said. Over before you know it. The first rumble started at 8pm and I left the bathroom for more than two minutes at 10am the next day - and I still hadn't managed to finish the first litre of the stuff! By 8am I was struggling for the foetal position without interfering with the bond my backside had established with the toilet bowl. My eyes were burning with tears, my mouth silently running off it's prayers to my intestinal Gods to allow some mercy. Finally all my problems stopped, not with a gurgle but with a bang. The final kiss goodbye of both ends before I could finally rise and take a look in the mirror. Crack-addict. Thank god that's in this year in the North West.
Now came the tricky part - an hour's walk to the hospital..
Tweet me at @Chromosoner
PSN me at : The_Chromosoner
My Etsy Shop: Nerdist Store
My Book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE
I cracked open pandora's cardboard box at the seam and read the instructions a dozen times over - one sachet each of A & B into a measuring jug and then a litre of water. A litre? Urgh. I'm something of a pain when it comes to punctuality so it's reassurance of telling me not to worry about chugging it, can take up to 2 hours with it if I wished - clearly doctors envision some casual swilling in my finest whiskey glass of the stuff - to me this registered as a strict deadline. This HAS to be done in 2 hours. Fine, I can manage that. Then I tasted it.
The thick gunk of Toilet Duck ran down my throat and I fought every one of my senses to regurgitate it back. I silently made my apologies to Gordon's gin for similar comparisons years prior and took another swig, hoping a good deal of the revulsion came from the shock value. It didn't. The warmth of the liquid didn't help, despite the water used had been refrigerated, it felt like I had left it out on a hot summer's day for a little while. I managed two thirds of the jug with only two bathroom breaks. Solid. Weird. Maybe it's just not how I imagined it would go? It made sense for it to stop working when I ran out of stuff to flush out afterall.
I was confident now that it was through - it had been a couple of hours now since I started, so surely it's winding down? I planned on a nice long hot bath to unwind, and cut off any muscle pain I could foresee before an early night ready for my ass to give it's best McConaughey impression. Bath run and steam teasing my pores and I felt a rumble. Of course.
My eyes lusted the bath for over an hour as the wrong parts of my body cried, watching every last whisp of steam die. By the fourth hour I had started throwing up too. Just a litre of Moviprep they said. It will be quick and easy, they said. Over before you know it. The first rumble started at 8pm and I left the bathroom for more than two minutes at 10am the next day - and I still hadn't managed to finish the first litre of the stuff! By 8am I was struggling for the foetal position without interfering with the bond my backside had established with the toilet bowl. My eyes were burning with tears, my mouth silently running off it's prayers to my intestinal Gods to allow some mercy. Finally all my problems stopped, not with a gurgle but with a bang. The final kiss goodbye of both ends before I could finally rise and take a look in the mirror. Crack-addict. Thank god that's in this year in the North West.
Now came the tricky part - an hour's walk to the hospital..
Tweet me at @Chromosoner
PSN me at : The_Chromosoner
My Etsy Shop: Nerdist Store
My Book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE
Introductions Are Hard
Okay so I finally caved in and decided to get myself a bit of a blog up and running for as much as I could.
Will try and do a variety of little things for whatever I can, whether its a rant, general updates or even small scraps of test paragraphs / poems I'm working on.
But first! The About Me blah;
I am a 24 year old writer, born and raised in Southport until I was 14 when I moved to Wigan where I have stayed for the last decade. I have always had a large passion for writing and drawing, so will often burn between the two things keeping me constantly busy in some way, even if I often feel I haven't accomplished much.
Though I have been ill for a decade, I am still unconfirmed by doctors with this year alone suggesting both Ulcerative Colitis as well as more recently Crohn's disease. I do have a confirmed history of depression however which couples with a tiny pinch of neurosis and paranoia.
I have an addiction to Coca Cola, as well as a general passion for all things McDonalds. Big believe in never knock it until you've tried it with only minor exceptions, through everything.
So that's about it for now, will try and do a real blog shortly so something vaguely useful is here too.
Tweet me at @Chromosoner
PSN me at : The_Chromosoner
My Etsy Shop: Nerdist Store
My Book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE
Will try and do a variety of little things for whatever I can, whether its a rant, general updates or even small scraps of test paragraphs / poems I'm working on.
But first! The About Me blah;
I am a 24 year old writer, born and raised in Southport until I was 14 when I moved to Wigan where I have stayed for the last decade. I have always had a large passion for writing and drawing, so will often burn between the two things keeping me constantly busy in some way, even if I often feel I haven't accomplished much.
Though I have been ill for a decade, I am still unconfirmed by doctors with this year alone suggesting both Ulcerative Colitis as well as more recently Crohn's disease. I do have a confirmed history of depression however which couples with a tiny pinch of neurosis and paranoia.
I have an addiction to Coca Cola, as well as a general passion for all things McDonalds. Big believe in never knock it until you've tried it with only minor exceptions, through everything.
So that's about it for now, will try and do a real blog shortly so something vaguely useful is here too.
Tweet me at @Chromosoner
PSN me at : The_Chromosoner
My Etsy Shop: Nerdist Store
My Book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE
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