16 th june.

16/06/2007
07:02
Up early, obviously, having had a decent sleep, only to find out it is early hours of the morning.
A couple of years ago I would have been settled next to some water by now fishing or busy in the allotment.
Possibly even out to sea, fishing in one of the few remaining cobles.

I looked out of the window and there was a promising amount of sunlight, enough to promise a better day than of late.
But within half an hour the mist had returned and was creeping steadily closer from the fields to the buildings of the close.

With first cuppa in hand I’d sat, trying to decided what kind of day, today may turn out to be.

I’d looked around the flat and come to the conclusion something would have to be done; I’ve been home a week now and still haven’t unpacked.
Problem being it was simply too early to wake my downstairs neighbour by walking around on the noisy floorboards.
How considerate I’m becoming in my old age!

I finish my first rollie and again look at the clock, I’ve been awake nearly half an hour.

The few positive thoughts, like I’ll be able to see the daisies in flower,
If the sun stays out; I may venture outside, ride in car, and go shopping for bread.
They all disappeared as I caught my first glimpse of the mist approaching.
Memories of the last week spent all but one day in the gloom of a grey, pervading, shroud.

I go for a piss, top up my tea and decided that whatever else happens, I must have a bath and shave today.
My juvenile beard is irritating me and I’m not aware but feel I must have my own personal scent following me.

So decided, today is bath day and once more my visage will see the light of day.
I look forward to it.
Even though, as I’ve mentioned once or twice before the experience is nothing like getting stretched out in my parent’s full-length version.

I get in my mini bath, space saving original design, guaranteed to fit any available space in an outdated, ridiculously small bathroom.
My arse gets wet.
Everywhere else struggles to get any real contact with the water.
So there I sit like a solitary strawberry in the centre of a huge bowl of blamange.

I think of getting my back wet, even feeling some of the heat from the water around my neck.
I then, brush my teeth while looking around the windowsill in front of me.
Has anything been shifted? Or, indeed added?

No,
I’m free to ever so slowly slip backwards while sliding my right leg further and further up the wall facing me.
The struggle to position the leg and foot in just the right position to ensure maximum immersion is immense.
I therefore generally take my time to appreciate this newly acquired position.
I also take my time in hesitation because the return to an upright position is several times more arduous.

Of course, often as not the elevated leg is the first to call time on any chance of a neck warming relaxation period.
You have taken it out from almost beneath an expanse of warm, nay hot water,
And stuck it out in the cold.

Once your leg begins to send alarm bells and draw attention to the ambient temperature of the room.
The rest of the body reacts similarly.
And because you only actually have your arse warm, that is a lot of body.

I have that to look forward to.

One single thing that would transform my way of life and lift my existence to a higher level would be the installation of a shower.

I have never been without one, have installed a shower in every property I’ve had,
Often never seeking permission, not wanting to go through the red tape associated with an application.

Out of bed then stood with bullets of hot water bombarding the lower back, neck and shoulders.
To feel refreshed and rejuvenated.
To feel the pain ease as surely as having taken a powerful medicine.

A bit of blow and a hot shower,
Best combination of painkillers known to man.

To be stoned, eyes closed, water raining down on your overly receptive body,
Let thoughts of pain fade as the magic of the water is executed.

I was a little disappointed that the bathroom remained the only room not connected with a sound system.
I therefore had to use the computer in the room next door to supply the sounds.
Stoned, shower, sounds, so simple.
That was rather clever.

I will just have to get used to the idea that,
As long as I have an hole in my arse, I will never fit in that bath.
Not that I’m advocating removal of said orifice to try.

I appear to have given the trike too much head and veered slightly away, again.

I’m sat, an hour into first stone,
Yes, up half an hour and into first joint!
Why such an early start? You may ask.

Whilst finishing my second rollie I had a period of “ uncontrol”,
I found myself opening the spelling and grammar check options,
And actively seeking further assistance.
I read the options already ticked and decided there was little extra I needed.
I then came across a section bereft of selections save one Colloquium.
I had ticked a couple more which I may add but truthfully do not understand.
And have immediately forgotten.

Now you may begin to understand my problem when locked up working on the system,
My short term memory is well and truly fucked up sometimes and generally all the time when stoned.

I honestly can often not remember the last sentence immediately after it has been scripted.

So therefore I was forced to carry out any changes, slowly, methodically, often talking to myself, describing what I’m doing.
I then have to quickly write down what I’ve said, describing what I’d just done,
So I had something to refer to.
I did try Dictaphone to record actions but preferred the freedom of paper to jump from section to section.
But that is how and when I began to scribble, develop a system of short hand and eventually taught myself to type for pleasure and exercise.

So first joint down, last joint waiting in the wings,
No intention of buying further stock.

Who am I to keep it waiting? Who indeed.

I skin,
I spark.

The making and sparking of the last joint is always an apparent solemn moment for me.
I become reflective.
I’m sat here relaxed, listening to sounds, stoned, thinking,
Surely life has more to offer than a week in Skegness!

Vague memories of things said about Bracing Skegness, flicker through my head and I wish to put the record straight.

I went to Skegness because,
I have never yet met anyone I knew there.
Never had any hassle finding somewhere to park.
Never got mugged, abused or felt threatened at any time.
Was always in close proximity, to someone worse off than me.
What?
Never got short-changed.
Never got hassled for money, the only apparent beggar was too drunk to speak.

(My speakers have suddenly gone quiet, vague sounds in the background.
Which normally signifies a return to normal volume; so sudden it will shock me.)

I remember and test the volume control.
It is working, the speakers still haven’t returned.
I change the genre station but still there is this horribly infuriating rasping sound coming from the boxes.
Notice almost immediate disrespect for equipment when it fails to operate correctly.

I am forced to investigate, cannot abide imperfect sounds,
For imperfect read not working at their best.

As I leave the chair, this is one small step for man is running through my head.

I waggle a known loose connection.
Waggle?
Technical term used to describe the apparent random motion of the action.
No response,
I revert to common sense and switch the power off, wait ten seconds and,
Hey presto, problem solved, sounds restored, return to chair.

Isn’t life fucking exciting when you live it to the max?

I realise the speaker incident had caused me to leave the joint in the ashtray and this is one of those rare occasions of
Smokus completus being interruptus

I convince checker the above are kosher and continue.

Bomb the Bass-bug Powder dust!(dub)
Found on old favourite, 777 radio in lounge.
Feeling lucky punk?
Look it up and listen.

Irritating little song, in a nice way, has a piece like a fucking woodpecker trying to gain entry into your head.
Some interesting sounds mixed.

Decide sounds were too lively so switched to chill.
Much more befitting present state of mind.
I spark.

I often wondered how proper writers do it.
How can they decide upon a time to be able to write?
Surely you have to be able to write.

I couldn’t hold a thought for more than a few minutes let alone plan a writing session for a certain time.
Meaning I’d be unable to carry any thoughts on content through to the session.
I presume the proper writers spend a lot of time doing other things while composing their future issue in their head.
Mine would be full of bits!

I once tried thinking about my writing beforehand.
I would sit in a pub and hear something and try desperately to link it something which I’m bound to do later,
Like get a beer from the fridge.
Before it disappears.

It may be something to do with having a bi-polar disorder or it could just be another fault in the long list of faulty body functions.
My memory is not working in ways is possibly should yet excelling in other areas.

I find it difficult to explain and have passed it off in the past as describing it as if it” is more selective”.
I tend to remember things for all the wrong reasons; such is the diversity of my adopted tagging system.

I struggled with my memory, as I did with my sanity when committed.
I fought long and hard with my memory, fearing I was going through a complete deletion of my mind.
My memory going, my sense of reason, self esteem low, at the end of one’s rope.
You struggle with your memory because there’s fuck all else making sense at the time of being committed!

I took the time to eventually allow myself to relax and regain slowly what I held important over everything else.
My intelligence.

For sure what good would any amount of study do if you have the memory span of a goldfish?
Would I simply forget everything I’d done over the last four years?
Don’t forget I’d been through almost total isolated continuous computer use, majority of which being research into a diverse range of study.

At first I tried to gauge how much damage had been done to my memory by trying to remember my computer use, testing myself with make believe scenarios involving rectifying system fault or similar.
I had 24 hours of freedom,
If I wanted to sit and listen to radio all day and night,
It could be allowed with moderation.

Quite a few of the inmates had woken up one night to the sounds of Dylan drifting through the dorm in the wee small hours.
They all said they enjoyed it.
I did tend to turn up the volume on personal favourites.
Wound the bastard up next door by leaving it on playing classical music all day while I was out,
Really pissed him off!

I later followed up with two days of heavy metal and finally a mix of classic tracks from different decades.
The daily live or whatever classical concert was the best,
Me laid on bed, nicely stoned, digital radio, concert broadcast rather loud,
Door open.
Him stood in the doorway, glaring, staring, almost, but not quite managing to pull it off,
Menacingly.

Knowing full well,
I’d threatened to rip his fucking head off if he stepped into my room,
Be that when vacant or occupied without consent.

His chosen form of entertainment was to watch a miniature DVD player at full blast.
He would miss many a meal to continue his viewing, sometimes rushing down to the trough to grab a sandwich at meal times, then returning to room.
He did come down sometimes, but most of the day and following night would be spent in the cell.

I did try, I say this now before explaining.
By the way I do not intend to take the piss out of this patient merely trying to convey to the reader the environment in which I’d found myself, by no conceivable choice of my own.

I had been lain in bed remembering bits and pieces of what I’d been trying to do.
I was trying to make sense of all my actions and trying to find reason.
I soon realised that there was one helluva lot of information to sort out just to figure out what I’d been doing and where the hell, I’d been and was planning of going in the future.
I had done too much of everything, as usual.
I do tend to drink too deep of the nectar pot.

I leave that in because I like the ambiguity,
I decided, after tasting the delights of the first consignment of an arranged regular daily supply, to have a defrag.
And I cheerily announced to all who would listen that I was going to
“Defrag my mind.”
I never thought or took the time to consider this a dangerous thing to announce in a mental hospital because no one understood the term.

“I’m going to defrag my mind and sort out what’s worth keeping”,
I explained to my trick cyclist when she commented on my apparent cheerful outlook.

I knew what had to be done, just wondering if the surroundings really are conducive to allowing a defrag.

I am surrounded by people certified no less to be of dubious character,
None apparently convicted of a crime,
Apparently some expecting court appearances when released.

I wish I’d stuck to finishing the apology to Skegness.
I went to bracing Skegness, to slob out, fish; enjoy a pint or two in friendly surroundings,
Sleep in an adequate bed and be waited on hand an foot with enough food to keep me out of a fish shop.
I got everything I wanted from the week’s holiday came away without buying an oversized carrier bag and have sufficient tackle once again to choose to pursue the sport.

I was in need of somewhere to relax, private if need be or simply toker friendly.
By now I’d slipped into the routine of meds, food, more food, yet more food, more meds, and bed.
I’d been well behaved for several days, being occupied with snooping round rooms looking for possible places of sanctuary.
I was released into the more relaxed, laid back atmosphere of occupational therapy.
And unlike the cuckoos nest idea springing to mind, the occupants are not all running round like headless chickens or trying to harm each other.
Seems the staff are well aware of the ones who may be dangerous or are lacking the basic social skill of interactivity.
They paint, do creative writing, many other projects which I didn’t take part in.
There is a huge pile of games, seldom used, a pool table is in almost constant use; somewhat neglected are the two computers and printers which shared the room with the toy I claimed as my own.
A keyboard, a Casio at that.
Sorry Casio it wasn’t half as good as the Yamaha 420.
I still grieve for that keyboard,
Yet know I will never again be able to use it to create such beautiful sounds as I did in the music room of the big house.
But it was there and there were music books.
I had a two-hour session each morning and afternoon, save Sunday.
I would have a joint in the garden before each session and would be pleasantly chilled after having a second one half way through each.
A pattern was beginning to merge and as my daily routine had little chance of being drastically altered I was free to organise my day.
I missed a couple of meals and was offered sandwiches when I eventually appeared.
That was the missing link.
I was now free from the restrictions of the accepted meal times.

I now needed to experiment in each of the bathrooms, testing fire alarms with both rollie and joint.
Acoustics, another point to be considered.
I had taken to singing aloud, outrageous ditties and genuine songs alike were to be heard coming from the bathroom,
I found one bathroom which had sufficient ventilation to clear smoke and being fully tiled was excellent acoustics wise.

The staff check the bathrooms every hour, I can of course vouch for that because I was entombed in the room of my choice for hours on end.
Emptying and refilling the bath from the often piping hot supply.

I forget to mention these bathrooms were very special to me because they contained the love of my life,
A longer than ever before experienced metal bath.
If it had been a shitty plastic bath then the whole recovery may well never have had chance to blossom.

I spent hours singing, composing short verses to be sung at the top of my voice, other times sounds from the radio were used to create the atmosphere.
A chance to once again think of everything I’d done so far, but this time take in many more sections of my life.
I analysed as many aspects of my life which had hitherto been important.

I remembered the less is more practise I’d been trying to follow during construction of system.

My plan of action had been to allocate a week to getting as wrecked as possible, refraining from contact and allowing the mid to do whatever it wanted.
Because I realised as in the defrag of a drive you have very little control save setting the operation into motion.
You take for granted that as depicted by the improvement in the appearance of the different coloured columns, the machine is doing everything correctly to provide maximum efficiency.
I did not want to choose what to remember and what to forget, I knew I would be unable.
I was prepared to let my mind take a rest and do the job for me in return.

When your brain is in a state of activity to be almost electric, it begins to feed on itself and any lowering of activity level is frowned upon.
But after too long in this condition it cries out for no more than rest.
Any break from making decision after decision and trying to find room to store even more intellectual flotsam.

I had however reached a state of mind in which I had begun to consider so many different aspects of my life in terms of worth and replaceability.

I realised I’d amassed literally tonnes of possessions and was trying to do things I’d wanted to do years but been unable to because of financial restrictions.
I was surrounded with shit, everywhere in the gardens, in my social life and my house was as cluttered with crap as the inside of my head.

Literally that is how I saw my problem as being,
A lifestyle full of crap and a head full of same.

The head problem would be solved if the importance of the subject is lowered to negligible.
It is no longer important to me, as it used to be and therefore I have no need to worry about remembering.
If you wipe out all importance of your previous existence by forcing yourself to forget then your present and future life can continue uninterrupted by concern.

True my position was somewhat unique, I’d escaped from the financial restrictions imposed by living in a huge house, broke away from a fading relationship, become enlightened to rumours apparently believed by so called friends thus prompting me to scrutinise my circle of acquaintances.
I decided there and then to leave my past behind, get rid of all, and I mean all baggage and let the future lead me.

It was shortly after that I was targeted, literally to receive my medication a la arse.
In fact they had interrupted on of these described session to administer it, taking the opportunity to seize my lump of cannabis in the process.

They never came close to ever; getting it again, mark my words.

I had made the decision just in time because these injections are bastards.
Turn you into a zombie, hardly able to shuffle your feet to move.
Unable to move, unable to think properly, apologetic to all you bump into.
Complete with a fixed expression on face.

Perfect, I struggled but managed to roll a joint up and spent a pleasant few hours staggering around out of my tree,
Any behaviour tolerated because I’d been a bad boy and refused my meds.
The combination of the two effects was interesting to say the least.

This allowing your mind to defrag itself is not without some degree of anxiety.
I would lay and try to remember things which I know I shouldn’t forget and struggled, it was if the mind was struggling to retrieve memories whilst busy dumping so many of them.

When committed you are known as on a section, each section can have its number changed and mean something completely different if and when required to confuse the patient during explanation of his incarceration.
You are in for a certain amount of time and there is absolutely fuck all you can do about it.
Hell some have been in for years and years, 20 yrs, one guy.

I panicked so much about my release, especially after being given drugs which were taking control from me without breaking into a sweat.
I enlisted the help of a solicitor and instructed him to sue the arse of my bitch of a trick cyclist for ruining 50 years of my life.
I remember being very angry at the time and making threats to several people and warning others to stay out of my way.
You sense you are recovering when you stop ripping the doors off the hinges, throwing the bed around the room, trying to demolish everything insight and lash out at everyone within range physically and verbally,
Until you find yourself under an assortment of staff bodies of each sex and you are restrained and medicated, given a long sleep.

I asked why the long sleep.
To give time for a confused mind to settle.
Excellent I thought, that was tantamount to sanctioning my personal plans to ger wrecked, chill out, and forget everything.

What method of treatment works and which combination of drugs legal or otherwise was responsible is irrelevant your time is up and you are released.

I come out try to implement my plan some time later,
By throwing out what I considered clutter and rejecting anything which bore memories.
And was duly sectioned for a second time.
Looking back it was fucking hilarious, or would have been if it had been candid camera.
No it was real and I was indeed locked up again.

Having smoked last joint and more recently, last of baccy, I feel somewhat deflated, and it not even 11 o’clock.
The sky is the same dull grey and I am once again taking my recycling duties seriously and prepare to re-roll the ashtray’s contents.

Such excitement you life can have if only you plan.

Do you know you are more likely to be struck by lightning on the doorstep of the shop where you buy your lottery ticket than winning it?
Bit of a twat if happen to be holding winner.

Just had a thought,
What if only unemployed stoned people with mental illnesses of varying degrees read this?
I will have a good-sized readership.


No I implore you,
When next deciding where to go for a couple of hours,
A trip out a jollie.

You will have no trouble whatsoever getting in, a friendly smile or wave is sufficient to get you in and onto the wards.
Please take the time to study each and every work of art you pass along the corridors.
All nicely framed, signed and donorship often documented.

You then enter the innards of the corridor system and plastic pot plants are used to line your path.
And when I say pot, I mean pot; there was six foot, proud to be included in anyone’s growing room, plastic examples of cannabis Sativa.
I had snapped a leaf off when first admitted and kept it in my room to remind me, least I forgot too much!

No seriously folks have a walk along and see how the other half live.
Pretend to be a visitor and stand in the wards area with the most chairs, generally accepted as meeting area.
Do not worry about not having an actual patient to talk to because quite a few choose not to spend any time with their visitors when they arrive, preferring to make busy and watch TV or sit in a glass smoke room staring out like some frightened animal.
Indeed some were frightened.

If however you were given the guided tour you would be shown the full pottery class, the art students, the kitchen being used, the pool table played, people strolling in the garden and all accompanied by a bipolar manic depressive stoned playing a Casio.

Take the time to look at the poetry and paintings on the wall, there isn’t a lot, most patients losing any wish to acknowledge worth once task completed.
Pieces of pottery kept in boxes, all examples of someone’s success in getting control over at least one aspect of their day.
Yet never wanting to be reminded by taking object home.

You never, ever know what is going to happen next in a mental hospital.
O.k. you have meal and med times, but other than that there is an air of uncertainty which hovers through the building.
Changing, with every move of the chess game.
A new player is introduced into someone else’s space and you have a mini riot.

The uncertainty in omnipresent yet serves to put an edge on the often boring tedious days spent trying to figure out why the fuck you were in there and who had been instrumental in putting you there?

I break for a piss and much needed exercise.

Six steps and a backward stagger to the door further seven steps and sat having a stoner’s piss.
Retrace my steps and back in chair.
Probably wouldn’t qualify for a Duke of Edinburgh’s Award but movement none the less.

Hell, you ask, how do you cope with so much excitement in your life?
Well, I guess I get a lot of help from my medication.
And having extremely low expectations.

I scratch my head, showering long strands onto the keyboard, distracting!

I now sit apparently well enough for release, knowing full well I will never allow myself to get so engrossed in anything ever again.
My psychotic episode was said to be “fuelled” by excessive cannabis consumption.
Hell you smoke weed and get stoned, get too stoned go to sleep.
Go to sleep, cannot continue smoking so built in safety device.

When you overload the mind with possibilities you effectively stop the whole body from relaxing and gradually become mentally and physically exhausted.
Completely depleted.

The “hospital”, provides the only safe environment in which you can be monitored, fed, medicated and hopefully given a chance to pick your own spot, be that sat in the same chair listening to the same radio station for years, of chilling in the bathroom or enclosing yourself in the bubble of experience which is playing an instrument.

I ask a person to recite the first seven letters of the alphabet, then teach then to play a piece of music they recognise from “proper” music in minutes.
I was lucky, lucky I was a keyboard player and luckier so have had music books available, being a sight-reader.
The staff had no need to ask how I was; they just listened to how I was playing.
I would never have made such a speedy recovery if not been granted the four hours per day to play free from interruption.

Noon approaches and I’ve taken about fifty steps since awakening.
None towards doing something constructive.

Takes some getting rid of that, often annoying thought.
You can never feel completely relaxed or concentrate fully upon any task to hand be it study or recreation if you are feeling guilty about not doing something,
More constructive.
With the time.

Some patients never get better, they just remain locked in the daily struggle to fill in the hours the best way they know how.
Inevitable institutionalisation follows, but the inmates are still watched over by staff looking for signs of any deviancy away from the now accepted norm.

I feel even sorrier for the ones left behind because of the magnitude of the chance which was given to me to alter my life in so many ways yet remain true to those I’ve grown to respect.
Namely my parents and little weed.

I still have the willingness of all three to help, when needed.
I have always been a solitary person and the experience of being hospitalised put me in a once in a lifetime position in which I had to rely on my own resources to recover from a life threatening situation.
There were people able and with power to take control of my life,
If I allowed them to.

To be completely alone in the world with only your overactive mind for company is pretty hairy at times.

A time best forgotten, you may say,
Hell no, I can see the humour and part sense of it all now.
I can appreciate what has happened to me not just during the stays in hospital but in the time following.
It has become the starting point of many memory searches because a lot of what happened before it has been removed or is at the very least unavailable for general perusal.

To sit for long periods writing about nothing in particular and everything general,
Will, I’m sure be seen as evidence of possible manic behaviour.
By some.

I am simply passing time while waiting for something more constructive, perhaps to come along.

Today’s exercise was of course, same as usual to run with whatever topic takes my fancy.

For god’s sake will some of you yanks do something to save internet radio, contact your local congressmen, kick up a fuss.
Anything to stop these bloody announcements from spoiling an otherwise perfect station!

Having gone smoke free, I feel the batteries running down and think of a nap.
I pour myself the contents of a Fosters lager into my tea mug and drink hungrily.
Drink hungrily?
Yes, right first time.
It sinks down fine.
I knew a guy once, called foster, first name John.
I let slip, on day whilst stoned, I said he looked liked Jesus, and called him Jesus John for a while.
The name stuck and became known as Jesus John, to distinguish him from the clutch of other Johns which used the club.

I fear my powers may be waning and I’m desperately grabbing hooks of ideas, on which to deposit meat.

The day has turned colder, my feet are cold, my back is apathetical and my neck is becoming stiff.
I take another drink.
I force down half of what is left, belch, and smack my lips.
Typical fosters moment, I’m sure you will agree.

I once again think of a nap and remember the powers of the antipsychotic tablets, waiting in the medicine drawer.
I sneeze violently several times and my back protests,
But still they come, uncontrollable, violent mini explosions.

I finish the drink, decide to try a tablet and have a nap.
Adieu.

Memory, can never be, mere fact or history.
Memory, is more complex;
of mute agenda and subtext.
Memory will flow and ebb,according to one's mental web.
Memory, a visceral mix,
of deja vu and subtle tricks.I

n my own remembering, thwarted dreams will all take wing.
Flights of fancy, foolish lies, float in ether's cloudless skies.
In my own imagining, I begin to live.
Memory, is mercury, a silver flash of the quick adept.
Memory, is Emory, it smoothes a path, and slicks the step.
Memory, can gather wool, unless it's used, trained or schooled.
Memory, the survivor's tool.
Memory, is lost to fools.

Some verses from David smith white.