OK HERE'S THE MISERYGUTS WEEKEND POST.
It is raining.
I am miserable.
I rushed to the chemist. Drank methadone that made me feel SICK. Hung around in Morrisons not wanting to be there, not wanting to leave. I smoked a cigarette in the carpark and watched the sky interlace the paving slabs in puddles.
Oh yeah and the bitch doctor wouldn't see me yesterday because I was more than 15 mins late. This is the methadone dr. I'd already got my 110mg oil tanker sized script. (Well THEY insist, constantly, that it's a lot.) I feel absolutely nothing at all from this dose. It does nothing to stop me wanting to use on top. I'm totally against maintenance methadone I want take this toxin grudgingly and want it OUT of my system ASAP.
This doctor refused to see me. If the dr is late next time I come I'm putting in a formal complaint under disability discrimination legislation as I believe I'm being discriminated against for being a psycho.
Everyone who's been to my present clinic and my past one has the same opinion as me about this clinic. I was wondering how Valium Marilyn, who lives only three streets from me, manages to go to my old clinic when she too lives over the Border in the Borough of Nightmaresville. The simple answer is, she lied about her address. I'm thinking of doing that too.
I haven't taken any heroin at all. I haven't bought any birds. I still want that goldfinch-canary cross. He's stopped panicking every time I look at him. I think he wants me to buy him. I have a huge converted hamster cage with perches gleaned from the local park in readiness. I know the council will go nuts if and when his supersonically loud singing starts ringing out, because birdsong really does sound loud inside a house... but who cares? I've wanted a canary ever since I used to walk past our local florists who had one tweetling away like a bright yellow feathery Whitney Houston.
I had a good look at my neck yesterday. This exfoliation has brought up some fantastic veins there. There's one on the left hand side that looks as thick as electrical flex. Plus I have several thin ones at the front, and another thicker one on the right hand side. I've used the veins running from nipples to armpits years ago when I was addicted to putting crack in my heroin. I was such a junkie.
I read this back and I seem really cheeerful when actually I felt nothing but emptiness between waking up at 11, getting up at 12, visiting the methadonery at 12:30 and hanging around feeling ill in the rain ever since. I don't think anything will ever sum up how I feel (thank God). I'm bored of my new hair colour already. Fair do's it's better than the original chestnut brown (which had nasty grey streaks in it, I now know, having examined the carrier bag full of evidence). To be frank: the current platinum would look fantastic with conker coloured lowlights. If I thought I could do this PROPERLY so my hair looked varigated, like the feathers of a bird, then I'd go for it. Only I don't know where to get the shower cap and hook thing women use for this procedure. And I've never put tinfoil on my hair, ever. Oh yeah and I'm thinking of getting green lenses in my specks. Green against brown. Won't that look funky?
Here's a quote from Sectioned: A Life Interrupted by John O'Donoghue p132
Cerys takes a drag on her fag... I've never really heard Cerys talk at any length before and I sit quietly as she opens up.
"They're fascinated by the likes of us, fascinated by madness, by derangement, because we've been there, we've seen heaven and hell, joy and despair. It means we've got dimensions they've never even dreamed of."
She takes another languorous drag.
"We absolute fascinate them. The groups ~ therapy ~ working on yourself. It's all just crap. They're not trying to help us. No. They want what we've got, but without going through what we've been through. The doors of perception have been wrenched from our hinges. We've seen what no-one else has. But they're scared by the thought of that. They want to stay in control, they're too afraid to ever let go, of status, power, comfort. They're turned on by the idea of madness, but they just sink back into their conventional roles, their straight 'careers', their schtick. And do you know who's the worst? Dan Cassady. Because he's the one with the pwer. He wants to be the Good Guy, Mr Laid-back, Mr Cool. But he'll be the first to kick any oen of us out if we don't play by his rules. He's the one upholding the status quo, making sure we 'progress'. But progress to what? To everything we're running a mile from for Christs's sake! Everything that's screwed us up in the first place: crap jobs, a society that's afraid of us, squalid accommodation. He's fascinated, obsessed. But where he sees sickness, I see health. And where he sees insanity, I see wisdom. Dan Cassady is exactly what is wrong with the world. I'd like to open his doors, to just smash them all down."
I couldn't have said it better myself.
I've always believed bipolar "disorder" makes you more of a person. If your emotions run on a course from minus one hundred to plus one hundred, whereas a regular person barely ever dips below minus ten or exceeds plus nine then bipolar "disorder" is only going to make you MORE of a person, not less of one. Add schizophrenia to the mix and you have a very superior person indeed.
I've always suspected that drugs workers of the ilk who've never used, never watched a sibling or partner kill themselves with heroin. The ones who just take it on as a random job instead of being a librarian or a filing clerk or a plant-waterer. Those ones. They're just junkies by proxy. Too scared of actually taking the stuff. But just loving the vibe that surrounds it. Ie the exact opposite of me, who loved being high and hated the lifestyle. The way they talk about injecting as if it's freakery says everything. Heroin is a drug for injection. DOCTORS INJECT IT into cancer patients. When did you last see an NHS ward full of pain patients chasing the so-called dragon. Well then. Some reality check is required. As long as I take heroin I shall inject heroin. I never ever will go back to smoking it, which I only did in the very very beginning. And being as I no longer use heroin, I expect never to inject it ever again.
I'm only cleaning up so I can die by the way. I want to die and I don't want to die a junkie. So if you're wondering where the sudden motivation comes from: that's it.
FEASTING WITH AN OLD FRIEND - My friend Carol King, who has recently returned to Sicily, and I decided to celebrate *Ferragosto* a day late this year, so I kind of cooked her a little m...
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