I HAVE A SWOLLEN lump just above my left nipple, which is really painful. It has been there for weeks and is getting bigger. And I seem to keep banging it all the time, which really hurts. My chest looks normal in the mirror, but if I look down it's noticably swollen on the left side. The (female) doctor had a good old grope then announced she is sending me off to a specialist. I didn't behave very grown up at all during this consultation. Couldn't stop smiling near-ecstatically the entire time. Then I said "I heard cancer is normally a hard lump" (this is soft-ish and feels like a loop, like some kind of atrophied veins or something though I hasten to add I have NOT been injecting there). But she said, "Not necessarily." Anyway, she's making me an appointment with a specialist. A breast cancer specialist, I assume. Apparently one case in a hundred of breast cancer does happen in MEN.
I was so excited last night I could not sleep. If I am dying I will have to write tons and tons of my little books to keep my family in money after I am gone. NO WAY am I having chemotherapy or radiotherapy. I will probably let them take the lump out, but that's it. If you think I'm the sort of person who posts how he wants to die one week then suddenly changes his mind when death becomes a real possibility, you really don't know me. I watch/listen to the religious channels on TV every day. And every night I get the Bible read out unedited in full on the TWR radio channel. I cannot wait to meet God. I don't want to live in this shitty world a day longer than absolutely necessary.
If anyone DARES try and force me into treatment against my will (which they theoretically could do by claiming I am mentally ill), I shall hire a lawyer and go to court over the issue. One thing God did bless me with was an eloquent mouth. And even if the judge rules against me I shall take up smoking in bed, cut open the drip bags and do everything possible to mess up their treatment.
If I've only got a short time to live, I'd better contrive as many novel-plots as I possibly can, so after I'm gone the publishers can hire someone else to turn them into books (like they did with Virginia Andrews). O yeah and I'd better write my will quick. If I don't write one, everything, including intellectual property rights, goes to my brother (as far as I understand), which I don't mind. But I wanted to make a more complicated will that would cut in more family members. I just hope they are hard-nosed enough to exploit my every literary creation for all it is worth. Storytelling might be an art, but publishing, movies, computer games and other spin-offs are business and I want them treated as such. If they sign any duff contracts after I am gone, for example selling film rights for a lump sum rather than taking a share of gross receipts, DVD sales etc (never net profits) AS WELL as a lump sum advance, then I really will turn in my grave (or my ashes pot).
So that's me. You all thought I'd die of an overdose and I'm probably dying of cancer! Keep smiling, I am. I want a roborovski hamster on my headstone.
XXXXXXX
PS I just read this back. I know it comes across a little weird. But I might be dying. What the hell else am I supposed to say?
YESTERDAY I felt worse than at any time in the recent past. On top of depression, I had a constant sense or irritation bordering into unfocused fury. Unfocused because I was angry about everything and nothing in particular. I felt stirred up and upset every minute of the day.
Usually drink helps. (The doctor who originally diagnosed me accepted this as fact, amazingly, without adding the platitude that "drink is a depressant so it will make you more depressed". He knew how much I was drinking, which was very little. Maybe that's why he didn't argue.)
But yesterday, alcohol made me feel even worse.
So I did something I'm not proud of and called my dealer. The heroin was considerably stronger than normal. I hit up £20 in ten minutes and amazingly before I knew it, nearly all traces of that hideous depression had evaporated.
Paradoxically this merely rubbed in the fact that I cannot rely on heroin to steer me out of negative moods. I just can't. I now have been addicted to heroin and that noxious, largely ineffectual substitution rubbish they call methadone for over 12 years. I now want to be drug-free more than anything.
Apart from an hour's sleep while waiting on the exceptionally tardy dealer, I didn't go to bed at all yesterday daytime. (My extra sleep occurred in an armchair in front of the telly.)
To give an example of an ordinary day: I was in bed by 5pm on Wednesday. Got up at 3:30am and then slept from about 7-11am. That's 14.5 hours' sleep. A sure sign of despair.
Today I went to bed at midnight and woke at four, not feeling tired. So I'm going to make the best of this early start by going to work on my kiddie-book. Before anyone gets too impressed by my prodigious-seeming work schedule, it is necessary to bear in mind that this is going to be a wafer-thin volume for 6-9 year olds. Pages of giant print, interspersed by half-page illustrations. I doubt the entire story will exceed 8-10,000 words. That's a TENTH the length of an adult novel. So when I say I'm intending to produce three in a row, that's not very much writing. And besides, it's what the publishers will want.
Writing for children is supposedly a rare gift. So if I really do have that talent ~ wow! That's one thing I have going for myself.
Please God let me feel OK in the coming day. It's 5:30; I've only been up for 90 minutes and already fatigue, depression or something of the like is creeping back upon me.
Amazingly, despite feeling too ill to bother doing naything else this week, I'm still able to write. Nothing except catatonic depression or severe mania ever stops me writing coherent English. In mania I literally do lose the ability to string meaningful sentences together. In depression, it's the will to write that goes.
Though I haven't achieved any kind of creative high this week, I have found distraction in my work. And I hope my critical faculties are switched on enough for me to hone my prose into the best it's ever going to be. I'm never going to be one of those arty writers. I tell my tales simply and directly. And that's what six year olds want.
One last fact to make you laugh: when I stubbed my toe the other day ~ blood all over the place ~ I caused more damage than first envisaged. I'm now limping everywhere. The nail is still in place, but it's gone white. It no longer appears to be fully attached to my toe. And when I press it down, pus leeches out of both sides. Pus which smells of dustbins and shit.
I couldn't get a doctor's appointment before 10am Monday, so I have to suffer till then, with only a box of 48 ibuprofen for company. What I desperately need is antibiotics. And I hope the nail won't have to be amputated.
PS after writing this I slept from about 7am to midday. No further writing was achieved. It's now past 3pm and I don't feel as depressed as yesterday. THANK GOD.
Illustrated: the wonderful Cheska from Made in Chelsea, the only docusoap I ever follow.
Her Dad committed suicide last November, poor girl.
SCOOTER: C'EST BLEU
A song that has been going round my head
FINALLY the shit arse methadone clinic I am forced to attend has allowed me to pick up my dose three times a week instead of every miserable day. The sheer drudgery of that empty routine was getting me down beyond words. HOWEVER, they are still insisting that when I come in to pick up, I have to drink that day's dose under supervision, which made me HIT THE ROOF when I was told about it. The entire point of taking methadone home is to be able to drink the dose in bed in the early hours, so that when you get up the dose is going good and strong. Otherwise you get up feeling crap and on top of that have to trudge down to whatever God-forsaken chemist you have been allocated (from a ridiculously tiny list) sweating, hot, cold, miserable. Wait for up to twenty minutes as old ladies are given advice that's plainly written on the side of their prescriptions etc etc. Then I have to sit in the public library for over an hour as the methadone very slowly takes effect and the sweats gradually diminish. If I don't get better soon, I'm taking out a formal complaint against this clinic, by far the worst I've ever been to.
Either that, or I'll go private. A friend of mine gave me the number of a private treatment centre that prescribes Subutex, injectable methadone and morphine sulphate pills as well as the usual ineffectual oral methadone. I'm too scared to change over to Subutex as last time I was sick beyond words during the change-over and barely sleeping at all a full two weeks afterwards.
I'm very much in two minds about whether or not to go into this detox unit. I've been in such places before. The dosing, scheduling and in fact every rule is in place for the convenience of the staff, not the patients. A usual detox involves reducing 5mg every 2 days, which is quite steep and even if I do take the nasty antipsychotic quetiapine (which I have given up on as I feel more ill on it than off it) there's a good chance that I will not sleep at all, for days on end. The only light at the end of that particular tunnel is that a continued lack of sleep might induce bipolar mania, which I'd really like to have in a detox unit. It would totally distract me from the horrific job in hand, that of coming off opiates and produce lots of fun fun fun, with a severely elevated mood and lots of hallucinations. The risk of course, is of being carted off from detox unit to mental hospital.
My book's going OK. I wrote 800 words yesterday and have been editing chapter one. I feel very little joy from this or anything else in life. Every second I am awake I feel gloomy, hopeless, irritable. I'm glad that I'm still sleeping a good 12 hours per day, so at least I have the horror of fewer waking hours to deal with.
I have decided to compose a living will, so that if anything ever goes seriously wrong with me, medically speaking, I have it in writing, signed and witnessed that I want NO LIFESAVING TREATMENT, only paliative care. Hopefully in the form of high-dose opiates. The way I see it, if I'm struck by a fatal illness, it's my sign that my time is up. I'm more fed up with life than you an possibly imagine. No amount of children's book writing will ever cure that. Neither will walks in the park, listening to nice music or any other of the well meaning but ineffectual suggestions I have collected over the years. Life after heroin is no life at all. It's not that I cannot replace heroin, because I find my writing just as absorbing. And there is no good heroin available to buy anywhere in or near London that I know of.
My time on heroin was the only time I ever felt at peace with myself. Now I am off it once more, I'm back at war. Hence the pressing need for a living will (because anyone deemed bipolar or otherwise mentally ill can be forced into lifesaving medical treatment against their will). What the doctors would fail to understand is that I still want to die whether I feel depressed or not. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF LIFE AND WANT IT OVER.
Still, I will not give up on my schemes to make money for my family after I am gone. And that's about all I have to say today. Take care everyone.
LAST NIGHT I came up with skeleton plots for all three of these children's books I've been on about. I also produced the first couple of pages of book 1 ~ 380 wonderful words. I'm aiming to push myself to produce at least a thousand words a day of fair copy.
My only problem with these books is that stories two and three are very much more exciting than book one, which is an introductory volume. I don't know whether to rejiggle the plot to make it more dramatic, or just to keep it as it is. Book one, you see, has a kind of moral to it, which the others don't. I can't be any more specific than that as it is unprofessional to discuss one's literary works before they are written.
As for this rehab. Ukh. I still want to go but I'm really not looking forward to it. Detoxing from methadone is like a slow torture. I'm only glad I'll be able to take quetiapine in there (the antipsychotic), which SHOULD knock me senseless every night. Because the one of the main withdrawal symptoms of opiates is a complete lack of sleep, which goes on for days and days.
I woke up today feeling like living crap. Very depressed. My one ambition in life is to get off drugs and get these three books published (hopefully by multinational conglomerates; I'm not interested in self-publishing). Then as far as I'm concerned, I can drop dead. That's how I feel today. Oh, and I hope my books get made into massive feature films so my family can be rolling in money.
I'm not at all sure I'd be able to post on a blog from a detox unit. Of the two I've been in, one didn't allow mobile phones. The other did, but the detox there was terrible. Well that's another story.
I'm trying to steel enough enthusiasm within myself to get at least another two pages done of this book. It only took so long to get to even this point, where I'm just starting out on a story that has been in my head for over a year, because I simply couldn't envisage that story clearly enough. I'm not one of those people who writes into a vacuum. I like to know precisely where things are going. Then my one task is to turn a tale in my head into words on a page. What I hate doing is scratching my head, wondering what's supposed to happen next.
Well I'm going to have to go. I really feel joyless today and my landlord is poking round my house. Oh what fun. Take care everyone...
I HAVE FINALLY DECIDED TO ENTER A PROFESSIONAL DETOX UNIT to come off the remainder of my opiate habit. This should happen in 4-6 weeks. My prescribed methadone is at a flat 30mg daily (no longer tipping down on a 2-weekly basis) but I'm using a good 10-15mg (bought on the street) on top of that. Reason being I used heroin every day for over a month, giving myself a double habit that I now have to wean myself off. I didn't DARE tell the clinic about this. I trust them little enough as it is. All I'm doing is pouring out that extra juice in the early hours, and making sure I pour out less and less each day. Until eventually I'll be back to that flat 30mg.
I cannot WAIT to get off this noxious gloopy crap as quickly as possible. Originally I wanted a "community" detox because I felt the longterm gradual reduction would suit me better. But what it's actually turning into is a type of ultra slow low-grade torture. I'd rather do 10 days of hell in the unit and come out squeaky clean than weeks and weeks of semi-suffering.
My biggest problem previous attempts at rehab was that I didn't sleep AT ALL. Everyone claims not to sleep in rehab. Well I can tell you, they did. Because I stayed up all night watching them doing it. I was lonely and suicidal and couldn't even talk to the night staff, because the night staff had been working all day and needed the sofa to sleep on.
The difference this time is in the wonders of Seroquel (quetiapine) which I'm currently not taking because it didn't make me any less moody, didn't stop me hearing "voices" (which were mostly nonsense syllables and echoes; I only hear crystal clear voices when I'm ravingly psychotic) and basically made me ridiculously tired all the time, despite the fact that I took the entire dose at night. Well the advantage of Seroquel is it does make you sleep exceptionally long and deeply. So I've decided to stay off it until the day I go in (when you have to declare any outside medications you're on). Then I'll go back on the full dose, which should knock me sideways. Meaning I might, if I'm lucky, sleep like a baby throughout this entire nightmare they call "detoxification".
My worker told me the entire thing should be over in ten days. Ten days to freedom! Imagine that!! I can't wait.
I now have as full a plot as one can ever hope for in advance for the KIDDIES' BOOK I'm going to write. Because it's an animal story it really has to be for the 6-10 year old range, though it will be a proper novel, not a picture book. Novels in this category rarely exceed 15-20,000 words so I should be able to produce a workable first draft within a month. If only I can sit down, focus and WRITE THE DAMN THING. I know from past experience that self-discipline and routine are the key to producing any manuscript. Not inspiration. Inspiration is what you need to get yourself going. Discipline keeps you going. Currently I have the inspiration. In fact, I'm on a high. I'm planning my story to be one of a set of at least three, because children like serial characters. Of course if I could I'd write 20 or more books in the same series, but I'm planning on producing three in a row. That's only about 45,000 words, about HALF the length of an entire adult novel! I can't tell you what my tale is about. Except that it's going to be brilliant. (But of course.)
I've been reading Michael Jackson: The Magic, The Madness, The Whole Story by J Randy Taraborrelli. I love Michael Jackson. For years he has inspired me to greatness. Perhaps some of that magic will rub off on my book? I hope so.
Oh and my friend Paddy Paddster gave me his Webster's. For over five years I have been dictionary-less after my old landlord threw half my possessions on the street and my beloved Chambers got stolen. My vocabulary has suffered no end. I used rarely if ever to encounter words I didn't understand. Now I'm coming across them all the time. I know Websters is an American dictionary, but who cares? I'm pretty sure I know the differences in spelling, which for a children's author are crucial. The matrons of Middle England would never tolerate their offspring being entertained by stories printed in transatlantic prose!
Oh and last but not least I stubbed my toe so badly on a metal security door that my left foot is bathed in blood, the sock stuck fast and I could barely walk. The toe isn't broken, neither is the nail, though it does feel that way. So I'm in the wars yet again. Apart from that I'm in a really good mood today. Finally and at long long last an end to my drugs nightmare might be in sight! Wow!!
PS WHY DOES THE NEW BLOGGER REFUSE TO RECOGNIZE NEW PARAGRAPHS? What do I do to paragraph out my work like an ordinary person? If anyone knows the answer PLEASE LET ME KNOW..!!
I HAVE BEEN OVERSLEEPING TO A RIDICULOUS DEGREE. I haven't dared count hours but it's a good 12 or 14 or even 16 out of every 24.
Yesterday I went to bed three times, I was so exhausted. And I slept deeply every time. I never ever lie in bed wide awake. I only ever can't sleep when I'm hypomanic (in an elevated mood) and in that state if you can't sleep you just don't bother wasting time going to bed anyhow.
Usually excessive sleep is a sign of depression in me but I don't feel too bad (surprisingly).
I have been trying to plot out what the rest of my life might entail and what I can do with it and the idea of writing a novel has come back yet again. There are several embryonic ideas whirring about my brain but I just don't know what to go for. I WAS going to give children's writing a bash and did indeed have concepts for a handful of books. But I just could not summon up enough fire in my belly to proceed. In my experience you NEED inspiration to start any literary project. What you cannot do though, is rely on inspiration striking every day once the writing has got started: then you have to write come hell or high water, else the book'll never get finished.
Anyway I shall give the novel-writing some more thought. There aren't many good books about mental illness, so I thought maybe I'd write something about that.
Well I had better go. Am I the only one to be completely fazed by Blogger's new look. It's gonna take ages to get used to. Have a cheery week everyone. What's left of it.
PS my totally unwanted, morally degenerate pig of a housemate has been KICKED OUT AND THE LOCKS CHANGED today I'm so happy happy happy. This person was such scum and I was so upset about goings on I couldn't even bring myself to post about them. HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN. PLEASE.
And don't quote that other proverb "better the devil you know"... it would be hard to out-scumbag the dregs of humanity this person called friends, who littered our house having loud telephone conversations about their legal and other problems. Not to mention the other chaos they caused ...
THE BITCH IS GONE. HA HA HA!
LAST WEDNESDAY 4th April, having been moody all week with "affective symptoms" I finally got fed up of having to endure Chronic Fatigue Syndrome-esque feelings every day and opted not to take my Seroquel/quetiapine antipsycho pills that night.
So I lay in bed feeling like I'd knocked back a vast vat of black coffee, when in reality I'd drunk none. By 1am I was anxious. By 2am I was more hyped up than ever and beginning to feel high. So I jumped up and put on loud music and didn't bother going to bed all night.
I was bright and awake all the next day and not at all tired. At midnight I popped a Nytol (over the counter sleeping aid) yet still didn't feel sleepy. In fact I kept experiencing paroxisms of excitement over nothing. At 2am I popped another one. I went to bed and was half awake all night. Finally I got to sleep after 6am, and my requisite trip to the methadone chemists aside, I stayed in bed all day only rising at 8pm. My mood was lovely and normal (not tired and depressed and a bit grouchy like it is a lot of the time) so I thoroughly enjoyed being normal.
Now I'm sinking down. Slept SIXTEEN HOURS yesterday, which is usually an impending sign of depression.
I've been trying hard not to use heroin on top of my 30mg methadone. I messed up my reduction bad enough to have to ask the clinic to stop reducing for now, so I can at least catch up with myself. I didn't tell them this, but I'm catching up by sipping tiny extra unprescribed doses on top of my main methadone dose. Of course these have to reduce strictly day by day, else I'll have a double habit for life.
A friend gave me a 75 migrocram Fentanyl patch (which is prescribed for moderate to severe pain) and that has held me well enough that I can go on 30mg methadone alone without using anything at all on top. The patch lasts 3 days and I'm currently on day 3. When that runs out I shall hopefully be able to survive on 30mg methadone alone. All I want is to get OFF these dreadful drugs. But I'm a drug addict, so I will cheat. That's the nature of the beast. I just wish I could get hypomanic again (hypomania means mild elation and excitement) because when I'm like that I'm vehemently against not only drugs but methadone and alcohol too.
What am I saying: I'm against methadone no matter what mood I'm in. Methadone is druggie pigswill.
Anyway I hope you all have been keeping well and I shall report back on my successes next week XXXXXXXX
I THINK I have just found out why I have been feeling so ill for such a long time. Seroquel/quetiapine interacts with antifungal azole medications causing the quetiapine to get broken down extra slowly by the liver. And I was spraying my feet every day with miconazole athelete's foot ointment. Now that I've stopped doing that I no longer feel like I'm about to pass out most of the time. The bad news is that my head is going all over the place. It gets full of random words a lot of the time. Words that just pop in from nowhere. I know this is a "symptom" because it happened before. Since I stopped using the athelete's foot spray I no longer sleep 14 hours a day. I slept only eight or nine hours last night. Wow. Oh yeah and my methadone is down to 30mg so it's all good. And I'm not using heroin on top any more.
