A Whole Different Set of Heroes

thethemeis: Heroes

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   People are always banging on about superheroes, or sporting heroes, or heroes of the arts, or the heroes that keep our streets safe and treat us when we’re sick. Except for the fictional among that list, I think we’d all agree that all of those people are heroes. Of course they are. But they’re not my heroes. I have a whole different set of heroes. I’d like to tell you my friend’s story, so that you’ll see who I mean.

   Two years ago, my friend was a completely normal, confident, carefree young man. He had issues with commitment because he took a break-up disproportionately badly a year before that, and probably various other small issues too; but as I’ve often discussed, too often all that makes each of us unique is the different emotional baggage we carry around, and how we choose to deal with it. What I’m trying to say is that I felt like my friend was a fairly well-rounded individual, albeit damaged to the same degree as anyone you’d give a polite smile to as you passed them in the street.

   But then, something snapped. Up in his head, something short-circuited, and everything started to grow gradually darker. At first, it just felt like a niggling worry about driving. Was I caught speeding on that journey? He’d start to wonder as he parked up. Did I tap the wing mirror of one of those parked cars I passed? Small worries with small consequences, I’m sure you’ll agree. But as the weeks went on, he noticed that these worries were starting the mingle with his lively imagination, creating new concerns that any ordinary driver never even considers. I passed a motorcyclist on the way here – is there a chance that I could have hit him, and not realised?

   I remember a woman crossing the road with a buggy as I passed. I hope I didn’t hit that buggy. I don’t want to be responsible for killing a baby.

   These thoughts would play on my friend’s mind until he managed to fall asleep, or he revisited the scene of the imagined crime to check that there was no blood on the road. This happened on numerous occasions; he even sometimes had to take strange, convoluted routes when driving me and others places, just so that he could pass a particular location that had played host to one of these events. It ended up that most of the time when he was not driving his car, he spent fearing the next time he had to drive his car or fearing the imaginary consequences of the last time he drove it. Something was starting to take hold of him, but it was only just beginning.

   He thought he could control it alone then. He Googled it, and found terms like OCD and Anxiety Disorder and Intrusive Thoughts so widespread that it seemed to him that half the world felt the same way, although simultaneously he felt like he knew that he was completely alone. He felt like by knowing what it was, he had it under control. He knew what his mind was up to, so it couldn’t get past him anymore.

   But soon enough, this gradual darkening spread from his driving to other areas of his life. He started to fear strangers who looked at him in peculiar ways. Why, if they were complete strangers, were they looking at him as if they knew him? Or as if he had done something wrong? Were they following him? Had they been following him for a while? How on earth could he escape their pursuit of him? These all sound like ridiculous questions, but my friend would have conversations exactly like this one with himself in his head on an almost daily basis. He would even regularly change the routes he took when walking to destinations regularly visited, for the sake of throwing off those who were out to spy on him. He refused to keep a steady routine, out of fear that it would be learned and mimicked by those conspiring against him.

   Then he started to question why he thought people would be after him, and his only answer was that he was somehow evil, and deserved to be punished. His paranoia was so intense, so real to him, that the only logical conclusion was that he deserved it. He knew that it was all in his head, this conspiracy of the world’s against his mental state, but it had wormed its way so deep that he thought it must be based on some mistakes he had made in his past that he can never take back. So he began to turn on himself.

   It must have been something he did on the Internet, he concluded. So he forbade himself from visiting the Web. When he couldn’t use social media, it must have been something he said via text message, or something he said in a phone call. So suddenly, he wasn’t allowed to use those either. In fact, messages received from either of these media would arouse suspicion in my friend almost immediately. Who just sent him a text? Why would they want him? Are they out to get him? Why can’t they just leave him alone?

   His friends couldn’t be trusted. At some point in his years of knowing them, he had wronged each one to some degree, just as we all have; and in his head, they had coordinated their revenge so that they would all strike at once. As for contact from people who weren’t even his friends anymore because of some disagreement long ago, contact from them would cause him to lock himself in his bedroom with a turned-off phone and covers over his head for a whole day.

   He wasn’t safe anywhere, was his warped conclusion; and the most punishing part for him was that he knew just how warped it was. The old him still existed, trapped inside of his mind, whispering to him that this was all ridiculous, and that these fears that had grown out of nowhere were without basis and shouldn’t be taking so much of his time. There was a battle raging in his mind every minute of the day, a crippling battle that his rational side would never win alone. At the point when he couldn’t confidently leave his house without feeling scared of being murdered, just after the stage where he began to fear that people he made eye contact with could read his thoughts and would see the darkness in his soul and hate him for it… that’s when he decided to take action.

   And now, just twenty months after all this started, my friend is very nearly back to his old self. He can drive long distances, and leave the car with only a niggling worry nibbling at his mind. An hour later, it’s out of his mind. He can make eye contact with strangers, even smile at them, without even giving it a second thought. He is changed in subtle, irreversible ways; but he is stronger than he has been in over a year, and the only way is up. He still can’t keep a girlfriend (they become too close for comfort), and he still has to check seats or patches of floor where has recently been sitting or standing before he leaves them, to ensure that he hasn’t dropped anything with his address on for his future murderers to pick up; but these things will bow to him once more. He has a long way to go, but the way he has already come was much longer, so he knows now that he can make the journey.

   So who are my friend’s heroes? Who are my heroes? They’re the people who were there for my friend. They’re my friend’s family. My friend’s network of nearest and dearest (even those that he feared to be working with the enemy, in those darkest days). His counsellor, that impartial ear that was just there to listen, to provide perspective, to help whenever it was needed; to her, he owes a great deal. But most of all, my biggest hero is my friend himself. He found the strength to face that demon, and although he still has some way to go to beat it, he knows he can do it, and I know he will.

   If you ever needed proof that these things can happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere, then my friend is that proof. But he’s also proof that with support, love and strength, it can be overcome.

   World Mental Health Day is every October 10; but that doesn’t mean we should forget mental health issues the rest of the year. It’s time for all of us to educate ourselves and support those who are suffering.

My Late New Year's Resolution

thethemeis: New Year's Resolutions

theauthoris: Deadbeat

Fuck! Why am I always such a massive twat? It's only an online short story thing with a few friends of mine, nothing which will affect me in any way in the future barring perhaps a brief conversation down the pub. But still, if I can't even get myself sorted enough to contribute to something as small as that which, if i'm completely honest with myself, i've been quite looking forward to all week, how the fuck am I ever going to find the self-discipline and motivation to sort myself out this year.

I knew when I ordered that 3^rd & 4^th pint that there was only one way that day was going to end. I discussed briefly with myself the unlikely chance that i'd be able to edit and upload my currently unfinished piece of work by that evening, but even still I convinced myself that I might just call a day whilst only semi-pissed and be able to go home and finish up. I had no excuses either, i'd already claimed to be done and what a tit i'd look if I couldn't deliver now. It was only a small lie, one that in no way needed to be made. Much like the majority I squeeze into everyday conversations, almost for sport.

And yet, here I was. Lying in my bed gone midday in a puddle of my own vomit and embarrassment desperately trying to put together the clues and snapshot memories to work out what potential ridiculous things I could have said or done. My paranoia is always always in his element at times like this. He feeds me the scraps and suggests all possible obscene and anti-social outcomes that could have arisen.

“You know what you're like when you've been drinking. You could say and do anything. And if just a small fraction of the obscene thoughts and hatred that runs through his mind creeps out, then we're in big trouble aren't we.”

It's a game that we play, my subconscious and me. He suggests what he can think of as the most horrific faux pas for me to say or do in any given social situation. Then I have to try and carry on acting vaguely sane whilst not letting the thought slip out my head. Our relationship never used to be this hostile, we used to a team me and him. In my teenage years he would supply me with cutting edge offensive jokes and obscene sexual acts which I would spout out to adoring crowds. Back then all you had to do was prepared to go one step further and you could carve out a niche for yourself, create an identity. But as time went on and people “matured”, going to the extreme was no longer enough. I tried a different approached and dropped the redundant obscenely offensive tactic. He couldn't. After years of being the head speech-writer he missed the fawning applause over his work. He still had his odd moments of glory, but he became bitter and twisted, distorting his off-colour comedy into something far more anti-social. Most of the time I barely even notice him, like an attention seeking child that nobody bothers to respond to, but the more I drink, the less attentive I become and the mor chance he has of getting his grubby little hands on the wheel.

“So, did he get his way?”

My subconscious was just sitting there giggling maliciously to himself. He knew just as much as I did about what had happened the night before, but already the situation I found myself in played into his human car-crash fetish.

“I...I don't know.”

“Getting that pissed in the pub you work in, how could you be so fucking stupid! Time and time again i've told you, if you're going to do it then do it somewhere full of people you'll never see again. I've know what you think of some of those people, I've heard we he's said about them.”

“...I think i'm safe. I'm sure nothing happened. I can't remember anything bad.”

“You can't remember anything. What about at the end? There was some sort of disagreement at the end, by the dart board or something.”

“...Erm, yeah. No...i'm fairly sure it was nothing. Can't of been anything, there's nothing wrong with me is there. A few scrapes, a stubbed toe, only self-inflicted, clumsy injuries. What about my stuff, is my stuff alright?”

Without properly leaving my bed I conduct the usual scrambling search for my pocket essentials. Keys? Check. Phone? Check. Ipod? Check, and still working fine. Wallet? Check, though no money in it. And my card, shit what have I done with my debit card! Few, it's clumsily tucked into the wrong compartment of my wallet, but it's all there. Still, I feel like I lost something last night, something big, something important.

Oh no! Shit, I couldn't have. No, surely not, ...my laptop.

I dig around under my bed for the white machine which consumes 90% of my free-time. I find it and it looks clean enough. A little dirty but it's been through worse. It's had its fair share of tea and biscuits poured onto it and soldiered on regardless, hopefully this is just another feeble attack that it'll shrug off. What the fuck would I do with myself without my laptop, i'd have to watch more TV, or worse, start reading books. I took a deep breath and opened the lid. Fuck, fuck, fuck! The smell itself told me that it had taken a battering. My stomach wasn't ready for the smell this early in the morning, but I had to know. I held down the power button and was greeted with a predictable and unpleasant long bleep as if the machine itself was berating me for what I had done to it.

My sub-conscious roared up again, he hadn't had this much fun in a long time.

“YOU STUPID CUNT! THAT'S GOT TO BE THE MOST EXPENSIVE NIGHT EVER! IT MAKES GETTING INTO THAT STRANGERS CAR AND HANDING OVER HUNDREDS OF POUNDS LOOK VAGUELY FUCKING SENSIBLE! YOU'VE REALLY OUTDONE YOURSELF THIS TIME YOU USELESS CUNT!”

“You can't do anything with that. You take that to get repaired and they'll open it up, be hit with that smell and throw the fucking thing away. Then they'll stand around and laugh at us, they'll call you in to deliver the news and stand around everyone knowing, saying “There's the idiot that vomited all over his laptop.” You'll have to destroy it and make sure you smash it up completely. You don't want anyone putting it back together and finding out what you've been doing, what we've been occupying your time with!”

I didn't like to admit it but my paranoia was right, he nearly always was. And above everything else I still couldn't finish and upload my story. It was gone, it was all gone. The collection of half finished songs and musical ideas I'd been hoarding for the past few years. They weren't great and in truth most would probably always remain unfinished, but it was comforting knowing they were there. It meant I had been doing something. It meant that even though anyone looking in on my life would see nothing to be particularly proud of (beyond never committing any heinous in-humane acts) I could always tell myself that I was an undiscovered musical genius with a few aces in the pack should it come to it. Oh bugger, all the hours i'd spent playing those games too, gone. It's not often seen as a great use of time, but if nothing else it gives the feeling of doing something. A way of documenting passing time. And it was all gone. So much for starting the new year in a proactive manner.

Still, I could still get something out of this yet. This might just be the event which forces my hand, making me start something i've planned to for a while. After all, it's not too late. 13 days into the new year is nothing, I can make a vow now and stick to it just as rigidly. That's it, I will. From now until next year, I won't touch another drop of alcohol. I know it seems like a melodramatic knee-jerk reaction, but it's something thought about doing for a long time. This isn't the first time i've waken up in a pool of my own vomit and whilst I haven't kept count, I wouldn't be too surprised to hear I was into double figures. Plenty of times I have gone one step too far, where there is always the potential to make a complete cock of yourself.

“You can laugh it off now and then, but sooner or later everyone will just grow fucking tired of you.”

And whilst drinking in moderation seems like the obvious solution, that's something that i'm supposed to have been doing for the past two years, but I simply haven't. It's not that I find myself longing for a drink at any point, the majority of the time I just do it because it's what you do in those situations. The problem is that I'll either have a few or get completely plastered. I've never mastered mid-range drinking (unless I really run out of money). It's just that once you've popped your head in for a bit, you begin to remember why you've done it so many times before. For me, Charles Bukowski put it best:

“When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat. “

Even my paranoia loosens his grip. He might even start fighting my corner, telling me i'm not in the wrong or maybe that the girl across the room really does like the look of me. Though he'll never admit to it the morning after. But that sort of habit is a bad one to get into. Maybe if I can avoid the stuff for a year. Learn to have a good time and relax among the swarming masses. Maybe I can go back and finally master that mid-range drinking. Finally wake up after a night of drinking, with a full set of memories and a vomit-free bed. Bliss.

So that's what i'll do, my January 14^th resolution: No alcohol for a year.

               ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That evening back at work and it turns out I wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought I might be. If anything I good quite a good reaction to my night of heavy drinking, perhaps I over-exaggerated the whole thing. At the end of my shift my boss poured my drink. It'd be rude to say no and besides, what harm can one do.

New Year's Resolution

thethemeis: New Year's Resolutions

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   The only person making an attempt on my life is me, Greig had to reassure himself again. He had to repeat this mantra and so many others to himself countless times a day, just to keep the worry from eating him alive. She was looking at you because you looked at her first, when someone glanced his way; you can't have dropped anything incriminating because you don't own anything incriminating, when he'd finished quadruple checking his spot at the bus stop for reputation-damaging paraphernalia he might have left before the bus departed; she can't be pregnant, you didn't even have sex with her, whenever a night he spent long ago with an old flame popped back into his mind seemingly just to haunt him. 

   They came thick and fast, these little gremlins with their scratchy voices and evil influence, telling him to be scared of shopping or commuting or phoning a friend or falling too far into his little crush on that woman at work or even contributing to debates. Every time, no matter how difficult it seemed, they would find a way to twist an event so that Greig was the bad guy, and he was soon to be punished. He was sure to receive a death sentence within the next few days for giving someone on the train a funny look; certain to be struck down by gangs for having his most innocent words misinterpreted.

   This fear of Greig's made life a chore. A simple journey to work became an ordeal that he dreaded more than anything, as he had to battle with a new demon at every step, telling him that passing cars were slowing so their drivers could watch him and strangers could hear his thoughts and he was unknowingly dropping pieces of paper with his address on, which someone would pick up and use to find and slaughter him. At work, conversations became trials as he forced himself to sit through hours of worrying over whether or not he had said something he shouldn't have to someone who had it in for him. Even after eight hours of that every day, he only had another commute and a whole evening of dread to look forward to.

   He couldn't even trust his friends anymore, poor Greig. He was sure they were getting too close, wanting too much access to his life, becoming so entangled with his everyday that soon enough they'd be stalking him if he didn't respond to their calls or messages quick enough. He wondered why some would treat him so fondly, and assumed that they had fallen in love with him and would need to be excommunicated until they had learned to keep their feelings under control. He would worry for hours if they hadn't replied to his correspondence, petrified that he might have offended them beyond belief. The world was darkness closing in on Greig, and it was all he could do to just stay alive enough to still fear his impending murder. 

   A lot of the time, Greig avoided planning anything over a month in advance because a big part of him assumed he wouldn't be alive by then. 

   You don't understand, I know. Greig would have had the same trouble comprehending a year before. He used to be normal, in control, lively and free. He used to be the life and soul, permanently networking without making any effort at all to do so. But now, this was how he lived his life. Something had consumed him, wormed its way into his head and got itself lodged there. He couldn't look at the world like you or I do because his entire perspective had been turned on its head. The world he used to think was so bright and promising had become a dark, haunting place where everyone he saw was a stalker, a murderer, a psychopath, and they were all out to get him. Call it what you will - paranoia, delusions, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder; whatever it was, it suddenly reared its ugly head from nowhere in February last year, and now, on the 1st January the next year, he was still tightly held in its grip. 

   It's best to think of it like a virus. Anybody could get it, overnight, and we'd be powerless to stop it growing inside us. There is no such thing as normal to a species whose mental health is so incredibly fragile. 

   But now, he was determined to make it history. Laying on his sofa watching films with his dull New Year's Eve headache still hanging around like an unwelcome housefly, he made a decision. As of this year, he scrawled on the scroll of his mind, I will let go of these insane thoughts. I will get over this affliction and no longer allow this horrible way of thinking to control my life. I am no longer a slave to paranoia.

   And that was the truth. He was sure of it. No more would he allow fears of reprisals for past mistakes cloud his judgement today; no longer would he turn down invitations because he was too worried that he would be stalked the entire evening by unknown and unseen assailants; never again would he hold himself back from flirting with anyone because he feared they might get too close to him and destroy him from the inside. No, Greig was a new man, and it would all begin here! Greig, the man who never made New Year's Resolutions, had made one this year that he was going to keep. 

   With these joyous thoughts, he went to bed and slept better than he had slept in months. 

   

   The next morning, on his way to work, Greig made eye contact with a man in a hood who had his face covered with a scarf, and Greig spent his whole working day terrified that that man with a heart full of violence would be waiting outside of the office to murder him on his way out.