Creatures of My Dreams Raise Up and Dance With Me

Before we begin the self-directed therapy phase of this plan, I thought I might detail my descent into Randle P. McMurphy territory for posterity. McMurphy was, of course, Jack Nicholson's character in Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Now, I might be mad, but I'm not so bat-shit insane to think I might lay claim to anything approaching Jack Nicholson's charismatic display of lunacy in the brilliant 1975 film. But a Jack Nicholson reference is more palatable than the more accurate Norman Bates one.

I retired from the London Fire Brigade in May 2019. I had a pretty successful career, if we discount one rather large hiccup, and loved that job like Katie Price loves...horses (I know what you thought I would say there, but I no longer feel empowered to criticise others, having joined the ranks of cock-loving nutbar lunatics like Price).

I was convinced that a new page was turned. The book was closed on my previous career, and nothing I had experienced had any lasting impact on me, either psychologically or emotionally. In fact, I was regarded as so immune from impact, a colleague once said:

'You're a fucking psychopath, Dave. We're on our way back from the scene of utter devastation, and you want to stop the fire engine to buy cakes.'

Indeed, I wore that immunity like a bombproof coat for around eight months after retirement. Then I became aware that despite continuing hyper-vigilance, I was no longer going to bed knowing that I might be crashed out at any moment by bright lights and wailing alarms to some life-changing emergency. I suppose the ever-present fight or flight reflex calmed down, knowing the worst thing that might happen locally was the theft of a bicycle.

But fear not, Dear Reader, if you've attended multiple disasters over several years and decided you're too tough and hard to need any counselling, those disasters have the habit of returning to you at night. Yep, those dreams, reuniting me with the victims of Grenfell Tower, the Croydon Tram Crash, the Paddington Rail Crash, the Maryhill explosion, and a multitude of encounters that never made the press, became a nightly occurrence. My sleeping pattern was devastated, which led me to exhaustion and sleeping during the day. Whoever prefixed the term 'mare' with 'night' had clearly never really experienced the reliving of trauma because those dreams occurred during the day too.

Dreams are one thing. We all have them, and I hear you telling me to fuck right off and grow up. Flashbacks, however, are another. Usually occurring during quiet moments, but not considerate enough to remain absent while driving, being transported back 400 miles and any number of years is unsettling, let me tell you.

I remember being out with my wife in late 2019. We were joining some colleagues from Glasgow University for a few drinks, and I decided we would stay in an inexpensive hotel in the town. I arrived before my (much) better half, and as I rounded a corner and looked up at the multiple-floored, concrete building that was our hotel, I became suddenly cold and began to swoon (I know, I know...grow the fuck up). The last time I had been at this place was in May 2004 when I was choppered by RAF Puma from London to Glasgow as part of a nine-man team to recover casualties and victims from the Stockline Plastics factory explosion. This hotel had been our base for the duration of our stay. Even though most of our time was spent on the rubble pile amidst the death and destruction, we repaired here to shower and try to sleep. I never thought I'd see the place again. On my unplanned return in 2019, I checked in and was directed to a room that may as well have been the one I stayed in 15 years previous. I was right back there, with brick dust in my nostrils, the sobbing of heartbroken relatives in my ears, and blood on my hands.

Repeatedly being in the past, permanently exhausted and living among ghosts leads to confusion and paranoia. It's a slippery slope of denial. I believed I was tough and resilient, and the creators of my problems were the people around me. Showering and shaving became an effort. I'd always fancied growing a beard, but there's a massive difference between the impressively facially coiffured Brian Blessed and some apparently homeless, stinky guy wandering around in nothing but a grubby pair of Y-Fronts waving a fucking big knife about. Yes, that happened, and yes, the local constabulary were almost called. A discussion a few months later went something like this:

'I was going to call the police, but I was fearful of your reaction. I didn't want you fighting with the police.'

My reply: 'I think I probably would have thanked you.'

I suppose the lowest point arrived when the one thing that gave me purpose, my master's degree dissertation, was complete. A Travelodge in Inverness, a massive handful of Codeine, a bottle of Port and some soothing music was planned to see me off to sleep. Forever. 

I wanted my suicide to have as little impact as possible on anyone else, and I knew that my permanent absence would bring an end to the pain I caused others. I still have the written note on my phone that details my thought confirmation. 

However, I'm clearly not dead. So what happened? 

Well, a few things, really. A few words that provided a glimmer of hope from someone I love. Another person I love needing support in the face of illness. 13 months of Trauma-focused CBT. Oh yeah...and fucking loads of powerful meds. Occasional blips have resulted in the manipulation of medication, always resulting in an increase. I suppose that deciding that I might bare-handedly despatch two party hosts at 03:00 in Edinburgh encourages a greater degree of pharmaceutical control. I guess the next level is the padded cell and straitjacket.

So here we are in 2022. I'm still breathing but now resemble Randle P. McMurphy after his lobotomy. I spend vast amounts of time asleep, have wholly given up alcohol, and rarely leave the house. But things are much better than they were 12 months ago. And I'm alive. Kinda.