Rockabilly Psychosis

This PTSD lark is a constant round of fun and games, I can tell you. About 10 months or so ago I reckoned I was emerging from the depths of despair, a slightly broken, but put-back-together, guy ready to take tentative steps back into the world.

I was even the recipient of an invitation to a party...'I'm normal!' I told myself. Safe to mix in genteel company, in the presence of quickly quaffed alcohol and loud music. Why not? I thought. Once was in charge of a busy, central-London fire station and a team of pretty lively individuals. I can manage the polite conversation, soft-shoe-shuffling and sipping of port required at a celebratory get-together, surely?

Here's the thing. And I suppose it should have sounded alarm bells: I barely knew the host and had never met any of the guests. In the past, I would have convinced myself the guests would be so gloriously astounded by my dancing skills, my power drinking, and my war stories that I would be elevated from 'unknown guest' to 'must-have present henceforth' in the blink of an eye.

So with those thoughts in my mind, plus a bottle of port in my motor, and my dancing shoes on, I jumped in the new 1litre Fiesta Bad Boy, and headed over to Edinburgh for the party of the year. Let me just repeat that: The Party of The Year. Please hold that thought.

I arrived around mid-afternoon at a pretty remote house outside Edinburgh with huge grounds and a collection of smart automobiles outside. The kind where the cost of a bumper repair would eclipse the money I paid for the Bad Boy. I was dressed in my gym gear (come casual, they said) and strutted through the open door displaying as much non-existent confidence as I could muster.

The host, a former Royal Marine named Matt, was in the kitchen preparing food while sipping a glass of champagne and dressed like Michael Portillo.

'Hi Matt,' I boomed (booming is definitely a sign of absent confidence).

'Dave! What the Fuck? Have you got a change of clothes? Please tell me you've got a change of clothes! Serena (name changed to protect the nearly killed) will go fucking berserk!'

Before I could argue the definition of casual, in swanned Serena as if on a magic carpet of grace and elegance. Her eyes looked me up and down and her sneer said all it needed to.

'Err...I think I've got a pair of jeans in the car...'I spluttered.

20 minutes later, a freshly ironed pair of Levis replaced my jogging bottoms and one of Matt's shirts covered my tattooed arms. As the guests arrived I was introduced to Tarquin, Philippa, Theodore, Angelica, Rupert and Cordelia.

If I cursed my Mum and Dad for having the complete absence of creativity in calling me 'Dave' I cursed them 1000 times.

Clearly, the only strategy to overcome this nightmare of epic proportions was to employ the tried and tested trick of getting absolutely wankered. I drank red wine like a tramp drinks cider, then opened the port. By this stage, I couldn't give a flying fuck that I used a wine glass for my port. If I could have laid my hands on a pint pot that would have been the port receptacle of choice.

Of course, as my level of inebriation rose, my dancing and jokes improved exponentially. Along with the disappearance of my reluctance to fart and swear.

Now, this is all standard fayre for a Subversive tale of alcohol consumption. However, there are additions that had never been in the mix previously. My pals Kerry Quetiapine, Sally Sertraline and Ponsonby Propranolol.  Their acquaintance with strong alcohol had never been attempted before.

The night wore on, and at around 02:00 there was just me and the two hosts left. We were outside, sitting around a small bonfire, drinking port. Then it happened:

'Dave,' said Serena. 'Matthew tells me you have PTSD. Why do you have PTSD?'

Completely taken aback, and with my mind awash with alcohol and anti-psychotic, prescription drugs, I attempted: 'I think I took particularly poor care of myself in the past and now I'm paying for it.'

'Matthew tells me that you are heavily medicated. You do realise those drugs do you no good whatsoever, don't you? So why do you take them?'

'Errm...' I spluttered, as I felt a dark, descending cloud of embarrassment and shame envelope me. 'My doctor thinks that the meds help, so I'm following his advice.'

'Listen, David,' said Serena, employing my Sunday name. 'All you need is to get all of this stuff off your chest. You need to speak to someone and just get it all out there. I'm that someone, so start by telling me about Grenfell Tower..'

'Errm...' I said, using the oft-repeated phrase that really translated as 'FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!' 'I kinda think that those end-of-life experiences are pretty sacred and should remain with me and those I accompanied on that journey.'

'END OF LIFE EXPERIENCES!' Thundered Serena. 'You're not a fucking poet, are you? So stop using such flowery language and just tell me what happened!'

And so the scene was set for the next 30 minutes. Serena demanding horror stories, me sinking lower and lower into my seat, and the mixture of medication and alcohol making bonds of destruction and annihilation in my mind.

When the seat could swallow me no further, and there appeared to be no end in sight to the cross-examination, I got up wearily and said: 'I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to bed.'

Serena angrily spluttered something about hospitality, but I was moving faster than Prince Andrew at a Fresher's Ball. I headed toward the very well-appointed, ground floor guest room I had been provided, where I closed the door and breathed a huge sigh of relief. This was such a mistake. Believing I could spring back into the world of parties, new people, alcohol and manipulative treatment. What a cunt I was. I wish I was at home. But I can't go anywhere yet due to my inebriation. I'll need to sit it out then escape in the morning.

Lock the door....yeah, lock the fucking door...they might be so pissed off with me they want to reiterate their anger.

FUCK! No fucking lock! Why is there no lock? 

Then the sound of blaring dance music exploded from upstairs accompanied by pounding and thumping on the floor above my head. 

What the fuck is going on? I don't understand what's happening. I knew Serena was angry by my refusal to talk...maybe this is her way of letting me know I'm not wanted. 

They're gonna come down here and have a go at me, I know they are. They're going to come through that unlocked door, snarling and shouting at me. I need a weapon. In this well-appointed room, with tasteful paintings on the wall and a peach aroma infused en-suite, there's not even a baseball bat or a hunting knife. What the fuck is wrong with these people? 

I sat with my back against the wall, waiting for the door to open, ready to engage in combat. Then I rang my (much) better half. Yes, it was 03:00 but this was an ambush situation.

'Hi babe, it's me. Listen, Matt and Serena are really pissed off; I've really upset them. They've been demanding horror stories. They're about to come into my room and there's no lock. I've looked for a weapon but can't find one but I'm pretty sure I can kill them both with my bare hands.'

I heard the words I'd just spoken. This isn't normal. I'm alcohol and anti-psychotic drug-affected, I'm far from cured of PTSD and Hyper-Vigilance and shouldn't be away from home. The Party of the Year.

'Dave, go to bed and go to sleep. Leave in the morning and come straight home,' spoke the voice of reason.

Four hours later I sneaked out of Matt and Serena's like a thief in the night, jumped into the Bad Boy and headed home where I locked the door, bidding a final farewell to alcohol, and took my meds. 

A week or so later, my mobile phone screen showed an unknown caller desperately trying to get hold of me. Unusually, I answered:

'Hi, Mr Waterman?'

'It is, who's this please?'

'This is Dr Moreau from the Community Mental Health Team. We've received an emergency referral from your psychotherapist. I need you to come in and see me urgently. I have a report that you attended a party in Edinburgh, had a disagreement with the hosts, and planned to murder them both in their bed.'

I was impressed with the level of embellishment and pleased that I had such fantastic material for a blog post, but tried to explain the reality of the situation.

It didn't matter. As soon as I said: 'I can kill them both with my bare hands' I was never going to win.

So what now? Well, my medication was adjusted to slow down an 'immediate aggressive response.' I've had no further contact from anyone at The Party of the Year, and I'm not expecting you, Dear Reader, to invite me to a party anytime soon.