Someone once told me: 'Absolutely no one is interested in hearing about your dreams, let alone reading about them. They're boring, uninspiring and fucking tedious.'
With that advice ringing in my ears, I'm about to speak about dreams. However, I have access to the analytical breakdown for this blog, and its heyday of 1000+ hits in 24 hours is long since passed. The visits to this blog are now in single figures if they exist at all. That suits me, however, as I'm not in the business of entertainment. As has been mentioned elsewhere, this is a mental defective's attempt at psychotherapy through the written word. So if you do happen to be reading this for entertainment purposes, it's gonna be dull, uninspiring and fucking tedious.
Following the 13 months Trauma-Focused CBT I undertook, I was assured that the symptoms that had plagued me were now absent and I no longer had the diagnosis for PTSD, Psychosis, Hyper-Vigilance or anything else that might enable me to get a part in the remake of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
'Fucking fantastic!' said I. 'That means I can terminate the taking of all the medication, then?'
'Err...not quite. You need to continue taking all of those sense-numbing, impotence creating, mind fogging substances for another two years, at least.'
'So I'm not better, then? If I were better I would need no meds, surely?'
'Listen, you're a fucking mental defective. If you stop taking the drugs you're likely to turn into Charles Manson, kill everyone and everything in your immediate vicinity, before throwing yourself off of a motorway bridge and making a huge mess on the tarmac.'
If I needed any convincing that my psychotherapist's ambition significantly outweighed his ability in his assessment of my recovery, it was last night when, under the guise of sleep, I travelled back in time to events in military olive drab and fire brigade red. Reliving historic events is old hat now; I've been riding that train for more than two years. But to believe I never left public service, and I'm simply waiting for the next event, and will be forevermore, left me feeling somewhat discombobulated, let me tell you.
I remember as a child, having this recurring nightmare where I was cast adrift in space, unable to move or speak, floating about in the cosmos, looking down on the earth, my home and my family. And that was how it was to be for the rest of eternity, alone, lost, with no control over my existence. Fuck me, that dream terrified me, and it was made worse by the fact that when I woke up, my sense of spatial awareness and depth perception was altered. Age and experience have developed that dream into last night's episode of Mr Ben, but it remains the same. Alone, lost and with no control over my existence.
Boring, uninspiring and tedious...but enough to leave me in a dangerous condition after waking. My fairly recent routine is, to get up, put the kettle on, swallow the multiple pills prescribed to me, and hopefully, Sally Sertraline will do her stuff and leave Charles Manson locked up in a cupboard somewhere. Well, Charlie Manson came out to play this morning and it was only the comforting words of my best friend and smashing myself to bits in the gym that fucked Charlie Boy off out of it.
Anyway, if you do happen to be reading this blog, I apologise profusely for the boredom, lack of inspiration and tedium. My final comment on this tale of woe (put some positivity into it, you loon!) is this: If you were unlucky enough to accompany me last night on my travels, I think together we might have wished for boredom.
