Victim

There's a damn good chance that I shouldn't be writing this blog post. If I decide that's the case, you'll never read this, and I've just wasted my time writing it. Anyway, here we go, let's see how we get on.

For 52 years of my life, I was a fucking tough guy. Even as an infant, my old man's practice of smashing my head into my younger brother's when we were naughty taught me to be tough. It taught me a fair bit about poor parenting too, so there was positivity in violence. Every cloud...

At the age of nine, I was a pain in the arse during the summer holidays. I did outrageous things like kick footballs, play a game called 'fighting in the dark' with my brother (you basically shut the curtains and fought in the dark), and got caught looking at the womens’ underwear section of my mum's Grattan catalogue. So my old man dropped me off at the Brixton and District Amateur Boxing Club with the instruction: 'Tire the little fucker out, will you?' I stayed for several years and enjoyed the skills and fitness bestowed upon me in that sweaty, dusty house of pain.

A few years later, I joined the army, boxed for my regiment, fired guns and stuff and generally became a life-taking, heartbreaking, steely-eyed dealer of death. Then I joined the London Fire Brigade. My efforts shifted and were centred on saving lives rather than obliterating them. I served for 27.5 years, loved the job and rose to the rank of Station Officer.

My reason for this whistle-stop historical tour is to illustrate that, as the Practice Nurse from the Community Mental Health Team told me: 'You, Mr Waterman, are a victim of your own success. You've spent your life pursuing masculine endeavours, and now you're existing quietly in a small town in Scotland. Did you really think becoming a mature student would replace all that gung-ho stuff?'

'Yes, Sir, I did.' I replied.

Deploying a wicked sense of humour, he responded: 'Yep, you really are mad!'

If the past two years have taught me anything, it's that you can be as much of a tough guy as you like, but mental health impairment is tougher. It's like a Ninja; it sneaks up on you quietly, lurking in the shadows, strikes hard, creating confusion and suffering, and leaves a long-lasting effect. 

So if I can claim another lesson from the recent past, it's that I was never as tough as I made out. I could fight skilled boxers in the ring, I could deadlift 180kg, I could run 100 miles, but I was still the infant, sitting on the pram, fearing getting his head smashed into his brother's.

Attacks on your physical self are one thing. Generally, the attacker needs to be bigger and harder than you. But attacks on your mental health can come from all sources. I know massive, roided up bodybuilders in the gym who could pull your arms from their sockets and batter you about the head with the stumps. But the ones in my gym are like teddy bears and would be aghast if they upset you. Then you can get a 4-foot nine-inch woman child who will insidiously and stealthily break you down with unwelcoming behaviours, rudeness, ignorance and laziness. They might claim they're doing nothing wrong, smile sweetly and play on their apparent innocence, but the damage is being done. Chipping away at your well-being, denying you any peace, making you feel worthless.

Where's the tough guy now? The 87kg gym attendee that rack-pulls a quarter of a tonne? He's tearing skin from his thumbs; he's mumbling to himself, looking for help and support but finding none. He's a monster, you know; he's scary, he knows how to fight, and he's strong as fuck.Unfortunately, he's also a victim of his own success.

The Long Morrow

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.

A Tendency Toward Haagen Dazs

 Psychosis: Psychosis is a mental health problem that causes people to perceive or interpret things differently. This might involve hallucinations or delusions.

That's how the NHS defines the condition. It goes hand in glove with Complex PTSD if left untreated. Looking back over the past couple of years, from a more enlightened and medicated state, nothing I experienced seemed then or now hallucinatory or delusional. Everything happened to me or around me, and I understood it and responded to it in what I believed was an appropriate manner.

Elsewhere I've mentioned visits from a dead girl; I've also felt someones' lips brush my ear; I've listened to snippets of conversation taking place in the air, and I felt a garrotte tighten around my neck. All of these things happened with just myself present.

Sleep deprivation, exhaustion and confusion create a fertile ground for these experiences. I remember sitting in our lounge one summer evening watching TV as my (much) better half busied herself going in and out of the house watering her outdoor plants. As she moved through the lounge and left through the front door, watering-can in hand, my need for Haagen Dazs ice cream became too great to bear, and I rose to my feet to head to the kitchen. I ought to say that this newfound love of Haagen Dazs has replaced the no-longer-present unquenchable thirst for strong red wine. I suppose it's the craving for the simple sugars the wine once provided. Haagen Dazs tends not to result in being the best-dressed man in bed or a frantic run down to the off-licence at 22:55, however.

As I turned to face the kitchen, I felt a hard, circular implement press into my back, probably around 9mm in diameter. Before you tut and think 'wanker,' put yourself in my position: I'm a former soldier who was once very familiar with firearms. But, unfortunately, I had been living in a delirious haze for much of the year, experiencing events and situations denied to anyone else. Anyway, my thought process was thus:

I've just seen my (much) better half leave the lounge; I know she's outside. There's no one else knowingly in the house. Someone has just pressed a gun barrel into my back.

Fight or flight? I can run quickly but not nearly enough to beat a 9mm bullet. If I spin around rapidly, I might encourage pulling the trigger. So instead, I turn slowly to face the armed intruder and cock my right hand to smash my fist, straight, true and hard into the centre of the face I was about to see. I'm aiming to break and splinter bone, I want to spill blood and mucus on the floor, and disable the intruder. Hopefully, permanently. Because if I don't, a 9mm copper-jacketed round may well enter my chest, pass through my heart, killing me instantly before the sound of gunfire ever reaches my ears. 

Or is this another psychotic episode where there will be no one at all in front of me? Like the garrotte I felt tighten around my neck as I lay in bed, maybe this is just death ideation.

As my eyes focus on the physical presence that is indeed in front of me, I see a watering can in hand, no longer pressed into my back. A beautiful, innocent face looking shocked at her husband, primed and ready for extreme violence. This was, and remains, the one and only time my hands have ever been raised to my (much) better half.

I breathed a massive sigh of relief.

'Please, please don't ever sneak up on me like that again,' I begged.

My ability to accurately assess time, distance and probability were all as clearly impaired as my thinking and general mental well-being. Nevertheless, that event, and several others involving unknown persons, led to Quetiapine, an anti-psychotic medication, being prescribed.

My doctor explained: 'This will buy you thinking time. At the moment, you've got a tendency toward an immediate aggressive response when you feel under threat. That served you well as a pupil at an uber-violent south London school, a soldier in the combat arm, or an operational firefighter at a busy inner London fire station. But it's not as helpful now you dwell full-time in polite society. Plus you're as mad as a box of frogs,' (Fuck it, if I'm gonna paraphrase, I may as well push the boat out...but that is essentially what he said).

So, the psychosis is now managed pharmaceutically. The reality is that Quetiapine simply sedates me heavily. There is no chance of me getting into trouble when I'm asleep most of the day. In that regard, it's a wonder drug, but not entirely different to the effect that strong red wine had on me. 

Right, I'm off for (another) snooze.

Caring for a Chameleon

Look into these eyes...what do you see?

Pound shop glasses...that's what. I've got some expensive prescription glasses that I should wear at all times, but they annoy me. So I take 'em off, put them down, then can't find them. Not necessarily because I'm blind as a bat, but because they seem to blend into the background, Chameleon-like. So this is me, wearing sight-damaging pound-shop glasses, in the magnificent National Library of Scotland. 

'What the fuck was a half-witted, tattooed Cockney doing in such a respected and majesterial centre of academia and research?' I hear you ask. I was there last week to view and photograph a 120-year-old copy of the London Scottish Rifles Regimental Gazette. I'm doing a PhD, doncha know? I'm researching a prosopographic history of the London Scottish Regiment from formation in 1859 to the end of the Great War. Mental defectives can also be Chameleon-like and mix amongst genteel, intelligent company. 

I accept I might not appear to be a standard aspiring academic. I never have. When I did my undergraduate degree, I arrived at Manchester University for Summer School, and the administration staff believed I was a coach driver. 

Anyway, I've been instructed that there needs to be some positivity included here if positivity does, indeed, exist. And of course, it does, but there are occasional hurdles that are pretty unique mixed amongst that positivity. For example, it was suggested that the person accompanying me to the Library was my full-time carer. That was in an attempt to overcome some bureaucratic red tape, but it wasn't too far from the truth.

Once was a respected Station Officer in charge of a busy, central-London fire station and a watch of challenging individuals. Now I need a carer to venture out of the house safely. 

So anyway, expect some more positivity within this blog/journal (I'm only terming it a journal because journaling is a recognised therapy activity).

So has any positivity resulted from journaling thus far? Writing the entry about the fatal RTA in Sutton was somewhat upsetting. However, it's kinda led me to understand some of my more extreme reactions to unpleasant events. I won't bore you with detail, but I've felt the need to mount a ferocious defence of several women that I've been aware of being victimised, harassed and worse over the years. The ferocity of that defence has possibly been over the top at times. Still, former friendships have been terminated without any confusion around the likelihood of that friendship ever being rekindled. 

My cod-psychotherapy has alerted me that I'm still rescuing that young girl in Sutton in executing that ferocious defence. 

I’ve got you.

You’re safe here with me.

I'll not lose her a second time.

Laters.

 

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.

In Lunar Shadows Slowly

 As I sit to write this, I feel compelled to issue a warning. In the 15 years this blog has been in existence, I've tried, sometimes hamfistedly, to make it humorous. Unfortunately, in what's about to be written, you'll find no humour.

In 1999 the London Fire Brigade's fleet of appliances included five Fire Rescue Units (FRUs). They were specialist vehicles that attended the most extreme and critical incidents that the natives of London could throw at them. Post 9/11, 7/7 and other high profile disasters, the London Fire Brigade now have 15 FRUs. So in 1999, with just five FRUs serving the whole of the capital, we were busy, busy, busy. It exposed the 2% of staff that made up the FRU crews to many more critical incidents than a standard firefighter, but created an elite and experienced band of practitioners. As I look back, I can say that it was a pretty transient position; FRU firefighters often moved on rather quickly. Those that didn't and stayed for the long haul, are prone to illness, alcoholism, addiction and depression in retirement. That's probably not a surprise, right?

Back to 1999. I was a newly promoted Sub Officer, in love with my job, confident (arrogant, possibly), but cared greatly for my men and women. It was some time during the summer; I can't be precise when, but I remember the stifling confines of the Sub Officer's room on the third floor of Battersea Fire Station. It was a night shift, and we had entered the wee hours.

As I dozed on my perfunctory bed, the familiar sound of wailing alarms and bright lights roused me from my sweaty slumber. In less than 60 seconds I was dressed and seated in the commander's position of the FRU. Moments later, I was joined by my four-man crew, and we were barrelling through the empty London streets on our way to 'RTA: Persons Trapped' in Sutton Common Road. I settled down, with one ear on the main-scheme radio listening out for an informative message from the incident. I never ceased to marvel at the driver's skill and speed as he zipped through red lights and across mini-roundabouts to get us in attendance as quickly as possible.

As we rounded a bend in the road we came upon the incident. Two fire engines were already in attendance along with a couple of police cars, an ambulance and a high-speed ambulance car that replaced the London Ambulance Service's helicopter (HEMS) during the hours of darkness. At an odd angle in the road sat a white Ford Fiesta RS Turbo. It had obviously been on its roof and had resettled on its wheels. From my position I could see two occupants and I could hear one. A high-pitched, male voice shouting and swearing.

My crew dismounted, and without the need for instruction, set about preparing the hydraulic tools we might need to extricate the stricken vehicle's occupants. I followed protocol and reported to the Incident Commander. He was also a Sub Officer, the same rank as myself, but sported a partially fastened tunic and an unshaven chin. The few words we exchanged indicated he had no clue what he was doing and was relieved an FRU was now in attendance. I made a mental note that protocol could fuck right off and it would be my orders alone that would resolve this incident.

I approached the Fiesta which was surrounded by firefighters doing very little. An attempt was being made by a couple of guys to release the mangled passenger door, behind which sat a young woman of probably 17 years or so. She appeared to be unharmed but her eyes were only partially open and she was worryingly silent. Next to her, in the driver's seat, sat a pluke-ridden, shaven-headed young man of maybe 20. It appeared that a broken clavicle had punched through his chest exposing milky, white bone against his grey and bloodied shirt. And fuck me, he was letting everyone know about it. Not too much wrong with him, then.

I saw the person I wanted. Raya, a diminutive, Israeli HEMS Doctor, stood by the car trying to make herself heard by the firefighters surrounding her. 

'Hi, Raya, what needs doing?' I asked.

'Dave, they're not listening to me. I need the girl out right now.'

Nothing more needed to be said. Raya and I had worked together several times before and we both knew what her words meant. While the firefighters were pissing about trying to ensure the safety of the girl's cervical spine, she was dying. I pulled away the two guys that had now prised open the passenger's door. I heard angry comments directed at me but they meant nothing. I pulled out my non-issue lock knife, cut the seatbelt, threw the knife into the footwell, and scooped the girl out of the seat and into my arms. Her eyes fluttered open and a huge, hooped earring and long, blonde hair, settled against my tunic sleeve. As I carried her gently to the waiting ambulance trolley I looked into her eyes and said: 'I've got you.'

She looked back at me, through deep, black pupils set against blue eyes. I realise this sounds dramatic, but I promise I relate only to what happened. There was a connection...both a physical one and a meeting of souls. Then, the girl's eyes fluttered again and she became lighter in my arms. I knew she had died. I literally felt the life leave her body.

I placed her body on the trolley and it was wheeled off to the waiting ambulance with Raya doing everything she could to turn the situation around. There was to be no turning around.

The rest of the incident is something of a blur, but we extricated the driver and he was transported to hospital, swearing and spitting. It was reckoned he had entered the bend at a high speed, lost control of the car, and rolled it. The police accident investigation team would establish precisely what happened, having closed the road due to it being a fatal event.

In 1999 I was a fairly green firefighter, despite achieving promotion pretty rapidly. Although not my first fatal incident, this event upset me deeply. I was the father of three daughters and a son so I felt the unnecessary death of a young person heavily. The connection established in life and death felt elemental and real.

The day that I realised something was definitely amiss was a few weeks after the event. I was off duty, it was late at night, and my body and mind were numbed by strong alcohol. I lay in my bed, knocked out by the booze. However, in the adjoining bedroom slept my five-year-old daughter and my waking was never a problem (despite that, I realise criticism of my parenthood is invited here). Sometime through the night, I heard my bedroom door open and a weight place itself on the end of my bed. My daughter often crawled into my bed during the night, so I pulled back the duvet and said 'In you get, Charly.'

Nothing.

I opened my eyes and looked through the gloom at the form sitting on my bed. It wasn't Charly. The huge, hooped earrings confirmed the identity of my visitor. She looked at me with her hands in her lap, then rose and left through the open door.

How did I feel about this, you may ask? The only word I can find is 'comforted.'

Let's fast forward 23 years. I'm in my weekly meeting with my psychotherapist and tell him the story above. I feel somewhat embarrassed to say that I failed to get through the telling of it without deep upset and tears. I was told that my experience was very common in the recent aftermath of trauma.

'What if I told you I saw her last week?' I asked.

We discussed this and settled that I had failed to let the girl go. EMDR, an end to the connection, and a period of mourning were suggested.

'I don't think I'm ready for that. She feels safe here with me,' I said.

I suppose this, right here, the writing of this blog is my attempt at letting her go. Cod psychotherapy carried out by a mental defective.

But...I'm still not sure I'm ready for this. She still feels safe here with me.

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.