Je Ne Regrette Rien

I don't know why I chose to pin
My colours to your mast
For this was a war I could not win
A river in which I could not swim
Your reputation is destroyed
The dogs of vengeance are deployed
The newspapers snoop and vultures swoop
Picking over your remains, saying,
'Go on defend her if you must
But be assured we'll grind you into dust'
Yet I did not elect to join the winning side
I did not elect to be swept away by the tide
But still I was sucked in and swallowed whole
I dutifully played my allotted role

They say you hated her
I disagree. I saw you
Foraging for affection
On the day of my defection
You did not ask for much
But she was far too delicate to touch
As incorruptible
As a wedding dress
As pure as an ivory rose
With bright, white petals
Defying the darkness
But she was so hard to impress
Enmeshed in the webbing
Of purity, of perennial insecurity

She is somehow seductive
Gentle, subdued and soft-hued
She was the stone wall you clung to
Like creeping ivy and wandering
Through the wilderness you needed to be close
To the stillness at the centre of the whirlwind
She has never sinned
Ambivalence made no sense
And this was the consequence
The two of you are dissected, then polarised
And you are transformed in their eyes
Reduced to the status of saint and sinner
One spoilt, the other serene
One corpulent, the other lean

You are despised, she is idolised
You are sour as curdled cream
She epitomises youth and truth
A sycophant's wet dream
She is so easy to adore
This is all that remains
A drowned world
A planet aflame
Much has been lost,
And little has been gained
But I do not regret a thing and if I had to
I would do it all again because even the devil,
Yes, even the devil
Deserves an advocate

The Insomniac - Writing About Myself in the Third Person

She could stay awake all night if she had to. The darkness enveloped her, suffocated her. A black gloved hand over her face. She gazed out of the window into the blueblack sky. The stars were on vacation. Her heartbeat sounded like the Gods pounding on some huge drum. She could feel her own body as it slowly decomposed. This was death in the midst of life. Something or someone more powerful than her had taken control, had seized her autonomy away from her. She was afraid that if she fell asleep she would never wake up. She felt exposed, her innards visible to some great God. Her bones rattled. She was disintegrating. Delusions fought with one another in her head. Oblivion had never been so far away.

Edit: Finally, some good news. A parcel just arrived containing a novel I have been after for ages. Le Sang Des Autres (The Blood of Others) by Simone de Beauvoir. I read it years ago before it went out of print. Watch out for a review if I can be bothered.

Lost Cats and Schizoaffectve Disorder

My friend Andrew's cat died this afternoon.  He was distraught.  He rang me to say he couldn't meet up with me tonight.  He is too upset.  He took the Tom in for a routine check up and emerged with his lifeless body.  Andrew works in a cat sanctuary and has seen many cats get sick and die but that doesn't diminish the pain he feels now.

I was ill last week but managed to avoid the nuthouse.  Sometimes I think I'd rather commit suicide than go back there.  I was told that I was 'neglecting myself' so I spent all week worrying that they would force me to go in.  They didn't, of course.  That's why I'm sitting here writing. (duh!)  One doctor said I put together a compelling, articulate argument against being hospitalised.  I can't even remember what I said.  I am in a state of sheer terror at the thought of returning to hospital.  My main problem is that I have co-morbid illnesses that are rarely seen in one person: schizoaffective disorder and bulimia (I started out as a purging anorectic - now why did I feel the need to tell you that?)

When I am treated for my illness at an eating disorders facility, they do nothing to alleviate symptoms of schizoaffective disorder - heightened mood, delusions etc.  And when I am on an acute ward the psychosis is dealt with but not the bulimia.  So, as you can imagine, I'm kind of difficult to treat.  Now, I'm scared that if I alienate them they will abandon me.  I've seen it happen.  So, I am feeling isolated and afraid.  I woke up this morning to find I had been crying in my sleep.  I can do nothing but sit back and wait for it to pass.  But its taking its own sweet time about it.

I wonder if cats have their very own Feline Grim Reaper.

Suffering in Silence

I can only begin to imagine the kind of pain the family of Mark Saunders must be feeling right now. Losing a loved one to suicide (and that's exactly what it was) is one of the worst things that can happen to you.

Because of my situation (I have a mental illness and have spent rather a lot of time in hospital) I've lost several close friends to suicide. The repercussions of their actions cannot be underestimated. Journalists have repeatedly emphasised the fact that Mr Saunders was a barrister, destined for great things, as if that somehow should have rendered him immune to mental illness. I would imagine, if anything, that his situation exacerbated his condition. He was intelligent and resourceful, a 'high flyer'; he was not expected to ask for help and so he didn't.

Last year an ex boyfriend, A made his fourth suicide attempt. Like Mr Saunders, A was also a high-achiever. He worked in the City and it was amidst the intensity of that world that he had a nervous breakdown. He goes further: he calls it a meltdown. His name for it is his 'Chernobyl'. After his first suicide attempt he requested help. He didn't receive any. All the health services in his area had to offer was a cocktail of medication. People have asked why Mr Saunders did not ask for help. I'm speculating wildly here but maybe he did and was turned away like one in three people suffering from mental health problems who appeal to the NHS for help.

The authorities will conduct their inquiry. We'll shake our heads and ask ourselves why it had to happen and why it should never happen again. But nothing will change and it will happen again. Over and over again.

Reality Bites

Most people adopt children. I had to be different. I adopted a grandfather. It seems like he will be here forever. Like Bella. I am standing on the beach and this wave is coming towards me. A great grey wall. Unstoppable. I have become complacent. I forgot, for a moment, that time marches on. I could sit in his living room, eating his toasted hot-cross buns, listening to him recount his war stories for the rest of my days. Those afternoons are precious to me. They are essential to me. The reality is, however, that Nobby (not Nobbie) is ninety one and that wave is inching ever closer. And I turn back to Nobby and we resume talking and I am wondering what I should do to blast that image out of my brain

I don't know whether I'll be able to survive this one.

Acorn (Flying Meat Software)

Some see Angel-children
Singing in Sunday school
And others see Daemon brats,
hovering on the line between
Heaven and hell
Cowering, beneath the birch
For this is all that they deserve
‘A burden on the parish’
From the moment they were born.

GhostCat: Where are YOU?

There will never be a perfect time to have a pet. I am being bombarded by offers from my friend Andrew who works at a cat sanctuary - He has found a lovely little affectionate cat called Bounce. I don't even feel like visiting. I am so tired. I don't think this will be a good time to bring cats into a still grieving home.

Bella has been my (almost) constant companion. For a decade she has been by my side. (Apart from my trip to America and Europe when Bella stayed in Birmingham with my parents). But I thought about her, I dreamed about her.

But Bella was a stubborn little Madam and would make me endure lots of silent treatments when I returned which were resolved when Bella felt that she had made me suffer enough. She wasn't nicknamed 'Bratcat' for nothing.

I know I will never find a cat like Bella again. One night, back in 1996, I opened the front door to let a friend out and, as the friend left, this little white cat invaded by apartment. She slipped through the door and let out a piercing miaow, a miaow that said 'I'm here and I'm here to stay'. And stay she did for eleven years. A lady downstairs had one more cat than she needed. The youngest(Bella -6) was being bullied by the Top cat. So, she came to live with me. Melissa, her first rescuer, told me that she'd been wandering Mill Road - emaciated, with no fur on her back legs - when she found her. She took her back to her flat and was surprised to find that she was house trained. She had also been spayed. My neighbour nursed her back to health but cats can be fickle creatures and Bella began to explore other flats in a bid to find herself another home. Bella had made up her mind. Every night she stood outside my door calling for me to let her in. I did. And every night she came. I made an agreement with her human who found it difficult to have to deal with night after night of hissing, spitting, snarling.

So she surrendered and brought Bella to me. She sat perched on my chest that night and the purrs she emitted soothed me into a sleep devoid of dreams. She became a permanent fixture in my life, almost to the exclusion of everyone else. And she was loyal to the end. She died in her sleep. Next to me. The best way to die some say. I'm not so sure. Doubts are setting in

If anybody's interested Bella was 17

More Later

Mismatched?

What are Doug (92 year old war veteran) and I to do on these long, dark nights when I pop across the expanse of lawn that separates his flat from mine? Doug was known as Nubby throughout his time in the RAF and then the army. Apparently, everyone with the name 'Clarke' in the army is automatically known as 'Nobby'. No one thinks to ask why,. Well, we sit, we watch TV, we talk, we reminisce. Sometimes I think that some supernatural force has pushed us together. Often I picture us as two helpless, stranded sailors cut adrift from our nation's territorial waters and everything we once knew. Because the alliance of two people as different as we are is unacceptable in conventional circles. And it is those circles that squeeze the world by the throat. So we delicately sidestep the demands made upon us by those who have never been where he has, who have never been where I have and, please God, with a cherry on top, see to it that they never do.

And, yes, another Remembrance Sunday has passed without a remark from Doug. He is more than a war veteran is his constant refrain but nothing can change the fact that when he closes his eyes at night, he sees things that most of us could never even conceive of.

Deconstruction of My Mother

She told him about the boy at the end of her street, the one with the overgrown garden permeated by the stench of cat piss.

'Did he touch you?' asked Patrick.
'Yes,' Wendy replied. 'He did.'
'Where?' he persisted. Later, looking back, Wendy would realize that she was his first psychiatric patient. His blank canvas. He transformed her. Wendy touched her breasts, and her vagina. 'It happened because my parents were never there, never home. The Rose and Crown - our local pub was my father's second home. The factory was his second. We came third.. His work kept him just this side of sanity. He worked in a factory. There was camaraderie on that assembly line, he used to say. There was camaraderie on the picket line too.

She was his chameleon; his Eliza Doolittle.. Under his tutilige she became glamorous, vivacious, intelligent, creative, charming. Or, at least, that's what Patrick told her. Before he asked her to marry him. She had got what she came for - the status and privileges that come with being a doctor's wife.

In the end Wendy became an unpaid actress. The whole world was her stage and their family and friends were the co-stars.


On the night before she died Cynthia's bedtime story had been The Water Babies.

They found her face down, floating in the lake.

Burying Someone is One Thing...

Dancing on their grave is quite another: http://streamsofutternonsense.blogspot.com/

And, yes, I'm posting on this issue again. So, sue me. (Oops maybe I shouldn't have said that. They probably will.)

In response to this, from Wombat Blogger:

'Although few have any sympathy with a seriously ill person at the centre of events, the fact is that the pattern of harassment and abuse that is much more serious than some realise, is likely to continue until proper medical help is offered and accepted.'

So, you acknowledge that she is ill? How very charitable of you. Please tell me how all this is supposed to help. I know of no doctor who would reccommend this course of action.

Just one more thing. This little nugget of wisdom was left on Ms. Lowde's blog by an individual known as 'Jailhouse Lawyer'. (respected and admired by some of you - I'm told I shouldn't judge you collectively but I can do little else as I don't know who you are.):

''Glad to hear that you are homeless. I am sure that men will give you a bed for the night in return for your sexual favours.'

'So, not only have you lost your head you have lost your house. LOL.'

Do you condemn it?

A 'yes' or 'no' will suffice.

____________

The middle class liberal elite, just as vicious and merciless in their way as their working class counterparts who persecute paediatricians because their favourite newspaper tells them to hunt down paedophiles, only worse, much worse because they think they are superior.

Stepfather

I am merely an object moving through space
Out of place and lacking in grace and you begin
With a disclaimer. You tell me I am essential
But incomplete. You desecrate my disordered dreams
'Your mother is gone. She died in the night'
No one cried and then the great divide arrived
You only die once, after all. You move in on me
You disagree with my methodology. You disapprove
Of my every move. My words are unheard and undeterred
You detach me from all context and you begin,
Slowly and deliberately, to deconstruct me.

Aftermath

I left Doug's house at 7 am on a Sunday morning. Doug insisted upon accompanying me back to my flat. We bundled Bella into her basket and made our way across the green. I dreaded what I might find. As soon as we pulled open the front door we were almost overwhelmed by the stench of smoke. The water damage was mainly confined to the bedroom. A red-headed fire woman had spread tarpaulin over my bed. There were puddles of brown water on the clear plastic. Doug insisted upon helping me soak the water up with towels. Unfortunately, some of my stuff was damaged. I will contact my insurance company on Tuesday because, after all, we all know the world stops turning on a bank holiday weekend. Happy bloody Easter indeed. Bella, meanwhile, yowled for food. (Even though she had helped herself to her doggie host - Freddi's food.)

After Doug had left exhaustion overcame me. I shoved the tarpaulin aside and fell asleep immediately - with the comforting presence of Bella by my side.

Mad Neighbours - Part II

Haven't updated in a couple of days and for once I have a wonderful excuse.

As I was writing Saturday night's post the woman upstairs (who from now on will be known as Little Miss Pyromaniac) was unleashing chaos. There I was, typing away, listening to REM through ear-phones, in my own little world, industrial head-phones clamped over my ears (to block out my wonderful neighbour's music) when I smelt something burning. I leapt off the bed and ran to the door. On the landing I was confronted by what I thought was an apparition - a fireman standing before me. Then I looked up and saw flames billowing out of the bedroom window of my upstairs neighbour.

My first reaction was fury. 'She's done it again. I told them this would happen*'

'Yes, well we can deal with this later. Now, is there anyone in there with you?'

'My cat,' I said. And then, 'Oh my God, I think she's got children up there. And her brother...'

'Yes, we know. We're dealing with it.'

I went back into my flat, scooped Bella up and stuffed her into her basket, gathered a few essential belongings (diary, kittyputer, folder of poems.). 'Aren't you going to put some shoes on?' asked the fireman. I shook my head. Little did he know he was talking to a woman who, as a child, had deliberately walked barefoot in the snow, to test her own endurance. No, my feet are tough. I am not afraid of cold ground but what I am is a pyrophobe (one of the few perfectly reasonable phobias, in my oh so humble opinion.)

As we reached the bottom of the staircase the bedroom window exploded outwards and shards of glass and sparks tumbled to the ground. I let out an involuntary scream and the fireman told me not to worry. I felt like saying, 'It's all right for you with your fire-proof clothing. I am not similarly protected.' And I dread to think how poor Bella must have been feeling, trapped in her basket with no idea of what was happening.

And the thought running through my head was, No one could possibly have lived through that.

The neighbours were all out, staring upwards. I think they'd been evacuated. The fireman told me to go and sit on the bench opposite but I didn't. I sought sanctuary where I always seek it. At Doug's.

I hovered around his door for a while to make sure he was still up. I think he was in bed reading. I called out and knocked the door lightly. As soon as he appeared I said, 'She's done it again.'

Doug was bewildered, 'Who? Who's done what again?'

He invited me in. I led him to the window and showed him the three fire engines with their flashing blue lights. He invited me to sit down and did what people always seem to do in these situations - he made me a cup of tea. I sank down into one of his armchairs, my head in my hands. 'She's destroyed it all, Doug. Herself, everything. Why? Why would she do such a thing?'

Then there was a knock at the door. It was Jill, a representative of the residents' committee, a bubbly, bouncy (in more ways than one) young woman who arrived in these flats in very much the same circumstances as me - i.e: as a result of mental health problems. She lightened the atmosphere. Doug popped out every now and then to check upon progress. The woman was rescued by firefighters. Her children, apparently, are elsewhere.

After Jill had gone Doug and I went into my flat to assess the damage. Most of it was water damage - confined to the bedroom. That will be covered by insurance.

I spent the night on Doug's sofa. Bella tried to take over the place. Freddi, curious at the presence of another animal in the house, approached Bella who shrieked at her and scratched the poor dog's nose. Naturally, I scolded Bella for abusing Freddi's hospitality.

I was tense and anxious and could not sleep.

I left at 7 am, Sunday morning.

(To be Continued...)

The Harlot In the Powder-Pink Dress

I walked home through the wind and the rain and the cold. I didn't know what to do. I was terrified of what I would find when I reached my flat. Would it have been destroyed? Worse, would Andy have harmed Bella the Cat? I walked around the block several times before approaching the flat. There was a puddle of blood - my blood - beside the staircase. A trail of blood led to my door. I slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open. 'Bella, Bella,' I called. Silence. Nothing. I panicked. My voice grew high, desperate, Then I heard a familiar 'Miaow' and Bella emerged, trotting towards me. She purred and rubbed herself against my legs. I didn't care about myself but I would have guillotined the prick of anyone who had harmed her. I poured some food into a bowl and placed it on the floor. Bella pounced on it and wolfed it down.

I was so cold, frozen to the core. I turned the heating up - I was sorely tempted to smash my way into that bastard's flat and use the swordstick to eviscerate him.
What madness had he driven me to?

And then the 'phone rang.
My heart lurched. Hesitantly, I lifted the receiver. It was a woman who announced that she was calling from Parkside Police Staion and that the police would like to interview me regarding 'the incident that occurred last night'. I was perplexed. I hadn't even reported 'the incident'. (At that point I was seriously considering administering my own form of justice.)

'I don't intend to make a complaint,' I told her.

'Well, I'm sorry but we intend to press charges and besides, the male in question is in custody.' Feeling browbeaten, I agreed to make a statement. I hung up and panic surged through me. Andy had been arrested and had spent the night in gaol. I couldn't face yet another interrogation. More suspicious eyes gawping at me, more implications that I had somehow provoked Andy into attacking me. Above all, I was afraid they would send a man who would be sure to take Andy's side; to view the whole incident from Andy's perspective. I was drunk and clearly 'up for it'. It was a crime of passion and perfectly understandable given the way in which he was so shamelessly provoked by that harlet in the powder-pink dress. One thing was certain, I could not face the interview alone. Now was the time to find out who my real friends were.