Pre Christmas post post

So….

Christmas is here again and we are all looking like prize stuffed animals hanging from a carnival game tent, and the bar stewards refuse to use a noose for me!

The turkey diners rapidly increasing sweatpants sales and festive jumpers so bright and borderlining dangerously tacky that health warning pamphlets have papered the nation like unwanted snow

You’d be foolishly eluded to the idea that this time of year is all smiling cherubs in sickeningly green elf costumes haunting every corner of the streets, invading with great prejudice all shopping centres, if it weren’t for the morosely decorating singles garnishing street lights with nooses tied with Christmas tree lights.

To say I was one of them would give me great pleasure but that nagging constant otherwise cursed to be known as ‘sense of self-preservation’ signed a lifetime deal with my suffering a long time ago, a damningly worse legal clause is that my depression can’t pull the trigger unless I give in first!

This seasonal depression has as ever grabbed tight the endless flowing misery streams I know to be life, love and a lack of any deeper satisfaction in living, all in all a rival for that equally torturous trio of stress, anxiety and depression. But enough of my troubles, what about yours?!

Now I will have to end this post here, having bleed from the open wounds of my existence the tainting unhappiness that corrupts my dark humour to a deeper pit of whence where the devil did once scrawl the word ‘human’ I now am able to resume normal operations

So stock up on anti-depressants, vodka and remove family members from the room (bloodshed and murder not recommended unless you plan not to get caught!) and prepare for my…

wait….

CHRISTMAS POST

DISCLAMER:

REFERNCES TO SUCICIDE, SELF HARM AND GENERAL LACK OF WILL TO LIVE HAVE YET TO BE ACTED ON, SO SAVE THE HOTLINE NUMBERS AND ‘IT’LL GET BETTER’ STUFF TIL 2017!

NOT THE REAL CHRISTMAS POST, THAT IS YET TO BE POSTED

A Gifts Repent

A mime is admired for skilled silence of an acting admission of imaginary jest

A clown a comical genius of all the style one would not imagine would irradiate from falling flat on their face

A tightrope walker deathly tempting on a line as suspended as the audiences breath as in daring rebellion he risks a death

I rage a temper in a fitful storm of furious words only muttered in civilised circles under whispered breath

For my skills reek of ill mood and drift into arms where comical and civil do die in flames of emblazoned anger and dryly dark jest

Such is me

Who better suits black and red

The Words of a Less Wise Man Pt2

When you repeatedly rebuild empires out of ruins

Ingenuity walks astride with creativity in constant rumble

Imagination a force beyond what better blessed can comprehend

When corrupted by darker initiatives in the hour of storms

**    **   **

I was but a moral in the eye of a fitful storm

Words a plenty in the insatiable ravages of all the chaos this vessel bore

Saints so fallen and given to the bottle an eluded cure, for which the dagger bleeds a sonnet in waters corrupted by tainted lies

 

The Amateurs Guide to Self Harm

So…

Life hath finally lost its flavour to the extensive degree that you are numbed to the internal pain, the consistent stabbing sensation of life’s betrayal that perpetrates every forsaken waking hour you are forced to respire. At which point only two methods of feeling anything above the spreading emotional numbness infecting every singular cell of your being are available, and you’re not quite ready to commit the fatally final act of suicide (covered in the next optimistic guide).

This leaves one option on the table ‘Self Harm’, and yes I know it’s less effective than suicide and you will have to hear the pathetically curdled words “Are you Ok?” every god forsaken episode of human contact, but we can’t help that the human race is full of idiots. On the bright side, you are still alive to rather bluntly aim an attention pointing finger to the bloody marks on your body and say “Do you think I’m ok?” using your best ‘Are you a fucking idiot’ tone.

So, the nitty gritty, how to properly execute the somewhat self-destructive activity of ‘Self Harm’:

 

Never inflict damage near a rather over healthy blood flow

       This particular point has to be raised as the objective of ‘Self Harm’ is not to kill yourself, and for the amateur in the arts of summoning the refreshing sensations of physical pain as a means of confirming you are still able to feel anything; think of the counteractive process of bleeding too much life out of that fractured shell you call a body and dying, and in that case you definitely will not feel anything every again.

Make it look like an accident

       Perfections own degree of exactly straight red lines, one after blissfully humanity confirming other in a row, cannot be explained away as ‘The kitchen knife caught me’… what, five times in a row as you let it happen?!. ‘I brushed it on a wire fence’ is and only will look like that if you are clever enough to avoid giving into the OCD that has rather unhelpfully added to the wonderfully positive urge of hurting one’s self.

       And think location, the wire fence scenario does not apply to areas of the body not commonly exposed to those risks ‘I was checking my thigh when a gust of wind picked me up and threw against the fence, before I could pull my trouser leg down again’ will not be believable, ‘I moved out of the path of a cyclist and scratched my arm’ however…

Frequency

       To have reached such a depressingly deep place to feel so strongly about the option outlined here is never good, once should be enough unless ‘You’re fucked worse than a carrot in a cage of starving rabbits’ to use the politely official terminology. And one ‘accident’ on the rare occasion that life’s damning condemnation really is too much for the comprehension of living to process is just about passable, turning your body into something that looks like a human pin cushion at a nursing home’s international knitting contest makes it rather obvious. Even to the idiot asking “Are you ok?”

 

I would so love to wallow around in merry delusion, whilst the fluffy bunnies sing choirs of cheesy positive pop songs but alas I not so able to delude myself about the unspoken damnation of a life sentence in this world. So to say that subjects like the one I am covering imply positive connotations would be as honest as that carrot hoping to escape the hungry bunnies. Such places as the depressive survivors of stripped away optimism do darkly inhabit have such self destructive options on open view in the markets of sorrow, and when walking a mine field so avidly as the damned do you are bound to hit the odd mine.

At least some informed soul formulated the wonderfully blunt ‘suicide box’ on the mental health form the doctor will hand to you when you show the scars of that ‘accident’ in the kitchen or ‘brush with’ a wire fence. And I would honestly hope that any slightest flicker of recognition with what I have written here would have you running to said doctors and ticking that box, after you have laughed yourself silly reading this.

DISCLAIMER: LAUGHING AFTER READING THIS WILL EITHER DEMONSTARTE MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES, A SERIOUSLY SCREWED SENSE OF HUMOUR OR THAT YOU ARE JUST PLAIN BAT SHIT CRAZY!

AND ANY OFFENCE TAKEN CAN BE DIRECTED TO THE PERMINANTLY EMPTY OFFICE MY SANITY ONCE INHABITED, YOU CAN JOIN THE QUEUE!!