Grand Mal epilepsy – every time you throw a fit you can’t drive for a year and you forget lots of stuff.
IQ in the top 2% UK – over analytical on everything
Possible ADHD – inability to prioritise, focus, direct – and over focussing
Damaged childhood – low self esteem – low self worth
Mental confusion regarding first world wealth v third world poverty
Inability to work the ‘game’
Having to break the law – work on the side – in order to survive in the country of my birth
Having to respect society members (doctors, govt officials, benefits agencies, etc) who have constantly failed me and having to despise those members of the other side of society who are regarded as criminals when many of them have helped even when they had little or nothing themselves
I believe this society we live in, in the UK – the only country I have any real experience of, needs major holes blown in it. Not with bombs. Bombs aren’t selective enough.
I’m not saying that everyone is shit. I am not saying that huge numbers of people need killing painfully, or ‘compassionately’ . I saying that society needs to stop pretending that it cares about everyone and set in place some form of mechanism that has databanks of what is on offer and a new set of tools that ‘anyman’ can use to get what they need for living life to the full without having to go through the gates controlled by the ‘gatekeepers’.
There are too many ‘gatekeepers’ in this society. A ‘gatekeeper’ is someone who sits between what’s on offer and the person needing that resource. There are so many of these people and so many of them work on behalf of themselves and the system and not for the person asking for the help, be it grants, benefits, job help or whatever.
I know. I am there now. Have been where I am for a long time. Know a lot of people whose personal abilities mean nothing to this country we live in. Know a lot of times when, with just the help that was rightfully mine, given when I needed it, I could have been further forward with my life rather than sitting and cursing the system that seems to care with words and advertising but has ‘gatekeepers’ to make sure people ‘like me’ are at the bottom of the list – or not on the list at all – for the resources they guard as if they were their own – or as if they would loose their position if they gave to people ‘like me’.
That’s how it feels. All this talk about limited finances seems like bullshit when you know that the system is set up to pay all these bureaucrats to sort your needs and they sort their own first then yours if there is anything left.
As a doctor you do my head in; not good for a man with epilepsy, or whatever you decide it is.
I don’t trust your judgement because you come across as lazy, racist, bigoted, prideful.
You are aggressive with me.
You stop me being able to talk about what is physically worrying me.
You add to the damage my head is trying to correct.
You stop me being able to happily call my surgery when I really need to.
You don’t arrange appointments like you say you will.
BT did not treat me as someone with special needs even though they had been told that I was ill and kept asking for their help.
The did not give me a clear reading of my account
Amount owing twice at least you have let me and a friend who paid one of my bills for me know that the amount I owed was less than it actually was. You cut me off this time, just before Christmas, for £17 only and then let me know there was another bill for 157 odd tuck round the corner.
I have asked you a number of times for good advice on how to work my bills with you
Day after day nothing happens. Connections are not made. Moving forwards towards death and nothing else.
A society strapped for resources. Having to triage ideas and people with them.
Constant intervention by people with an agenda.
We spend years of our lives living. The life we live gives us the links we end up with.
I need help to live in your system.
At the moment, and for 20 + years before, I have had to rely on the black economy for the help that has kept me alive.
That and the ambulance drivers and hospital staff. I have come near to being killed by doctors at least twice.
I have wanted to feel like I was of worth for years now. Your society is reaching the stage where some of it treats me of worth and some of it wants to get rid of me as being of no use.
It’s my belief that if we could get our memories out and written down we could clear our heads of a lot of what holds us up and could then move forwards as a society and as a person as part of that society.
My way of doing this is via the use of a service that can be connected to in all different ways other than telepathic, at the moment.
Whether by use of direct voice contact ala foxfire (orange?)
Or by internet or by snail mail or by magazine user questionnaires or by face to face contact with a rep / agent I believe that a service could thrive on the use that would be made of it by the public from all walks of life.
Everyone has things they remember and that they repeat throughout their lives. These memories assume some form of ritual importance in many and become the hold over their growth.
To have the possibility to build whole programmes for TV from a single persons input through to group inputs based on focussed topics.
All manner of group and individual problems could be solved by the use of this tool.
I have always maintained that if you put me in a field in the middle of nowhere I feel wonderful. I love this world, its diversities, its scale…
…but put me near people and my self esteem, feelings of self worth, belief in my right to enjoy and prosper in the country of my birth (UK) vanish. Little or no self esteem has been my constant ball and chain.
I have lived in rural areas and in poverty (both relative and actual) for most of my life.
I am a multi talented man with a high IQ. I am also a man with physical and mental health problems (grand mal epilepsy and something which might be ADHD, bipolar disorder but which is more likely distortions in my head because of two very strong willed parents who tore each other to shreds over a period of 26 years until their eventual divorce; loving two wonderful people and not knowing how to take sides has meant me having great difficulty when prioritising my life.)
I started photography when I was six years old. I got my first darkroom when I was thirteen years old. I got my first commission from a national newspaper (The Sun) when I was fifteenish years old. I always knew I would be a world famous photographer one day…
…but, after struggling with, well, everything; my childhood, my parents, my schooling, learning, thinking, relationships, marriages, work – both employed and self employed, money, my mental state, my illnesses – collapsed lung, Kidney disease, grand mal epilepsy, depression, my beliefs, my religion, the state benefit system, banks, utility companies, in fact almost everything that most people regard as life, I saw myself through the eyes of society – a complete no hoper. An articulate man with a fried brain.
Except for one thing. I was still alive. My head still proved its worth for those around me. I could still help people see the point of life, even when I felt about to lose it – maybe we each showed the other that life was worth hanging on to.
THIS ISN’T ME
My age can be measured in blundering dents made in the armour of other lives. Immature cruelty. ego thief of others space.Tall. But stunted innards of a mental babe. The wood was too cold for real growth. Clever. But neglect after birth kills the clarity as the small hands grasp empty air and eyes perceive, as yet unlabelled, 'disgust?' behind a mothers gaze.
Fed. Watered. Cleaned. The maternal caress that should be there is more a janitorial absence- Hired help- duty bound to perform basic tasks for little pay. The small child could not bankroll better staff.
Other children, siblings, make the lady smile and, deep within receding caverns, this child vague remembers radiating warmth aimed at him.
Breathless umbilical drowning thrashing arms try to swim against the stronger flow of dark now and darker now.
Terror. Movement blocked by fears of other inappropriate norms. Reactions suppressed. The over-watch of every move begins. What this unknowing child did to warrant such rejected pain must not be allowed to happen again.
Spying, prying. Dishonest moves? The other children, loved, advance with ease. Each move of this one now diseased with inboard nightmares of what might be if this next step is wrong. Ever watchful, needs to find that unknown '?' that will turn the matriarchs blind gaze to open joy and words that praise instead of finding fault.
Time trips the birth-day switch with thoughtless dispatch. Growth occurs, it has to, death has yet to intervene. Other lives, other lands. Different minds and different hands. Still the shivering, unknown wrong keeps hold. Each possible move dissected for its, maybe, end result. Subconscious creatures whip and thrash in the mother-created, mud-filled pit. Self torture. Self disgust. Lack of faith. Lack of trust.
Plastic masks to match the rest are placed in front of all this wasted space. No one person sees within.
Lovers come and love goes. Each comes close but, always, no. This unknown '?' might be justified in its hate of this one person’s inner state. Words are words. Meanings are another thing. Warmth of touch, Depth of need, These are tested till they bleed… and die.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Time and time again would-be friends are left behind as this uncertain person knows his 'wrongs' have damaged once again.
Age creates an anger that trains this one to work the damage from the start. Banal stupidities create a smile distorted hate that wreaks its havoc while gentle outer walls deny that anything is wrong. It is always 'them' that does the harm. More time crunches underfoot - broken glass and shattered hopes. Each mind-distressing row brings forth the now familiar cry "there's something wrong with you"!
Inside a head the words are stencilled there in lead - 'I know' 'I know' 'I know.'
"We can help" Society proclaims. but each time help is sought - they're out.
Year after year, as help is shouted for, those that offer help are somewhere else. Helping others, no doubt, to learn how not to shout and cry. To find out all the reasons why they are in the pain they're in. Help for them - so they lose the din that carries on within.
This one's act is just that. A face change fact that renders help null and void.
Twenty years go past.
Middle-aged and separate from family and kin by this inner, unknown thing that breaks forth every month to have its tortured, sadistic lunch on all the love that lies around - because it still has not found the bad thing that was done when it was a tiny kid.
Death is visible now.
Am I always going to twist the love of those around me? Will I die still not knowing why?
Help me understand. All I know is guesses based on nothing.