Being honest, I’m not very well at the minute, as the old mental health is in pretty bad shape. Basically, my serotonin levels have flat lined and, as a result, pervasive, credible thoughts of serious self-harm, if not suicide, have been a constant, frightening accompaniment to my every waking moment for a while now. The way I visualise my end is the same as it ever was; death by drowning at the pier side of King Edward’s Bay at the dead of night. This familiar image became so strong and insistent last Wednesday that I called up the help of our workplace counselling service, whose assessment of the severity of my displayed mental instability resulted in them calling 999, resulting in an ambulance with two paramedics on duty being summoned. In the end, after a prolonged discussion with them, I did not accede to accompany them to hospital, instead I agreed to a phone consultation with a GP from my home surgery. Initially his suggestion was the desperately unimaginative and unhelpful one that I up my daily Sertraline consumption to 150mg. There was absolutely no way I was prepared to give such a course of action my assent, so I was instead prescribed 40mg of Citalopram, starting the next day. At least this alternative medication was an attempt at something new.
In
looking for causes or explanations for this then, as ever, you need to look at
both the physiological and psychological factors that have brought me to this
point. I have been on Sertraline for over 7 years; since the start of March
2015 in point of fact. During this time, my dosage has veered between 50mg and
200mg, depending on personal circumstances. It seems clear to me that I have
developed immunity to its benefits, such as they are, and that it simply doesn’t
work for me. Consequently, my serotonin levels have plummeted to the extent
that I have effectively zero units of this neurotransmitter in my system. As a
result, the biological signs of fight or flight syndrome have manifested
themselves in ever stronger terms over these past few weeks; dizziness,
sweating, confused thought, peripheral auditory hallucinations, uncontrollable
shaking, nausea and vomiting. It’s not pleasant, but when it is combined with
psychological manifestations of depressive anxiety, it becomes almost
unbearable. I constantly fantasise about not being here, as opposed to being
dead, with my thoughts returning to an almost stock image of me submerging into
the grey North Sea and not resurfacing. I justify this means to my end, by hearing
endless replays of voices in my head that tell me to kill myself, on account of
the fact I’m a failure, useless, a loathsome joke, utter vermin and so on. I
know this isn’t rational, but then neither am I, so I accept it as the truth,
because I can’t, or don’t want to, hear anyone telling me different.
The bottom line is I don’t believe I’m worthy of life, never mind happiness. I hate myself and have no self-esteem, as that is how I was taught to view myself from an early age by my abusive parents. So there’s the whole kernel of things; I am constantly so unhappy, so miserable and so downright lonely, that I don’t want to be here. I wouldn’t wish such a mind-set on my worst enemy. It is not only demoralising, but debilitating and absolutely exhausting to wander round with those thoughts in your head all day, screaming at you, laughing demonically, especially when they keep you awake at night with cruel whispers. As a direct result, I probably spent about an hour a day crying my eyes out in the disabled bogs at work, in an attempt to shut those noises out. It’s the only place I’ve found sanctuary of late.
Last Wednesday afternoon, I went home early from work, which is something I’m not keen on as, in this job as opposed to the flawed and fascistic regime at Tyne Met, I feel supported and consequently look forward to work as it is a distraction from the events inside my head. However, I just couldn’t turn the volume down and was unable to concentrate. One thing I did pick on, which did amuse me, was discovering Wednesday was World Bipolar Awareness Day, in the middle of Autism Acceptance Week. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’ve not found it yet.
Frankly, Thursday daytime wasn’t much better. Having been told my new prescription would be at my regular pharmacy by early afternoon, I pitched up around 1.30 and was told there was nothing there for me and was advised to call the surgery to find out what the issue was. Of course, the surgery is closed on a Thursday afternoon. The pharmacist told me I’d best visit my GP, which is based in the centre of town, to sort this out. This I felt utterly unable to do, as I was frightened to even head towards the coast, lest I did the said unmentionable destructive deed, so going into the City Centre was a total non-starter. Thankfully, a call to Newcastle Mental Health Crisis Team saw them able to intervene, by collecting the script from the GP and delivering it to the pharmacy, allowing me to head for Percy Main and a rather enjoyable evening’s fundraiser with Keith Gillespie as guest speaker.
Without going over old ground, you’ll all know the enormous ideological discomfort I feel about manifestations of overt masculinity and stereotypical Alpha Male behaviour, which meant I wasn’t dealt the best hand possible by being born amidst swathes of violent, heterosexual men and women on the south bank of the Tyne. Out of place. Out of time. Out of context. I’d probably put much of my initial teenage mental ill-health down to the enormous, and still unresolved, difficulties relating to what it meant to be a man, to the extent that I still think my life would have been better if I’d been female. This doesn’t mean I have any imminent wish to declare myself as trans or whatever, because I’m clearing male, just not very good at it. Nor do I think I am gay as, to be brutally honest, I don’t find men attractive; their bodies are too hard, unyielding, unforgiving. Women’s nurturing, compassionate forms are so much more aesthetic and erotic. As I said last week, I would have liked to have been a rent boy, as the idea of transactional sex fits well with my self-image. No pleasure. No affection. Just a case of being used, abused and completely unrewarded by people who treat me with contempt.
Such were my thought patterns as I took a seat in Percy Main Cricket Club lounge for last Thursday’s fundraiser and a blokeier vibe you could not imagine. Loads of football people, players, managers and officials, from clubs as disparate as Chemfica, Heaton Stan and of course the Main, were present to drink beer, eat pies, laugh at Gavin Webster’s quality set and relive a brutally honest and deeply moving account of his career highs and lows by Keith Gillespie. Certainly I went away with a profoundly enhanced degree of respect for the fella. I’d also enjoyed catching up with many faces, old and new, that I recognised from the local grassroots game. Without question, local, grassroots amateur sport is one of the greatest gifts to humanity that I know. If it wasn’t for the Northern Alliance, the Northern League, the North East Premier League and the Northumberland and Tyneside Senior League, my corpse would have been fished from the sea years ago. Or even as recently as a week ago.
Wednesday 23rd March saw me at Tynemouth Cricket Club for the first time this year, to attend the Annual General Meeting. It was fantastic to see old friends and catch up on things, but the most crucial aspect for me was Dan Storey and his iPad, albeit reluctantly, accepting the role of Midweek Captain for another year. I make no bones about this; the way I have been feeling, if our team hadn’t been prepared to continue this year (and with a first game away to Stobswood on a Thursday evening, I’m not counting any chickens just yet), I am certain I would have stepped off my train back from Airdrie v Cove on Saturday 26th March at Alnmouth and simply disappeared without the thought of cricket to sustain me. As it is, I can’t say my life is all sunshine and roses, but I’m not planning to do anything drastic until after I’ve seen Godspeed You! Black Emperor on Sunday 18th September at Glasgow Barras, which is the week after the cricket season ends. That is the best I can offer at this present time, but I have promised 2 musician pals (hiya Jill and Alex) and a contributor to glove (greetings Karen) that I will try my hardest to get well again. They may note that I’m hoping this will happen for my sake and not just to please them; I have got to learn to value myself and keep myself in this world, especially when I can watch 3 Northern Alliance games simultaneously. How could I want to leave such a brave old world that has such features in it?
One of the greatest benefits of residing in NE7 is not the presence of local loudmouth Greg Stone as the elected representative of the Vegan Wehrmacht, but the sheer number of Northern Alliance teams in the area. By my estimation, there are 6 sides in this postcode and three were at home (Chemfica, Independent Cabrito and Newcastle University A) on Saturday 2nd April, while the other three (Chemfica Amateurs, Heaton Stan A and Newcastle Independent) were all away. The three home sides were all in cup action, kicking off at 2.00pm, so by careful swivelling of the neck muscles I would watch Chemfica v Cramlington United, keep an eye of Newcastle University A v Ashington A and be aware of Independent Cabrito v Forest Hall Celtic, courtesy of the hue and cry from their pitch. The first 2 games were taking place at the Newcastle University Longbenton Sports Ground, while the latter, separated only by a mesh fence, was in the confines of Northumbria University Coach Lane Campus.
My
interest was mainly focused on the Chemfica game, as they’re having a great
season in the Alliance Premier and I’ve got an awful lot of time for their
manager Kennie Malia, who is destined for Northern League management in the
future I’m sure. That said, the opposition are rejuvenated over the past few
years and boast one of my ex-students, Trae Rowlandson, a quick and skilful striker
who has grown up to be a nice bloke. Despite Chemfica taking an early lead with
a deflected free kick, Crammy roared back to deservedly edge a tight and
compelling game 2-1, with a bullet header and swift breakaway, either side of
half time.
Meanwhile Newcastle University A thumped Ashington A 4-1 in a game that had little to recommend it, other than deeply sympathetic refereeing by Mark Baston, while Forest Hall Celtic got the better of a loud encounter with Cabrito, by 3-1. I saw little of this, but heard it all. I was also able to cycle home within 5 minutes of the final whistle, but the real stand out thing for me was that over 100 players and officials, not to mention about double that number of supporters, were involved in 3 meaningful, competitive games of football within the same postcode. That tells me so much about the importance and power of local sport.
It’s enough to make you glad to be alive. Well, almost…
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