by Mat Capper
‘His mind swam like a sweaty toothed madman’
‘Here we go again;
Here’s the darkness back;
The sickness in the pit of my stomach;
The dark clouds swarming round my brain.
Why is today so different from yesterday?
What has changed?
How long will it last this time?
What have I learnt from last time?
Okay for a start, try and focus on something.
I’m driving to work.
Put the radio on.
Nothing can go wrong, I’m safe.
Focus on the news.
‘The today program’ is on.
Maybe Stephen Fry will be on, he is mad too.
His warm brown voice always brings a little ease.
I just want to run away and hide.
Get under the duvet, safe from the world.
Drink some vodka or whiskey, just a bottle or two;
That’ll take the edge off.
But what happens then?
I end up in hospital with fits.
What is worse?
Seeing this through or the fits?
The fits have got to be worse.
Say to myself live in the moment.
I am safe. What is the worst thing that can happen?
I end up feeling like this forever, that’s what.
But it will pass.
It will definitely pass;
Maybe it won’t this time.
I’ll be like this forever.
Then the only option is the duvet and drink.
Yes get the booze.
It will pass, it will pass, it will pass;
Over and over through my mind.
Think of something funny, something to distract.
Woody is mad, he gets anxious and depressed.
He tells jokes all the time about it.
So did Hancock and Bruce.
So did Spike, dear old Spike.
He wrote to me once.
I sent him a letter.
And he replied;
A long reply, telling me about his life.
Signed in brown crayon ‘love, light and peace Spike x’.
Does that make me some sort of comedian?
Should I go on stage and make people laugh?
Do I like the idea too much of being tortured?
No, I’d rather not feel this way.
I’d give anything to not feel like this.
Shit, I was distracted then for a minute.
Go back to Spike.
I remember he lived in a place called Rye, which is ironic.
I was so excited to get his reply.
I kept it in a box in the attic.
It got thrown out when the old house was cleared.
Always makes me sad.
I can remember that Brown crayon signature and the kiss.
I wonder if Bukowski ever felt like this?
He was too drunk to realise.
That’s why I spent as long as I could, drunk.
It’s hard to describe the feelings.
It’s not self pity like some people think;
Or a feeling of being sad.
It is a bleakness which feels like a deep soul sickness.
Something that is more powerful than any person;
Regardless of intelligence and physical strength.
It is the time that suicide becomes a little more attractive than normal;
And to sleep is the lesser alternative.
Why does it happen?
What causes it?
I do not know.
It doesn’t actually matter.
The point is to view it like ships passing.
Take up as comfortable position as possible;
Just sit and watch it come and go.
It may take days, but with each experience comes a deeper understanding.
Once the ship has passed there is always the gratitude;
Gratitude for walks in the park;
For children and dogs;
For smiling faces and joy.
For comrades in common causes;
And for writing.
In some ways for Writing, most of all.
It does pass, it always passes and it easy to remember when okay.
It is remembering when it isn’t.
Most people will never understand;
Why should they?
We are all fundamentally selfish.
I have close friends with Parkinson’s disease.
Other than in passing or in a moment they pop into my mind;
I don’t think about them and their illnesses.
I love them, I care for them;
I am too wrapped up in myself, as we all are.
I wonder if Spike was? Or Lenny? Or Hancock?
I’m sure they were.
Just watch out for the self medication.
That’s my biggest threat.
Self medication and forgetting it doesn’t pass.
It will pass, it will pass, it will pass.’