The head’s a mad thing, I feel like mine may be a bit more frazzled than others. The mother-loving wibbliest and wobbliest of all wonders. The King Kong big-shlong wobbling monstrosity, right up in my area causing mass hysteria.

It can be a cool head, sometimes I like. If I think about eating a lemon cheesecake, and then I go eat a lemon cheesecake, I have eaten two cheesecakes in my head. Cool head.

If every letter I typed right now made sounds, then every sentence I write could compose a different melody. So right now I’m typing but in my head the typing is composing symphonies like a big bad Beethoven. Cool head.

It can be shite head though, sometimes I hate. It can be a very fucking dark place and the next thing I know, the cheesecakes are eaten, I’m overweight and the music career has gone down the shitter in one direction. I’ve no hope or aspirations, my dark-side takes over and I’m back switching babies in maternity wards and blindfolding guide-dogs.

Imagine my head as a bunk bed. Sometimes I’m getting my hole in the bottom bunk (very smoothly may I add), sometimes I’m the person on the top-bunk distressfully wobbling and flapping frantically like dogs ears out a car window, as the people below furiously PUTSINTHATDICKKKSIN. A perfectly content mind would simply be comfortable being in either bed, and wouldn’t be absolutely tormented by the near excorcism that’s occurring below them.

Both descriptions of my head here sound BiPolar and ironically one doctor said I am, and another doctor said I am not. The reason being, the positive doctor said, was “everything is seasonal, your diet, exercise, energy, mood, alcohol-intake, lemon cheesecake and could you also get off the roof and sort out your ADHD please Stephen?’. The roof’s not my child but I’ll raise it.

I think the most important thing to note is that dealing with a mental illness means you are (  or passed tents, ‘were’ ) in the top bunk a hell of a lot more than the bottom bunk. That’s not to say you don’t ever get your bit, it’s just saying when you do get your bit, you’re more than likely going to end up with more crabs than an episode of Deadliest Catch.

I’m actually gonna park the wibbly wobbly bunk bed analogy at the door there because I I’ve ran out of fucking ideas - but just remember, gee is happiness, and the more you chase it then the less you get (literally too petit filous ).

Relapse – Relax – SeaSonal Scuba SHTEVE

I’m up and fucking down like Marty Morrissey’s knickers. Everyone is though, how many Weight Watchers diets has your ould one broke? I’ve relapsed so many fucking times, so many fucking times. I don’t know how the people close to me didn’t give up. I was a horror to deal with and I strained my family’s emotions to their absolute tether. Reeling them in with glimmers of hope and then letting the line snap. “Ah Stephen’s ok now…. Oh no wait, he’s back lying in his room for 6 weeks, binge-eating and not wanting to not be alive”, lovely. As time goes on, I just keep getting better and better at not relapsing. I’ve mentioned a couple of times before I have to do a tremendous balancing act with my sanity, and practice and hard-work is the only way I can stay steady. I still occasionally fall off the tightrope or get thrown out of the bunkbed, but I’ve grown just enough resilience to stand back up and have another bash at it.

If you’ve been to hell you might as well keep going and I FUCKING PROMISE YOU EACH TIME YOU STAND UP YOU GET STRONGER.

So much so that when walking the tightrope of life, from all your falls you become so well-equipped that when a disaster does happen, you’ll be more emotionally prepared than any other mother lover.

To stable myself I have become better identifying the habits that make me fall down that dark hole. I’m going to give you my big mad seasonal journey and you can see how I’m progressively getting better at taking the wobbly out of my wonder, but by fuck I have crossed the seven seas with an interrupting pira..ARRR. I just want you to know your path may seem like hell, but don’t give up, there is so much hope, especially since you’ve made it this far. You’re still alive and fair fucking play to you. I tried once putting a stop to it, and I’m fucking blessed I’m still here, even if sometimes it feels like crap. I’ve been to fucking hell and forgot to take a selfie.

♛♜•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*STILL NEVER SEEN´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•A BABY PIGEON*´¨`*•.¸¸.•♖♕

Don’t mind all them absolute bozoes shouting “it’s world mental health day, be positive and get more exercise”, let them go abseil down a mountain of dicks. We’ll keep this real. 

So I sometimes I still get an urge to sabotage everything: relationships, health, jobs, business and opportunities. That’s my shadow, it doesn’t want me to do succeed at anything. This be nitty gritty and dark, but maybe my shadow can help you understand yours (we all have little mini Hitlers inside us). xx

⍾ ᷋ ᷌ ᷍ ᷎᷎᷎᷎⚮🎐 🇲🇿 <⎃G®♀ 

▄︻̷┻̿═━一

Kintergarten jah: I had a pretty rosy fucking childhood. Wexford won the All-Ireland in 96, led by a beautiful Ronnie of a man called Martin Storey. Some small shit happened (nobody had any control over or is to blame) that had a mad effect on my development.

 Ein Zwei Polizei : Bar failing Junior Cert Science my teenage years were pretty golden. The untreated ADHD goose was running loooose around the hooose but it was great craic. I was extremely fit for the most part from sport (chasing gee), and my mind was ok. Knocked the head off a few people, a few people knocked the head off me and I knocked around making many kissy faces at many girls for the most part. Extremely insecure, but ok.

Mein Kampf :

All them years of untreated ADHD and depression snowballed into one very frosty snowman.

I went from bliss to abyss. After, the bliss of secondary school monster truck mayhem everything went banana-shaped after that. At 17, I went to college and dropped-out. I went to another college dropped-out at the age of 20. I didn’t dislike the courses as such, and at the time I thought I actually hated the courses; but unbeknownst to me I was depressed. I was sessioning and binge-eating a shit tonne to escape the world I was living in. I was lying in my room for months, not sleeping, pulling todge, staring at my ceiling (before phones were smart and smarmy bastards). I couldn’t bring myself to read, draw, socialize or watch movies.

After college dropout number two, I started working deadbeat. I would get up to go to work in a pub and then go on the session after work; starting on the gargle at like 3 or 4 in the morning and finishing at like 7. I had no reason or purpose to be partaking in this life shit, and was fairly depraved of any meaning. Art was not a career or an option, and I was stuck in fucking hell. Of course this depression was going untreated because I didn’t have a Bull McCabe what depression even was, and thought it was something you only got with a hangover. The untreated depression led into severe depression, ooooooh baybeee.

I constantly did not want to be alive. There was times I would be enjoying myself, when I was out amongst people, trying to make people laugh or be happy, but deep down I wanted nothing to do with the world. There was nothing here for me.

̸ ̡ ҉ ҉.·๑ඕั ҉ ̸ ̡ ҉ ҉.·๑ඕั ҉ ̸ ̡ ҉ ҉.·๑ඕั ҉ ̸ ̡ ҉ ҉.·๑ඕั ҉ ̸ ̡ ҉ ҉.·๑ඕั ҉ ̸ ̡ ҉ ҉.·๑ඕั ҉ ̸ ̡ ҉ ҉.·๑ඕั ҉

I was in a long enough relationship at the time with a girl I loved but definitely wasn’t very good at expressing it. I seem to always end up my most depressed when in a relationship (see shadow above). I was a horror and a worry to be around and I still to this day feel guilt for the torture I was putting my mam and famalam through (including my ex and fronds). I also feel so grateful to have them. At the time it felt like nothing they could do would help me, nobody could understand the rhythm or the frequency of my head jelly, but their guidance in getting me to the doctors, ringing Samaritans etc was pivotal to keeping me alive and even though I used them all as emotional punching bags, I show my gratitude through love, now that I can.

Anyway, I found out I had depression because I knew it wasn’t normal to keep wanting to be not be alive with this insane pain in the membrane.

When I was 21, I went to my doctor, who is a proppa whoppa gent ( big up Dr. Bentley ) and he had a chat with me and gave me anti-depressants. They were duds and if we were at a festival I would have smashed him over the head with my trusty ironing-board. He then gave me different anti-depressants and they too were fucking Dion Dudleys. I think I tried a third type of anti-depressant and at this time I was grasping on to the cliffs of life and the only thing that was keeping me alive was not wanting to destroy my family’s life. I finally went to a counsellor who was actually quite good! She got me up off the cliff, but I only went and duped myself. I lured myself into that false sense of security of feeling like ‘yeah I’m flier than Mr. GQ Smooth, I don’t need no counsellor. Fuck your words and talking shieeeat’ and for a couple of months I didn’t need a counsellor or chats.

Also, just to note, thinking back on this counsellor, her fee for every visit was what ever I could afford. How legendary was that? Man there are some good people out there and I really hope she enjoyed FIFA ’06 and empty biscuit tins.

 Little non-sequitir: Just went out for a smoke; my neighbours were on holiday recently near the Cliffs of Moher and their chung fella was playing fetch with their little Bijon Freise. Captain chromosomes threw the ball off a cliff, and the woofta version of Captain Chromosomes proceeded to chase after the ball. Kerplat. I have no idea who is more stupid but if reincarnation is real, I hope that fucker gets a job at Wimbledon.

(／_^)／ 　　　　　　●　＼(^_＼)

THENNNNNNNN

Hide yo kids, hide yo wife… OH MY DAYS NO I HAD NOT SORTED MY SHIT OUT. Years and years of unrecognised emotions and feelings left suppressed in me needed a little bit more work than a few visits to a lady that looked like she’d make a sick cup of tea. All it would take would it be a tiny little trigger but in endured the Hiroshima of Wibbly Wobbly Wonders.

When I was 22, I went to Rome in March with my girlfriend at the time ( who was also consequently depressed, talk about adding 🔥 to 🔥🔥 ) and this little holiday was meant to be a little life-saver on both parts. A bit of hope or enjoyment. Came home, my dog was dead, props where props were due at least he did not jump off a cliff. Broc was my best fucking friend man, I loved him and he was always there when shit was at its worst. I still love him and just had a few tears thinking about him.

THEN, I moved to Edinburgh to try escape. While there my Macbook, camera, passport and hard-drive were robbed from under my pillow as I slept in a hostel. 3 grand worth of possessions and a few years worth of art (prolly priceless), gonzo on the conso. OK fair enough, bad, but not the worst whirly burger.

THEN within a week or two, my aunty and godmother Lil who I loved dearly and spent many summers with as a kid and teenage, having the loveliest of times down in Cork, she died of the cancer quite suddenly. It wasn’t as sudden as I let on, as we were aware she had cancer for quite a while; I just ignored all feelings and never went to visit her. To this day I will always regret not visiting enough, and have managed not to make the same mistake again. Because my passport was robbed I had to take a bus from Edinburgh, slid onto a boat in Belfast and got a bus from Belfast to Cork, all without a fucking bean. It was the worst journey of my life to date, but grateful I made it, as the last expression I saw Lil make was when her smile when I walked into the hospital room. More tears writing this.

 ˛ƪ(⌾⃝ ౪ ⌾⃝ ๑)و ̉ ̉    So much drama down in the LBC it’s kind of hard being Snoop D-O-Double G     ˛ƪ(⌾⃝ ౪ ⌾⃝ ๑)و ̉ ̉

My relationship failed pretty horrifically, quite inevitably 2beEff and I didn’t believe I could feel any more pain, but this really put me through the ringer.

I shared these stories not because I am looking for sympathy, I don’t think they’re even that bad when I hear of stories of others. I just don’t feel like I should dilly dally doolally around some facts on such a sensitive topic. I don’t like the stage mental health awareness is at. So much sugar-coating, not enough real. 

After a very drawn-out series of not very fortunate events, I lost all will to live. I went fucking insane. A very dangerous man has nothing to lose and I had nothing.

My life was in danger. That’s no exaggeration; I had lost all value on life or lives. I was an absolute liability to everything and everyone but worst of all, myself.

 XXxxxxXXXXxxxxxXXXXXXxxxxxxXXXXXxxxx

I don’t think anyone’s suicidal, I think everyone wants to be alive but be happy. The suicidal thing is that people just don’t want to be cursed with the brain they were given and would give everything to have a brain that was their friend and not their enemy. The pain is fucking unbearable, worse than any toothache or broken bone but it's 24/7. I didn’t want to be alive, but would have happily traded my noggin in for one of those ones that didn’t think, or if it did think, it would be nothing but 99’s and getting clamped was actually a positive thing because you get to park there for longer.

I’ll reinstate; you must understand, EVERYBODY wants to live a happy life, no matter how suicidal. Imagine your thoughts are tumours, that’s how it feels. I’m absolutely fucking blessed to be here and it’s pure chance I’m typing this, but my heart bleeds for my fallen comrades. The pain I was in was just about nearly not tolerable so I can barely imagine the pain some of my friends were in and never should the saying Rest in Peace be more applicable.

It’s definitely worth noting that if you had seen me in my suicidal state, I would super-cliché be doing that smiley thing. Wearing my emotional balaclava.

When I was 22 I was taking sleeping tablets. Sleep was my only mate and only purpose. Sleep was my only escape from the complexity of my evil thoughts. I had stopped eating ( throughout these years I went through states of binge-eating X sessioning V not-eating Y over-excercising ) and just lay in my room taking sleeping tablets. I wouldn’t be showering, I was in the same jocks two weeks. I couldn’t talk to any one, I couldn’t show love. I was completely and utterly numb. I was lying in bed, isolated, ignoring humanity by pulling the tummy off myself, but like a dedicated wingman I would barely even pull myself. I was dead on the inside, completely and utterly numb. I had to escape this hell hole. It’s fizzically impossible to sleep for 24 hours a day but I gave it a good doorang dang dingle, by giving the sleeping tables a good wallop. Even though my tolerance levels were that of Pete Doherty, I really needed to sleep so I just kept taking more and more.

(∩｀-´)⊃━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

Every time I woke up I would be raging that I woke up, absolutely livid I was back in this fucking shithole called Earth. I took 12 or 14 lil blue lads. What’s that? Yeah no I took 12 or 14, I wouldn’t be one for counting but I’m fucked if I’m doing an odd number.

(∩｀-´)⊃━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

If I wanted to finish it I would have, I took enough just not to wake up for a while. My mam caught wind of this, the poor thing, and she made me get sick. I didn’t want to regurgetate the tablets, sure why would I take them in the first place? I just didn’t want to see her in so much distress. I woke up in Loughlinstown hospital. Up da ra agus Tiocfaidh ár lá.

The Journey to Recovery and the Relapsing.

Only if you’ve been through one of these dark valleys will you know this tough journey. If you’re in the middle of the valley, or even at the start, and you have put in a bit of work, it might take some more work, but now that you’re in hell, as I've said before, you might as well keeping walking bredrin. You’ve shown enough strength to start the journey, you’ve absolutely LITERALLY nothing to lose, and I promise you that around that corner, there’s a big shiny petrol station with like Burger King and Costa and many cool hand-dryers and loads of sweet things in it.

2012 - John of Gods - It’s been well documented, but my time in John of God’s psychiatric ward is what saved my fucking life. Dr Bentley and my family got me in there, thankfully. I was in serious distress while I was there and by a country mile I was not the worst in there, but without the doctors, nurses and patients I’d be dead, and as long as I live and breath on this planet I will owe them.

Important Note: I just said I wasn’t the worse in there, but I wasn’t the worse of people I have known and do know. I’m giving you all the truths here but not every miniscule detail. If you think you’re worse, similar or not as bad but still need help, get the fuck in there. Do not compare yourself to anyone.

҉̵̴̨̧̢̡̼̻̺̹̳̲̯̮̭̬̫̪̩̦̥̤҈͈͇͉͍͎͓͔͕͖͙͚͜͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢ 

҉̵̴̨̧̢̡̼̻̺̹̳̲̯̮̭̬̫̪̩̦̥̤҈͈͇͉͍͎͓͔͕͖͙͚͜͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢ 

Very important note: I don’t know politicksis but we don’t have enough mental health services in Ireland. If you or a friend or family member are suicidal and need support for free, we have loads on our services page. If it’s an absolute life-threatening urgent momo: ring CareDoc, tell them who’s suicidal and/or a danger to themselves or others; CareDoc MUST do a psychiatric assessment and MUST bring friend in need into a psychiatric ward pronto. Shouldn’t have to know this, but it’s a life-saving work around, especially if you’re not insured or on waiting-lists.

҉̵̴̨̧̢̡̼̻̺̹̳̲̯̮̭̬̫̪̩̦̥̤҈͈͇͉͍͎͓͔͕͖͙͚͜͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢͢ 

I refer to my time in psychiatric wards as my hollibops. Getting feds, meds and beds, wagwan sexy. Fresh sheets and other luxuries. Bitta art therapy? Fuckin gizabitada. Jigsaws? Hadabitada. Read a few books? Abso-fucking-lutely gizabitada. Playing chess? Fuckit sure if I’m having loadsada, anuddabitada’ll do no harm. Bitta pottery? Not sickada, and I have had loadsa, but I am partial to abitada so gwan gizabitada. Pottering around shmokin, shmokin around the pottery. I was Bertie Bassett the dirty bastard because I was into All Sorts. Lathered in baby oil, sitting on the veranda admiring the baby flamingo’s, whilst reading the financial times in my speedos sipping on an Aperol Spritz. In fairness that last sentence may be a lie, but I did go hard on the taking of the biscuit, pretty much double-dropping Digestives. Winding up any new nurses that came in with my undiagnosed touretes, amongst other shenanigans. You can bate the padded cell but you can't bate the craic.

Truth be told, bar being minded and cared for by nurses and doctors, there’s 5 things I took from my time in John of God’s:

1.     Great Therapy: Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Art Therapy, Occupational Therapy and v good Psychologists

2.     Sometimes we need an intervention from this world. Time to think. Time to be looked after.

3.     It was nice to be around people like me, who understand me. Who I could talk to about real things. From speaking to some patients they thought me new values and perspectives. One guy thought me about Taoism, one lady thought me how to get rid of the ‘want’ in me. I became very close to the other patients and learned some life lessons you can’t read in books.

4.     It’s a weird, weird, weird thing that people outside of psychiatric wards will never talk about their wibbly wobbly wonders, but you’ll happily tell people you’ve got a head cold, or tweet about stubbing your toe. Up the yard ye bowsies.

5.     I couldn’t do it on my own and I’m very blessed to have went there.

The Shadow Returns and the Contributing Factors:

I’m getting tired of writing this. If you’ve made it this far; discount code: ThanksForReadingMyBlog as a thanks. I hope this blog doesn’t seem too self-indulgent, it’s a way of inadvertenly talking to a few friends and hopefully give them hope.

_______________

You know the way with the English language we dooby writing that you don’t find out it’s a question until the very end and by then it’s too late? That’s what relapsing back in to depression is like. All the clues are there but by god do you do your best to ignore them and before you know it; you’re going to have to pull yourself through that sentence again. At least this time you’re a little bit more prepared.

Smack, bang, wallop I got out of John of God’s. Life was still shit, but less shit. I was taking a load of Prozac, Rivotril (which is like valley yum), multivitamins and cod liver oil. I was excercising enough, eating well, and I had my routine. I went off the sauce for about 8 months. I still socialised, but rarely, and if I did, I either didn’t drink or drank non-alcoholic. Bad move, young Steve. I went way too structured, and professor of ADHD got bored quickly.

 I was feeling grand, so in about October 2012 I also gave up all meds. I had just went back to college, and I went on the almighty rantan. Ya’ll know me, still same OG,  all-nighters of painting walls and back chasing gee BUH. I reignited my love for lovely cans but went way too lustful and not long-term enough. I wasn’t trainspotting but there was the odd Luas slugging by.

•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥WHY EVERYTHING THAT SUPPOSED TO BE BAD MAKE ME FEEL SOOO GOOOD•♥•♥•♥•♥•♥ 

Jesus jelly-fishing christ, I knew the session wasn’t the only thing that got me in that hole. In November 2012 I was playing rugby, took one in the back, fractured a couple of verterbrae in my lumber spine and was a ½ inch from being paralysed. I had to lie down for 6 weeks in ferocious pain. Recovered quite well though to be fair, and immediately went back on the sauce. I’m only realising now while writing this how much of an effect the auld back breaker would have had on my well-being. Ah I seeeeee sensai.

So a combination of the no meds and the ascension into chaos via le sauce, and the auld Stephen Hawking incident had me back in a psychiatric ward in April 2013. Now it’s important to know I wasn’t suicidal, and rating my head jelly out of 10 (0 being suicidal) I was wavering between a 1 and a 2. One or two Irn Bru may sound awful but by my standards that isn’t that bad. I knew deep down I will never to return to a zero. Your local hero but no De Niro.

 Man writing this is so hard. 

I was depressed again. I wasn’t eating, I was isolating myself, again. I was hating myself again. I went to St. Pat’s Mental Health Services this time for another hollibop. Luckily enough the hospital was right around from college so I had loads of visitors. It turns out this stint was really important to be able to lift myself from a 1 – 2 to never going below a 2 ever again. I’ve actually wrote some of the things down that I’ve learned, out of context but these were accentuated at the time:

Some diagnosis I received along my journey:

• Bipolar not-in-a-usual-order
• Eating not-in-a-usual-order
• Bordeline Personality not-in-a-usual-order
• Attention Defecit not-in-a-usual-order
• Aspergers
• Major Depressive

I’m sick of writing this.

2013 – 2015 my mood as good and I was approxiametley a 4 out of 10

2015 – 2016 I had another depressive episode after returning from New Zealand. No job and the idea of returning to a place where I have such bad memories, and the idea of not progressing killed me.

The cure for me has been finding myself, and also by becoming emotionally intelligent enough to identify things that lead to my depression. Nota bene: my notes definitely don’t apply to everyone

TO SToP MYSELF FROM RELAPSING I MUST BALANCE EVERYTHING

(〜￣▽￣)〜 〜(￣▽￣〜)

Accepting Suffering

Last year I had nothing to complain about, and then I realised this was happiness. This was the bliss. Happiness wasn’t what I’d been told it was going to be. It wasn’t what I’d seen on TV, in movies or had been told. It takes my shoes to become uncomfortable for me to realise that they were comfortable, and I had been taking the painless walking for granted. From now on, I recognise when my shoes are comfortable, and then I am grateful for when they are. Yes they will be uncomfortable at some stage, such is the inevitably of life, but wear rugby boots on concrete and you’ll appreciate getting in to a pair of Air Max in a pillow factory.

It’s very hard to tell when other peoples shoes are uncomfortable, we always try to keep up appearances and don’t want to be seen walking with a limp, but it’s a much better mentality to understand that regardless of the price of them shoes (privilege), you cannot assume anyone's scenario. 

So fuck happy, it’s not real. Happiness is having nothing to complain about and then being gratuitous. 

Accepting Darkness

I’ve accepted I’m a dark bastard. A big not sweet 95% Cacao Steve. I have to care for my wibbly wobbly wonder a lot more than others. These are the breaks. It can be used to your advantage sometimes. While depression is a curse and knowing I will never be content with anything I make sounds awful; the low self-esteem urges a want for improvement and it pushes me. Regardless, I know I’ll never feel like I’ve succeeded, but at least it will push me to try improve, so it can be a very very shite positive.

If the worlds water supply was filled with a happiness chemical nothing would ever be achieved.

BALANCING THE CHAOS & STRUCTURE

There’s no point in fooling myself. I’m a chaotic little scoundrel and my shadow loves a bit of turkey! I need to enforce a bit of structure in to my life. Something I’ve only started doing lately is combining working fucking hard, and then playing fucking hard. Simples. One, maybe two sessions a month is serving me well or a trip away. If I go too structured and boring for a few months, I end up retaliating and just go on an absolute mixed-molly whoppery of a bender for a few months. I have to feed and balance both sides.

BALANCING EATING

When I lose control of myself I lose control of my eating, or sometimes I think it can work vice-versa. When binge-eating and boozing I’d go pretty pudding, when out of control, to gain control over my life I would then eat fuck all, and over-exercise. This has all been balanced by the above, but if I feel overweight, I get very very down. I have no confidence as is, so that’s the last thing I need.

SoliTUDE

If you’re constantly surrounded by people and things, go snort a line of not-talking-to-anyone-for-a-while and isolate yourself, it’s great.

I like to talk to the thing that cuts my cheese in to little bits, it’s grate

Attention Defecit

I’ve concentrated on Attention Defecit and pretty much sorted it, which has led to life running a lot smoother. There’s another blog called Goldfish and Chips about ADHD.

MAGNESIUM supplements are a god-send. No aspartame or Phenenannaanyline. Daily to-do lists. Meditate 5 times a week. Not great, but smoking also serves as a form of meditation for myself, I try to enforce a no phone allowed while smoking rule.

I’ll write more on the importance of this but just know, when your attention span diminishes you begin to feel stupid and inadequate. This reflects on your entire self-image, which will probably lead to depression.

Medit8

You may think you’re not thinking the whole time, but there’s a little thing called your subconscious that does a lot of that work for you. It’s the one that stops you from putting your dick in the toaster and other things you don’t have to think about.  Sometimes these subconscious thoughts can be bad thoughts and you might not realise it. CBT can help you recognise these thoughts that you can’t think of thinking?

Meditating puts a halt to all the shite. Try the Headspace App or there’s plenty of youtube videos. You have to try it a few times, and practice makes perfect.

My Nigerian Heritage

DNA tests have proven I’m actually 3% Nigerian if you hadn’t already noticed,. While this accounts for nothing it means a lot, to me.

Purpose

I think the most important thing that makes me ‘happy’ is giving myself a purpose to be alive. For a long time I had none. BPB is my happiness. It causes me massive headaches; between money, tax, tracking stock and phones and emails and messages; all whilst trying to maintain a full-time job (which I’m lucky enough to love), and the stress can sometimes nearly trigger depression; but I’m blessed to have it.

BPB may help somebody somewhere but I’m stuck in this paradox that doing something for somebody else is inadvertently just to make yourself happy. BPB makes me happy, but that makes it selfish. I’m in the midst of philosophical crisis with myself. I figure a truly selfish person is nice and caring to people around them, so their life is much easier and more fulfilling. A traditionally ‘selfish’ person is just fucking dumb, because their greed will only cause more turbulence in their life. I’m Babylon like David Gray. I think BPB is my purpose and I’m lucky to have found it.

 Avoiding Escapisms

People think climbing up mountains or creating art is an escapism, all the other bullshit like going working in an office or paying bills is actually the escapism from being a real human bean. Go build shit and go climb shit and jump off shit x

Avoiding phones helps me a lot with not escaping myself.

You can’t take a photo of a mime artist because everybody’s a mime artist in a photo.