I'm lying in bed typing this up on my iPad, after having taken the last couple of days off work due to a pissing cold. It doesn't help that I've been continuing to be feeling up and down like a fucking yo-yo. Some days I do wonder whether some people including some friends and family realise being me is an absolute bastard at times. Some days recently, all I have wanted to do is to stay in bed and not communicate with the outside world, which is quite fucking hilarious considering the job roles that I have - both day time and my night time pleasure!
The only thing people can do is to say that it's going to be all OK in the end - but that's the point. I'm wondering whether it's ever going to be OK. I have had the Black Dog upstairs ripping at me for the last seventeen years or so and it just seems to be getting more and more dominant in recent times, to the point that suicidal thoughts are happening most days now, and not every so often like previously.
Of course, there is no way at all that I can tell anyone that, as people just will not get why I feel like that, some people know the full SP - and I'm sure that I have written on this blog in the past regarding the circumstances of what happened and how the bastard got off - and it is rather apt that in this week of all weeks, some seventeen years to the day tomorrow, that leading the headlines is the horrendous cover up of abuse that went on in Rotherham over a period of decades. The surprise, shouldn't be that it happened, but that it took so fucking long for the truth to come out. My prediction is that this is just the tip of a very big and potentially fatal iceberg for the establishment in this country. I will just say three words for you all to search on the web.
ELM GUEST HOUSE.
Going back to myself, the depression comes and goes on a regular basis, and it is getting deeper and deeper, towards the point when I have been referred by the doctor to a local psychiatric nurse, which is about fucking time as I suspect that is probably what I have been needing for the last decade or so, instead of all of these fucking pills, which are not helping me at all. I have been also getting panic attacks, which have been getting scarier and scarier - almost like someone is trying to warn me to stop stressing myself out or it will literally kill me in the end, as if anything is easy to sort out. Still, when down, there's always Colombia's most famous or infamous export to rely upon to get you away from that fucking dark hole.
Am playing twice this weekend, gonna be going on a house vibe at Skuba tomorrow, and possibly down a more commercial route on Saturday at Bank Bar, both in Folkestone.
Bob x
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