Today I am tired. I don’t know if I’ll publish this like the hundred or so others I’ve not, but I thought I’d write. I think writing actually knocks me out and having spoken to the CFS people, emails and phone calls will all do that and it’s nice to acknowledge that it’s not just me being silly.
I’ve contacted the government people. Or possible the council of Brighton and Hove and made a freedom of information request regarding the event that was either a psychotic episode or a really horrible and very, very damaging event in my life. It’s quite scary. Well. It’s not. Not yet. For one thing even if I get the names of my neighbours which I’m not even sure I’m legally entitled to, I don’t then have to contact them. There’s a risk involved in that if it did happen I’m going to be very upset. It was only when I had my episode here in this house that I realised there was this possibility of it not being real. I can live with having had an episode. Hearing things I’ve done a few times since, thankfully I’m a lot better now.
Something I’ve found with the therapy I’ve been getting is that it has taught me to analyse things. True I could have done that before but it’s almost like, or can almost be like, verbal Reiki. Talking to somebody who you don’t know, but is nevertheless very human, allows you to slow down your thinking over past events and to look at them more as they are and how you relate to them.
Anyway, should the names be given to me, and they don’t live there anymore so is there a reason they shouldn’t be? Should they be given then I can look these people up. They may not be together anymore but if I can track down the female I have hopes that she would be honest. She was much more reasonable than him. Well she was screaming out the window that what he was saying wasn’t true and for that I was grateful, and she understood that I was a human being.
I think I’ve been conditioned and I’m learning more about how that’s affected me. When I was at college someone asked me if I’d ever woken up next to a girl and wished I’d not and I told him I was gay. Those simple two words lead an entire room to start shouting at me. It was scary. I could feel my legs want to give way as I walked into the technology department, terrified I’d see any one of them. At the same time I refused to budge from my seated position until I’d finished my cigarette. I thought it was a strong thing to say, to be and to do.
Then when I first properly moved away at the grand age of thirty. I don’t know what happened. My first neighbour in Brighton must have heard me on the phone as I’d only spoken to him once. Polite as he was to my face he was extremely hateful towards gay people and ended up screaming and stomping on the ceiling at me which was scary too.
Then! The final flat in Brighton. I’ve written about this before. I don’t know if this happened or if I’d been conditioned to the point where my brain had some kind of attack to make me think it happened. If it didn’t happen, it would take some thinking about due to it being so vivid.
I think I’m prepared for either outcome. It happening would be far worse. I’d never, ever, feel safe in Brighton.
It’s an odd thing, again I don’t know if it was a cause of later experiences, Brighton, but I remember in Bournemouth thinking about how easy it was for me to hear things. I could lay down, not consciously very anxious about anything, and then hear people talking about me outside. The sound stimulous is too much for me. Maybe that’s all it is? I continually have a sound machine on now. When I lived in Bournemouth and was packing I kept all of the taps running to keep sounds out of my head.
I might actually sleep now. It’s irritating. I’ve slept for a while, then I couldn’t and now my body is telling me to rest. I’ve had enough of this. And if I do sleep now I won’t wake up for hours, I can feel it.
Testicles. I wasn’t finished writing. I like writing. I just have to stop.