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Mental illness

Fred

From Julie Woods, a lady with depression (The name chosen is nothing to do with me as the author is unaware of my internet activities.)

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Beach Huts

10 December

Fred Davis tramped through the sand to see if any of the beach huts had been left open. He felt agitated when he found them all locked. It was a familiar feeling, one he had to constantly battle against. He often thought that he was no more than a quiet pot of simmering inward rage.

He caught his reflection in a window of the smallest hut. It was immaculately maintained, unlike the others, all of whose windows had grown cloudy with accumulated sand.

His white beard came down to just below his collarbones and partially obscured his weather beaten face. His head no longer shone – his skin was too dry. He noticed how the crows’ feet around his eyes made him look good natured. Only if people knew of the torment that lay beneath the sparkle.

The glass was at just the right height for him to see himself from the waist upwards. Or was it that his 5 foot 4 inch small frame was just the right size for the glass?

He didn’t look dapper – far from it. But he looked a lot better than someone of his standing would have looked 50 years ago. Then he would have been wearing a worn military great coat secured around the middle with a piece of rope. Now he looked – well – ordinary. His brown shoes almost shone. His jeans were not new, but not worn either. His coat was a Parka – warm and fairly smart. No one would guess he was little better than a down and out. The Salvation Army got a better class of donation these days.

“Ae!” he shouted at his reflection. His irritation was back again. It never went away.

What should he do now? He could go back into town. Maybe the Salvation Army would be open for a cup of tea and something to eat. Maybe even somebody to talk to. But he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He did really, but he knew that if he did he would quickly get wound up at the other person and snap at them. So what if he did? Just another person who he pissed off, who thought of him as an arsehole.

But it was something to do. How else was he to spend his time? He could walk up and down the beach. He could try the library, but he didn’t have the concentration to read for any longer than ten minutes. They had called it dyslexia: he called it agitation.

He had seen all the shops a thousand million times. Anyway, he didn’t want anything apart from release – peace of mind. The shit they sold wouldn’t give him that.

His room was no more than a prison to which he had the key.

He needed friends. He needed to laugh. These were out of the question. He had time. He even had a little money - thanks to the free food from the Salvation Army. But he had nothing. He felt empty and irritated with life. What was the point of it all?


11 December

Weston Gazette
Obituaries

Fred Davis passed away yesterday. He was a familiar character, wondering around Weston’s town centre. He looked affable, with his long white beard and his Parka: everybody’s favourite granddad. But you only had to scratch a little beneath the surface to know that there was a lot more to him. But I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, so I won’t.

I have been told that he was about 55 years old – although he looked a lot older. He was born in the last of the run-down back to backs on Gelder Street – the ones that were demolished in the late 1960s. By all accounts, he had a troubled past, the details of which are too gruesome to go into. Needless to say, those experiences left him scarred.

You could have a lively and intelligent discussion with him, but he often curtailed any conversation quickly and went on his way.

No one in the town can recall him having a job, but he got by, although not in a happy way. In the end he took him own life.

Farewell Fred. I hope you have found some peace.

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bkk tea blog

It doesn't really say why he was homeless, or had dropped out of society, only mentioning dislexia as a specific condition.  Someone could become homeless related to experiencing trauma, or just ordinary negative life circumstances.

bkk tea blog

It's connected to the general subject of mental illness, but not so much this case or story brought up, but as chance has it I recently talked to two different people who experience relatively rare and extreme forms of mental illness.  One experiences a number of distinct personalities, the other hears voices, which she doesn't identify as belonging to her central self.  I'll share a bit about their conditions, which they both discuss openly online, but of course I'm not going to reference that.

I had talked to someone with schizophrenia before, who experienced some of the internal voices as not his own.  The multiple personality case is completely different, in that different personalities could manifest at the same time, and share a mental awareness space, but another form of expressing distinct and not overlapping consciousnesses was also experienced.  The personalities were developed enough to take up individual personas and names; that earlier contact was experiencing roughly the opposite of that, just as internal noisiness.  She said that the cause seemed to be childhood trauma and extreme later life trauma, probably made worse by extensive drug use.  She seemed pretty balanced about it all though, relatively comfortable with that form of experience of reality.

The other contact experienced a consistent, permanent internal self, but identified the other voices as external to that.  They didn't seem to manifest distinct enough personalities to take up separate names and personas, but they may have been more consistent than we discussed.  The strangest part, to me, was that she attributed these voices as mentally external, not as fragments of her own atypical form mind.  That might be easier to accept and relate to.  Then again it seems possible, just not the most intuitive or standard read, that the voices could be truly external, along the lines of spirits, or from another dimension, or something such.  Most likely not, one would tend to think, but I tend to frame my view of reality as accepting conventional things as accurate and then leaving the rest a bit open.  I don't know if ghosts and such exist, as an example, but I just don't worry about it, versus trying to draw a clear conclusion.  I get it why lots of people like their reality much plainer and better mapped out.

A lot of times when I hear about extreme cases like these in experience it makes me wonder if most of the rest of us really experience that much of the same form of reality as it seems we do.  Studies and reports on the degree of internal voice people experience varies, for example.  I mean a relatively singular internal self, in the form of inner dialogue, nothing to do with mental illness and such.  Internal consistency across a broad range probably varies a lot.  I wouldn't be surprised if "mental health" isn't really as well defined as it might intuitively seem to be.