Wednesday afternoon – home alone and with nothing to do. I had fiddled around with some work stuff, browsed various articles and scrolled through endless videos on YouTube while the day leaked past my window like a grey, damp dishcloth. Nothing held my attention so off I went to the bedroom and browsed for some porn, thinking that at least a wank might kill a couple of hours.
I sat there, watching video after video with my cock in hand and nothing really happened. My body was apparently ready, but my brain wasn’t. It didn’t drift off to other topics or get lost down the wormhole of imagined conversations, it simply blanked out. The usual stimulus of hot moaning and raw fucking wasn’t going any further than my eyes, my mind was completely detached and I sat there, watching hot amateur couples getting it on with as much excitement as if I were watching a documentary about 7 million different types of dust.
Scrolling through this rusty, cranky little blog the other week, I noticed a few little posts I was kinda proud of. It’s not a feeling I’m very familiar with so it struck me with a rather nice, warm spank. There were a couple of others which I felt a little embarrassed about, but that’s a standard response for me so it’s no biggie, and there were some I had forgotten about entirely.
It was weird. I tend to remember pretty much everything I’ve done with clarity (it probably explains why my mental health is so fucked) but to have forgotten not just the blog posts but the entire experience as well? That’s very strange. Had I been neuralised by the Men In Black? Well no, I had a breakdown, but even so, it was an odd sensation.
Apologies in advance – this will be a rather depressing post about depression.
Trigger Warning: Suicide, Depression, Self Harm. Please do not read if you feel vulnerable to these topics – from one sufferer, to another. Peace and love, Barnum x
It has been nearly a year since my breakdown. Not a meltdown – the last of which happened pretty much live on Twitter two years ago (much to my shame) – but a full on breakdown.
Meltdowns are moments when my brain warps and twists itself into strange, new shapes. Prompted by a negative event, it’s as if the entire organic structure of my brain becomes a writhing animal inside my skull, mangling itself up every few seconds and producing strange new thoughts. I flare up in anger, I drop down into depression. I lash out at others using words, and I lash out at myself using blades. It’s a hurricane in my head which churns and roars with thunder, blocking out all logical thought processes.
Well, here I am again. Feels like I’m standing on a darkened stage with a spotlight beaming on me while I talk to the unknown. I might get boo-ed, or have rotten fruit thrown at me, but for now I shall grip my notes tightly, say my piece and then quietly exit (although hopefully not pursued by a bear).
I promised this to someone a while ago and it’s taken me about 3 months (and 6 attempts) to get there. I run out of breath a few times and sound like a twat, but anyway – here’s my shoddy version of Under The Sea. Cover your ear drums.
When I heard about @theotherlivvy’s #EuphOff challenge, my mind jumped at the opportunity to write filth and dress it up in the most terrible, pun-worthy way possible. What’s not to love?
As a result I created this – quite possibly the most awful, cringe-worthy thing I’ve ever written (at least, knowingly) and it’s about as sexy as a Carry On film.
The whole thing was conceived as part of a pulpy, tawdy adventure novel in which the MEN are gruff adventurers, the women are portrayed as fawning damsels and scientific fact is an inconvenience which gets in the way of a ripping yarn. It’s a pastiche, a parody, and it made me laugh a lot while writing it.
It was the question I’d been waiting for all day and, sure enough, my boss delivered it with her customary flighty laugh and yet deeply serious undertone which suggested if I wasn’t giving anything up for Lent then I was a poor excuse for a human being.
I fumbled for a moment, threw in a random question about soup and, once satisfied she was distracted, turned back to my computer before she could ask again. I’m a master at avoiding questions.
The thing is, I don’t get Lent and the whole “giving something up” thing. I’m not slightly religious so see no reason to follow the tradition; I don’t see any real benefit in quitting something for 40 days when I’m free to indulge the other 325 days of the year, and, to be honest, there are precious few things in life which give me any form of pleasure so don’t understand why I would make myself miserable by denying myself any of them.