I’m a high school dropout. I never learned much from my English classes and yet here I am, creating a blog. I don’t want to waste your time. I know I sometimes butcher the English language, my grammar can be atrocious, and I often struggle to put a sentence together. So consider this a friendly warning if you choose to read on. There are no great works of literature here, but I do try to tackle controversial topics and share some of my personal writings. I sometimes wonder if I’m sharing too much. Let’s face it… this blog gets very few hits so I’m reasonably safe from any backlash. I enjoy blogging, so I’m going to keep at it. Thanks for stumbling across this page — have a nice day!
GOODBYE TO A CRAPPY FRIEND #3
Before reading this, consider reading part one and two which are below.
Alcohol ruins relationships. I know this painfully well from my own experience. Even casual drinking buddies gradually drift away, which stings less, but there have also been painful breakups within the family because of my drinking that have left deep, lasting scars. Not every relationship has been completely severed, yet people now tend to treat me differently. Guests hesitate and ask if it’s all right to have a drink in my presence, and that uncertainty really bothers me. My father and my brother have stopped keeping beers in the fridge, even though I haven’t taken one of theirs in years. They believe they’re doing the right thing, but what they don’t realise is that I no longer have any desire to drink. There isn’t even a choice anymore — it’s doctor’s orders.
One of the biggest losses was my cousin T and her family. I won’t use her real name, but family who read this blog will know exactly who I mean. We’re the same age and grew up together; she, and later her husband, were once among my closest friends. As usual, though, I messed things up because of my drinking. T drank too, though not to the same extreme, so we often drank together and enabled each other more than we realised. They lived just five minutes away, and I fell into the damaging habit of treating their house like a drinking den — a refuge and a secret safe space away from my parents. For a while I even lived there before becoming very unwell and ending up in hospital, after which I eventually had to move back into my folks’ house.
I think they’d finally had enough of my antics, which is understandable, and gave me the flick. There was one particular occasion that caused the most damage, and that would be the last time I saw T. I had just come out of a month-long stint in rehab and arranged for T to take me home. She was working her usual shift at the Wednesday market in Mornington, where she grew mushrooms and sold them to the market-goers. True to form, I bought and drank beer while I waited for T to pack up her stall and give me a lift. How pathetic — I’d been out of rehab for less than an hour and I was already drinking. I told myself I deserved it. I got absolutely wasted. When we arrived at my folks’ place, where I was staying at the time, my dad could tell immediately that I was intoxicated. Rather than direct his frustration at me, he turned on T. Harsh words were exchanged, and T left. She later messaged me to say she would never set foot in that house again and that she didn’t want to see me until I got my life together: Move out of my parents, stop drinking and start selling my art. I did all three things, but far too much time had passed. It’s been about five years, maybe more. I saw her once at my nan’s funeral, but we didn’t speak, and that brief, silent encounter felt like the final punctuation on everything we had and lost.
Let’s talk about rehab. I did two and a half stints, spread over a few years. This was some time ago. The first visit was in 2013. I felt strangely safe in that atmosphere because there was practically no opportunity to drink — we were constantly breath-tested, and a positive reading meant immediate eviction from the program. It was pretty full-on. There were structured groups during the day at a beautiful homestead where we spent most of our time, learning, talking and doing practical exercises. The rehab is recognised as one of the best in the country. On most nights we would usually attend AA meetings; people travelled from all over to attend. A lot were there for legal issues, some had simply had enough of drinking, and then there was me, who signed up largely because everyone else pushed me into it — and, privately, because I needed to prove something to myself.
Same old story, but then I got out and I drank. I never really took the whole rehab business seriously at the time. If I had to do another stint now, I think I would actually put in the effort and try to take what I could from the classes. When I say two and a half, the half was me getting fed up with the program and all the repetitive lessons. I had heard it all before; it felt like more of the same, just reinforcement. I drank beer on the way home.
Something else alcohol would do is cause “hangxiety,” a term used to describe the anxiety you suffer the day after heavy drinking. I’m fortunate to have a range of psychiatric medications that help blunt the worst of it, but there is nothing pleasant about those episodes. For me it was a toxic mixture of anxiety and paranoia that pushed me to the edge of a full panic attack and left me with a pervasive sense of impending doom. It would make me obsess over my health — convinced I was dying — and turn minor worries into overwhelming problems where I didn’t know what to do next. I watch a lot of podcasts about alcohol and sobriety, and hangxiety turns out to be very common; for a long time I thought I was alone. The symptoms usually hit in the afternoon and persist until my meds start working; a healthy dose of Seroquel reliably calms it down. Thank God for medication — I can’t imagine managing those episodes without it. This used to happen most days after drinking; since I became sober I only get the occasional attack, and at least now I recognize it and know how to fight it.
Before I tie things up I want to share something out of character. I’ve found this to be true for most alcoholics: we lie and we become sneaky. I’d like to think of myself as an honest person, but when I drank a tonne… not so much. When asked, I would always play down how much I had consumed. I’d hide empty beer cans, invent excuses for going to the shops — not really for pizza or pharmacy supplies, but as cover to visit the bottle shop. The parents I’m living with at the moment aren’t that gullible; they knew I was going out to drink even if it wasn’t openly discussed. The whole alcohol thing became a full‑time job: sneaking out, making the purchase, driving home and wondering if there’d be a chance to shift the beers from my car to my room, drinking in secret while trying to appear sober, hiding the evidence. Sometimes in the early hours I’d take the empties and hunt for a recycling skip or find half‑full bins down the street to deposit bottles and cans. Along with the secrecy, the role came with hangovers and ongoing financial problems. Honestly, it’s a pretty shitty job.
I think I’ll end these blogs now. I feel I’ve shared enough for the moment. These series of posts aren’t very tightly structured and I often go off on tangents — that’s just how I write. Obviously there is a great deal I haven’t covered. Far too many alcohol-fuelled events have taken place over the years to list or even fully recall. I used to drink until I blacked out, so much of those years are a blur. What happened over the past twenty-five years? I don’t remember large parts of my twenties and thirties. Even though I always knew alcohol wasn’t very health-friendly, I never believed I’d fall victim to the illnesses that can come with it. Getting kidney disease feels unfair for someone as young as me. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I will never rekindle my crappy friendship with beer. In a strange way that removes a lot of pressure and temptation — instead of trying to quit for sport, I now have no option to continue the party. It’s hard to stop when alcohol is everywhere. It’s so commonplace in our society; it seems the whole world drinks and I can’t join in. Advertising, sporting event sponsors, weddings, births, funerals, weekends, after work drinks, that glass of red while making dinner, boredom, celebrations and consolations, and sometimes just for the hell of it — it’s hard to escape. I suspect it won’t be as prevalent in the years to come. More cannabis is smoked in the UK than grog is consumed, and non-alcoholic beer sales are rising and becoming more popular. I personally haven’t tried one; I’m afraid that having one might trigger me into wanting the real thing. I didn’t drink for the taste so much as for the effects. These days I’m content with a can of Pepsi Max.
Drinking will send you to one of three places: in hospital, in jail or in the ground. I don’t want any of those destinations. I’ve already had my fair share of alcohol-fuelled hospital visits, I spent a night behind bars after my DUI, and I don’t think I’m ready to be dead yet. When I listen to alcohol and sobriety podcasts there’s one glaring absence: elderly drinkers — and there’s a reason for that… they’re not around anymore. I do have willpower. Over the years I’ve heard again and again that quitting can’t be done without help, especially AA, but I’ve proven before that I can do this without a middleman. I recently stayed sober for seven months and found it relatively easy. Unfortunately, I fell off that bloody pink cloud.
It’s now time to say goodbye to my crappy friend. I never want to see your ugly face again. If you made it through to this point, thank you for reading and bearing with me. Wishing you a pleasant remainder of your day.
GOODBYE TO A CRAPPY FRIEND #2
Before reading this, consider reading part one which is below.
Before I move on, I must thank my family, especially my mum and dad, for their steady presence and tireless support. The number of phone calls from the police, psychiatrists and hospitals is the kind of burden no child should ever have to place on their parents, yet they handled it with calm and care. I say “child” because that’s exactly what I was at twenty — emotionally immature and overwhelmed — and even now at forty-three I often feel as if I have some growing up still to do. Whenever I landed in serious trouble it was almost always linked to drinking: episodes that included suicide attempts, extended periods of major self-harm, or repeated hospital stays. Through all of that my folks would drop everything and come running, time and again.
Does alcohol help creativity: Yes — but only up to a point. When used with a sensible dose of responsibility and a clear sense of when to stop, a few drinks can lower the guard and open up ideas. The more I drank, though, the poorer the standard of work became. The first six-pack of beer often helped immensely, loosening things up and sparking momentum, but once I drank beyond that and became truly intoxicated, everything fell apart. It’s similar to how alcohol affects mental health: it can work wonders at first, lifting mood and easing anxiety, but it drags you down quickly when you overindulge.
I used to host art nights in my old man’s garage that would run all night. I’d have half a dozen people over, supply the canvases and paints, and we’d all get our kicks from drinking beer — and there’s a fair chance other substances were involved; I’m not completely sure. We would create until the sun came up, and some genuinely good work was produced, not just by me. In those instances, alcohol helped greatly and the loose, communal atmosphere was fertile for ideas. Those gatherings were the exception rather than the rule. Most nights when I got totally pissed, canvases ended up on the fire or smashed to pieces. Art supplies are too costly to waste like that. I even left a heap of canvases that didn’t work out in the hard rubbish out the front of the house; they all disappeared the first night. I wonder whether they now hang on someone’s wall, or whether they were simply painted over.
About twenty-something years ago I received a drink driving offence. It is something I remain quietly ashamed of to this day. What an embarrassing and humbling ordeal it was. I have no time for people who drink and then get behind the wheel, and I certainly understand the risks involved. Here’s the thing: I was pulled over and recorded a reading of 0.07. That night I simply miscalculated my drinks — we’re talking one beer too many. The legal limit in Australia is 0.05. Had I been living in the USA, I might well have been tested and sent on my way, depending on local rules. The process of getting my licence back was unnecessarily drawn out and punitive. Loss of licence for six months, a fine of over five hundred dollars, a court date, an interlock device installed on my ignition for six months, compulsory drink-driving education classes, another court appearance — and after all of that I was eventually returned my licence but was required to remain at 0.00 for the following six months. That does not even cover the inconvenience of relying on lifts from others and repeatedly having to explain why I could not drive. A very valuable lesson was learned that night and throughout the ensuing twelve months of my life.
Hangovers. For me, they were reason enough to stop drinking. I can remember when I was younger going out and drinking heavily all night, then trying to wake a couple of hours later for work—if I slept at all. As I got older some mornings I literally felt like death; the room would spin and every movement seemed to demand effort. I’m lucky to have had only a handful of headaches in my life, so that wasn’t the main issue, but the nausea and lethargy were killers that turned simple tasks into mountains. The night before I would tell myself I’d be fine after a few hours’ sleep or I’d go straight into work after leaving Crown Casino. Mornings rarely matched that confidence, and promises made in the haze of late-night revelry seldom survived daylight.
I should have been fired from every company I worked for over the years for taking too many days off because of my drinking problems. I wasn’t. My performance at work was poor at best. I would often knock off early just to get my next fix of booze because we all know what “hair of the dog” is all about. Often I would go out again on a work night and the cycle would continue, a repeating pattern that ate away at stability and reputation. In later years I started drinking in my car on lunch breaks—three-pack VB longnecks, the equivalent of a six-pack of stubby bottles—consumed within the hour I had. Someone under me once raised the issue, and nothing was ever said or done about it. That didn’t stop my lunchtime routine.
“Under me”—that’s the other thing: I was manager of the fresh produce department at Coles, with about a dozen employees reporting to me. If I’d played my cards right I could have climbed the corporate ladder and landed a well-respected, well-paying role in the company. Instead I was demoted and demoted until I was packing shelves, my responsibilities stripped away as consequences quietly accumulated. They didn’t fire me outright, but they made life hard. I quit. I walked out. Once again, alcohol had sabotaged things for me. It destroys anything that’s good, slowly or suddenly, and leaves very little behind.
It seems to me that our social acceptance of alcohol is wildly out of proportion compared with other drugs, many of which cause little or no real harm. These substances were made Schedule I drugs in the early 1970s under Richard and Nancy Reagan; that was half a century ago. Since then, scientific research has been severely constrained by the powers that be, making meaningful study almost impossible. Only limited work has been done on psychedelics and hallucinogens such as psilocybin mushrooms, LSD (acid), ayahuasca, ketamine, dimethyltryptamine (DMT) and even MDMA (ecstasy), despite promising results — for example, marked benefits for war veterans with PTSD and people with otherwise untreatable mental health problems, often with striking success. I’m going off the top of my head here, but what I’m trying to say is this: if alcohol were a newly discovered drug today, it would likely be made illegal immediately. Just look at the damage it has done to individuals and society. “I guess it’s okay to drink your drug,” as Bill Hicks put it. Alcohol kills more people than all illicit drugs combined. Most psychedelic substances are nearly impossible to fatally overdose on — a heavy dose may take you somewhere intense for several hours, but you typically come back intact, and often with beneficial insights. I suspect the ruling classes prefer these drugs to remain illegal because they can open people’s eyes, and the last thing governments and the puppeteers want is an army of free-thinking individuals; that’s a genuine threat to entrenched control. Alcohol, by contrast, dulls thought and makes people easier to manage. Drug use remains a major taboo to this day — it’s extraordinary. I could keep going, but much of this has been said before; I’m not claiming to present anything radically new.
How do I feel about my recent diagnosis of kidney disease? Ripped off! I have always drank a lot, but I have an uncle who once told me everything would be okay if you stuck to beer and stayed away from hard liquor. He was a couple of decades older than me and had drank more than me. He would even brew his own kegs. Turns out this was a fallacy, dear uncle. I’m still reasonably young and should have years of moderate drinking ahead of me, so I’m struggling with the idea of losing that. I’m still wrapping my head around the whole reality of never being able to drink the way I used to again. Maybe this is what I needed and God provided — he works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? There are a few YouTube channels that I’m dedicated to watching every day: podcasts and videos of people who drink liters of vodka a day and have done so their whole lives. We’re talking volumes I could never manage. If my drinking patterns resembled theirs it would be easier to make sense of the predicament I find myself in.
GOODBYE TO A CRAPPY FRIEND #1
I can now let the world know that I was an alcoholic because I have quit for good. Doctors orders. To most this won’t come as a surprise, but very few people actually know the full story behind it. I have reluctantly posted this blog because I’ve hesitated to speak about it for a long time, and only now have I built up the courage to share more of my journey. I have slightly hinted at the truth in older posts, but I never addressed it properly or in any real depth. Recently, a doctor told me that I could die if I were to have a single beer and also delivered the news that I have kidney disease. Hearing that was the wake-up call I needed. The prospect of never having a drink ever again is daunting, and it still hasn’t fully sunk in. There is absolutely no room for a relapse this time around.
I was never an angry drunk and my demeanor never changed when I drank. Most of the time I chose to drink alone. I remained very aware when I was intoxicated and did everything I could to conceal it from others. My biggest frustration was that I would sometimes slur my words, which was maddening because I didn’t always feel actually drunk. Who knows — maybe I was more affected than I realised. Beer bottles would accumulate in my room, poorly hidden, and stay there until my parents discovered them. I would walk the streets on recycling-bin night, looking for bins with space where I could dispose of the empties. My car would also fill up with stubbies, forgotten in the back seat and floor.
There was never an inappropriate occasion for me to drink. In my younger years I had very little interest in booze and rarely sought it out. I would sometimes have a drink at parties or with mates, but it wasn’t to get drunk — more a mild concession to peer pressure than any real desire. I was always a green man, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t until I turned 18 and could legally purchase alcohol without resorting to a fake ID that things began to escalate. Even then I was cautious: if I had to drive I made sure I stayed under the limit. I lost any lenience for drink-driving more than twenty years ago, and I learned that hard lesson well.
I only ever drank beer. I just drank a lot of it, night after night until it became routine. I never drank the hard stuff, thank God, but it still got to the point where I was drinking solely to get drunk. In the last year or so I began to hate the taste, yet I would soldier on just to chase that familiar buzz. I never casually sipped a beer — I would skull it, racing to numb myself. Alcohol is poison, plain and simple. I could taste the ethanol in every drink and I knew I shouldn’t be putting that into my body. My insides ached from the constant consumption and I understood clearly what I was doing to myself. Alcohol wreaks havoc on almost every part of the body, but I obsessed mainly over my liver. A blood test about a year ago showed my liver wasn’t in good shape. I went sober for six months and had another test; the doctor told me it was back to normal. Unfortunately, the liver is the only organ in the body that can repair itself, so I counted myself lucky and keep my distance from alcohol. It never worries me being around people who are having a drink. This doesn’t even phase me. I hate being around drunks. A little hypocritical of me isn’t it. I loved their company when I was intoxicated too.
Beer became my friend. It was always there, a constant companion that seemed to offer comfort. It turned out he was deceiving me the whole time. I don’t know why it took so long for me to quit. I tried, time and time again, to give it up but I always came back to it. I would go a month or two sober and then give in to the evil liquid. Last year I even went seven months, yet it still ended the same way. All of that hard work to stay sober and I’d blow it by romanticising how good it would be to have just the one beer. It’s as if I convinced myself it would make me so much happier, that it would help with my art, give me something to look forward to, that first sip would taste amazing, cure my mental health problems, or help me socialize again. None of that was true. It only made me feel awful. During this relapse I didn’t enjoy myself at all. I was devastated with myself for falling off the wagon and watched all the effort feel wasted. I was spending too much money on it, my health suffered, it ruined relationships, the hangovers became horrendous as I got older, I would upset my parents, it interfered with my medications, I hid empties everywhere, lied about my drinking, and it made me sneaky and deceptive.
I did two stints in rehab, I attended a few AA meetings, I took anti-craving medications, and I have watched thousands of hours of video of people discussing sobriety. I also went to PENDAP, which was basically like a session with a psychologist. I didn’t keep any of this up for long. I gained virtually no lasting tools to battle alcohol. I understand how some people could benefit from these approaches, but I have always gone solo. I guess I have enough willpower to quit without much external help. Sure, I would relapse now and then, but I was always able to get back on the wagon, even if only for a short time. Cravings have never been a major issue for me. I would sometimes think about alcohol, but it never consumed my life. I have been sober since I received the doctor’s warning a few weeks ago, and I haven’t thought about drinking once.
So what was it that attracted me to drink the way I did? I could never manage to have just one or two — that simple limit was never enough for me. If someone offered me a single beer and I knew there was no chance of continuing with more drinks afterwards, I would politely decline rather than accept something that would leave me wanting. The moment I had that first drink I was off to the races; it acted as a starting pistol for a night that usually ran away from me. When I had a big night — which, truthfully, was most nights — I would wake with a heavy hangover, and there seemed to be only one way to fix that familiar dilemma: start drinking again, so the cycle continued. I drank because of the constant nonsense in my head; I suffer greatly from mental illness and can find myself slipping into some very dark places. I have to give alcohol this one thing — for a while it did work, it blurred the edge of the pain. I take handfuls of pharmaceuticals every day, so I would tell myself that another beer could hardly make things worse. The first few beers did their job perfectly, but then the addiction would step in and everything became worse mentally. Alcohol gave me something to look forward to; if I knew I’d have the opportunity to drink when I got home, my whole day became a little brighter. Peer pressure also found its place on this list — I’ve spent a lot of time around other drinkers, people who normalized the habit. Another big factor was the ritual: every time I went to the chemist or the pizza shop I’d drop by the bottle shop and pick up a few beers, and I’d often find myself returning later that night for more. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but the clerks knew my name and exactly what I drank — and that, I’ve come to understand, is a clear sign you may have a drinking problem.… CONTINUE TO PART 2 ABOVE
KIDNEY DISEASE
I was diagnosed with kidney disease. I still haven’t fully come to terms with it yet. To be honest, at first it didn’t seem to worry me much. That changed after a doctor bluntly told me I’d never be able to enjoy a beer again, or that the consequences could even be fatal. That’s another painful truth I have to accept… the idea that I’ll never be able to drink again. Ever. That thought frightens me. At the same time, this news has become the hard wake‑up call I needed to stop drinking and breaking promises to myself. I simply can’t go down that path again. I haven’t let it overwhelm me with constant stress; instead I focus on what I can control: watching what I eat, drinking plenty of water every day, and doing my best to stay healthy. The rest, I trust, is in God’s hands.
What bothers me is that, apart from the one doctor who broke the news to me, no one else has discussed it with me. No one at all! That silence makes me wonder whether the doctor who delivered the news might even have been a hallucination. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I was experiencing a substantial bout of delirium tremens for a couple of nights while I was in hospital, and I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. That hospital stay was the most terrifying ordeal I have ever endured — and believe me, I’ve been hospitalised more than twenty times. I could recount all of my other hellish experiences, but I already wrote a blog about this. Click here to read
AN OLD MAN LIVING WITH HIS FOLKS
43 and still living at home with my parents. This isn’t where I pictured my life being at this age. For the last few months I’d been staying in a shared house which, as far as rented accommodation goes, was actually pretty decent. There were three other people living there, which sounded worse than it turned out to be. One of the tenants was an elderly man who mostly stayed locked in his room; another was a complete dickhead whom I despised, but he eventually left because he couldn’t afford the rent; the third was the owner of the house, someone I got on with very well. He worked night shifts so I hardly ever saw him, meaning I essentially had the place to myself most days. It wasn’t bad at all — I even had the biggest room in the house, complete with a king-size bed.
The reason for moving out was that I became very unwell. I wrote a whole blog about the experience that you can read elsewhere. Without repeating those details, I was admitted to the psych ward again, and this time it was serious. To be honest, I genuinely feared I might die; I came face to face with my own mortality. My family had been increasingly worried about both my mental and physical health and wanted me to come back home so they could look after me. It’s not that I can’t manage things myself, but their concern was real. I was very ill.
This was not my first time living with others. I have had plenty of experience sharing houses over the years; for most of my life I’ve always had housemates. I might have lived with twenty different people in total. It has almost always come down to finances — I’ve never been able to afford my own place, which would of course be ideal. I would love nothing more than a small home of my own that I could truly call mine. Before my last tenancy I found a room with three other people, but it didn’t last long. I was asked to leave after I confided in one housemate about my mental health struggles and my diagnosis; the following day I was evicted. That was a heavy blow, and I also blamed myself for being so open so soon. I should have waited, let people get to know me and see I was harmless, before revealing something so personal.
So here I am… again! Living at home with the folks and my brother. It’s actually a lot better than it might sound for several reasons. For one, I genuinely get along with my family and I’ve got it pretty good here. I can save money, I have my own room at the far end of the house, I don’t need to worry about paying utilities, and most of my meals are taken care of. For the most part I’m left to my own devices, and I’m living in a suburb that truly feels like home. I never felt this way when I was living in Clyde — it was a fair distance from my family, my doctors, and the familiar things that matter to me.
The only real downside is the stigma attached to living with my parents at my age. People probably assume I’m sponging off them, but I have special circumstances that explain it. My brother, who is only a few years younger than me, also lives here — he’s actually been staying longer than I have. We get along fine, but we don’t spend much time together. Like me, he values his solitude and works during the day, so our paths rarely cross. We have tea together and meet briefly when we leave our rooms, but we’re not social creatures. That’s just the way we prefer it.
BENZODIAZEPINES
I have a complicated love–hate relationship with benzos. I have been on and off them for 25 years, and the only one I haven’t tried is Xanax. At the moment I’m taking two benzos — Nitrazepam and Diazepam — which I have been using for as long as I can remember. Many doctors are understandably reluctant to prescribe these medications because they can be highly addictive. Personally, I have never experienced serious dependency problems, but I do take them differently from how they are typically prescribed. Like with many medications, I seem to require a larger dose than the average person, and unfortunately I develop tolerance very quickly.
I know people who can get a noticeable result from just half a tablet (2.5 mg) of Valium, and I honestly don’t understand how that’s possible. I need to take a much larger dose to feel any real effect. I’m not going to say exactly how much I take because I worry my doctors might come across this blog, but I can assure you it’s a dose roughly twenty times what some people take. Even at that amount, it doesn’t make me groggy or sleepy; it only produces a slight sense of relaxation. I don’t use it every day either — I take a dose about once every three days so my tolerance has time to lower before the next one. I’ve been taking it like this for many years now.
I also take a medication called Morgadone (Nitrazepam). This is a sleeping pill usually prescribed to help with sleep and is generally regarded as a last resort for people struggling with severe insomnia. Once again, I take a much higher dose than prescribed and also periodically take breaks from using it. Rather than making me drowsy, it energises me and makes me unusually productive — it has the reverse effect on me. I had a mate who took one pill and it knocked him out cold; he couldn’t be woken, he was in such a deep sleep. What is wrong with me!?
The doctors never explained the risks to me, which strikes me as a bit irresponsible since these medications can be lethal if they’re not managed properly. That danger is especially real when they’re combined with alcohol, which is exactly what I did when I was drinking. Alcohol and benzodiazepines are essentially the only two drugs where stopping them abruptly can actually be fatal. None of this was ever made clear to me. I think I was fortunate to come through it intact — things could easily have gone very badly.
Other benzodiazepines I have taken include temazepam and clonazepam, along with a few others I can’t recall off the top of my head. Another common side effect is memory loss. If you combine them with alcohol you are very likely to black out and wake up remembering little or nothing the next morning.
I am an ideal candidate for these medications. I struggle with severe anxiety and chronic insomnia, and I am not taking them recreationally. I genuinely need this treatment. I took diazepam an hour before writing this blog and I feel completely clear-headed; I don’t notice any immediate effects. Valium has a relatively short half-life, so it leaves your system fairly quickly. That is not the case with Morgadone — its effects can linger and be felt for many hours.
I'm obviously not a doctor or healthcare professional, so please don't take my words as medical advice. If you think this medication might help you, consult your doctor or a qualified healthcare provider.
A DAY IN THE LIFE
What a boring topic. My life is fairly uneventful and I don’t do a great many activities with my time. The way I choose to live suits me well, and too bad if people label me lazy or assume I spend too much time on unrewarding things. I have no real complaints about my life, which is a significant statement given that I live with a mental illness that brings me a considerable amount of grief. My idea of a good day is one with nothing scheduled; I enjoy keeping my life as simple as possible. That simplicity means I opt out of some things that make others happy: marriage, children, crowded social groups, the pressure to buy a new house. I don’t want those things, and I’m content with that choice. Visit my blog on this by clicking here.
I keep odd hours and this can really mess with my head. I’ll usually wake in the early hours of the night and make myself a strong cup of caffeine. I have my laptop at the end of my bed and I’ll spend a little time catching up on the latest news while I play some music. I often then drift off to sleep again and wake once more around 9am–10am. YouTube plays a large part of my life; I have it running all day and night whether I’m awake or asleep. I’m a huge podcast fan and devote myself to watching them every day. I could name a dozen podcasts that I listen to, but the main one is Joe Rogan. He puts out three-hour episodes every day or two, and I’ll watch these regardless of who he’s interviewing. Not too many people have the time to invest in listening to such lengthy podcasts.
I obviously don’t work. I have been on a disability pension for most of my adult life and that has been my reality for many years. I can’t work — I’m too unwell most of the time, and that ongoing poor health makes day-to-day life difficult. I sometimes struggle to leave the house, which makes regular employment tricky and often impossible. I’m on a lot of medication as well; those drugs affect me, make me drowsy at times, and bring a range of side effects that further limit my capacity to hold a job. I’m not entirely sure why I’m sharing this with you — perhaps I’m trying to explain or justify why I have so much time and why I spend it doing the kinds of things I described above.
I try to walk when I can, but for the most part I tend to put it off. I really dislike exercise and find it hard to enjoy. I’ve never understood how others seem to get a dopamine high from pushing their bodies. See my blog for more thoughts on exercise.
I go through spurts where I get a lot of painting done, working intensely for days or weeks at a time. This is an expensive hobby, even when I’m selling pieces, and I need to be firmly in that creative headspace for it to work. This year I’ve sold maybe fifteen to twenty paintings, which should be a good motivator. It’s a substantial undertaking and not something I can sustain around the clock. I burn out when I’m creating twenty-four seven; it starts to feel like a chore, and art should never be that. I have hundreds of dollars’ worth of canvases and paints sitting in the shed — I just need to find the energy and the desire to get back to work.
I don’t know if this really counts as how I spend my time, but I do spend a great deal of it in hospital. I had a stay in the Frankston psychiatric ward a couple of weeks ago, although before that I went for more than a year without an admission. Before that, I was in and out of hospital from when I was a young chap. Some of those stays lasted up to a month. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been stuck in those places. All I know is my health insurance could have bought me a house with the money they’ve forked out over the years — no exaggeration.
I have a couple of good friends that I see every so often. Maintaining those connections takes some effort. I don’t want to let our relationships drift, but it does take a conscious effort to catch up. Even coffee meetups start to bore me these days. I walk my dog now and then. He lives with my ex-girlfriend, so he’s definitely more hers than mine, but I enjoy his company when I get to spend time with him.
A DIRE WARNING
I wish I could get to the bottom of this one. I was recently a patient at the Frankston psych ward. If you haven’t read my nightmare account of that experience, see my previous post. Essentially I had been admitted to the hospital’s ICU ward for 1 week. I underwent daily blood tests, bladder ultrasounds and echocardiograms, and spent hours talking with doctors and nurses. I had a catheter and endured Delirium Tremens (DTs). Rather than write a ten‑page blog explaining exactly what DTs are, I’ll leave the detailed medical descriptions to Doctor Google. There’s so much more to DTs than just shakes and sweats.
I hadn’t had a drink two days prior to my admission, but I wasn’t expecting the DTs that kicked in on my first night. What an absolute trip—utterly overwhelming. I’ve had plenty of experience with hallucinations, yet this felt like taking ten acid hits without any warning. When I looked at the nurses’ and doctors’ they're faces seemed to melt, and I couldn’t tell whether they were really standing in front of me or if I was entirely lost in a hallucination. For more detail, see my earlier blog post about the events of that night.
I never thought I would be coming down. I thought that this was who I now am. I’m a big boy and, as terrifying as these were, I could manage them — just. There was one brief chat I had with a doctor; once again, I’m not entirely sure if it happened or not. It felt more vivid than reality itself. During our discussion he mentioned something I’ll never forget: he told me that if I had one more drink I would die. He was completely serious, and I listened with the utmost gravity. The next moment he was gone. Regardless of whether he was real or not, and whether I truly couldn’t have another drink, I’d be foolish not to heed the warning I was given.
I’ve got it into my head that my drinking days are over now. For good, but this felt like the push I needed to quit the grog. I needed a push, and this served as it. The whole ordeal hasn’t fazed me too much; in one sense it has, because I won’t drink anymore, but I’m not well. Only two percent of my kidneys are working, and I was told I could die, yet life goes on. All I can do is not drink, take my medication, and leave the rest up to God. It hasn’t stressed me much. Most people would be devastated to learn they have kidney disease, but I haven’t even let it dominate my thoughts.
AVOIDING THE TRAP
Call me a passement — that’s fine, because I am one, and deliberately so. I do not desire the worldly things the consumerist machine relentlessly promotes. Simplicity is the guiding principle in my life. I try to live by that philosophy every day. There are unavoidable expenses — bills, basic living costs — but overall I embrace minimalism and refuse to shoulder the excess burdens of the modern man. I won’t subscribe to the copycat behavior of the masses, and it alarms me how many people slip into that trap. I have a Netflix account, this website that costs me very little, private health insurance, car expenses and a modest rent. I avoid debt, and the money I earn beyond those small commitments is mine to keep. The same principle governs my time: I do not give it freely to people I do not care for or feel pressured to entertain. I am a single man with few responsibilities, and I would not have it any other way.
I’m surprisingly a friendly guy. I don’t talk down to the people I am talking about; I simply hope to reach a youngster who once desired those things. The matrix pushes us to finish high school, go to university, and obtain an expensive credential that often costs thousands and rarely secures the job it promises. Young people are piling up massive debt for a piece of paper that, in many cases, carries little real value. That reality is alarming. I managed to avoid that trap and now owe nothing to anyone.
I don’t want the new car, the mortgage, the children, the latest phone, the credit cards, and all the other trappings of modern life. I’m not made of money, but I have enough to pay my way and continue adding to my savings. The financial problems people get themselves into frighten me, and to a degree I think it’s irresponsible to plunge into that kind of long-term burden. I simply couldn’t have a child — I’d be a pretty poor father. The weekend sporting events, medical costs, school expenses and parent–teacher meetings would take up too much of my time, and I’m too selfish with my personal time to take on the responsibilities of raising a child.
Credit card balances are at an all‑time high, largely because people are using them to cover rising living expenses. Many households rely on cards to pay for food, rent and everyday necessities. Years ago I accumulated about five thousand dollars in card debt and vowed I would never put myself through that again. I worked hard to pay it off quickly, and the relief I felt when it was gone was immense.
I will never own my own home. Renting works out just fine with me for now. The economy is in such a state that it makes it nearly impossible for the average person or couple to find suitable accommodation. There are lines of people for open days that stretch around the block, and agents are asking for three months’ rent upfront. What chance does someone on a pension have of having any success? Even people with high, double incomes get knocked back, so this is especially depressing for someone like myself.
I don’t want a girlfriend or wife. I prefer being my own boss and keeping my independence. No brunches on Sunday mornings, no scheduled date nights, no joint budgeting of our money, and nobody bossing me around. I’ve lived with women before and, from my experience, this is how things usually play out. I know I might be missing out on love and companionship, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay for the freedom I value. I’m also at an age where many women on Tinder and other dating apps are single mothers, which I see as a significant red flag. I don’t want children of my own, so I’m not prepared to take on someone else’s, and that appears to describe a large portion of women over forty.
DT'S IN FRANKSTON PSYCHIATRIC WARD
“Delirium tremens (DTs) is the most severe and potentially life-threatening form of alcohol withdrawal. It causes sudden, severe mental and nervous system changes, typically striking individuals with a history of heavy, long-term alcohol use who suddenly reduce or stop drinking”
This is becoming stupid and increasingly frustrating. This is the fourth and final time I’m battling this blog entry. I don’t want to write a ten‑page account. These are the basics: with my mum’s help I was wheeled into the emergency ward because my blood pressure had dropped so low I couldn’t even make it to the kitchen letterbox without collapsing to my knees. That terrified me. This is why I went in. After starving my body of fluids, drinking beer daily, and withdrawing from medications, I had left myself in a very bad state. I now know I was experiencing DTs (delirium tremens). Most people think DTs are just shakes and sweats, but they are far more severe and disorienting. It’s important to stress that I hadn’t had a drink for two days before this all happened.
I am well acquainted with hallucinations, but this delirium tremens experience was far more intense. The entire weeklong stay passed in a foggy blur. Thank God my mum was with me in the ICU ward, because I was in no state to communicate coherently. Apparently I was difficult for the nurses to manage—pulling out IV drips, wandering the hospital, and upsetting the staff and everyone who was trying to help. When hospital staff spoke to me, I couldn’t tell whether they were real people or figments of my imagination, hallucinations, or simply my waking body trapped in a sleep‑like mode.
What happened next was completely unexpected. I mentioned I was having some urinary issues, and almost immediately the situation escalated: before I fully understood what was happening I found myself in surgery having a catheter inserted. What the hell? I was not in any state of mind to give meaningful consent to that procedure. It left me tethered to a drainage bag for the rest of my stay, with only the nurses able to empty it for me. It wasn’t pleasant, and I won’t go into the grisly details here. Utterly humiliating.
I had a doctor who walked into my room and told me, quite plainly, that if I had one more drink it could kill me. If that stark, direct warning wasn’t enough to nudge me toward staying sober, I don’t know what else would have been. The only problem is I’m left wondering whether I was hallucinating — I’m not completely certain the conversation actually took place.
My room at the hospital was tiny, barely more than a cramped cubicle, with only a thin, stained curtain separating me from my roommate. The beds weren’t built for people over six feet tall, so comfort was minimal and awkward; my knees jutted into the thin blanket and the mattress sagged. I would toss and turn as beepers, distant sirens and the occasional screaming of other patients went on without pause all night; they were relentless and indifferent to fatigue. Light sleep felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. I had never been a public patient before, apart from a few very early, brief admissions, and the place felt unfamiliar and unforgiving. Frankston psych carries one of the worst reputations in the state — you often come out worse than when you went in — and some of the things that happened there were traumatic enough to leave me with lasting PTSD. I was basically stranded in my little room for the week. I dropped in and out of psychosis. All of the meds in the world couldn’t knock me out.
Blood tests every day, echocardiograms, chest x-rays and multiple bladder ultrasounds — a relentless parade of investigations. I genuinely believed I was on my deathbed and found myself coming to terms with my own mortality. It felt like the end of Dave, though I never imagined it would happen in a place like Frankston Psych. This was the lowest point in my life, a time of raw fear and helplessness. Thank God I had my folks with me, especially Mum, who took charge of managing the consultations with doctors and nurses. I was on eleven different medications, and Mum was completely on top of it — even more organised and insistent than the staff.
I never got into the drad of the DT’s. It felt as if someone had slipped me ten acid trips without warning. I was on a different planet, utterly disoriented, and I kept the nurses on their feet. A thin curtain separated me from the dying old man next to me; he left a few hours before I did and was replaced by a GHP user whose catheter lay on his bed right beside mine. There was no privacy at all. I would stumble through those curtains that seemed to go on forever, completely lost in either dream or waking hallucination. Over and over I found myself in a room where a woman lay in bed — without exaggeration I must have done this a dozen times. I was in room 21 and somehow kept being guided back to my bed again and again. Voices told me what trouble to cause. I continuously pulled at my IV drip and anything else that delivered medication. I was out of control: I hadn’t had a drink, hadn’t taken my meds properly, and I was severely dehydrated. They must have injected a strong benzo or sedative before I went to sleep, because gradually I got past the worst of the delusions and the chaos that came with them.
Mum and dad didn’t think I was going to make it; they were deeply worried and kept asking questions. It had them extremely concerned, and they later told me they feared I wouldn’t come back down. The stress I put on them through this episode, once again, was unfortunate and weighed heavily on all of us. Whether it was the doctor who delivered the grim warning — that if I drank again I might not survive — That harsh news was the push I needed. I’m not totally sure, but he seemed real enough to me at the time, and his words have stuck. I have to get my head around living a completely sober life from here on in, one hundred percent. No big deal, I tell myself; I don’t get cravings, and I haven’t thought about drinking since that message from the doctor — the ghost-man who gave me the grim news.
I was diagnosed with kidney disease. Only two percent of this vital organ was working, a sobering and startling fact. I would never have known otherwise. Now I feel tip‑top and on top of the world again. There’s not much I can do to reverse the damage, only try to protect what’s left: stay off the piss and watch my diet carefully. If this isn’t a call to stop my drinking, I don’t know what is. I think I needed this wake‑up. Drinking was no longer fun or giving me that old sense of contentment. I wasn’t drinking for the taste anymore; I was drinking to get intoxicated. It was making me genuinely ill. The hangovers dragged on for days and bore no resemblance to those I had as a young lad. It’s true — they do get worse as you get older. Now, even the thought of an alcoholic beverage makes me feel sick.
I couldn’t take another day in that place. I was determined to go home barely a week after admission. I had to persuade the medical staff — the psychiatrists, psychologists, doctors and nurses — that I was ready. I had regained my bearings and it was time to perform my magic. I promised I would go into Beleura and see my psychiatrist. I told the drug and alcohol program that I would attend all the classes and join the outpatient groups… all of it was bullshit. I would have signed up for anything to win my freedom from that awful hospital. I was discharged, and since then I have ignored every text message and calls from those programs. Like hell I’m wasting my time doing those activities. I’m not under anyone’s control now, and I’m quite confident I can take care of myself in the comfort of my own home. I don’t need psychoanalysis to fix something I believe I have complete control over.
It’s important to note that I’m not a full-blown alcoholic. I often go through long periods of abstinence — before the latest binge I managed seven months sober. I feel a little hard done by to have gone through all of this when I’m not even a hardcore drinker. Mostly I stick to beer, not bottles of the heavy stuff, and I make a point of taking breaks and drinking tonnes of water every day. It’s frustrating living in the Aussie culture where it’s widely accepted to drink as much as you want. Because I don’t have social groups or drinking buddies, I tend to drink alone. The only real deterrent for me is when I have to drive — I strictly don’t get behind the wheel after I’ve had a few. About 20 years ago I learnt my lesson the hard way when I lost my licence for drink-driving, but that story needs another blog post. Thanks for reading, guys.
YOUR HEAD IS IN THE SAND
I promised I wouldn’t turn this channel into political talk, but this topic occupies a large portion of my day in research and I wanted to share my thoughts. Brace yourselves — this could escalate into WW3, people!
Words don’t quite do the current situation justice, and I have no desire to produce a thousand-page blog. Where do I even start? I’m only one person, and this blog barely gets any traffic, so it feels like my words aren’t creating any change. It’s a bit like protests — they can seem ineffective. My rebellious entries barely make a ripple in the ocean. On the bright side, at least I’m not putting myself in physical danger by posting them.
Most of what I’m going to present concerns the downfall of the pathetic Orange Man. I’m sure we all know who this refers to. Once counted among the most powerful people in the world, he has also become the laughing stock of many. If the Orange Man were portrayed in a fictional movie, we would likely walk out because it would feel too ridiculous and too far-fetched to believe. The villains in many films seem outdone by the outrageous deeds of this man. Every morning I wake to the latest internet stories, and I can almost predict what new episode will unfold in the strange, ongoing saga of Mr. Orange.
First of all, the man is far too old to be making reckless decisions that affect the entire world; his years should invite restraint, not impulsive gambits with global consequences. Many people now believe he may be suffering from dementia and growing intoxicated with the power he wields, exhibiting lapses of memory and judgment that alarm observers. Just listen to one of his public addresses and you can hear the confusion, the grandstanding, and the self-aggrandisement—speech that often circles back on itself, veers into tangents, and prioritises spectacle over substance. He is preoccupied with building ornate White House ballrooms, erecting the so-called “Arc de Trump,” and plastering his name on buildings, roads, and bridges at every opportunity, as if personal branding outweighs the duties of governance. He brings up these vanity projects even while purportedly “directing” a war he seems convinced he is winning, giving the impression of a leader more focused on legacy and image than on strategy and human cost. It’s important to remember he watches Fox News constantly and surrounds himself with a circle of yes-men who tell him whatever he wants to hear, reducing the likelihood of honest counsel. He is feared even within his own party, among Republicans and his closest allies, a presence that shapes behaviour through intimidation as much as loyalty. I’m beginning to wonder whether he understands the depth of hatred so many educated people — and ordinary Americans — actually feel toward him, and whether he grasps how profoundly polarising his conduct has become. If you’re part of the MAGA movement, take your eyes off mainstream outlets like Fox and spend some time watching left-leaning channels and independent commentators on YouTube to broaden your perspective and challenge your assumptions. I’m not a supporter of the Democrats, but I would vote for them any day over a figure I view as dangerously unfit for office, because the risks posed by a leader I distrust feel far greater than any partisan disagreement.
When the Orange man says one thing, take it to mean the opposite—nothing he utters can be trusted, and his positions shift from day to day. It’s difficult to keep track of what is happening with him or those around him; his actions are erratic and often conducted without transparency. He acts on his impulses without apparent regard for congressional authorization, seems indifferent to legal constraints, and spends enormous sums—on the order of a billion dollars a day—on a war that many see as pointless. He issues threats toward Iran that repeatedly dissolve the moment Tehran refuses to bow, and one day vows to reduce them to the Stone Age with a 24-hour ultimatum; yet before long he retreats, claiming he has negotiated directly with the Iranian government and reached some agreement. That narrative does not match the facts—no such talks occurred. Go blow up another 150 school girls Orange, destroy hospitals and place of worship. Murder inocent people and call it war. IT’S TERRORISM! It’s an illegal war and you’re a war criminal who deserves to be in prison!
Spend the money you have spent (billions of dollars) and redirect those resources into Medicare for the entire country, into strengthening education, and into providing stable housing for the homeless. Investing these funds wisely could remove burdens on individuals and society many times over, creating far greater long-term benefits.
He boasts that he has ended eight wars, yet conveniently cannot recall which ones, and insists he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize even as he wages conflicts with nations across the globe. He invents figures out of thin air and, when they fail to suit him, dismisses them as fake news. He vowed that groceries and fuel would be cheaper and told Americans those improvements would occur on day one of his presidency — but prices have nearly doubled. Many people now struggle to afford food, mortgages and rent, utilities, and taxes. NOTHING this malevolent man has promised has come to pass, and more harm is on the horizon. This is only the beginning of the storm.
He promised pharmaceuticals would be lowered by 1500 percent. That math doesn’t even make sense! Wouldn’t this mean we should be getting paid for our medications?!
And then there are the Epstein files. Some argue that this conflict was manufactured simply to divert heat and public attention away from those documents. This is a separate blog topic, but I’ll cover the essentials here. The so‑called Orange man has been accused of being a sex offender and a trafficker of young girls and was reportedly friends with Epstein until Epstein’s highly suspect death in his jail cell. Orange man allegedly made numerous trips to Epstein’s island, often in the company of other prominent figures. He, of course, denies these claims, despite video footage showing him dancing and laughing with Jeffrey. He pledged to release the files, but that promise was made long ago and has yet to be fulfilled. How surprising — he lied. The portions of the files that have surfaced are heavily redacted, leaving many questions unanswered.
I could elaborate on all of the above, but I wanted to keep the focus on the fundamentals. It became personal for me when I could barely afford to buy fuel, and everyday necessities started to feel out of reach. Because of the current administration’s harmful actions toward the world, I am struggling to afford the basics. Invoke the 25th Amendment if necessary. Remove this person from office — he must be impeached.
CURRENT ACCOMMODATION RANT
I don’t want to complain excessively about my living situation — it could certainly be worse — but there are a few small things that are starting to grate on me. I live in a shared house, so annoyances are to be expected. There are three other people here, which sounds like a lot, but the household really consists of me, the owner who works long hours every day, an elderly man who rarely leaves his room, and another flat mate I barely speak to. I have the place to myself most of the time and occupy the largest bedroom with a king-sized bed. I pay a little extra for that room, but I spend so much of my life retreating and hibernating there that the added cost feels worth it.
I had a run-in with that fella a couple of weeks ago over something so trivial it’s almost laughable. We exchanged a few sharp words and haven’t spoken since. Not even a ‘good morning’ — we just walk past each other in silence as if nothing exists between us. He seemed to dislike me from day one, and though it was awkward at first to avoid each other, I’ve come to accept and even welcome the distance. Word is he’s moving out because he couldn’t afford the rent. A couple of people have already come through looking to replace him, and frankly this can’t happen fast enough. I won’t have to put up with his constant demands and the frustration he aimed at me. Definitely not a good person.
Otherwise everything is really good. I like the owner — he’s a friendly, fair guy who gives you space. He leaves me to myself, which is exactly what I’m after: leave me alone and I’ll leave you be. The house is brand new, and unless I ventured outside, you’d swear there was no one else in town. It’s wonderfully quiet. Utilities are included in the rent. My only household expense is groceries which I have delivered to my doorstep.
I must say it doesn’t feel like home. It feels more like a temporary place where I can stay while I save some money and wait because I don’t have anywhere else to move into right now. I felt much more at ease and at home in Frankston or Langwarrin, but because I lock myself away in my dark, secluded room most of the day, those differences don’t seem to matter quite so much.
MEDICATION TO KEEP YOU FROM THE TRUT
I keep getting told that I need to separate myself from the insanity that is taking place across the world, and look at the beautiful things there are to focus on. My doctors, my family and close friends tell me it’s unhealthy to consume so much news… especially left wing politics. It just goes to show how many people have their heads in the sand. If it’s not news on mainstream television than it doesn’t exist. It’s okay to watch channel 7, 9, 10 and the ABC, as we eat family meals around the box and make stupid opinions based on this construed information. truth — but the moment we start examining the nuts and bolts… WE’RE BEING LIED TO, or at the very least fed a tiny sliver of what’s really happening and served a watered‑down ten‑second segment on mainstream TV. I want Rupert Murdoch’s job. I want to take over Fox News and News Corp., to expose more than the curated highlights and force the full story into the light.
People are right in the sense that I need to break away from all of this unseen turmoil and find some real distance from it. At the end of the day we live in one of the greatest countries in the world and, by many measures, we have it good. Is “ignorance is bliss” true? I think there is some truth to that idea, although I’m not sure how to arrive at it. Sometimes I just want to pull the blanket over my head and drift off, convincing myself that everything will be okay.
We are going through WW3 and we know very little about what is happening behind the scenes. There was never a clear start date, and only time will tell what will become of it. Perhaps the United States needs a wake-up call. We seem long overdue for a major shock, yet many feel the government itself is orchestrating events — that the true terrorists are those in power.
I don’t need to be medicated to see this. There are times when you simply know more than your shrink, yet their immediate reaction is always to prescribe yet another pill. Looking back over the last few decades, some of the things I shared with my doctors have later come to pass. They told me I was crazy — I’ll admit I’m a bit bonkers — but that doesn’t negate the fact that many of my thoughts have been validated. It’s like being told to watch the mainstream news only after taking a handful of valium so you’ll tolerate the nonsense. Honestly, I need a hobby.
THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL
It’s been a week or so since my last post. Honestly, it feels like nobody cares and probably no one read these stupid entries anyway. I’m sleep deprived and surviving on energy drinks — not healthy. I was awake from 2 a.m. last night, drinking that poison and chain-smoking vapes as if they were going out of fashion. It’s official: I’m back on the vapes. I needed to create something, but painting is out of the question right now; there’s too much negativity and self-doubt clouding everything. Usually I can flip through an illustrated art book or browse a website and that’ll kickstart the artistic juices, but at the moment it’s just not there. My only “artistic” outlet has become this stupid blog.
My diet has been poor, to say the least — I can’t even remember the last time I ate a proper piece of fruit or a vegetable. I’ve been living off ravioli pasta with Bolognese three nights a week, cups of soup, toasted sandwiches, and I’ve swapped drinking beer for V energy drinks — the big ones. I’ve been sculling 500 ml cans that give me a slight buzz and then leave me with a sugar crash that sends me reaching for chocolate. I’ve been using Coles home delivery, and when I place an order their site doesn’t really make healthy options obvious or easy to choose. The plan for my next shop is to focus on fruit, vegetables, nuts and berries. One small positive is that despite the energy drinks I manage to drink over a dozen cups of water a day. Still, my insides hurt.
I’m overweight, I wear the same T‑shirts over and over and rarely change my pants or shorts. My teeth get the occasional brushing and I could almost dreadlock the remaining few grey hairs on my head. My hygiene could definitely be better. I can go days without a shower since I don’t do any exercise to raise a sweat. I have no girl to impress, so why not let my nails grow a bit unruly. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not at the Kurt Cobain extreme of bodily neglect, but I’m locked in a house where I barely see the sun and only venture outdoors for the occasional outing with the people who love me, for whatever reason—when we take a drive or I get to see my partially owned golden lab. I have a great friend in my ex‑girlfriend who would do anything for me; the problem is I can’t reciprocate or offer her much in return. Today was meant to be busy and I ended up suffering a paranoia/panic/anxiety attack and couldn’t step outside, let alone drive. Still, Stella came to the rescue! She took me to get my rent money from the bank, picked up my vapes, took me to the pharmacy, and topped the day off with a visit to see our dog Iggy. She genuinely went out of her way to help me through it. I took some “magic” pills and for a while felt like Superman, on top of the world. Then I came down and decided to write this depressing blog. Kill me!
HAIL TO THE THIEF
I’m not in any way a political commentator. Below is simply my personal take. It could take a million blog posts to cover the full spectrum on what’s happening in the world..
Something I don’t usually delve into on this blog is politics. That said, I thought I should touch on it briefly, since I spend hours each day sifting through the headlines. Every morning I begin with a coffee and scan the latest developments in American politics, more out of habit than allegiance. I don’t subscribe to any party—certainly not the Republican Party—and my criticism is directed less at ordinary people or the country itself than at the corrosive forces and self‑serving figures that seem to run it. As an Aussie, some might wonder why I devote so much attention to another nation’s affairs; for me it’s partly a spectator’s fascination with the unraveling of an empire, the spectacle and theatre of a political circus.
It’s safe to say the world is in a dangerous place as I write this. We’re teetering on the brink of what feels like WW3, and at this stage that prospect seems all but inevitable. The whole planet appears embroiled in conflict, and it’s unfolding, in my view, largely because of one man. I shouldn’t need to type his name — I’m sure you know who I mean. I’ll give you a clue: he rigged the election, he’s a sex offender, a narcissist and a pathological liar; he’s gone bankrupt more than a dozen times over lucrative construction projects; he has abandoned his own people; he fires anyone in office who dares to speak the truth; he rose to power promising a stronger economy while the country now lies trillions of dollars in debt and the cost of living spirals out of control. His mental and physical health appear to be deteriorating, and he has poured billions into ICE operations that are rounding people up off the streets and sending them to detention centers. He claimed to be a president of peace, yet his actions have been those of a warmonger, provoking or supporting numerous conflicts abroad. Does this sound like the next Hitler or the antichrist? He acts with impunity, bypassing Congress while surrounding himself only with people who say yes, assuring him of his greatness and inflating his poll numbers well beyond reality. He is also an avid consumer of Fox News — need I say more? I’m not sure whether he understands how badly he is failing, or if he lives in an alternate reality where he believes himself a messiah. I honestly don’t know, but this man is ruling the world!
I know every generation says this, but we are certainly living in some very strange and fascinating times. It’s all deeply unsettling. What frustrates me is that mainstream news rarely touches on these matters in depth. Only a few days ago a primary school was bombed in one of the countries currently at war with the USA, and around 150 girls were killed by a falling US bomb. Can you imagine the reaction of the American government and the public if something like that happened on their own soil? If we’re lucky it might make a ten‑second news clip just before the weather. The average Australian, and the average American, remain largely in the dark. It’s important to be careful about the media we consume. I watch mainstream news only for local updates; for everything else I turn to a few credible YouTube channels that provide more in‑depth, unbiased coverage.
https://www.youtube.com/@MeidasTouch
https://www.youtube.com/@EatingTheCats
https://www.youtube.com/@SecularTalk
https://www.youtube.com/@LargeManAbroad
https://www.youtube.com/@DavidIcke-m9i
WEAK AND POWERLESS
Don’t let me bore you with these blogs. It seems that every second entry is about my addictions, particularly vaping. If anyone came across my last post, you were told by this idiot that I was quitting vapes and alcohol. Alcohol won’t be a difficult task. I can do the whole sobriety thing. I can knock that one out of the park. I stated that I was finally over using a vape and at the time I was certain that this wouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was more than achievable with a little self-control and willpower. I had the best intentions going into this adventure, convinced I could do it, but I failed in less than twelve hours. I’m a vape addict, plain and simple!
I have my groceries delivered to my door from Coles. This is because I like the luxury of not leaving the house — shopping always stresses me out and I usually don’t take a list, so I often end up needing a second visit. Doing it online ensures nothing is forgotten and saves me time and hassle. I don’t like driving, especially when I don’t know where I’m going. The reason I bring this up is because I am also terrible with directions and I’m living in a new suburb. I’ve been here for a few weeks now and I still don’t know where I’m going, or even where I’m located on a map. Today I took the bold decision to find my way to the tobacconist. I was disappointed with myself for relapsing on vapes, but also proud I managed to find my location (with a few mistakes along the way). In the end I got there and back safely. I would NEVER do this with the groceries, but I got my arse into gear when it came to my addiction. I probably would have driven into the city if I didn’t have an outlet close by.
Dave fails again… story of my life.
I'M DREADING WHAT I HAVE COMING
Today is the 20th of March 2026. Without making it sound pretty, I’m going to put it out there that I’m quitting alcohol and vaping as of today. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it?! I had a near panic attack last night when I discovered I didn’t have an emergency vape. For me this is the stuff of nightmares. I had the option to make an hour trip, hoping the store had stock, or to improve my health, save some money, and give up completely. I’ve had time to think about this option and the outcome is I want to kill the habit. I haven’t had a drink because, for me, there was only a small addiction issue — I drank because I wanted to. Alcohol did show some addictive traits, and stopping it never produced the same side effects as other poisons. So there is no alcohol in the house and I have a vape that I’m expecting to die any minute now. I quit cigarettes about three years ago and replaced them with vaping. It was meant to be a short-term fix to help me get over the cancer sticks. But then it became a separate addiction. (I dare say they’re harder than ciggies to come off.) My excuses were always that I stopped coughing completely and they were so much cheaper than fags. I still believe that vaping is the lesser of the two evils. It got to the point where the vape barely left my hand.
Throughout my life there has always been an addiction of some sort. It began at 15 — smoking weed and cigarettes and enjoying the very occasional drink with mates (and then later by myself). As with many sobriety stories, this is often how the path starts: early habits that feel normal become familiar anchors. Few people develop addictions later in life; the habit became part of my youth and shaped a lot of my social rhythms. I’ve lost count of how many years it has been since I quit pot, and honestly I don’t miss it. It took me two decades to realise it only left me with anxiety and paranoia, which, sadly, is common for many. I sometimes wonder if smoking caused or amplified my current mental state; it wouldn’t surprise me if it did. The panic attacks I occasionally get now resemble what it felt like being on weed, but the difference is that I have medication and coping strategies to help combat these horrendous episodes. I think the post below delves into some of this in more detail. I still romanticise smoking at times — the ritual, the company, the memory — but the thought rarely lasts long before I recall how it made me feel. I’ve never understood how people say it relaxes them; for me it was almost always the complete opposite.
As for the grog, there won’t be any issues, desires or cravings — at least that’s the aim. I recently blew a seven-month stretch of sobriety by going on a binge that lasted longer than I planned (as it so often does). I’m back to day one, which is both upsetting and strangely exciting. So what brought on this latest jouney? I grew weary of the routine, tired of spending money and feeling like booze had a grip on me. Addictions are cruel afflictions. ‘Normal’ people don’t know what the life of an alcoholic really looks like. My consumption didn’t mirror some dramatic stereotype. I strictly drank beer; I didn’t down bottles of vodka and completely wipe myself out. I feel like a lightweight when it came to drinking, but that’s beside the point — I was consuming enough to make things problematic. I think a common trait of many alcoholics (the newer term is AUD — Alcohol Use Disorder) is how sneaky they can be. It starts with leaving the house to the bottle shop (it’s always a telltale sign when the store clerk knows your name and your usual purchase), then sneaking it into the house, furtively drinking there, and furtively tossing bottles into the recycling at 2 a.m. It gets exhausting. The true alcoholic ends up with a full-time job just managing the secrecy. Anyway, I’m drifting off topic. Today I quit again, and I know I can do it — it’s been done before. Now it’s about staying the course and maintaining that hard-won sobriety.
At the end of the day, I want to be free of all addictions. I don’t want anything that takes precedence over my life or dictates my choices. I have a thousand stories of the ways alcohol has ruined things for me. I’m not going to recount them all here, but trust me when I say they are plentiful and full of cringe-worthy moments.
ANXIETY
I used to believe that most people experienced the same level of anxiety that I do. We all carry some fear or unease about the things we must face in life. I’m not trying to compare my situation with anyone else’s. But honestly, my anxiety runs much higher. I struggle to take on even the simplest tasks because of it. Whenever I have something scheduled, no matter how minor, my anxiety spikes until I need medication to cope. For instance, I signed up for Coles home delivery thinking that having groceries brought to my door would spare me the stress of going into the store. I have since learned that even this supposed shortcut triggers my anxiety. I watch the clock, and as soon as the delivery window arrives I become an anxious mess.
Today I missed out on my awesome nephew’s birthday party because I simply couldn’t make it. It would have meant a lengthy car trip and me plastering on a fake smile throughout the celebration, and I just didn’t have the energy for that. What’s wrong with me? This bloody condition limits me in so many ways — things that ought to be easy feel impossible. I’m watching parts of life pass me by. I see the doctors about once a month, my GP at least, but I stopped seeing my psychiatrist around eight months ago because he didn’t have anything useful to offer for managing this debilitating problem. More medication and referrals to psychologists are the standard response from the medical system, and it feels like the best I can get. Benzodiazepines don’t help me — the more you take, the more you seem to need, and their very short half-life makes them ineffective for lasting relief. I could empty the whole monthly box and still feel no different. The irony is I would sometimes take a dose before seeing the doctor who prescribed them, simply because any kind of appointment triggers my anxiety.
If I had it my way, I wouldn’t leave the house. A day when I have nothing scheduled is a good day. There is nothing better than waking up knowing there are no plans to keep. I live like a hermit: I pull the blinds down, get myself comfy, and spend the hours watching YouTube documentaries, listening to music and catching a few hours of Netflix. That routine is mixed with medication and quiet moments of doing very little. My housemates have learned to leave me alone, so I carry very few responsibilities, and I prefer it that way. I am content to live like this and don’t feel like I’m missing out on what’s happening in the outside world.
There is one clear thing I could do for myself, and that’s stop immersing myself so deeply in the consumption of American politics. I follow it like a hawk, tracking developments obsessively and keeping up to date with everything except the narratives coming from Fox News. All of this can easily become overwhelming and depressing. I’m also something of a conspiracy nut at times… but I’m veering off topic. Something has to be done about this condition. Maybe I should consider seeing a psychologist — even for just a few sessions to learn practical tools for managing it. I’ve always been opposed to psychoanalysis, but I’m running out of options. I can’t keep living like this indefinitely.
On top of this, I have other psychological issues that I rarely discuss, only sharing them on a strict need-to-know basis. These diagnoses also cause me a great deal of grief. Depression and the S-word can tear my world apart and feed my anxiety. I’m medicated for these conditions and currently stable, but episodes are sporadic and still pop up from time to time. I’d like to talk about some of the symptoms, but once again… these remain secrets.
Insomnia is the other killer. The time is 5:24 a.m., and I still haven’t slept. My only plans for today are to drop by the dog wash and grab some Maccas.
Once again I have given too much of myself in this blog, and I suspect I’ll regret posting it later. Who really cares, after all? I hardly get any views on this site anyway, and what I’ve just shared isn’t likely to shock the few people who happen to come across it.
THE COST OF LIVING... WITH OTHERS!
As I write this blog I usually listen to a music group of my choosing. Tonight I had planned to play the Smashing Pumpkins, but instead I’m stuck tolerating the noise blaring from my housemate’s room next door. If I had the guts and truly acted like the man I imagine myself to be, I should politely knock on his door — or, in a darker mood, kick it in — and tell him to turn the volume down. This is an ongoing saga. Mostly it’s talkback radio segments that bleed through, sandwiched between the inane chatter of the DJ. He even keeps a radio in the shower and cranks it to full volume every time he spends one of his hour-long showers.
It’s not even the music itself that bothers me so much. It’s the fact he shows such utter disregard for his housemates. He even leaves his doors wide open as if that makes his behavior acceptable. So inconsiderate and plainly rude. I will have my revenge, though - I’ll stay up later than him, and as soon as he finally tires I’ll blast some death metal as loud as my little laptop speakers can manage. He won’t have any grounds to complain, and in a way I almost hope he comes knocking on my door so I can look him in the eye and say, “Too bad, buddy.”
It’s not just the music. This chap has the gall to tell me, for the second time since I moved in, that I’m not pulling my weight and that I’m not keeping the kitchen clean. It might sound trivial, but I do everything I can to keep that kitchen immaculate. Nothing is out of place: the dishes are always done, the benches are spotless, the rubbish is taken out without fail, and I go to great lengths to meet his exacting standards. Today this little man picked on me for a few minutes. That’s far longer than he’s ever spent sitting down to have a “friendly” chat with me. I moved out of my parents’ house some time ago, and now it feels like I’m back under their rule again. I’m walking on eggshells constantly; everything has to be just so. The owner of the house is another story:
I really like him. He’s always friendly and respectful and generally leaves me to myself, which is exactly what I want in a housemate. The only very small issue I have with him is the vaping situation. When I first moved in I was toking in my room but he made it clear I wasn’t to do this, which was fair enough, and it’s something I haven’t done since — I moved it outside. I used the back patio. Yesterday I was told that there was to be no vaping on the property whatsoever. He suggested I could go out the front to the road or do it in my car. His reasoning for this was that it went against his religion, which surprised me — what God is he following? I’d like to know, because I’m pretty sure no faith has an explicit verse about vaping. It’s just turned midnight and I’ve had a couple of beers in my room; I couldn’t imagine what he’d say if he came across these. Between that, my music, my tattoos and my clothing choices, he must think I’m the antichrist or some equivalent figure in his religion. Who knows, he may be a Christian like myself, or maybe he follows some other beliefs — either way, I wish he’d be a bit clearer about where the boundaries come from and how flexible they are.
My problem is that I hate confrontation. I don’t do well at sticking up for myself, and I tend to avoid conflict whenever possible. I’m too chill and easygoing for that kind of nonsense. When I’m angry about a situation and I know I’m right, I let it stew; all the points I want to make race through my mind, but when it comes time to perform I don’t use any of those tools. I retreat. That only leaves me more frustrated. My usual way of dealing with confrontation is to say a few basic points of my argument and then exit the room. I leave it to the other person to reach out the next day. I hate the awkwardness of ignoring someone and not talking, but that’s how I tend to handle things.