Urban Paranoia by John Cullen - HTML preview

Chapter Eleven

ALL THE PRETTY PHONEBOXES

The world these days has become a sewer. I no longer wish to take part. I have truly seen the ugly side of life. I fucking hate people. I want to be left alone.

This is planet of the apes. I live with Monkeys. Disgusting, shit throwing monkeys. Humans as far as I'm concerned, despite their colour or creed, are monkeys, thick, grunting mammals. We use soap to clean our dirty bodies. We do anything to procreate, anything to eat. Saturday night is the perfect night to watch human beings at their most base behaviour. Women dress up and paint their lips red to symbolise their ripe vaginas. Men dress up and act macho. All this is to facilitate the making of babies. The females will select who they will mate with. If you’re in a bar in Kilburn, the girls from the local housing estate will drink and select their potential mate. Good manners and kind personality count for nothing, except the possibility of a free drink. They will revert to their monkey instincts and pick the ugly, macho bully to impregnate them.

The losers, both male and female will head to a kebab shop when the bars and close. As the meat on a metal wheel spins, a slag spreads her legs. As scrotums and bowels are emptied, the sewers overflow, the result is the same. More shit is produced.

Somewhere along the line I woke up. It took a while, I admit. But I woke up. I had a realisation. Being trapped in the Pac man game had fucked my head up.

Life had just become too much for to bare. I dreamed of the old days. The good days the days when Spurs were sponsored by Holsten, the days when I wore an Umbro shirt, the days when we had Paul Gasgoine, Darren Anderton and Teddy Sheringham.

For a while, things got out of control. I lost my mind. But I didn’t know it at the time.

I can remember one Sunday night very well……

I was submerged in the bath water. The bathroom was pitch black. Without light, water is black. I was stuck in another trance like state staring up at the window. I could see the moonlight. I could hear my wife sobbing in the next room. I grabbed the brandy bottle with my wet, wrinkled hands. I sat up and took another swig. The door opened slowly. It was my dad. He sat on the toilet and closed the door. The moonlight made his silhouette barely visible. I slumped back into the black water.

'This isn't normal son.'

Nothing. Silence.

'Your wife is in a terrible state.'

Nothing. Silence.

'Let me just..' he reached for the light cord.

'FUCKING LEAVE IT! FUCKING LEAVE IT. LEAVE THE LIGHT OFF! LEAVE THE FUCKING LIGHT OFF. LEAVE-THE-FUCKING-LIGHT-OFF!' I shouted, splashing around in the tub, caught in a blind panic.

I smashed one of my hands against the bathroom tiles. My wrist hurt, but I barely felt it. The brandy had made me numb. Comfortably numb. I grabbed the bottle and took another swig. My hand hurt and I slammed the bottle down on the corner of the bath, knocking all the shampoo bottles into the black water.

'We need to get you help.' My father paused, choosing his words. 'You'll be ok. We'll get you to the doctors.'

'Yeah dad, your right.'

He walked over to the tub and stroked my wet hair. 'You'll be ok.'

I saw him open the door and grab some pyjamas and a towel. He placed them on the top of the toilet seat and left.

I sat in the water and wallowed for a bit. I just wanted to stay in the darkness, submerged in water.

I eventually got up feeling dizzy and dried myself off. My pyjamas were warm from the dryer. I went into my bedroom and walked over to the DVD player. I put on 'A Clockwork Orange' and sat back on the bed.

I could see two mini cups of green liquid; night nurse and I swallowed them down. There was a cup of warm Lemsip sitting on the desk. I gulped that down too. I later found out my wife had put some of her left over drugs from when she was sick into the drink. I picked up the Anthony Burgess novel I loved so much and tried to read along to the film. But it was no use. I crashed out for two whole days.

I have fuzzy recollections of being awoken had being made to drink from a squeezy bottle or waking up in a pitch black room. Awakening, my head felt like a lump of stone. I would crash back into my coma. I was comfortably numb. I could have stayed asleep forever.

I awoke on Tuesday morning to a sharp alarm buzz and an empty house. I saw a pile. My clothes had been neatly ironed. A note was attached:

Dr Patel. 11.30.

The house was empty. I ate, bathed, dressed and walked towards my salvation.

The doctor said I had depression caused by anxiety. As we were sitting in her office she told me it was very common. With the country in recession and working environments becoming ever more hostile, depression had become an epidemic. There were hundreds more like me she assured. I was booked in for a counselling session in Kings Cross. It was with a woman called Julia.

Julia tried to help me recover. I told her my life and sobbed away feeling very sorry for myself. I had fucked up badly I told her. I had wasted my education and I was trapped in a soul destroying, dead end job. I was an embarrassment to my parents. I was an embarrassment to my wife. What would I tell my little boy when he was old enough to understand? 'Daddy was a stupid, ignorant cunt who wasted his twenties smoking weed and drinking. Daddy was a loser. Daddy never studied and pissed it all down the toilet. Daddy feels empty and sad about his life.'

Julia never judged me. She would sit and listen to my tales of sorrow and choose her moments when to speak. She gave me books to read about recovery and basic meditation.

I told Julia my life, but I didn't tell her everything. I didn't tell her about my raging paranoia, I didn't tell her about my violent thoughts and urges. I didn't tell her about my fear of lights. I didn’t tell her that I smashed the phone to pieces when it rang and my family had to disconnect the