A man on the brink.

You’ve been banging your head against a brick wall and finally…at fuckin last…a person gets you. Doesn’t judge. Listens. Shows some empathy. Or is it sympathy? Sympathy is a big heartfelt hug and, ‘I’m so sorry ma man, ma deepest sympathy.’ Empathy is a titled head, fake, intense concentration, a gentle nodding of the aforementioned head, a wee patronising rub on the shoulder and ‘Yeah, I totally empathise, it’s been sooooo tough for you. You’re strong and courageous, you’ll get through this. I promise.’

Empathy can fuck right off. And don’t get me started on pity.

Tell you what though…the fact I’ve found understanding here of all places, is a sham of a mockery of a debacle of a fiasco of the farcical nature.

You spill yir guts to the General Pricktitioner…tell them how yir feeling. And you’re made to feel like yir sitting bollock naked. And for what? A telephone assessment to determine whether yir fucked-up enough to merit help? A bastardin’ wet behind the ears student with a second name for a first name…a series of questions from a script. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, here is our final verdict. Mr Boyd, I can confirm you’re most definitely of the fucked-up category, think child actor now dysfunctional adult, awfully bitter about a lost childhood. However, I’m afraid you simply aren’t at the level where we’d offer help. Take the tablets the Good Doctor offered. You may go in peace now the charade has ended. Go in peace to love and serve the lawrd/laird.”

A was fucked-up…but no as fucked-up as the system. Apologies. Am trying to curb the industrial language. Trying to stop speaking like a ned. Baby steps, know what a mean?

Things are a changing now though. They’ve told me to talk about it, tell ma story. Get it off your chest, Connor. They rattled on a bit about the healing process. About forgiving yourself. Explained the meaning of cathartic. Av time on my hands…so fuck it. Here goes.

Her words were the toxic seeds that polluted ma mind. If that makes me pathetic…so be it. It’s the truth. End of. Before you ridicule or tell me to get a grip, ask yourself this…What were you like as a 13-year-old? Me? A was fragile and confused.

Her spoken words weren’t meant for me. Various traits of my personality can be called into question. I understand that. You’ll feel the need to pass judgement. It’s wit we do. Labelling things or people. So many fuckin labels nowadays and I’m clueless about most of them. But this is simple. Good or bad. Mother or son. That’s it.

In ma defence, I offer one thing. I defy anyone to accuse me of dishonesty. You can trust ma version of events. Promise.

Apparently, there’s nothing stronger than a mother’s love. I wouldn’t know about that. What I do know is this – those words set a destructive chain of events in motion. The Damaged manifested as Damn Rage. I couldn’t shake free from it. I charged towards the inevitable conclusion.

My name is Connor Boyd. Her truth transformed me into a wandering preta with a rabid, insatiable appetite for self-destruction.