I’m used to it, now. I’m still the same guy. Len’s usually in bed, anyway. I’m alone, but never alone. You never are with schizophrenia. While that sounds like a bad joke, and it is, it’s also a deep truth. I’ve got feedback voices giving me some inkling of company.
The beer’s going down a treat. I’m watching YouTube gaming tech’ videos and contemplating my next move. I could stay up all night, and I just might, but I’ll fill my time with enjoyment.
While Len’s getting poked, prodded, and scanned, I’m here drinking John Smith’s and learning about the difference in performance between an Xbox One X and a gaming PC. I’ve renewed my enthusiasm about getting an Xbox One S for christmas.
In the hospital, I started thinking about finding something in my body. I watched myself, in my mind’s eye, going through chemo’, and I wasn’t that scared. I’ve changed my view on it.
I’m not going to quit smoking, unless nothing short of divine intervention comes into play. I’m relatively healthy. I’m processing a fear into an understanding, and an acceptance.
I’m just talking shit, really. It feels better to write to my ever so captive audience than sit here thinking I have nothing to do. I think the last time I spent an evening alone, truly alone, was over two years ago.
I wanted a break from people when I first moved into supported accommodation. I’d been living the psychiatric hospital life, and, alongside windows in your bedroom door, and the foot traffic of forty other patients, you never felt like you were free to be alone. I thought I had my break, marathon-watching Game of Thrones, and drinking my stubbies with my own fridge. My own fridge!
Edit: I trailed off, after writing a scathing paragraph about other people. I’m not about that, anymore. I’ll keep it clean. Summary: I think I could grow to like my own space. Going out and exploring could be an adventure. Drinking beer’s giving me pleasure. I’ll dive back into YouTube, only coming back when there’s something meaningful to write.