Douglas Bastard's Rants of Rage


This article was written on 02 Jul 2014, and is filled under Uncategorized.



Time to break cover.

In some ways, this is just about the last frontier of stuff that mental illness has ploughed up and which remains to deal with. I’ve sorted out the Army stuff and the sex stuff sits behind a veil of Citalopram. So there remains the sensitivity stuff. And that’s vast.

Let me say right off the bat that I feel colossally exposed by writing this, but I feel like one of the most emotionally vulnerable people who has ever lived. In the corner of my room, there’s a pile of stuffed toys I’ve either secretly bought or picked up from the pavement where they were rainy, wet and abandoned, and called out to me.

Walking past the window of the local toyshop tears at my heart. There’s a homeless guy who sleeps at the top of my street on Saturday night who I’ve been giving food for the past year and a half, and whose problems, and my inability to solve them, bust me wide open. They tear at me, mock me and make me feel like my whole existence is pointless.

Talking about this, openly, is something I have never, ever done. This blog is the first time. And I don’t know what any of it means, or why the Almighty has chosen to put this in my head, but there it is. What is the onward journey for a 41 year old heterosexual bloke who cries when he watches 24 Hours In A&E, I really don’t know.

A few months ago, I had an appointment with an NHS psychiatrist who was one of the nicest and most interesting people I’ve ever met. He was about my age, Asian and very round. He was riding a bike into work to lose weight and, at one point during our meeting, a Cadbury’s Crème Egg rolled guiltily out of his bag and across the floor. He was like a mental health Colombo. But it’s what he said that was the most interesting thing.

He thought I was a rugger bugger. Big and bluff and largely unmoved by mortal concerns, given to rugby and rowing. And I’m not. I thought he was the son of proud Asian parents who owned a shop and sacrificed all to put their son through university. He isn’t. And it tells you that everything we think about each other is, quite often, wrong.

This was all stimulated by a blog at The Good Men Project that you can access on and which is one of the truest things I’ve ever seen written.

And there it is.

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