The Encampment Diaries – Damned If You Do…


Damned If You Do


Goddamn. Frak. Frik. Balls. Crap. Shoot

I try not to use expletives in writing, script or prose, because, well, it’s just grotesque. In person I abuse the curses, but audio can flitter away into thin air, into the night. Writing is semi-permanent. Writing can be read, Writing can be mis-read.

Anyway, I feel like swearing a lot more than usual these past weeks.

I’ve had two pressures on me this year, a heavy depressive funk that strangles me, and a skin condition that disables me. In the past few months both of these have flared up so brutally that I’ve been broken in every manner and hidden from the world for the majority.

Maybe in this time I could try and build, create, work on projects, right? That’s what friends have said when I mention all this ‘time off’ I’m fortunate to have.

I’ve been in no shape mentally or physically to do anything but find quick distractions to stop both forms of pain take over my entire living nightmare.


At the end of September I went on my annual trip to a film festival in Norway. What this gave me was a weekend of friends, films and freedom. The brief respite, however, brought a bevvy of bad cinema (This year has been crushing for me as a fan of the artform, offering little in distraction, inspiration or reward) and whilst it was great to reconnect with people, it has now been a month since returning home and since then I’ve seen not a single non-family human with the exception of one person…

My skin condition has been put into the ‘trying out some experimental drugs’ stage, and so I’ve had a nurse every few weeks stab me with medicine. As a full-on needle-phobe this has been hell, and the promise that ‘this is not a fix, this will be ongoing treatment, every fortnight, forever’ is…. Well, my mental state has broken into pieces.


I stare at a laptop, where a healthier, stable human might create a world, invent, build, succeed. And I just fail. I stop. I struggle. I ache, I hurt. I can’t.

I’m looking at the deadlines I set for myself, and how each one has sailed by without any movement, only increased pain, and I stare at myself. I’m a mess. I’m a broken, bruised piece of shit.


And nobody will care anyway.


Nobody ever truly cares.

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