new rule to make me stop talking telling other people they are nice so finish with one for me.

But what do I have?

Am I allowed to even dream I’m the nicest person on the planet

Am I there is it ego to think I am or want to be?

Am I the most transparent, inoffensive, invisible, the secret truth in the corner or the tap on the shoulder.

My knowledge is so useful but it can never be given, it has to be earned.

bummer or what?

Had a bit of an episode yesterday, posted (a short one) about it and not a single reply except from Zoe.

I put a silly picture or something and lots of comments or reactions of some kind so I know people read my posts but nothing for this. And it is FAR from the first time.

A lot of them post ‘I’m here to listen’ bullshit too.

It’s not because they don’t care because people do like me and care, so why no reply or message when I actually do need help?

I can only assume that despite the ‘I’m here for you’ stuff, people just don’t know how to deal with all the mental head stuff or how to react.

Which is shit because sometimes all it takes is a random nice word or comment or just some kind of fucking acknowledgement that I even exist when I get in that state.

It might be 2 years since I used the knife but those days are not fully gone I don’t think and Robin Williams killed himself at 61 so this shit never truly goes away.

Maybe I should always save the last words for myself instead of ‘just one more’

Nobody either gave a shit or read or replied about yesterdays words and two fucking years without slicing my own arm or burning myself and no one said anything.

Lordy I do a gig and everyone is there watching and digging it and it makes it all cool and I’m fine but,

do people not read these things or is it so far out of their zone that they don’t know what to say or, I don’t know.

I adore the fuck out of everyone’s love of me happy side but, I wish a bit of that could spill over into the not saying anything when my head is bad.

Give up booze or fags and people say well done on every anniversary. You give up the knife and nobody gives a shit because I guess it’s shit they can’t deal with or understand.

I don’t know how people see it or anything but, maybe I’m the only one who can ever be proud of me because nobody else understands or cares enough.

Sandy or Ellie are probably the only ones who have ever really cared about the deeper parts of me, our kid obvs doesn’t count.

If I was in the sci-fi films, I’d be the one who stays awake while everyone else is in cryo sleep and I’d tend the ship and their pods and slowly get madder and madder or eccentricer and eccentricer over the years of solitude flying through space but not even know it.

No matter how happy brain, there’s always the thing niggling in the back. i can’t find the words now need bed but the bad guy never really dies. no matter how deep you bury or hide him, it’s always a fight to keep ahead of whatever it is.