Brodsy

G'day, everyone. I hope you are all enjoying a more pleasant Christmas than we all are in Sydney. It was actually cold here on Christmas Day, the first time I have witnessed such in all my forty-five years orbiting around the sun. Anyway, this week we are up to the twenty-fifth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Saving Brodsy. This story I wrote about my friend of longest standing, Louise Fraser. I first met her when she was the girlfriend of a former friend, around twenty-four years ago, and we have kept in contact ever since. I find it easy to make her laugh.

     Louise I have nicknamed Brodsy, because like Franz Kafka, who had his own personal editor, Max Brod, Louise is my personal editor. This has been the case for several years, and everything of mine that goes out into the world seeking a publisher has first gone passed the eagle eyes of Brodsy. I of course pay her for her services, and having a personal editor definitely gives one an edge in the vicious publishing industry.

     This story, though, is a fictionalised rendering of Brodsy. It was a chance to tell her thank you for looking after me, as much as I would let her, while I was homeless. Brodsy and I have also, to a certain extent, grown up together, so when I was writing the story it felt like I was with the big sister that I have always wanted. 

     Brodsy these days is verily happily married, and has three young children, two boys, and a girl. I have told her several times that she is an excellent mother, mainly because she puts a lot of work into looking after her family, always putting them first. Not only is she a great mother but she is a great friend too. Thanks, Brodsy.

Such a Party Animal

Well, here we are all again, and this time we are up to the twenty-fourth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Very Loud. This story I wrote to dispel the common conception that psychiatric facilities are closely akin to jail. Nothing could be further from the truth. This particular story, like most of my stories dealing with mental illness, is set in Rozella Psychiatric Hospital, a fictionalised Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital, near the centre of Sydney. During most of my admissions here I was taking large amounts of illicit drugs, and this did not stop whilst in said psychiatric facility. It used to be fun committing myself to the hospital because I got free food, and shelter, there were bathing facilities, and I still had my precious drugs.
     Taking illicit drugs in psychiatric hospitals, at least in Sydney, is very common. All the drug users eventually find each other whilst in there, and then spend the remainder of their time in there getting stoned in each other's company. It was great fun.
     I haven't been admitted to a psychiatric hospital in over fifteen years but I imagine that they retain their own mini drug cultures. That being said, if I am ever hard up for some pot, and can't find anywhere to get it, I might just book myself into the local psychiatric hospital (I know how to play the game to get in and to get out), and there I will be sure to score some choice pot. Or maybe some acid. Who knows?

Far Too Sleepy

G'day, everybody. Here in Sydney it is the first Saturday of what promises to be a gloriously hot summer. Before it gets too hot though let's have a cool look at a cool story from Aberrant, entitled, Reality Dreams, the twenty-third story in the collection. This story I wrote purely for therapeutic reasons. In this case it was to explore the fact that I, at the time of the story's writing, was sleeping most of the day's twenty-four hours. This was a habit I had got into, because I was bored and couldn't keep myself occupied, beginning from the early days of my former homelessness.
     I don't generally discuss this very bad habit of mine because I feel ashamed that whilst others are working so hard, here I am, lounging in bed. I don't even really talk about it with my psychiatrists past and present. But since I really do need to talk about this problem (which I have since resolved) I decided to write about it, to have a good natter with my subconscious about the problem. It seems to have served its purpose as now I have regular sleeping patterns.
     There's a few other stories in Aberrant that I wrote purely for therapeutic purposes, indeed, my entering a full remission with my paranoid schizophrenia is largely due to a particularly intense art therapy session I had, once while I was in a psychiatric facility. Further, art therapy is highly regarded by medical professionals, it sometimes causing miracles. It certainly caused the miracle of my own remission. Anyway, I guess I really should be glad that I have such a potent tool as writing in order to solve the big problems. Maybe I should be President of The Universe? Only kidding; sort of.