Part 4. My Politics — What Are You Going To Do About It?
I have progressed to the bus stop in my isolated seaside town and where there is little to do but get high or drunk or fight or fuck. The only way to get ahead . . . get out. Career options are a fallacy of declining factory jobs. Sea front pubs, the bookies and pawn brokers, are the only thriving businesses. Globalization and the gig economy are not our friends.
I’ve lost count of the number of friends or family members who’ve died of overdoses, random violence and accidents. Others in recovery have relapsed and died, their bodies finally give up. Some couldn’t manage the pain of being sober and injected a hot dose, and some died of AIDs. It’s attritional. The body count is terrifyingly high. But more than those combined are the suicides; it’s a cottage industry. By the time I hit my fortieth birthday, over a dozen people I knew have taken their lives. I think it comes from a feeling of insecurity, worthlessness and claustrophobia and exacerbated by the vices of booze and drugs with a little bit of bankruptcy and mind numbing low paid jobs thrown in for good measure. I’ve been in lonely tears with no idea which way to turn more times than I care to remember. I’ve smashed things and people. I’ve wanted to get hurt just to feel alive. At times I don’t know how to handle myself, much less others. My mental health is shot to shit. What to do about my…
