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Tuesday, 31 January 2017



Alexander Gordon Jahans

So I’ve cut my hair, had a walk and a shower. I feel human again, like I can start piecing together my life, such as it is.

What the fuck happened? How the fuck was there a crisis? Nothing was different, nothing was unusual. Well beyond trump going full nazi. It was just a bad day, one bad day with a bit of a hangover because my mum’s interference meant the badness lingered as my energy was diverted when I should have been recovering.

I don’t want to die, I like life, I like my life. Yet I am aware rationally that my chances of getting a job are slim to nill and the effort I put into chasing economic viability will ultimately always be an uphill struggle due to my autism and past mistakes. I am not suicidal, I just made peace long ago with the idea that sooner or later my lack of economic viability would be my death and I refuse to compromise or otherwise let that knowledge force my hand. I do not give into threats and blackmail, not even from capitalistic forces. I am to die because there is not the income to live then so be it. Let me be done with.

Universal Credit will let you live but only if you struggle futilely. Fuck that. I’d rather die. Death to me is not hell or purgatory, it is simply ceasing to exist and can thus therefore hold no fear for me.

Nothing actually changed, there was no great crisis. This has been my life for the last two years. Staring down the barrel of this gun, waiting for it to fire, and it hasn’t yet. The problem however is that my mum has crises. She has anxiety and she takes pills to manage a kind of depression. She thus assumes when I talk of how fucked I am and how I am okay with dying if that is how it  is to be that it must be emotive. That chemicals will help.

No chemicals will change the knowledge that my chances of long term survival and economic viability are shit. I’ll try them because why not, because if it keeps my mum sane I may as well give it a shot. I just honestly fail to see how mood stabilisers will effect the outcome of a cold equation.

To be perfectly clear even if I am so helped I can learn to drive, get qualified as an IT technician or fuck knows what else, I am still going to be in the same boat economically where I am competing with every other fucker who is fresh out of graduation with the right degree or looking for a new job with a lifetime of experience. Then even if I am good enough I’ll get to the interview stage and fuck it up because I’m autistic.

Even if I am so bouyed that I forget this and think optimistically about my chances of success the cold equation will still be true. In a competitive market place I am doomed to fail and no amount of drugs or retraining will fix that. I am fucked. No ifs, no buts. It is only a matter of time before my ability to be supported disintegrates and I am a dead man. I know this and have known this for years now. That won’t change.

I hopes and things I love and adore, things I want to live for. Except it’s not about what I want or my mood. It’s about cold hard facts. Then again the fact that I can pay attention to the news without being swamped by it while my mum reacts to news of trump and brexit like a vampire exposed to light perhaps explains why her hearing me talk about how I’ve felt for the last two years made her think there was a crisis.

It is logical that I have a crisis: Kallman’s syndrome, growth hormone disorder, abusive father, parents divorcing, sister emmigrating, moving house, losing friends, relationships ending, computer difficulties, trump, brexit. All things that have caused me strife, that on their own would be enough to cause people to break. Except if I was going to kill myself out of sadness or self loathing I would have done so already.

The day I commit suicide it won’t be because of a momentary lapse or something snapping. It’ll just be that the cold equation has finally been born out and I will have no way of getting by. When I talk about suicide now. It’s with reference to the mercy I’d grant myself upon homelessness or starvation. We all die someday and thanks to my growth hormone disorder I know that day will be sooner than I’d prefer anyway even without the economic countdown.

Either this is to be my life, in which case I shall live every last second of it, or it’s to be a purgatory as I await judgement or a nice life or suffering, in which case I’d sooner end the waiting period. I’m done being fucked about, I’m done being threatened or motivated by the possibility of non-existence. Either I live and live well within what I have,or I am to die for lack of funds. Fuck the faffing, fuck the bureacracy, fuck the judgemental arseholes. This is my life and if I am to live it I refuse to grind it away to dust futilely.

I would love to work. To just be a minimum wage admin worker with a commute but I won’t be because compared to everybody else who’d try for the job I’d be shit. So fuck it.

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