29 Dec

It’s true that “the Daily Mail is shit” is hack; but it’s also fairly true.

(A few – Jesus Christ, ten – years ago, I started writing a blog about how newspapers were evil pieces of shit designed to sell you a pack of lies and reinforce prejudices, for money. I wrote the same thing and the same thing until I became the thing I hated, repeating the same story in slightly different words every day. I hen did it for money and it was even worse. But believe me, I started off being right.)

Anyway, I find myself in the position of not quite being able to not care enough to be able to leave today’s miserable little shart from the Daily Mail alone. They say:


Like I say, newspapers don’t really exist to tell you news. They exist to tell you types of story, or versions of myths they’d like you to believe. Which is why you can look back through story after story after story about how antidepressants are bad. But what’s the point? You know they’re there. It’s just selling a story to people who’d like it – specifically, the kind of “never did me no harm” boiled-faced cunt who happily dismisses mental health issues as weakness, or “a Daily Mail reader” as they’re also known.

Oh, there I go again, insulting people. Ooh Steve, you’ll never get them on-side if you’re mean to them. Poor Daily Mail readers, they’re only racists and pensioners and general arseholes with a cruel streak for a minorities and an inability to form human relationships, what’s so bad about them? At least they’re voting, aren’t they? Why not be nice to them, they might listen to you. You mustn’t call them all terrible cunts, or for some reason you’ll have lost the argument, because while they’re dismissing your entire humanity, you’re using naughty words, so, you see? Do you see? They are better than you. And you have lost the argument by using words that they might consider beyond the pale, while still being racist and terrible and hating other people. Do you see? Two wrongs don’t make a right, do they Steve. Do they. No. So don’t call them cunts. Some of them aren’t cunts. Admittedly, I can’t think of any off hand but I’m sure there are some. Probably. Who aren’t complete cunts anyway. Maybe they buy it for the crossword. And the racism. And Fred Bassett. Or the sport. And the racism.

Look, this kind of thing is the kind of thing that I can’t leave alone. I wish I would because then it would mean I could spend my time doing more interesting things than writing, which I’d kind of given up anyway. But they’ve got me going now, haven’t they? They’ve won. The fuckers. And yes, I realise that by drawing attention to their tedious, predictable and inevitable contempt for people who might need to take antidepressants, I’ve let them win. Well, they’ve won. And seeing as they’ve won, let’s let them win.

You’ve won. Yes. You don’t take tablets. Good for you. You don’t hurt all the time. You don’t feel like shit a lot of the time. Well done you. You won. You’ve won. You’re better than me. You’re a better person. You’ve never had to make yourself get out of bed in the morning, or stop yourself from dying, or something like that. Good for you. It must be a tremendous sense of an achievement to think about the number of ways in which you’re superior. Astonishing and brilliant and correct. All in one go. Silly bastards, trying to stay alive. Fuck us, eh. We don’t matter, we’re just nothings. If only we’d go and pull our socks up and get ourselves back together and be normal, like you are, we’d be alright and you wouldn’t be able to look down your noses at us. You are superior and we are not.

I wish I could try and describe the ugly necessity of “happy pills” but I can’t. Imagine you’re in pain all the time, and then it’s only some of the time, but you don’t know when the pain is going to come or how painful it’s going to be, and even when you’re not in pain you don’t know how long it’s going to be before you’re in pain again, but you’re pretty sure even when you don’t feel any pain at all that you’re going to be in pain again soon, and there’s something inside you making all this pain and you don’t know what it is but it’s there inside you, always inside you, and it isn’t going to go away. Imagine that. Imagine that pain always being there. Imagine that pain that couldn’t go away. Or maybe it could, or maybe not go away, but be tolerable, bearable. Imagine you had a way of making it possible to exist with that pain because there was something that made it, if not alright, but just acceptable, possible, turned it from something that wasn’t worth suffering to something that was worth suffering… because you still suffer. Fuck me! If only they were “happy” pills. If only I could walk around with a massive fuck-off goofy grin on my face, skipping around like a joyful lemon-scented doily all day. I would love it. I would love that so much. But guess what – I can’t. No one does. No one is made happy by happy pills, which is why calling them that reveals the contempt.

No, they aren’t happy pills. No, I’m not happy. But my feeble, brittle, fragile existence is held up by threads of the thinnest wire, and that’s what it feels like to be on antidepressants. You have some sort of a chance. That’s all it is, a chance. All you have is a chance, and that’s all you can take sometimes. But it’s not a happy pill and it doesn’t make you better and it doesn’t cure you and it doesn’t mean that it’s some kind of sweet that doctors put in little glass bowls in the waiting room like they’re after-dinner jellybeans. Fuck off. It’s not like that at all.

Fuck you and your “happy pills” shit. I wish depression on you. I wish the kind of evil that mental health creates, and I wish it into your head, and I hope you suffer, and I hope you tell yourself to pull your socks up, and I hope it doesn’t work, and I hope you find yourself hopeless and lost, and I hope the shame that you’ve created with headlines like that kills you. Fuck you. Fuck you to the ends of the earth. There is no excuse. You can make a choice. You can decide whether you want to do this or not. You can decide whether it’s a good thing to be doing or not. You can decide if it’s worth it. Is it worth it? Is it?




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Posted by on December 29, 2017 in Uncategorized


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