I often think.

It was a strange feeling being confronted with the photograph of the man who sexually abused me over 40 years ago. Very strange. My seeing of his nasty image came about by the tweets that suggested that I was about to take my life: I did walk out of my house and plan just such a thing. Later that day my friend in London 'phoned me and chatted to try and calm my suicidal thoughts. W had Googled the name of my abuser thinking that this might be the cause of my depression. W is one of the few people that told early on in our friendship about my early life. Twitter wasn't even a glimmer in anybody's eyes then. W sent me the link on my email and I opened it and was confronted by the person who in essence was about to again remove my sexual naivety my 'virginity'. I had also been sexually abused by a relative. My abuser, was a Woodwork teacher at my school. He took advantage of any of the children in his care who displayed any acumen for woodwork. I was one of them.

Some of you will be reading this after my tweets that alerted some kind souls to the fact that I was unstable again. It also scared them, for which I am sorry. Why have I chose to write this now? Because I am on the high that detachs me from sanity. A mental high that composes silly horoscopes and tweets mad jokes and sometimes gets me into arguments on Twitter. I don't believe that I have a suicide trigger point. The ideations often come after a period of being 'high': as relatively high as I can be. I am lugubrious by nature, an agelast. I am rarely drunk, if ever at all, when I plan to die. Which is odd for someone who battles against alcoholism. It, the idea, seems to occur by itself; the thought that I need, want to, have to, leave this life just happens. Like it did recently: I started to tweet that things were shitty and that things were getting hard in our lives. We, my wife and I, had just been with an Aunty a s she died in the last week, a day after our weddi