Nothing in my head works, it doesn't work like it should. The thoughts whirl round, and I can't explain them. Death, lies, gore, and corruption smile like a cheshire cat with a glasgow grin inside my head. The bittersweet, oxymoronic reality of todays society is nothing more than a hypothesis which cannot be shared. I feel trapped inside my own body.

Today I felt great, I went out and bought a fast car, with a nice number plate, with just the number 13. I like that number. After that I sat in the park, before getting agitated, driving the porsche home and getting on the first train I saw and riding it until the very last stop. I ended up in Ormskirk, I've never been to Ormskirk before and the people gave me funny looks.

I ate ice cream, before ringing home on a pay phone.
"Hi!" I screamed.
"Laureli! I can't believe... Where are you?!"
"On Moor Road, no, I've never heard of it either. And there's a woman across the road giving me funny looks."
"I'm sure she's n... Moor Road? That's in Ormskirk."
"Yep." I explained the situation to her. Mum sighed, and told me she'd bring me home.
"But, but, but... I, I need to do something."
"What?"
"I need to... I haven't done anything! I need to... I need to run. I need to do something that makes this day worth while. I need to feel the wind run through my hair before I go to bed. What if I die in my sleep?!" I started to scream down the phone. "MY LAST DAY WILL HAVE BEEN SPENT IN ORMSKIRK!" Tears rolled down my face as the robot voice down the phone told me my time was up.

Everyone was looking at me, I knew what they were thinking. They were wondering how an insane person ended up in Ormskirk. I looked for the closest chemist. I was worthless, and scared. I knew my last day would have been wasted. I'm going to die, and my last day will have been shit. I'm a worthless piece of crap, and everybody should know.

I pushed the three bottles of aspirin onto the desk. "Just this thanks."
"Umm... I'm sorry dear, but we can't sell you all these at once." She pointed at the sign above her head, cautioning of overdoses. She cashed me for the one and took the second and third under the table.

I ran to the next chemist only about three streets over. And bought the same, then found another in a market place.

"I'M SHIT!" I screamed at the top of my voice in the now empty town square. The evening was dark and as I took the last of the pills dry in handfuls, I decided I wasn't in an all too ugly place to die.

"Laureli!" I heard a familiar voice down my ear. I grunted back through my blurred vision and mouthful of the third bottle of pills. Mum dragged me to the car, along with my dad and elder brother. And as I started to drift off, mum talked of all the wonderful things we would do, half sobbing, yet her voice was far off and hopeful.
"Laureli, we're going to go to museums, and sky diving, and we'll ride in a boat, and go to France. We'll see the eiffel tower, and we'll... We'll go to America! And we'll get your work sorted, and you can write a book, or do sport, and you... you... you," She stifled the lump in her throat, choking against the agony of despair.
"Mum," My brother started. "She's gone."
"Gone where!? Oh my god!? Laureli?!"
"No mum, she's asleep."

And as I dreamt, I made the decision that I could stay alive until mum kept all her promises. As nice and peaceful as it sounded to die, I couldn't do that before having all those activities in my repertoire.


"Right, Laureli we're going to put you on some mood stabilizers to counteract your episodes and then we'll see how that goes." The doctor in the hospital sighed, it was early morning and he didn't sound pleased. My brother's hand tightened around mine, whilst my mum stood in the corner, with a hard stare over me.
"But, those ones are..."
"I know they have a few side affects, but surely that's better than death?" I nodded glumly. But to all these doctors, eternal suffering WAS better than death.

So I swallowed their pills, I got the weekly prescription, I carried on trucking along to the sound of glup, swallow, gulp, swallow. My life was a haze, built on a time table of drugs, and as I trucked forwards I didn't once stop to smell the roses. My life became a downward spiral. I lost my appetite, I didn't watch TV or talk. I'd sleep all day, and through the night, I would carry on sticking pictures from newspapers and magazines into a huge collage on the wall. It was my collage of suffering. My tickets for trains and buses, and pictures of friends and family I'd forgotten about. My old cat's collar, some sweet wrappers from Italy and the first cd cover I'd ever bought. Plus some christmas and birthday cards from dead relatives. It was a collage of my life. But all that was the normal stuff.

The plane ticket, car and computer receipts I'd bought. The photos of friends I'd made when I drove to London for a day. The bags from when I'd bought too many clothes at All Saints. The drug labels I'd bought. And all the tickets, and leaflets from police stations I'd gotten. And the thousands of debt collector letters I'd got. All from Manic episodes.

My first pair of razors. Drug labels. Cigarette packets. A plane ticket I was going to use to help commit euthanasia. The before and after photos from when I stopped eating. All from my depressive episodes.

And one evening as I woke up to carry on with this huge collage, my mum walked into my room.
"Get your coat."
"Why?" I asked, confused, and still a bit tired. I was grumpy and agitated, and my shaking limbs gave away to my mum the thought of another mixed affective episode.
"We're going skydiving, if you are going to die, which you will someday, you can't miss out on it."
I grinned the biggest grin I could manage, and we went skydiving in our pajamas.