For about half my life since the age of 25 I accepted psychiatric treatment. I was never happy with it.

For the other half I've survived without psychiatric treatment. My internal experience of life has been better but my external reality is a wreck.

At the age of 25 I was a corporate tyke with all the ambition of people working for blue chip companies. For years is struggled with my new identity, the mad, and feared for my future because I of the madness.

Today I am become whaty my old me feared. I am sat here in tattered clothes with a bottle of wine sitting alone in a park writing to my blog on a cheap smartphone. My clothes match my life.

I have been tettering on the bring for months and perhaps years. Eventually I'm accepting my failure. I have changed so much since I was 25.

I tried to thrive but I failed. I'm bitter, empty, twisted and something of a wreck. So much so I can't even manage to see a doctor. I just escape to the park with the same bottle of wine and some herb.

I've suppressed or not felt the difference in me. It has hit me like a wave as others things in my psyche also topple.

I value sadness and madness and worry and all the other stuff. But there's only so much a human soul can take.

I don't even have the hope that in 4 years I can have a peaceful, civilised death. Dignitas exclude the mentally ill too.

The nhs are ready to capitalise on my sense of failure. I risk all manner of bad things but when I need help like this there is no where else to turn.

I need relief and the relief is a drug. I need to get back to work.