No art this weekend. No music. No knitting of ponies. No nothing. Just a lot of lying in bed staring into space while my mind falls over the reality of my situation, unable to believe it, and then falls over it again. I am becoming delusional, it’s the only explanation.

At times I get a glimpse of how strong a force dissociation is in my life, as my memory swirls about and I find it impossible to bring into focus the way I was last week, I find it impossible to reflect on how I felt or what I did, knowing only that I was making art and didn’t need lorazepam for several days. But it is only a glimpse, before that awareness is gone too in the haze, and I give up, and lie back blankly.

Talking about Sage in therapy, those tribunal reports, that letter (which I have been told quite firmly, in a voice that will brook no arguments, I am not allowed to send), it all seems to have plunged me back into the nightmare that has plagued me for so many years, the great big tangled mess, the unanswerable question of what in myself and my perceptions and understandings I can trust.

This is all self-created drama, says a voice, drummed up as a diversion from the difficulties of living, which you are too weak and lazy to face. It is better that you die, says another. And I briefly understand the lure of psychosis for me, as my mind gratefully seizes on old thoughts and beliefs of not being human, of being on a mission, of helping the world through my death, and says yes, yes, this is the reality, this is the scenario that explains everything. So for a time I am in that world, then I am in a more ordinary world in which I have schizo-affective disorder and am unwell, then I am back in the nightmare world in which I might have DID. And so it begins again. All this taking place behind an expressionless face, all this taking place while the normal little routines of life in hospital – going for cigarette breaks, queuing for meals, swapping devices on charge in the office – carry on.

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