When compromise turns into complete self-sacrifice – where do you draw the line?

Bunk bed electrical socket on a nightliner bus

The featured image is the only photographic evidence (online) of my ever having set foot in Colorado, despite the fact that what brought me there was, by far, the coolest thing to ever happen to me at that point. Maybe even to this day. So, why didn’t I share a few of the million shots I took on that trip? Of the amazing bunch of people I spent the best part of a week with? The shows? The fucking Colorado River? Why did I decide that a wall socket with a bizarre caption was more than enough? Truth? I was terrified that my palpable uncoolness would make them look bad, should someone stumble upon my Instagram account and discover my ineptitude in not realising I was punching so far above my weight that it caused the Earth’s axis to shift at least 10 inches.

Yet, at the same time, I felt I was making a sacrifice. I was denying myself a potentially positive experience, and who knows – it could have even helped boost ticket sales or something. Whatever, I was there for the ride and it was fantastic. I can’t do much about it now, but it’s part of a pattern in me that I’d very much like to break.

The first time I decided to extract myself from a situation where I’d suffer if I did, but also if I did not, was in school. I must’ve been about 10 and I was picked to sing the lead in the school musical – a big fucking deal, of course – but my best friend made it very clear that she would no longer be mine if I didn’t somehow convince the music teacher he should offer her the gig instead. Now, this was a particularly big sell, as she had a blooming hole in her oesophagus from drinking caustic soda as a toddler, resulting in a not so lovely singing voice… but when it comes to self-deprecation, there’s none better than me at making others see things from my point of view. Needless to say, she got the part and I managed to convince myself that it had all been a ruse to make me realise I was actually less talented than a dog turd that can’t even make it all the way out of the dog’s arse and just clings to the sphincter by a threadbare sliver of sausage encased in grass and slime. Thus, I stopped playing the guitar and singing for just long enough for this prophecy to fulfil itself.

Two very different experiences, and none of them really that formative, but you should be able to get the general idea. I’ve been unable to compromise and instead gone all in on the self-sacrifice. You can read more about self-sacrifice in an article by Andrea Mathews om Psychology Today, by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

Regardless, I’ve been thinking about the sacrifices we make and what purpose they really serve, when the ones you are making the sacrifice for don’t know – or realise – that you are making one. Instead, they see how the consequences of having sacrificed your own happiness for them manifest as frowns on your face and start berating you for bringing negativity to their space – wherever that may be. And all you want to do is tell them about the sacrifice you made, why you thought it necessary and how it’s taking all of the fun out of everything now, when your efforts are not being appreciated nor acknowledged. It’s like that saying about the bear defecating in the woods; if no one sees your sacrifice, is it even there?

I don’t have the answer, other than I don’t think the people you think you’re making a sacrifice for can smell that that’s what you’re doing, unless you tell them. And that’s a terrible idea in and of itself. Behaving in a way that makes me feel as if I am making a personal sacrifice, which in turn will be detrimental to my own well-being, and pretending that it’s anything other than self-sabotage, is not very fucking sustainable if you want to live a life that’s not filled with guilt, bitterness and remorse.

Time for the self-deprecation talk to take a hike. I shall see you next Tuesday.

Oh, and since it’s my best pal’s birthday week, do something nice for yourself in her honour. Me, I’m listening to the Elton John song below:

26th May 2026 0

Every cloud…

Except, no, there’s no reason to believe the silver lining applies to genital-shaped cumulus. Cumuli? Anything I learned from my one semester of meteorology seems to have escaped my mind, not unlike the dish that ran away with the spoon. Forgive me.

The second I noticed the skies were descending upon me in the shape of a million bawbags (and just one single cock and balls) – so much so that I stopped, mid-run, to take a photo – I should have recognised it for what it was; a bad fucking omen.

They call it a relapse. I might call it a re-lapse. In judgement (as if one had the sense to make judgments at all). Either way, I say relapse is a four-letter word. Particularly as there hasn’t been any significant and/or prolonged ‘lapse’, and I believe the former requires the latter in order to simply come to be.

Now, before you get ahead of yourself there, I need you to hold your horses just a bit. We’re not talking alcohol here – although it certainly doesn’t help on the occasion it’s poured into the mix – and I’m too high strung to get much effect from any drug. No, I’m afraid we’re dealing with a much more sinister beast here…

It’s her. She’s sensed that my shoulders have come down an inch or two and she’s stepped in to make sure I burn all bridges before anything can happen.

In her defence, she’s only trying to protect me. The teenager trapped inside, too far gone to let go and far too sceptical from experience to let anyone come too close. So, when she rears her ugly head (honestly, one ugly mug is more than enough, we don’t need two), the curtains come down and our consciousness goes on holiday.

She does not give a fuck about any inconvenience caused by her micromanagement. And we suffer. Oh, we suffer.

And this is how I come to wake up on a Sunday morning, having lost approximately 43 minutes of my time between 2am and 3 the night before. Oh, and something else seemed to have gone missing; my bra. How the fuck one goes about losing one’s racerback fucking bra whilst managing to keep every other piece of clothing on is beyond me. My immediate and obvious reasoning was that I must have taken everything off in the pub in an attempt to shag some poor cunt’s husband. It’s not something that’s happened before, but one might assume one gets tired of making the same mistakes at some point, leaving no choice but to reinvent the wheel and make way for some new ones.

A full 24 hours passed, without the resurfacing of said piece of clothing. Having to monitor my blood pressure on a weekly basis, the very beepy machine told me it was about 180/95, but my fever, nausea and blurred vision had already told me that much. Related to the missing bra? Quite possibly. At least somewhat. Add in some work stuff and a few days of poor nutrition and I think we have a winner.

Regardless, I managed to find the fucker after having washed all of my washables – including my sheets and towels. What I have yet to find, though, is my dignity. Or, indeed, the courage to check to see what damage was done over the course of the weekend. Perhaps we’ll never know.

Lest we die of shame – or have another blackout – we shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy the spectacular featured image and one of the finest and bizarre tunes ever written, by the one and only Kenny Rogers, in the video below. Peace!

19th May 2026 0

“Courage grows strong at the wound”

Or does it? Sources¹ say, it depends on the context. It, of course referring to the term courage, the ability to grow strong, the wound (and the nature of the wound), and/or all of the above.

Confused? Well, prepare to have your confusion intensified.

Go, go, confusion aggravator!

Somewhat loosely (or not so loosely, depending on the translator’s localisation abilities) translated from the Latin virescit, vulnere, virtus, this served as a clan’s motto back in [insert googleable factual numerical here]th century Scotland. Since then, it’s become a well-known phrase among non-native, occasional British Isles-dwelling, Anglophiles.

One would assume. I’m no historian.

The phrase, however interpreted, and its ambiguous meaning has always been rather intriguing to me. What I’m about to delve into, my dear reader, is the phrase’s meaning in relation to a couple of different types of wounds. Let’s get on with it, shall we?

Let’s get physical

Likely the most common type of wound; the flesh wound. The kind that more often than not leaves you with a gnarly scar, and in some cases with sepsis and death. Commonly found on miniature humanoids, clumsy fully grown humanoids and shark attack survivors, physical wounds are as common a sight to us as a depiction of the baby Jaysus.

Assuming the origin of the phrase had anything to do with the interpretation, you might be right in thinking that this is where the ‘courage’ bit came from. But surely, being stabbed doesn’t make you courageous? Unless a sword to one of the major arteries leaves you completely bereft of life, it makes you lucky to have survived – not courageous. Although, once you’ve survived such a thing, you’re left with the knowledge that it is possible to escape death in such a scenario, so you might venture into the same situation again, if prompted. Does it make you courageous, though? Or just reckless?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, lest it smelled of almonds, as famously unspoken by a young Capulet in a Shakespeare play.

Physical wounds, whether character building or not, are often inflicted upon the wounded by another physical entity, or oneself. Although the latter might take us directly into the next category.

This one was getting out of hand anyway.

Scarred for life

Figuratively speaking, of course, we’re talking about emotional wounds. The ones you can blame your parents for.

Do they make you courageous, though? Defiant? Bitter? Or just useless? Well, unless you’re planning on looking into how your emotional trauma scarred you in order to better understand how and why you self-sabotage your interpersonal relationships and/or life as a whole and indulge in some habit reversal training, holding onto those scars won’t do much in the way of getting the abusive monkey off your back. And, if you don’t mind me saying; tackling your inner demons takes courage.

So, what’s the conclusion here? Can courage grow strong at a wound? If anything, I reckon any trauma, corporeal or psychological, plants a seed. Whether or not that seed grows into something useful depends on the way you cultivate its growth. I also believe that courage is impulsive. It cannot be taught. It comes to you in your time of need, when there’s no time to mull things over. Your ability to analyse posttraumatic events for healing purposes will leave your subconscious better equipped to handle future traumatic events. These are my beliefs, not facts. My take on it. It’s only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart … hang on, not heart… Nevertheless, listen to the Bee Gees tune embedded below if you want to hear what comes next in the lyrics. I do not plan on shouting Kali Ma from the rooftops any time soon.

Don’t let anyone stab you, physically or mentally. Or, if you do, remember this quote from the Stewarts – the origins of the Clan Stewart and their place in Scotland’s history (LangSyne publishing, 2005):

‘To the dungeons strong

Haul the wretches along,

As in Christ’s my hope,

They deserve the rope.’

Enjoy the music, and I shall see you next Tuesday.

It’s me. I’m the source ↩︎

21st Apr 2026 0

The mighty motivator

The hunt for inspiration to get through the week can seem a fruitless endeavour at the best of times – never mind when you’re approaching the midweek deadlines with completely rudderless navigation, because the week failed to start on the day it normally does. Who even has the time to stop and think about a possible motivational aide?

There’s a lot of talk at one of my many jobs, about being ‘the motivator’. (Mind you, this is the same place where they refer to their work as a ‘jobby’, so … Oh, and if you’re reading this in Scotland, please click on this sentence. If you’re anywhere else in this world, click on this one for the definition).

Regardless of my incessant digressions, there’s no escaping the fact that motivation is key to get shit (ha) done in an orderly fashion, and to an acceptable standard. So, when the promise of monetary rewards at the end of the month no longer cuts it – where does that leave us?

Most online dictionaries have similar definitions of ‘motivation’, but, seeing as I’m interested in it in the more metaphysical sense, I came across the below explanation on Verywellmind.com:

“Motivation is the psychological force that explains why a person does something”

Our driving force.

Now, I don’t want to be a total Kant (ha-ha), so, das ding an sich aside, I think we can all agree that motivation can indeed be defined as a very real force – a need, even – in the process of driving home our goals. So what, then, if and when it slips through our fingers?

Motivation, not the Kant.

A quick browse on Revive Psychology tells me that the loss of motivation can be caused by stress, burnout, lack of clear goals (no shit), among other things. No surprises there, but it’s an interesting read, in which you can engross thy fine self by clicking on this sentence. They are professionals and can help folk get back on track when they feel they’ve lost their driving force. It turns out, you see, that you can regain motivation.

It’s not just our friendly Newcastle psychologists that are interested in helping the demotivated masses; Psychology Today have posted their ‘7 tips for when you’ve lost all motivation’. Have a read, if you think it’ll be of interest to you. Personally, I don’t have patience for a two-minute waffle about IVF, so I don’t blame you for feeling too demotivated to read past those first few paragraphs either.

Anyway.

I’m a little sick of all this barely-touching-the-surface-stuff. Meghan Trainor might be all about that bass, but I am all about that nitty gritty.

Do yourself a favour and not read that last sentence to yourself in a Vicky Pollard-esque accent.

I am sure there’s micro-levels of motivation in everything we do, down to the most basic of things – a bowel movement sure as hell motivates you to get off the couch and move your pasty pile of flesh and bone to the water closet before you accidentally relieve yourself on your crushed velvet throw pillows. But would be surprised if someone told me that such an event motivated them. In fact, all I ever hear about motivation – outside of true crime docs and Olympic athletes – is more often than not attached to a prefix; de.

I’m guilty of it to – just the other day I caught myself complaining about someone else’s behaviour being demotivating. I mean, I still stand by it, but what purpose does it serve? Perhaps, instead of letting it crush my spirit, I can let their behaviour become my motivation for changing my path to the extent that it no longer crosses theirs? Am I motivated enough to set some clear, attainable goals for myself, or do I just enjoy wallowing in the helplessness?

I used to get my motivation from the impossible; if someone told me I couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to do something, that was what I did. Regrettably, it worked the other way around as well – I’d lose interest in something if someone praised my talents or audibly supported my decision to do something. Weird. Moronic. Sad. But that’s how I worked – at least, when you smashed it when the odds were stacked against you, you somehow felt more alive. The risk of ultimate failure was perhaps the only thing that could make me do anything at all, because then I would have to reach my goal. The alternative was death.

Sounds pretty healthy, right?

I’m thinking that this all-or-nothing thinking isn’t the most sustainable life motto of all time. Perhaps I will need to allow for a few micro-motivations to slip in through the cracks to create the spark that reignites the fire.

The time has come.

Oh, before I bid you adieu, I will leave you with a video of Europe performing a song of the very same name below. Enjoy.

See you next Tuesday!

7th Apr 2026 1

Lady Cerebellum takes a holiday

I’ve no idea where my Monday went. Evidence suggests that shit got done during my mental check-out, but I couldn’t tell you how. Perhaps I’ve been visited by the adulting fairy? Although, that sounds rather pervy and I’d like to get at least an hour of sleep tonight, so let’s not entertain that particular thought.

Remember that band Lady Antebellum? For some reason, whenever I heard that one song they had, that seemed to get a lot of airplay about a decade or so ago, I could never get their name right and kept referring to them as Lady Cerebellum. Incidentally, that’s what I’ve started calling myself when that part of my brain seems to shut me out and hide its activity from me. Sometimes, it shuts itself off completely, leading to hilarious and/or near-fatal situations in which I lose my balance and/or the ability to speak properly. I could be standing completely still in the shop one second, trying to decide which type of granola to get, and then see the floor coming towards my face at warp speed the next.

Maybe this is a sign that I should try dating again – or better yet, ask my GP to assign me a carer. Who knows? I’ve managed to stay upright for most of today, though, so I’m not about to download any apps any time soon.

Without a shadow of a doubt, being in the middle of moving house for the umpteenth time in five years was what caused my Monday blackout. I’m living in a box, I’m living in a cardboard box (in my case, there’s ten of them, but who’s counting). I’ve had that song stuck in my head all day – likely all of yesterday as well – so I don’t feel bad for passing along this little earworm.

Also, if you’re not familiar with this song, you’re too young to be reading this.

When I was getting ready for bed on Sunday, after having returned from a work trip, unpacked and re-packed what I had just unpacked in one of my ten boxes, I was thinking about how impossibly long this week was going to be, as I had almost four whole days before getting the keys to my new flat – so my brain saves the day by stealing one.

It’s not the end of the world (at least not in this particular scenario – but I’d stay away from the news). In fact, I’d go as far as to say that this particular post would end up on the cutting room floor had I been the editor-in-chief. Oh, wait, I technically am her… so, today I say fuck it. We all have days like these, don’t we?

Perhaps we could use this post as a reminder to take a step back. Today, a colleague I hold in very high regard told me that she’s trying to use her phone less, so she’s taking up all sorts of cool hobbies. I think that, once I get settled in my new flat, I’ll take a page from her book. Not that I spend a lot of time on my phone – I think I’ve actually developed an allergy against it – but I need a hobby. At the very least, it would keep me switched-on for long enough that my brain won’t have the chance to organise a mutiny behind my back.

See you next Tuesday, from a rung or two up from the bottom of the food chain…

In the meantime, please read one of my other, better posts. Or buy my book. I need the money more than ever, now I’ve become a home owner. Ha.

Also, go check out my pal, PT and exquisitely inspirational life-turn-arounder (ooft) Danny Appolinari, if you want to see some top-notch wellbeing content and exercise and nutrition hacks. Congrats on completing the Rome marathon!

24th Mar 2026 2

Hello navel – where have you been hiding all these years?

Photo of a belly button, dressed up in a wig and bathing suit

Diving deep into the metaphysics of it all this week, upon discovering a term previously flying far too far below my radar (and, incidentally, my navel) to receive any acknowledgement; metacognition. Naturally, this sent me into a frenzied bout of sceptical introspection… Scepto-ception?!

Good grief, if Susie Dent were to stumble upon this post, she’ll no doubt have me decapitated. With good reason!

On with the show…

So, metacognition is really just the ability to understand your own thought process. I suppose you could call it a sort of mindful thinking, where you dissect every morsel to see how it came to be and how it can be reconstructed or directed to develop further. I like to envision it as cognitive metamorphosis, where the thought process takes on a physical form… like a fertilised brain-egg, dividing itself into tiny clusters of what-ifs, pausing here and there to contemplate whether it would like to become a Falkor-type hero or a mini Mengele. And, should it fail its mission and choose the latter, it would cause itself to implode and would have to restart the process. Anyway, don’t take my word for it when you can read all about a few different definitions of metacognition on Science Direct, by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

What brought me here today, though, was my reaction to hypnosis. Which, in turn, brought me to a state of such relaxation that I found myself watching a full reel of this lady going on about metacognition and how it is more likely to occur in individuals who, for one reason or another, have had to teach themselves to anticipate the needs of others ahead of time in order to avoid conflict. I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it.

Now, if this is not your first time here, I suspect you can smell a rant coming. But first, I’d like to once again touch on this hypnosis business. First of all, it was nothing like what popular culture has taught us – I hope you’re picturing a man being hypnotised by a magician on stage, instantly turning into a Clockwork Orange-esque giant baby by the snap of the magician’s fingers – it was quite the opposite. Although, the main principle of becoming relaxed enough to have one’s subconscious manipulated remains, it is a far more active experience that I thought it would be. (Active, in the sense that I was fully conscious for the whole thing – there was no ‘and now you’ll enter a deep sleep’ nonsense). Rather, this was quite similar to my experiences with guided meditation. Apart from the fact that during hypnosis, I was allowed to move if I had to – ultimately removing my urge to do so. And so, for the second time in 42 years, the other time was during a yoga class at the Quartermile PureGym in Edinburgh, I became so relaxed that I became a little emotional.

If you’re ever in need of a good PT, you should check out the lovely Beth – just click on this sentence and you will find her.

But, yeah, I relaxed for all of 20 minutes and then I cried. And then, on my way home, I began contemplating my navel. Normally, I’d say nothing good comes from such an activity, but it had me stumble upon a personality trait that I have come to detest in a certain type of so-called neuro-fluencer types; ignorance. The most painful realisation being that I had been guilty of the same on one or more occasions.

‘Me, me, meeeeee!‘ amirite? I jest, I know how to spell. Here comes the rant!

Owning that you’re a little different is great. But being different does not entitle you to be insufferable. Just, you know, come off it. You may have felt something click inside you when you were diagnosed, but that doesn’t mean you get to preach about like you’re possessed every time you’re in a social setting. Did it ever occur to you that your friend(s) might like to talk about something other than you for a change? They are the main character* in their respective lives too. It’s not as if they’ve been sat around, patiently waiting for you to find yourself. And it is certainly not their fault that you’ve felt as if you’ve had to hold your tongue for your entire life and have finally been given permission to speak up.

In fact, it is now you that are doing to them the injustice you thought others were serving you, when in all likelihood they weren’t even thinking about how their actions affected you. But you, the oh, so metacognisant, you are doing it despite your awareness of the potential harm your behaviour might cause. So, come the fuck off it. Talk to your therapist about your experience, discuss it with them, that’s what they are there for – don’t talk their ear off for an hour, and then go talk at your pal about talking in therapy for an hour afterwards.

Ever heard of active listening, ya feck?

You’d want a friendship to be transactional, don’t you? Well, then you’re going to have to treat them with a little kindness and gratitude (and not serve them a lecture that would put a certain cheeto-looking dictator to shame).

Just enjoy the fact that you found something that works for you, and that your healthcare system can arrange for a professional to listen to you go on about everything and anything, from emotional scars to grief and that one time someone down the pub told you that you looked exactly like Jabba the Hutt… I digress.

You’re different – great! Now, put what you’ve learned to good use and be content with finally accepting who you are. You see, your pals already have. There’s no need for you to convince them of what they already know; that you’re worthy of their friendship. Perhaps your frantic waving of your freak flag was exactly what brought them to you to begin with – who knows? Either way, maybe now is the time for you to show them that the feeling is mutual.

Anyway, why don’t you have a look at the video below?

See you next Tuesday, for more madness!

*Links to an article on how ‘main character energy’ can pose a problem, on Psychology Today

4th Mar 2026 0

You feelin’ alright?

Snapshot of a YogiTea Simple Yoga exercise

Thanks for askin’, Joe, I’m actually not feelin’ too bad myself. For a change. (Yes, those were the words of Dave Mason of Traffic I just butchered, but I prefer the Cocker version. One of my favourite songs, actually, so I’ll leave a treat for those of you who make it to the bottom.)

It’s bizarre, with everything going on in the world, that I’ve managed to remain seemingly unperturbed. During a Blood Moon, no less (!). I hadn’t even thought about the fluctuations in the earth centre’s gravitational pull until I saw the big old pizza 3.14 up in the sky when I left the house earlier.

For once, it seems I’m in a state of not needing a rant. I am not pining for the fjords. The ranter has ceased to be. I am an ex-ranter.

Or perhaps it’s the lack of sleep in the last 24 hours.

This might be the least connected I’ve ever felt to the lyrics of the first verse of Feelin’ Alright.

And that is why I’ve decided that, instead of adding onto all of the other shit going on by screaming my fingers off and stirring shit up today, I will urge you to try and find some peace and block out all of the noise. You can do the yoga exercise in the photo (cheers, YogiTea!). If only for a second. The world’s not going to stop burning without us.

(OK, subtle wee rant, but that’s it)

What’s changed? Nothing. Everything? Perhaps I’ve tried hypnosis and it really sort of helped? I’ll write about that next week, but for now we’ll relax for a bit. Accept the fact that there’s some things we can’t fix and that we’d be better off focusing our energy towards what we can – or even show our support for those who can.

I’m not going to try to persuade you into buying anything here today – not even my take on some far-fetched theory. All I want from you, dear reader, is for you to know that your reading this is helping someone.

I will leave you with some more words from Feelin’ Alright, as performed by the late Joe Cocker, one of the finest singers to have ever graced this earth:

“Don’t get too lost in all I say
Yeah, by the time, you know, I really felt that way
But that was then, and now, you know, it’s today
I can’t escape so I guess I’m here to stay
‘Til someone comes along and takes my place, yeah
With a different name, oh, and a different face”

If there’s still something for us all to wake up to tomorrow, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, stay weird and don’t be afraid to get in touch. Let’s hope they keep light on for another couple of years. This thing is just starting to get good, and I’ve got “too much to do before I die”.

3rd Mar 2026 0

Hume-our me or go Home: a minute of your time for some chat about passionate reasoning

Now, as a young first-year Philosophy student, I must admit I was never partial to David Hume’s school of thought (although I did find it funny that he supposedly changed his name from Home to Hume, because “no-one in England went by Home”. Pretty far-out behaviour, for someone from Lawnmarket, Edinburgh.

Looks like the drugs are finally out of the system – let’s celebrate the return of my ever-charming personality!

So, why the hell would someone in their right mind all of a sudden start reading Hume, when they already know they won’t like it? Next-level asceticism? The short answer is no, this was not an act of self-harm. In fact, I’ve not been reading at all – he was quoted (if only very briefly) in a podcast episode. I cannot for the life of me recall what podcast this was, and I refuse to go through the log on my streaming app, seeing as I’ve listened to hours and hours of music since. But I know it had something to do with reasoning and causation.

The original (and full) quote is from section 3 of the third part of the second book in Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature. It is grossly taken out of context – much akin to a headline from The Sun – and reads as follows:

“Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” (1739-40)

The quote is often seen in combination with another part of the text so far down on the same page that you have to assume the latter works as a sort of book-end to the former, after a series of examples of how the ‘self’ defines reasoning driven by passion. The latter does not follow the former without some degree of detailed explanation. You can read the entire thing by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

Now, feel free to call me on my jumping onto the express train to judgement city, but I’ve spent enough time behind semi-dodgy boozer bars to recognise the drunken ramblings of a grown man with certain, shall we say, repressed urges.

Nevertheless, it turns out the 2026 version of me actually quite likes these musings of Hume. And, what resonated was the part about our passions bleeding into our reasoning – and not only in matters of the heart. What are we, without passion? To me, life would have very little meaning without it. The joy you feel when a risky venture pays off. The slack you might cut yourself if it doesn’t, because the passion drove you to act carelessly.

I believe that any human creature capable of emotion can be passionate about a multitude of things. I mean, need I bring up the bog roll conflict?

When shit gets, well, real shitty, my passion-fuelled reasoning is the only thing that can shift my focus. Albeit not always in a good way, but still. Just like a limp handshake, a passion-less existence is not for me. Which might be why antidepressants only make me unwell – I need the passion to feel alive. I thrive on the chaos I’ve created, because I lets me access this superhuman stress-tolerance in the event that real chaos erupts. When you flip the switch, however, just crossing the street might feel overwhelming.

If you ever feel overwhelmed, dear reader – or if you’ve had enough of these seemingly unstructured ramblings – I’d like for you to drop me a message via the contact form. I’ve got loads of ideas, but I’m up for a challenge. Finally! 10 points goes to the first person that manages to stump me.

I am going to love you and leave you for now. I shall see you again next Tuesday!

Until then, this video had me mesmerised for so long I lost track of time the other day… Enjoy responsibly (by clicking on this paragraph, or get your ya-yas out to the embedded video below).

24th Feb 2026 0

Discontinuation depersonalisation

“Shivering, muscle pain, fatigue, excessive sweating, headaches, weakness, vertigo, gait imbalance, dizziness, ataxia, tremors, paraesthesia, nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal pain, electric-shock-like experiences in the brain (referred to as brain zaps), visual disturbances, insomnia, vivid dreams, nightmares, agitation, irritability, anxiety, tearfulness, sexual dysfunctions” (Special Issue Psychopharmacology of Affective Disorders, 2021) – these are a few of my favourite things.

I jest, of course. You’d be hard pressed to find so much as one of these things anywhere even remotely near the list of things I’d wish on my worst enemy (apart from maybe the diarrhoea), yet they are some of the more common symptoms associated with the discontinuation of the ‘serotonin modulator and stimulator’ (a type of antidepressant) Vortioxetine.

Other research studies mentioned such lovely side effects as depersonalisation, emotional incontinence and the inevitable return of the depressive symptoms.

Needless to say, I stopped taking my meds due to their inefficacy and rather intolerable, to me, side effects (I have an intolerance to certain types of medication, and I am not claiming this to be some sort of universal fact or that all drugs are bad. This is just my personal experience.), and now I’ve gone a bit extra bonkers. I’ve been so out of it, it didn’t even occur to me that it could be withdrawal symptoms (I was on a very low dose to begin with, and tapering is not normally necessary), until it was pointed out to me by a professional.

The good news is that it’s not permanent. One day, I’ll be less likely to start greetin’ like a wee bairn whenever I hear any hit song from 1995, and I can get through a whole day without feeling as if I’m only observing my physical body from another realm hidden by a thickening veil… Perhaps one day I’ll be a little less pretentious-sounding as well.

Anyway, my recent lack of inspiration and focus has an explanation. My brain will resume its brain-like activities yet again – soon, even. Multiple trusted internet sources tell me that I am at around the time where the more adverse symptoms reach their climax (YUCK), and that I can expect them to taper off and (hopefully) disappear within the next fortnight.

Just knowing that there’s some logic behind my very odd behaviour in recent weeks helps a great deal – I’m sure I’ll be back to writing fascinating content about, say, how far a human fart can travel before losing speed, aroma or altitude in no time. Perhaps even next week?? You know you’re in for a treat – here’s hoping no one will steal my idea whilst I’m contemplating my existence, the meaning behind the lyrics to Tears for Fear’s Shout, or the secret behind Michael Hutchence‘s incredible charisma.

I dare you to click on the above ‘fart’ link.

Whilst my synapses have been frying themselves in the last drops of oil meant for lubricating my myelin sheaths, and my prefrontal cortex has fucked off on an all-inclusive EasyJet holiday to Lanza-fucking-rote, the world has been burning. But, at the same time, people seem to be finally waking up. I’ve noticed more people spending less time on their phones on public transport this past week, making eye contact and even smiling (!) at strangers. Perhaps there’s hope for our species yet? If not, I’d better hurry the fuck up and finish the second book before we all go *poof*.

Regardless, I’m pretty sure I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, you can read this post that I wrote about something absurd, or you can listen to one of the finest NWOBHM albums of all time, Killers, on YouTube.

17th Feb 2026 0