top of page

Letters After My Name

WARNING: Contains SWEARING and the subject matter may be TRIGGERING for some readers.

Letters After My Name

How do? feels odd, feels wrong..putting myself on this stage, but if you believe what you see on the gram, on the Tok..

It's all the rage.

There you go you see, showing my age, using expressions from a bygone age.

An extremely extra un-ordinary looking bloke, who if you look closer at his boat, has in the past taken far too many tokes on the tobacco industries finest.

I guess carrying on down that path was only ever going to be finite. Never one to shun or play dumb, I truly inhaled, took it down just to save face or keep up appearances of playing the clown. Or thinking about it on a deeper level, more likely, just to fit in?

Prim or proper I'm not convinced I've ever been, don't get me wrong, I like to convince myself when at times of a lower ebb I've been seen.

Noticed by others for my own self validation. Why this truly is I don't know.

I would surmise a matter for many a more therapist, more likely though I suggest, intense application of the grey matters employed by a top psychological association.

Never in the cool gang at school, too ordinary to grace the inner circle of them at all. Looking back though it was never going to happen, wasn't destined to come first at anything, bask in the glory of an audience clapping.

Myself and my world as I knew it ended when I was 11. Childhood abruptly came to an end like the career of an exposed and corrupted politician.

On that day, my world, my planet stopped spinning for me, no gravitational pull keeping feet grounded.

Quite nightmarish actually. The me then, that terrified little boy, to the whoever man I am today. Inextricably connected whether I like it or not, and the answer I give your honour, is I do not like it.

I hate it, detest it.

Oh I berate it.

With every fibre, sinew, nerve and cell of my being.

Yet here I lay staring blankly at the ceiling. The effects if I'm honest are none to appealing.

Yet truly to be discovered much later in my metaphorical day. As unbeknownst to me, I'd turned into a fucked up emotionally detached pirate burying traumatic treasure away.

Set sail on seas of cringe worthy behaviour, nothing too erratic or too illegal, in hindsight, its just a straight thinking brain would've known better.

These words are spilling forth from my brain, it's difficult reading them back and not think I should have been sectioned, you know..properly mental..insane.

I guess I'm kind of qualified in a way..although in a typically British way I don't like to say.

I have letters after my name and it's the closest I'll ever get, to any kind of academic achievement or high accolade.

I think I always knew that academia was never my bag, again I think that fateful day when I was 11 fried my brain, fucked any chance I had.

Maybe it's genetics and I was only destined to bimble. Maybe I'll never understand it..or why my mum collected thimbles.

Ah, yes. Letters after my name, I digressed from the point, I took my eye off the game. I do that a lot.

I take a trip round the houses, deviation from the route, maybe that's why friends are few, I'm like the Microsoft doughnut of doom when it's time to reboot.

My circuitry screwed up like discarded paper, or a mess of spaghetti dropped off the plate by an extremely careless waiter.

Or waitress?

Or is it waiting person?

Or waiting staff?

I never know these days what to say, without the fear of offence, or my carelessly placed phrases merely intended to please just getting in the way.

You see, I've done it again, deviated from the point in hand, left the gate open on the rambling pen.

Logically I know the planet carried on turning. Despite mine exploding inside my brain crashing against the inside of my skull, ricocheting every which way.

Not knowing then but destroying forming pathways for trust logic and hope. All I could see, a desolate landscape burning.

At 11 years of age. That page indelibly marked, so difficult to turn from.

Letters after my name is what I was referring to some lines ago, and I'm not entirely sure anyone really wants to know.

I've said it to others in conversation as if to make excuses, for validation internally, as to not appear so useless.

I came up with my precursor phrase to the bombshell, that Labels are for garments, not people called Michelle. I lied about the last part, you know the bit about Michelle, it's the only word I could think of at the time, which is relevant to people and, well rhymes with bombshell.

As I say, I build them up with the witty phrase, the real one being 'Labels are for garments and not for people''s the church here's it's steeple, open the doors and here's the people. You see there I go again...jeez this is as fucking miserable as cold December rain. I'm sorry I couldn't help it, it's just inane, sometimes I annoy myself and want to disown my own childish rhyming brain.

Somehow, letters after my name is where I was going to go with I can validate to myself again, my club for one named idiot, and those British government hypocrites.

Bizarrely on good days, as I do get them, I convince myself I'm a afflictions, no touch wood type superstition.

That my mental health ain't broke and all that's gone before was a clandestine deniable mission. I guess that would suit Sunak down to the ground, as that's where he's been trying to grind me, he must be so proud.

These letters after my name. You won't see them on a shiny plaque. No number 10 fancy office or black leather chair, no secretary to say please wait over there.

So here they are, the letters after my name. A patriarchal society has done its best to unrest, unsettle and put me down through an unseen miner. Chipping away at the coalface of my psyche, no tweeting canary on hand to alert me of any danger.

Not seen under the know the kind..proper low key.

Letters after my name as easy as 1 2 3.

CPTSD – FND - D E E P D E P R E S S I O N - A N X I E T Y..

P A I N - F A T I G U E..L O S S O F M E M O R Y.

And at times..trouble with M O B I L I T Y.

But worst of all, not allowing myself to accept me for me. And that's not to mention crushed confidence and courage, holding onto the will to breathe, suicidal tendencies. Apologies if I'm being crass, miserable or uncouth, this essay ain't no fluffy sass. It's what I call my truth. Although at times I think I must have buried it, being the emotionally detached pirate, I probably found a sandy beach, maybe near Redruth?

You'd know the chest if you found it, maybe on a summer's holiday, digging in the sand..although I wouldn't recommend opening it on account of wrecking your holibob plans. Stored within the chest I guess would be a book of dark times. One occasion in particular frequently springs to mind. Whenever I recall this particular event, on account of the unseen miner, rediscovering it within the seams of my psyche, in particular when on the odd occasion it appears in conversation, I laugh it off in an attempt to lose the darkness. You know, make it appear lighter.

Except it isn't light. It never has been, and if it were to happen today, there is no logical reasoning. If it were to happen today, a job would be lost, investigations commenced, no doubt many a social media post. Dare I say a witch hunt would ensue, which isn't what I'd want, despite the incident being cruel.

Being dragged from my chair by the scruff of my school sweater I doubt I was expecting this, at all. Particularly at the age of 9 whilst the mathematics questions in front of me refused to play ball. I was confused. Not only because the questions in front of me may as well been written in hieroglyphics, or been PHD level questions on physics. But because being thrown against a bookcase by your teacher when 9 I would suggest, really isn't cricket.

Is it?

I'm sure she hated cricket.

It's not as if I answered back or had a witty retort. It was not as if I was sharp or angry, or even whined, I was only 9. The memory in places is so foggy, I may have even been 7.

Or 8, I didn't even disrespect her, I disliked her certainly, but never any hate of her.

To know the man, you have to understand the boy, my mother and father brought me up with respect for others. They brought me up well. So to undergo a physical assault let alone on my senses, you'd understand if I sought recompense. None was sought. Not the kind immediately thought.

You know the type, when your rage goes from nought to a million when you've been seriously wronged. Vivid as the clearest blue sky, melting icicles like sparkling glass dripping tears I should have cried all those years ago... At the age of 9 I didn't want to, not even sure if I knew how to verbalise it, so must have rearranged it, kept silent in front of class mates, fake it until you make it go away.

It didn't melt away like those sparkling glass icicles. I assume a meeting was held about it. No carpet lifting was attempted, nor dustpan and brush reached for post debacle to erase from the pages of time my violent classroom tale recital.

She turned from Jekyll and Mrs Hyde to someone resembling normality in my mind. I wonder now if it irked her having to be kind? I'll guess I'll never know. It's tiring pressing

R E W I N D.

Yet more letters after my name. I N S A N E.

Oh look there's more, they seem to appear there like a draught felt when the door's left ajar.

Within the buried chest you'd find various other boxes, some marked I imagine with skull and cross bones..others marked T O X I C.

I would surmise there's a box there marked for the attention of Pandora..I adore her. Despite her appearing so blasé. She's such an attention seeker with her overused clichés.

Guilty as charged your honour. I mean who doesn't love a good cliche? Overused too much in poetry it would seem, rolled eyes, even a sneer. Oh so last year dear.

More letters after my name..can you imagine if they resembled academic success? How would they look on my CV, other than a desperate cry for help type of mess?

Talking of CV’s. Mine is as much use as

Letters after my name.

It would appear more of an essay to myself, in a bid to explain to myself in some bizarre way why I have for many decades got in the way of myself. Screaming from the eye of a storm. Standing alone surrounded by violently swirling words, events and letters. Before, to the side, above, underneath, and after my name.

Letters after my name as easy as 1 2 3.

CPTSD – FND - D E E P D E P R E S S I O N - A N X I E T Y..

P A I N - F A T I G U E..L O S S O F M E M O R Y.

And at times..trouble with M O B I L I T Y.

RTC NO 2 - C A N C E R – D E M E N T I A – D E A T H T O O E A R L Y

No time for breath. Traumatic birth of the first born. Jeez the guilt I felt after many an hour awake when I couldn’t stifle a yawn. Bloody carnage type scenes seared into my retinas, no bleach nor scrubbing implements would erase. Left to rattle around the maze of my fucked up brain like a discarded tin can in the breeze.

More letters to stick on the rusty plaque after my name. My job done, 9 or so months previously, no doubt an unimpressive performance very short lived in her memory.

Led to believe the final part of the jigsaw when placed would erase, previously held worries and concerns earned as each day passed by. That was a lie. Entered the world lifeless silent and distorted. Couldn’t fathom why I wasn’t informed. Why wasn’t this reported? Lifetimes passed by, that’s what they say, I couldn’t tell you why. I think he cried. Blocking it out already, even in the moment, deleting it. Brain fried.

Letters after my name as easy as 123. Here I stand helplessly. Looking across at her. Looking down at him in my arms. Eyes not really focussing, not sure whose, his or mine. Probably both.

Focus is what, was, has been, possibly is still lacking. A new starter business with my back history or business plan unlikely to get financial backing. I have a heart though. I know hurt when I see it. I know injustice, know where the rust is. Know the holes which need patching, even if my own failures are gaping.

Letters after my name as easy as 1 2 3.

CPTSD – FND - D E E P D E P R E S S I O N - A N X I E T Y..

P A I N - F A T I G U E..L O S S O F M E M O R Y.

And at times..trouble with M O B I L I T Y.

Letters after my name.

RTC NO 2 - C A N C E R – D E M E N T I A – D E A T H T O O E A R L Y

Letters after my name. Too many more to mention or fit onto the now rusted away plaque. As a man I don’t talk it out that often, I mean I’m no angel, there’s things I ain’t proud of and who wants to get attacked?

I just sat and started to think, ponder, mull it over. As I’m getting older. Wondering why I am the way I am. How my past has shaped me, moulded me, how what these eyes have seen, how what these ears have heard have evolved me.

I think I kind of knew at 11 years of age when my childhood exploded and ended in an instant on that day. I sensed something serious had happened within my brain, stronger than pain, louder than storm rain. Yet, so overwhelming it had no name.

It was in a string of many Letters after my name.

0 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page