Think, for a moment, about what it feels like when life brings you to your knees. Envision a world where you believe you're systematically unemployable, living each day as though you're fleeing from mortal danger, and constantly adapting your habits to evade predictability. This is the reality many people unknowingly find themselves facing. 

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We dive into one such tale - an intriguing narrative where a person's experience in high-pressure sales jobs pushed them to their limits. But that's not all. This is also a story of a person who, when life gave them lemons, thought they'd been dealt a bad hand with the MMR vaccine, incorrectly attributing it as the cause of perceived brain damage. 

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"My days were consumed with thoughts that bordered on the absurd. I was convinced my brain damage theory was real, with my doctor's refusal to entertain this idea resulting in a strained and tumultuous relationship," 

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More twists await. This account takes us through celestial revelations, intense spiritual awakenings, and a deep belief in an extraordinary lineage that could make a Hollywood movie plot seem like child's play. Our protagonist begins to wonder: could they be descended from Jesus Christ himself? A tale of threadbare sanity and surreal insights, these pages promise an exploration of humanity's inner depths like never before. 

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Following my journey back to the UK after a stint in Tenerife, I found myself attending a group interviewing session near Oxford Street for a software company based in Australia. Remarkably, their software, priced in the higher echelons of the thousands, claimed to predict stock market fluctuations to an impressive degree. I subsequently managed to secure a private one-on-one interview scheduled for the afternoon of September 11th, 2001. As we all know, that very day would become one of the most infamous in modern history. 

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On that fateful afternoon, I was interrupted by a call from my mother, alerting me to the terrible news that a plane had flown into a building in New York. Like the rest of the world, I watched the unimaginable unfold in real time. Shaken by the events, I take it upon myself to call the company and postpone the interview due to stirring distress. Surprisingly, my call was their first wind of the incident. 

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When the interview was finally rescheduled and conducted on another day, I was offered the job, complete with a rather sizable £400 weekly basic allowance. This turned out to be my last foray into full-time work. The job didn’t last long, their sales took a hit after the events of September 11th. This moment served as the concluding chapter of my venture into sales jobs. My formative experiences in Tenerife, not this software developer, were to be the true catalyst for my professional struggles.

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Following my unsuccessful stint in sales, post my trip to Tenerife, I found myself at a crossroads with no clear path before me. As a result, I had no choice but to return to my previous undirected, freewheeling lifestyle. Attempts at finding a stable career hit a dead-end due to the conspicuous absence of any substantial references or accounts of my activities from my high school days until the present. By this time, I had resorted back to using marijuana as a mean of escape from the harsh reality that I had crafted for myself.

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In the hopes of making ends meet, I found myself employed at Essex Discounts, a retailer specializing in entertainment electronics in Loughton High Road. The pay-check, though meagre, was my only lifeline in a time I felt my life's prospects diminishing, all while battling a looming sense of depression in the absence of any confidante. I stuck around, swallowing the bitterness of under-appreciation and likely banking on the hope of something better to eventually knock on my door. 

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As time wore on, the company decided to stretch my responsibilities, adding cleaning chores to my existing retail duties. Yet, as an unjust twist, the remuneration scheme worked out in such a way that my labour in the shop’s backroom all but fell below the statutory minimum wage. Despite my voice of discontent echoing in the ears of my superiors, it fell on apathetic shoulders. 

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Unwilling to shoulder such vast responsibilities for less than a deserving wage, I decided it was high time I stood up for myself. So, I put in my resignation, leaving behind the work I was forced into without commensurate pay. However, wanting to leave a lasting statement, I dedicated the following few days standing right outside the store, advising every prospective buyer of the better deals they could get on the store's online platform. Perhaps, in some way, that was my attempt at a silent revolt against the staff who had once turned a blind eye to my predicament.

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Ultimately, I surrendered to the uncertainties of my journey, resigning myself to the chaotic tune of life. On reflection, I realize a plethora of opportunities lay within my reach, perhaps I could have embarked on an apprenticeship and mastered a trade skill. Intensely overwhelmed by my internal melancholia, I was convinced that any endeavour I embarked upon was doomed for defeat. This recurring theme has haunted my life like a shadow, asserting that my failures are solely my doing. While I had begun each endeavour with heedless optimism, it is indeed the decisions I made that delivered most of the predicaments I grapple with in my adulthood. How I wish I held this wisdom in 2002 as I sought to unravel the reasons behind the numerous challenges afflicting my life.

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As I recall, it was one spring evening in 2002 when I found myself staring at the constellation from the attic window at 101 Grosvenor Drive, Loughton and pondering about the course of my life. That's when I had what I consider a revelation. It dawned upon me that I had, in some uncanny way, anticipated the unfortunate demises of my acquaintances Chris Glover and Chris Baxter the last time I saw them. It never existed in my conciousness until this time and yet it was so blatant. Their remarkable pallid-then-ebon transformations were certainly unforgettable, but what puzzled me was Chris Glover's paralyzed stare when he eyed me, or how Chris Baxter took a glimpse of me as if he saw an apparition. That was the first time it occurred to me that what they might've caught sight of was a halo, indicating that I might have descended from Jesus Christ or perhaps, proclaimed as a God's child. The sheer enormity of these thoughts was overwhelming, and honestly, quite unnerving. It felt like traversing the uncharted waters of faith, a journey I wasn't ready to embark on at that time.

 

Understanding or rather the lack thereof was a significant challenge and I still grapple with the reality of what had transpired. After all, I am dependent on my memories, and they tell me that the events unravelled exactly as I remember. Dare I entertain the idea that my mind might've tampered with my memories to uplift my eroding self-esteem, to convince me of my worth during one of my life's darkest phases when suicide seemed like an imminent reality? Could this be a psycho-biological defence mechanism or a mere illusion? That can't be it, for I vividly recall having an exchange of words with my then flatmate, Graham, while we were at Brooklyn Court for the wake. I remember discussing Chris Glover's alarming pallor, but Graham seemed to have not noticed it at all.

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In my relentless pursuit of erraticism, I found myself meticulously avoiding any semblance of routine, from daily errands to social visits. My once casual activities, like trips to the shops or the pub, were marked by an overpowering need for unpredictability. This behavioral escalation soon urged me to refrain from frequenting any particular location. Over time, concern began to shift its focus away from me and towards the people I cherished – my family. The perception of them being unsafe was unsettling, made even more so by my inability to articulate why I felt this way. Confronting the demons that had taken hold of my life, without assistance, set the stage for my own destruction, serving as a prelude to my impending downfall. 

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Perhaps looking back, there could have been some mitigation if I had chosen to confide in someone, but that seemed as unattainable as a holy grail. My most resounding failure has been my persistent refusal to externalize my struggles, an error that has inflicted severe costs. When troubles are parsed out only within, they act akin to water filled up in a bottle - each additional droplet causing it to brim over until the container shatters and its contents spread messily. Never mistake it for a solution, as internalizing struggles is merely a deferment of an inevitable catastrophe.

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There I was, hoping that a case with Dickson Manchester & Company at the Employment Appeal Tribunal and eventually the Royal Courts of Justice might aid me. Yet surprisingly, I knew it would bear no fruits. Likely I was merely singing my own existence, needing assistance but only communicating my presence. The defeat brought a sense of despair, but it also illuminated an ironic truth - I was no better than my previous employer, resorting to similar poor conduct. They, however, managed to come off as if they wore halos, they were far from deserving. The ability to walk away is a difficult skill that has always eluded me - those who possess this are capable of forging a brighter tomorrow for themselves.

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My exploration into the potential link between MMR and Autism, specifically Asperger Syndrome, instantly struck a chord. The symptoms associated with it mirrored my own experiences to an uncanny degree. For the first time in my life, I was starting to unravel the reason behind my quirks and unique traits. This wasn't a search for blame or excuses, it was a quest for answers that felt increasingly authentic with every piece of information I discovered. It was all there - from my periodic struggles with memory recall, to difficulties with social interactions, and even the child-like outlook on life I'd always had. I also suffered from persistent headaches and strangely, had a hard time distinguishing sounds in noisy environments. The more I looked into the possibility of being on the Autistic Spectrum, the more pieces of the puzzle seemed to fall into place with echoes of my past experiences. 

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The turning point came when I learned that I had received my MR vaccine at 15. This revelation aligned almost perfectly with the onset of my life's challenges, marking a distinct shift in my journey. Upon further introspection, I recalled experiencing mumps in my childhood, but distinctly on one side of my body. This odd detail corroborated my theory even more, particularly because I had experienced localized swellings on my left side. Furthermore, I realized that my headaches were similarly localized, occurring only on the same side. 

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I once harboured the belief that the MR vaccine had not just harmed me, but transformed me, granting me an uncanny ability to predict an individual's week of demise. The gravity of these thoughts challenged my sanity, escalating further due to my reluctance to share. Looking back, I wish I had confided in my family, it might have eased my burden. At the time, I felt as if I were holding the world's troubles on my shoulders, attempting to untangle its most complex problems, even though they existed only as thoughts in my mind.

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During a passionate disagreement with my GP, I reacted aggressively due to my conviction that the MR vaccine had caused me unforeseen harm. Consequently, I was directed towards Mental Health Services, marking a significant turn in my life's narrative. Back then, my struggling mind was adrift in an incorporeal space, desperate to unearth the reasons behind my uniqueness, my troubles. With a considerably long period to wait before my appointment, I waded through this sea of confusion. My mind began unravelling the past, returning to the days of my youth, revealing knowledge I never thought I possessed.

 

We now live in a world forever changed by the events of September 11th. And oh, how intensely I felt the weight of those events! In my quest for understanding, I began to search for some pattern, some clue within them. As I dove deeper into the convoluted maze of thoughts, a certain date started haunting me - August 13th, 2002. It shook me with an insistent warning, though I didn't understand why.

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Linking together events, like a detective putting pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together, I found chilling connections. I realized a chilling situation. My mind started telling me that the tragic demise of Princess Diana and the illusion of 9 11, were part of a diabolical ploy. It whispered to me that these terrorists were trying to scandalize Diana's unfortunate death by linking it to 9 11. My mind was seeing a dark pattern in Roman numerals — was 9 11 not really 9 11, but rather 9 2? It seemed an ominous cipher. 

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The prediction of another terrifying attack started invading my thoughts. The tension and the responsibility engulfed me. I wanted to share this information, this pivotal theory, in hopes of preventing the disaster. I ventured multiple times to the American embassy at Grosvenor Square, hoping to alert the authorities to my suspicions. But each time, I found myself choking on the words, unable to express the terrible premonition I had become hostage to. 

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The possible outcomes of another attack were overwhelmingly disturbing. The implications of the death toll, the destruction, the aftermath, all seemed catastrophic if my hunch was right. My predictions were hinting at an attack of an exponentially larger magnitude than anything before, with the fatal danger of weapons of mass destruction becoming a distressingly frequent spectre in my thoughts.

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Before August 13th, 2002, I was scheduled for a mental health appointment. This was a platform I felt I could utilize to voice my fears. I elected to walk to the appointment that day. On my journey, I bore witness to a distressing event - a dog was struck by a car and ran off. I wanted to ensure it was okay, so much so that I nearly missed the appointment searching for it, but it was nowhere to be seen. Prior to the medical consult, I had an interaction with a female professional. I presumed she might be a social worker. The main consultation was intense. I was able to unleash my mental torrent on the empathetic doctor. 

 

The floodgates of my inner turmoil opened and I found myself, in what felt like no time at all, pouring out a cascade of fears, insecurities, and paranoia. Oddly, it seemed as though my hour-long appointment had morphed into a mere brief moment. I noticed a single tear coursing down the doctor’s cheek, an acknowledgment of my anguish which brought me immense comfort. I was no longer alone with these burdensome thoughts. 

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In an unexpected twist, he inquired if I was familiar with the prophecies of Nostradamus, which I was. But then, who isn’t? He presented me with an intriguing question: who did I believe was the "Golden Princess" that the ancient book referred to? Without much thought, I responded that it might be Princess Diana. However, later, it occurred to me that it could also be a cryptic allusion directed towards me - the commoner turned “Golden Princess” with celestial consequences.

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The shocking demise of Princess Diana was surely a catastrophe that resonated globally, bringing immense pain to countless individuals. On that ill-fated morning, I found myself drowsily lying on the carpeted floor of a vacant house, a friend's sanctuary. The television displayed the bleak news and I was initially in disbelief, deeming it a twisted prank. Diana’s abrupt departure seemed too surreal, too painful to be true. But as the minutes ticked away, the grievous reality gradually seeped in. I felt a heart-wrenching sorrow, a sentiment echoed by the majority for this tortured soul. The subsequent days were a whirlwind of public grieving. Life trudged on almost mechanically, as if the world was functioning on autopilot amidst the haze of sorrow.

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The day designated for the funeral swiftly arrived - a day that, under normal circumstances, I would have spent entirely working at Safeways. After much discussion, all the major supermarket chains reached a consensus. They agreed to close their stores for a few hours during the afternoon to allow their employees to participate in the communal mourning. I found myself at Lisa Naire's house - the same friend and colleague with whom I had been when the shocking news initially broke. We sat together, watching the funeral - a deeply poignant event that led us to introspective moments as such occasions often tend to do.

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Lisa, like me, needed to return to work. Since she owned a car, we decided to drive together, leaving the rest of our friends at her place. As we were halfway to our destination, cruising down Hillyfields, an alarming incident occurred. Without any forewarning, a boy darted in front of the car from the left. He was shortly followed by a second boy, who appeared just as abruptly. Lisa was forced to carry out an emergency stop, narrowly avoiding a collision with the boys by mere inches. I recount this experience here, as it was the trigger which led me, years later, to believe that Princess Diana had become my guardian, constantly watching over me and offering me protection. I started referring to her as the Golden Princess from this day forward.

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After my dealings with the medical establishment came to an end, I was left alone to navigate through my unique experiences. The suggestion was that voluntary hospitalization could provide a degree of calm and perspective for me. Nevertheless, I continued my journey, holding steadfast to my beliefs, confidant that they were insights born of divine providence. 

 

I felt deeply connected to spiritual symbols, the essence of the Christ, and even aligned my experience with the resonance of Sainthood. I theorized that these revelations were influenced by my experience with the MR vaccine. Yet, the further suspicion I harboured was of an impending calamity. While this initially weighed heavily on me, I shared my fears, as a form of forewarning, and managed to absolve myself of that troubling weight. Yet, numbers remained the centre of my psyche - an unshakeable force. 

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It was during this period that I started tracking dates surrounding my birth. My intent? To unearth evidence of my spiritual destiny - that of witnessing the manifestation of the Christ through numbers. To illustrate, when I'd lived for 1 year, 1 month, and 1 week, Mount St Helens erupted, signalling the birth of a new land. Furthermore, when I turned 33 year and 3 days, it marked the 100th anniversary of the Titanic's sinking. There is an inherent poeticism in numbers that one cannot deny, and this was evident to me more than ever. 

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While numerology provided comfort, it too birthed its own challenges. It's true that if you desperately wish to establish something, you can find correlational evidence available in abundance. This is something we see skilfully portrayed by politicians through statistical analytics, twisting and shaping data to suit their narrative. I found myself falling into a similar pattern, using statistics to shape and make sense of my life.

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Despite my staunch belief, the NHS dismissed any notion that I had reacted to the MR vaccine — a misstep of significant proportions. Yes, it was a misguided belief on my part, but it was my reality. If anyone had attempted to use science to elucidate the reasons for my physical afflictions, perhaps I could've understood my situation better. The role of science, after all, should be to discredit unfounded beliefs, not to make assumptions. Certainly, my unfounded assumption that the MMR vaccine was hazardous was a case in point. The NHS failed me during that crucial phase in my life, and regrettably, I failed myself too.

 

Devoid of any profession to occupy my mind, my thoughts delved deeper into the direction my life was taking. Under the premise that I was somehow imbued with Christ's vision, I became convinced that the entire world would soon be chanting my name. It was entirely up to me to decide how this revelation would unfold. Initially, the possibility of morphing into a public figure dawned upon me. Though some might view this as blatant arrogance, the reality was much more daunting to me. In fact, when faced with the rewards of my newfound status, I was filled with trepidation. The notion of being idolized for possessing the 'Christ Key' didn't resonate with me. Despite my scepticism, this belief felt as tangible as my own limbs. Now, with an array of vivid memories etched in my mind, I find myself in a state of existential confusion. After all, these intricate names bear such a divine significance that they can only be attributed to a higher power.

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Whilst desperate I went to Jamie Carter, I sought to form an allegiance but couldn’t word it out. I told him that people were trying to hurt my brothers because I wanted help robbing the Bank of England, that was a film I had an idea of and I was going to call the film The Italian’s Job and I needed lots of money, I don’t know, I didn’t get that far. Jamie sensed something amidst, he so fucking smart. I let rip before I explained about the film, Jamie Carter was the first member of the public I foretold the fortune of Glover and Baxter in halo terms and he wasn’t sure if I was round the fucking bend or yanking his fucking chain. We never went back to that conversation it paused in momentum in totality to progress any further.

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Internal Collapse by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Life unravels, each thread untwines, 
Torn and tattered, no longer aligned.
Hands outstretched, grasping thin air,
Feeling only the weight of despair.

The world spins, yet I stand still,
A puppet lost, against my will.
Choices fade, like echoes gone,
In this theatre of dusk's dawn.

Fate's cruel jest, no strings to steer,
A life adrift, consumed by fear.
Once solid ground, now slipping away,
No strength remains to seize the day.

Moments fray, like ancient cloth,
Promises broken, swallowed by wrath.
Witness to my own decay,
Yet powerless, in disarray.

Each step I take, met with resistance,
Dreams dissolve, lose their existence.
A helpless dance, in sorrow's art,
Life falling apart, tearing at my heart.