There are battles we fight with our fists, and then there are those we wage within our minds. The story you are about to dive into is an uncommon chronicle of one man's journey through mental health institutions, run-ins with renowned personalities, escapades in foreign lands, and the overwhelming depths of their own psyche. A tale steeped in visions of the past, strange beliefs, and the severe reality of mental health struggles. 

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Imagine a life steeped in mental turmoil so severe that it leads to lashing out at famous personalities and embarking on ill-conceived crime sprees. Picture having to grapple with the stark reality of an allergic reaction to medication intended to help you and even being sedated for something as benign as tampering with a puzzle. This is not a tale from a thriller novel, but the crushing realities faced by some. Join me as we unravel this complex narrative built not just on the hardships endured, but on the indomitable human spirit as well.

 

From grappling with the idea Jesus Christ surviving the crucifixion to an imagined face-off with Uri Geller, and to the tumultuous rollercoaster of crime and deception, we will take a hard look at the impact of mental health issues. Join me on this journey as we examine the dark corners of a troubled mind, the impacts they had on a man's existence, and the uphill battle against mental health afflictions.

 

There's a phase in most lives where a cloud of darkness descends, and for me, it was a journey into self-destruction. I was wallowing in a life devoid of self-worth, a job, a partner, or even a reason to feel a hint of joy. It seemed as though I was friendless. I acknowledge that I was responsible for most of my predicaments, yet, at that moment, I was too caught up in the blame game, shifting the blame from myself to others for my life's woes. This blame-shifting was on the cusp of intensifying to an unprecedented level. Amidst the turmoil of life's disappointments and the absence of future prospects, I found solace in marijuana as self-medication. If Mental Health Services had intervened then, perhaps my narrative could have been different, but I must take responsibility for not vehemently seeking their support. They, too, fell short in their duties towards me - a failure that could perhaps be ascribed to incompetence or inadequate funding - but the onus was on me to assert my needs, a task I evidently didn't accomplish.

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The dry spell had been lasting longer than expected and my sibling was supposed to secure some cannabis - however, the acquisition kept getting delayed. The repeated cycle of expectations being built and subsequently shattered was starting to affect my patience, thus transforming me into a somewhat annoying presence. While it's a common belief that cannabis isn't addictive, its psychological grip is undeniable, especially when you're in anticipation of partaking, only to be let down time and again.

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At some point, my brother had finally had enough of my incessant pestering, so he decided to lock the object of my fixation in the safe and then left the house. With my frustration building, I found myself lounging beside the safe, blaring music at a deafening volume and fiddling obsessively with a lock knife. My mother, unable to bear the noise, came in with the sole intent to lower the music volume. As she turned off the stereo, she also turned to see me standing there, a lock knife glinting menacingly in my hand. 

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Would I have stabbed my mother? Absolutely not. But did I want to intimidate her? Perhaps. My mind was in the grip of such destructive thoughts that I had no reins over. Seeing my dangerous state, my mother made a tough decision. She called the police and got my sister to safety. Upon their arrival, the police were hesitant to engage, given they faced a man in a confined space armed with a knife. They waited for my father's arrival, who willingly assumed the risky task of extracting me from that situation. As I was taken into custody, an unsettling realization dawned upon me - even though I hadn't used the knife, I was facing more trouble than I had ever experienced before.

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Under the glow of the early dawn, I found myself remanded to the care of St Margaret's Hospital, my debut experience under the Mental Health Act. Being sectioned was unnerving - it felt akin to a game where the consequences of breaking rules felt remarkably like a stern scolding in one's childhood. Yet, I found an unexpected solace at St. Margaret's. My stay was accommodated with my own space in an environment of mixed genders, which was an open door to comfort amidst the chaos. However, not everyone shared my sense of security. Their journeys led them further into the labyrinth of despair. One individual lingered in my memory, though his name has escaped it. One evening, just prior to his medication, he violently ejected himself through a window in his bedroom. His flight seemed senseless as leaving the premises was as simple as a daytime stroll. Yet, when he returned and rang the doorbell within the hour requesting re-entry, I couldn't help but ponder the magnitude of his personal battles. That very same night, his escape translated to his relocation to a tightly secured facility - escaping it wouldn't be child's play anymore.

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While St Margaret's hospital was comforting, my defiance led me to challenge a physician from Loughton who, in my perspective, let me down. This resistance, however, often ended up being self-defeating. Trust issues encompass me and if I perceive being mistreated or manipulated even once, I'm not one to easily offer forgiveness considering what I've already lost. When I sense this disappointment, I deliberately distance people to protect myself from further pain. As though on autopilot, I instinctively gravitate towards self-destruction and doe so repeatedly, regarding this pattern almost like a code of ethics. The process of personal change isn't something one would call easy and for me, it has proved elusive. Intricately crafted defences surround me, shielding me from potential harm, even if it seems unrealistic.

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Having my family come to visit often was tremendously beneficial; it was particularly moving to see my father sitting there alongside my sister during a visit. I knew how disconcerted he was when my sister came into this world. In addition to these frequent visits, St Margaret's offered a variety of therapeutic activities, and I gravitated toward art therapy. It had a soothing effect on me and I discovered I had a knack for creating, earning some admiration from other patients and possibly some staff.

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Staying active while in the hospital was crucial, it helped time pass more swiftly, which was a relief considering I was slated to stay there for several weeks. Despite this, there was an unsettling occasion during my first week where I nearly jumped off a railway bridge. I found myself wandering off the ward during the day and managed to get onto a disused railway line that used to connect Epping to Ongar on the Central line. As I walked toward Ongar, I ended up standing on a bridge overlooking a quiet road, contemplating jumping. It was unlikely it would have ended my life, but I could have broken my neck, further complicating my entangled life. An unlikely event took place on my walk back – a deer charged at me but was stopped by a thin fence along the tracks, before it swiftly turned and darted into the forest. That deer's freedom brought a spark of joy, a smile to my face after what felt like ages. But it's still unclear to me why that incident ignited such joy. Was it the sight of the deer running free or was it the sheer unpredictability of life? It could have been a moment of enlightenment - a hint that I still had a chance at freedom. But sadly, I got absorbed back into my life's dreariness rather quickly.

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In the late summer of 2002, as I neared the end of my stay, we, the patients, were overtaken by the idea of hosting a barbecue in the garden - an idea which was warmly welcomed by the staff. However, it came with the responsibility of arranging for food and footing the bill ourselves. Bearing the responsibility of gathering the funds and even procuring the food, I felt an invigorating sense of purpose seeping back into my life, a feeling of control I hadn't felt in a while. St. Margaret's, I commend you for making extra efforts to instil in me the self-assurance I had long lost. However, I regret the lack of aftercare, and how it led to my life spiralling downward once again. Despite the ample life-skills handcrafted for my betterment, I accept the blame for letting it all go to waste rather than blaming you.

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While I was in the hospital, I didn't invest time contemplating my subsequent move, despite making attempts at securing social housing, but to no avail. My status wasn't deemed a priority. Consequently, on the day of my discharge, with merely £100 in my pocket, I took an impromptu journey to the airport, utterly clueless about my destination. Malaga emerged as the most affordable choice and so, off I flew, bereft of residential provisions and far from sufficient funds for sustenance. 

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This hasty move spiralled my life into chaos. The first week was precarious, as I navigated the train line, compelled to beg, just to keep afloat. Each relenting day waned into night, and I found refuge at the airport for my nightly rest.

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Before long, I found myself in Torremolinos, working in a bar where I met a couple who also started on the same night. Generously, they allowed me to crash on their apartment sofa for as long as I needed. After a while, I made the tough decision to reach out to my father, asking him to finance my journey back home in return for a bottle of delightful Spanish Brandy. While in Torremolinos, I did manage to let loose and enjoy myself, but soon paranoia began to settle in after my mediation depleted. I could swear that the medication given to me lacked potency, almost like a placebo, and was dispensed without any further follow-up. The medical team accused me of neglecting appointments, while I starkly remember not receiving any follow-up notifications. 

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In a state of heightened sensitivity, I found myself convincing that I was a descendant of Jesus Christ with a unique gift of perceiving the interplay of light and shadow in the valley of death. The story of crucifixion seized my thoughts, urging a re-evaluation. Had I possibly been looking at it askew? I had my share of near-death experiences, like those of Glover and Baxter, which fed my musings. Could Jesus Christ not have foreseen his demise at the final supper, sensing the betrayal that loomed? 

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As the Romans maintained their routine checks on the crucified, waiting for the onset of death to remove the bodies, Jesus could have used this gruesome ritual to his advantage. Maybe, as he teetered on the brink of mortality, his visage mirrored the shadow of death, fooling his Roman executors into thinking that he had passed. Possibly, those close to him played along, taking him for dead and interring him, only to return under the cover of darkness to whisk him away. But these are musings of an overworked mind, stretching to comprehend its own reality. Despite these delusions, I firmly believe in the actual death of Jesus Christ on the cross, even as I sought solace in these wild conjectures.

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After returning to England, dad greeted me at the airport, and I stayed at his place. However, sleeping on floor cushions was not my ideal vision of comfort. Early the next day, my nan cautiously made her way downstairs, heading to her group. She had survived a stroke several years prior, which greatly limited her abilities, even making communication difficult. She was destined for a day trip at a daycare facility for social interaction. Little did I know, this would be the last time I saw her, even though she had another year left on her journey.

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Remembering the morning I decided to declare myself homeless at the Epping Forrest council, I left my dad’s place. However, they turned me down once again, leaving me feeling stranded. I chose the streets over asking for help, swallowed by my own pride. Despite the numerous people who could've offered me assistance back then, before my life spiralled into complete disarray. The harsh days and freezing September nights on the streets remains a vivid memory. The cold was relentless, refusing to leave my bones despite the warmth of the day. 

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There were days I couldn't find warmth, despite various attempts. Often, these were the days spent riding trains from one station to another, finding solace in brief naps during the rides. Soon enough, I found my way back to mother's doorstep, mending some of the bridges that I had burned. Knocking on her door, with a hope of being welcomed back, was perhaps the most challenging obstacle I ever overcame. Yet, she'd likely retort that her door was, and always would be, open for me.

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During this period of mental turmoil, I believed I was being communicated with by an omnipotent force through the nuances of my personal experiences. Everywhere I turned, I looked for hidden codes and meanings. Just like a gambler remembers only his victories, I focused predominantly on my discoveries of these so-called codes. It's interesting how, when you're in such a state, you can seemingly find patterns in everything. This constant search and discovery left me excited yet mentally drained. 

 

This paranoia went deeper as I started doubting the very people set out to help me - the Mental Health Services. Each time I stumbled upon a 'code', I'd question whether the state had deliberately placed it there as a tactic to manipulate my thoughts and actions. Such thoughts aren't commonplace, but for me, they were as real as daylight. These patterns and codes that I perceived everywhere - always lurking, always present yet not - they warped my reality in a truly unsettling way.

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Before long, I found myself spiralling back into the familiar territory of trouble. A television program triggered my anger, leading me to compose a series of troubling, harassment-laden emails filled with outrageous threats addressed to the prominent figure, Uri Geller. The fury took over me inexplicably, an alarming symptom of my lurking illness that somehow translated my suffering into projecting pain on others. Regret always followed, late but lingering, casting shadows of embarrassment on my manic outbursts when self-control felt like a remote concept. It was during this manic climax of distress that the authorities intervened, apprehending me for my behaviour. 

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However, the climax escalated when I let my anger project onto a doctor at the police station. My verbal aggression was misread as a precursor to physical violence, landing me into Shannon House at the Princess Alexandra Hospital. Looking back, I can unabashedly declare Shannon House as the worst ward experience in my journey with mental health.

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At Shannon House, the grey monotony was a constant reminder of another past event I wished to forget. Activities were scarce, with the only option for outdoor time being a small, enclosed courtyard, reminiscent of a miniature version of the Lloyds building - a constant reminder of another bleak chapter in my life. A number of the fellow patients were combative, often resorting to violence, while others were reliant on verbal confrontations. There was another section though - an unfortunate group so heavily tranquilized they could easily pass off as extra casts in a zombie movie. The meals offered were far from palatable, and the apparent disinterest shown by the staff members was as bitter as the food we were served.

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For quite some time, I fell prey to the illusion that I was perfectly okay, simply functioning on a superior plane that others couldn't grasp. A veil of confusion hung between my mental ailment and my acceptance, obscuring the true nature of the problem. Indeed, until this fog lifted, gaining insight into the manifestations and root causes of my condition would remain an insurmountable task.

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One particular day, I found myself drawn to an incomplete jigsaw puzzle - nothing more than a source of momentary distraction. My aim was to merely relocate some pieces, fully intending to reassemble them back into the puzzle afterwards. Nevertheless, the staff responded with disproportionate force and administered drugs to put me to sleep for the entire day. I was unfairly made to endure physical restraint, removal of clothing, and an unprovoked injection in my backside. 

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This unjust exertion of power, carried out by staff clearly on some misguided power trip, only seemed to breed future difficulties by eroding faith in humanity. There was no occasion or justification for such use of force - I displayed neither violence nor aggression. This excessive display of control only appeared to reflect the imbalance of power they held over me, demonstrating their ability to wield it regardless of the cost. 

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My trust for the mental health services was increasingly waning during my time at Shannon House. This fed into an inevitable disconnection from me and the entire service, culminating in a pervasive lack of trust and a persistent reluctance to engage with those who were meant to aid my recovery. 

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I'll introduce you to a fellow patient at Shannon House named Stephen. Always introverted and exhibiting high-strung tendencies, our personalities were as contrasting as chalk and cheese. Picture this: an ordinary evening, I was stepping out into the yard for a breath of fresh air. Without any provocation to warrant his behaviour, Stephen lunged at me, seemingly enthusiastic about the idea of an unprovoked scuffle. In hindsight, it was evident why he belonged there - his affinity for conflict was a clear sign of his troubled state of mind, labelling him as someone truly, deeply disturbed.

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My next ordeal was an allergic response to the prescribed anti-psychotic medication. I was casually watching television when an unanticipated stiffness crept up my neck on the left side. Initially, I dismissed it as a by-product of the awkwardly mounted TV, but the condition quickly deteriorated. Realizing my muscles weren't functioning properly, especially on my left, I sought help from the staff. Fortunately, they rapidly diagnosed it as an allergic reaction and administered the antidote. Within moments, my muscles started to relax, bringing some relief. But still, boredom hung heavy, leaving the daily television routine as the only highlight in my life at that moment.

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Having spent nearly a month at Shannon House, I found myself moving toward an undeniable sense of freedom as November 2002 came to a close. The prospect of spending the holidays confined wasn't a thought I fancied nurturing. Time and again, I leaped over the hurdles put forth by the system, earning myself a release just in time for Christmas. However, the system had lost my trust, and the abyss of my inner chaos had grown deeper than ever before. 

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Each sunrise ushered in further despair, as I grappled to scrape by with barely enough to afford cigarettes and a weekly portion of hash. The job market remained indifferent to my plight in spite of my clean record - no past encounters with criminal justice. But this stage of life was proving to be a relentless downturn. When the rock bottom seems to move further down each day, there comes a point when the weight of it all becomes unbearable. 

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There's only so long you can keep up the fight until the will to push ahead waivers. And when I found myself at this precipice of resignation, that's where the danger set in. The combination of excessive idle time and an overactive mind became a breeding ground for perilous thoughts.

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In an epiphany, I became aware of my unique role, leaving me perplexed as to why the system was doused in such disdain towards me. It was around this point that I grasped the unsettling truth - my very existence was viewed as a potential threat to the monarchy. It wasn't about harbouring ill feelings towards the royal family. However, apparently, someone or a group of individuals within the nation had painted me as a potential destabilizer to the Crown's future. With this revelation, disillusionment with the system was at an apex, replaced with an ever-looming dread of prosecution, marking my new norm. But I had a beacon of hope - God. It was He who unveiled the vision of Christ to me, communicating His divine strategy—an unwavering faith was born in me, bringing solace in this bleak chapter of my life.

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My quest for finding hidden messages was intriguing yet torturous. The thrill of decoding a secret language that only I was privy to, consumed my thoughts. The concept of finding this coded message in random places became a focal point. As I pondered over this, it struck me that vehicle number plates would be a good starting point to uncover these random codes. Before I knew it, I was sinking deeper into this rabbit hole, purchasing 'Lucky Dip' lottery tickets, contemplating over the number combinations, trying to detect hidden messages. This obsession with numerical codes took on a life of its own; any information that could be converted into a numeric format fell prey to this obsession. 

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This exercise of constantly identifying patterns, converting everything into numbers, and reading between lines was all-consuming. When you are trapped in such an obsession, the mind magically starts perceiving patterns. These patterns started influencing my actions and values. Such an extent of fixation can be detrimental, as it turned out to be in my case. 

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All the while, my family was oblivious to the mental turmoil I was going through. The trust I once had in mental health services had eroded, leaving me feeling isolated and alone. This internal battle seemed never-ending, heightened by my worsening condition ever since my first engagement with mental health services.

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In my quest for meaning and understanding, the labyrinth of life led me to conceive an idea, almost mad in its grandeur – a pilgrimage to Egypt. Despite the far-fetched nature of my plan, the more I pondered, the more it began emanating a divine aura. Originally, I hypothesized that the world map, when folded correctly on key locations, would resemble a perfect pyramid. Full of curiosity, I poured over maps in the local library and soon discovered my hypothesis to be false. Far from being disheartened, this spurred a profound fixation on Egypt, a cradle of creation and mystery. 

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I immersed myself in the study of the Ancient Land, wondering if I could learn from their grandeur, from their echo in eternity. And then, one fateful day, an image seized my imagination - a photograph of the iconic pyramid, flat at the top. Suddenly, it wasn't just an incomplete structure; it was a stage, a platform to proclaim one's existence to the world. I started pondering - perhaps, the Ancients had knowledge of Jesus Christ even before His advent? Maybe their power to inspire the masses to create architectural wonders had roots in this knowledge? What if, I, influenced by this profound realization, could mobilize today's societies to bring about monumental improvements to the world we live in?

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One daunting evening, I surrendered my desire to lead a regular life, stemming from a trivial matter as mundane as the absence of cigarettes. The spontaneous decision to loot a Threshers Off-License located on Englands Lane, in the hopes of acquiring some packs of cigarettes led me to a path of no return. I was successful in my pursuit, but the trail of evidence left behind was alarming. It was only a matter of time before retribution found me. 

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As I embarked on my way back home, a bolt of entrepreneurship struck me. With a sudden plan to gather viable objects for sale to finance my fugitive journey to Egypt, I decided to return to the scene of my crime. The thoughts that reverberated through my mind at this time were far from sensible and reflected a complete loss of grounding in reality. 

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An hour or so had lapsed since my initial break-in when I made my way back to the Threshers store. The police were still inspecting the scene, and the shattered entrance was now barricaded, giving rise to the next requirement - a Phillips screwdriver. Undeterred, I returned home to fetch the tool, with the singular intention of dismantling the obstruction and looting the store yet again. 

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With success during the second intrusion, I fled with a bag loaded with profitable items. Regardless, the irrational instinct to return a third time prevailed in my mind, even urging me to attempt borrowing a vehicle to facilitate the intended crime. Amidst this tumultuous spiral, I had lost all regard for the law, let alone any thoughts concerning my own wellbeing. 

 

Walking this path had started to classify me under the label of 'criminal,' a label that tends to alter an individual's psyche and self-perception in profound ways. I can affirmatively say that the 'label' had begun to change me, moulding me to fit its confines. 

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The spoils from the illicit ventures were quickly expended one night at the Royal Standard. It was here, after a pint, that trepidation gave way to reckless decision-making. A friend's air rifle became my tool of choice for a robbery at Threshers in Broadway, Debden. Thoughts of accumulating enough cash to forge a new future in Egypt clouded my judgement. It escapes me even now, why I chose a stocking as a disguise – clearly, I had already thrown caution to the wind. Following a hasty bag fill, I darted past Debden Station to the nearby industrial sector, home to a conveniently situated taxi depot. 

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My taxi driver was acutely aware of my recent indiscretion, his unease palpable in the tense silence that filled the cab. On reaching Loughton, anxiety gripped me, prompting an impulsive deviation off-road to evade the pursuing law enforcement. Homesickness started to set in, amplified by the painfully real consequence of my reckless conduct - homelessness. 

 

There was still a sliver of optimism nestled within me, somewhere, subtly nudging me towards my dream destination - Egypt. With the visa stamp already gracing my passport, the only obstacle appeared to be my own wavering resolve and the increasing bouts of self-deprecating thoughts. My friend was understandably hurt and upset when I returned his air rifle after a job that wasn't fully explained. The spiralling despair and extreme chaos engulfing my sanity made it seem as though life was happening to me, rather than me actively partaking it, thoroughly weighing my thoughts and actions.

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With newfound bravado, I ventured into another Threshers, this time nestled at the far end of Loughton High Street. This time, I brandished a knife, the largest one I could afford with the spoils from my past exploits. At that time, I was mostly haunting the vicinity of Ilford and recalled purchasing the knife-set from an Argos outlet there. I staged the hold-up at the Off-License, this time succeeding in cracking open the till and naively taking the tracking device bundled with what I assumed were twenties. In a panic, I fled to the Oakwood Hill Estate, hailed a taxi to the British Legion, where I discovered and quickly discarded the tracker in the restroom. Initially, the bundle of cash I thought I had amounted to hundreds of pounds was merely a single £20 note, marked with a serial code I feared could be traced back to me. I even pondered incinerating it to remove it from existence, but ultimately, I decided to spend it at the Liverpool Street train station, though to this day I still can't remember why I was there in the first place.

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In an increasingly irrational and obsessive manner, I found myself acting out. Engaging in risky behaviours was becoming the norm, with little to no regard for my personal wellbeing. It's important to understand that this period signifies the absolute lowest point in my life, where I was held hostage by my relentless thoughts and actions. Believe me when I say, I never want to revisit this dark phase, as it was a time when my life was a living nightmare. On a surprising note, amidst this chaos, I found a sickening solace, an escape from my suicidal thoughts, which would undoubtedly have consumed me during this troubling period.

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Ripped off for two counterfeit jackets in West London, I found myself stripped broke again - two jackets richer as summer was knocking at the door. The clarity of my poor decision-making, or rather lack of it was becoming starkly apparent. Not that I'm holding it as an excuse - I am responsible for my actions. However, looking back at those times, I feel like I had little control, almost as if I was on autopilot, observing my life unfolding from afar. The fact that a supposedly fair legal system could convict me, given my mental state, is something I struggle to comprehend. Yet it was an impending reality, although the possibility of being on a direct route to imprisonment didn't even cross my mind.

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I recall my final night of liberty; it unfolded in Ilford. I remember indulging in drink and engaging in a lively chat with a fellow bar patron of Irish descent. As dawn broke, I found myself grappling with nausea before embarking on what would be my last unlawful act - an attempted supermarket robbery. Often, people question my mindset during this episode; they wonder what prompted me to intimidate innocents with a counterfeit explosive device. Honestly, I don't have a solid answer. Perhaps, I was hoping to be shot, but my surrender negates this theory. If I'd faced a gun that day, I may have simulated a reach for my own weapon. It's safe to say I was teetering on the precipice of sanity. Looking back, I am unable to clearly comprehend or explain why I was acting as I did. I wasn't afforded the benefit of therapeutic intervention to address my spiralling insanity; rather, I was unceremoniously dumped into the curdled reality of prison, which only served to deepen my mental disturbances. Within the span of a week, I had recklessly discarded the remnants of my existence, which led to my eviction from the societal fold and pushed me to embark on a path towards self-reflection and rehabilitation.

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Let's unfold this tale together, as we delve deeper into the narrative. You might find it difficult to believe the chain of events; a series of life-altering twists were just beginning to occur. The calm within me allowed a passive compliance with the police officials. I walked through the procedural steps, void of reaction or insistence. An embodiment of docile cooperation with a system that was pinning me down, I was simply going through the motions. 

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However, as you immerse yourself more deeply into my experience, you will identify the emergence of indifference, a profound feeling of nothingness. It was like walking through a thick fog, devoid of direction or purpose. The inherent humanity within me was slowly being overlaid with a film of disconnect. Was this going to be the proverbial wake-up call I desperately needed? Only time would tell. 

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Fasten your seatbelts as we disentangle the maze of confronting the hardships of mental health and the struggle for survival amid the chaos. As this narrative unfolds, you'll understand the journey of a soul adrift amidst systemic shortcomings and personal battles. You will realize just how deep the rabbit hole of mental agony can run, and how it can change the perception of reality itself.

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Picture me standing in the smoking area, casually watching as a guard inputs the security code into the external door. An average person, in their right mind, would have tried to observe and note the numbers, perhaps even seize this potential escape opportunity. But at that time, in my mentally disturbed state, I felt as though this supposed lifeline was being proffered to me in my most detached moments. Here I was, teetering on the edges of what felt like an existential cavern, filled with profound uncertainty and a waning faith in humanity. Some part of me believed that despite my screaming for help in the dark abyss, my pleas were simply dissipating into the void. 

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My last decent meal before things really took a turn was a pizza from The Kebabery. It was a haphazard affair - half charred, half appetizing, half distasteful - a perfect metaphor for my life at that moment. Yet, I devoured it entirely, a desperate attempt to claim some semblance of normality in my chaotic existence.

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Picture it, a Saturday like any other in the cell, as I faced the magistrates, entirely in denial about the situation's gravity. My thoughts and actions, you see, weren't coming from a sound mind at that time. Even as I was being held to face the Crown court, I held onto this misplaced belief that I'd secure bail, and do more - escape the clutches of the law. Disconcertingly, I even started entertaining illusions that the authorities would somehow aid my escape plan. The sobering reality of being transported to HMP Chelmsford was a tough pill to swallow, and thoroughly well-deserved at that. Nonetheless, I remained under the impression that a mental institution would have been my immediate destination.

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The initial days I spent with my first cellmate--a junkie suffering from withdrawal symptoms--were anything but easy. Foolishly thinking I would be granted bail, I exhausted my limited funds on buying three pouches of smoke, generously sharing one with my struggling mate. It quickly became clear how challenging it would be to get another fix once my supply ran dry. Suddenly, I was transferred to F wing, a place where my difficulties became glaringly apparent. My new cell companion was a man who had undertaken multiple marriages and was facing the repercussions. The day "This Morning" aired an interview with one of his scorned wives, we found ourselves sharing a cell. Despite his complicated personal life, he was a decent chap and drug-free. A few days later, he was shifted to a D category to complete his sentence of mere weeks--a move I held to be a wasteful deployment of resources.

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Life behind bars is harsh, and during my days at HMP Chelmsford, I found myself confined for up to 23 hours at a time. There was a kind of relief that came from canteen Fridays - the one day with a 24-hour lockdown where biscuits were my silver lining. The food was barely palatable. Primitive perhaps is a fitting description, yet somewhat nourishing. It fell short of expectations, especially considering the current food conditions. Irrespective, adjusting to the lack of a toilet seat was a challenge in and of itself. Picture the grimness of spending snap moments in the block where I often found myself. It's paramount to keep your wits about you and strive to stay under the radar to endure the trials this institution throws your way. 

 

Truth be told, the majority of my term at HMP Chelmsford was spent engrossed in thoughts of escape. These relentless contemplations buzzed in my mind like a swarm of bees. Props were made to aid my potential flight, yet, puzzlingly, my drive to push through waned. Despite my undying faith in each dawning day revealing an opportunity, I hesitated. Could this have been a product of the emotional war within me? Some turmoil that stemmed from my illness?

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One particular evening, fed up with my plight, I took a drastic step. Without any channel to voice my frustrations, I thought it might be possible to start a blaze in my own cell, overpower the guard, and set free everyone on F wing. My comprehension of reality was skewed; it was a no-win situation, akin to trying to affect the outcome while battling against the wind. This led to yet another few nights in solitary. As time slipped by, it dawned on me that I hadn't reached out to any of my family. I found myself in self-imposed isolation within prison, intensifying the hardships of incarceration. Reflecting on my six-month stint at HMP Chelmsford, I realized that it was there when I was handed a four-year sentence to pay my dues to society.

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Ultimately, my flight instincts led me to stage a heart attack, deep in the confines of B wing. My cellmate was only eager to offer a crash course in feigning cardiac arrest, informing me that a plausible health emergency would necessitate a ground-floor stay at hospital, ripe with escape opportunities like open windows. So, following his meticulous instructions, I gave an Oscar-winning performance of what appeared to be a life-threatening cardiac event that required immediate hospital attention. 

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Unfortunately, my demise came when questioned about the feeling in my limbs. I had ignorantly responded that I could feel my arms and legs, unaware of the limb numbness that typically accompanies a heart attack. Taking cues from my fellow convict, I had doused my clothing to mimic excessive sweat and mimicked the symptoms of chest pain, weakness, and arm heaviness. But was it all a ruse? Was I merely a test subject for a fellow inmate plotting his own escape? Whether this was true, I'll never know. 

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Following this botched escape attempt, I quickly resigned myself to accept the impending sentence -- a stark reality that could have been even grimmer had I been assigned an E-Man suit, the bright orange garb exclusively reserved for escape artists. These suits are collected at lockup, leaving the wearer bare and vulnerable through the long, cold nights. 

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During my time at HMP Chelmsford, I found solace amidst the monotony by engaging in art classes. It's astonishing to think that my first significant foray into art emerged within prison walls. It wasn't my first brush with creativity - my childhood was steeped in drama, you see. Looking back, I sense that my potential for expression lay dormant until imprisonment ignited it, and perhaps even saved me from the brink of despairing decisions. In a poignant incident, my art teacher appreciated a drawing I'd rendered by gifting me a large pouch of burn. It was a testament to my prowess - a prowess belatedly yet powerfully discovered in the most unexpected vestiges of life.

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As you dive deeper into my personal narrative, you'll find that the scenarios become more challenging. A most regretful memory of mine is fumbling things up on F-Wing. I was caught in a whirlwind of internal struggles that led me to make wrong choices. I foolishly found myself indulging in 'tick and burn' on the double bubble - a risky double or nothing game. 

 

Those choices threw me onto the numbers, a harsh reality which I wasn't prepared for. Not only was the physical adjustment overwhelming, but mentally it was a battle I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. Looking back, I deeply regret this period in my life, and I can't help but acknowledge that I could've handled things much better. 

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In hindsight, opportunities for personal growth and recovery were present on F-Wing, and it's disheartening to look back and see that I was incapable of seizing them. Each individual journey through recovery is unique; mines just happened to be fraught with missed opportunities and regrettable decisions. 

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Through sharing my story, I hope to shed some light on the dangers of poor decision-making in the face of mental hardship. It's crucial that we not only acknowledge our struggles but also seek help actively. Failing to do so only leads to outcomes we may regret later in life, as I did on F-Wing.

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My transition to prison life was strikingly similar. It's that feeling of helplessness and isolation; the cold linoleum floors and metallic bars. Just like when I first moved schools, I felt like an outsider, a stranger in a foreign land. Much as I'd done in school, I sought refuge - not in drama, but in books and the inner workings of my mind. 

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Yes, I remember Roding Valley High School. I remember walking through those long, winding halls plastered with multi-stickered lockers. I remember feeling absolutely alone. Yet, just like I did back then, I tried to find solace, find my bearings in this new setting. 

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I'd picked fights at Roding Valley; a bravado that helped mask my insecurity, my fear of being invisible. I did the same in prison, asserting my presence where I could. But it wasn't who I truly was. 

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Drama was my saving grace in school. Through it, I found not only an escape, but a sense of belonging. Playing a role in 'Godspell' paved the way for friendships, for companionship. And in that silhouetted figure of Michael Smith, I found someone I could relate to, and someone who understood what it was like to feel out of place. 

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Despite my minor part in the school production, I cherished those moments. I remember the thrill, the anticipation, the camaraderie. It was more than just a role in a play; it was the gateway to acceptance. And as I sat alone in prison, that sense of camaraderie and acceptance was what I yearned for, what I missed the most.

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During my stage performance for Macbeth, I found myself in a less-than-ideal state, heavily under the influence of alcohol. It wasn't a deliberate plan but resulted from a celebratory mix of spirits brought in by an older peer. A few of us got a taste, but I returned multiple times, making me excessively intoxicated. Yes, I was truly sloshed.

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So, you might be wondering, did the show truly go on? Yes, it did, but the memory of that evening haunts me even today, a stark reminder of the reckless choices of my past. Though beautifully masked with glowing spotlights and a well-received performance, behind the scenes, I was a tornado of emotions. My classmates watched in disbelief as I marshalled all my drunken energy to go on stage, perform and deliver Donalbain's lines. 

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The audience, unaware of my inebriated state, met my performance with thunderous applause. The narrative of the script cloaked my disorderly conduct so well that even though my vision was hazy and my speech slightly slurred, the show appeared unscarred. Those backstage, knew the truth. The taste of shame was far more potent than any spirit I had consumed that night. 

 

After the curtains closed, I faced the music. Rather than the usual post-show celebrations, I was met with hard stares and disappointment, especially from Mr. Smith, our drama teacher. His thoughtful gaze reflected a mixture of concern and consternation. An unforgettable lesson in responsibility, or better yet, the stark lack of it. 

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That night, Donalbain may have been the steaming drunk, but I was the one who had to face the consequences. A harsh reality, but one that ultimately helped shape my life and fight my battles.

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Spinning Mind by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Whispers weave a tangled thread,
Shadowed thoughts inside my head.
Reality's grip loosens its hold,
Darkened fears begin to fold. 

 

Faceless voices call my name,
Trust and hope now play a game.
A mirror reveals a stranger's face,
Sinking further in this wretched place. 

 

Walls around me start to close,
Clarity cries yet darkness grows.
Fragmented visions, broken scenes,
Truth obscured by what it means. 

 

Every ally turns to foe,
In paranoia’s cruel shadow.
Desperation's grip, a vice unseen,
Collapsing into scizophrenia’s stream.