Olthwaite

My father watches a lot of TV comedy. He always has. Mostly his tastes run the gamut between Bernard Manning and Roy 'Chubby' Brown. Occasionally, he watches something more challenging, as long as it doesn't contain anyone too intelligent to make him resentful.

Ripping Yarns was one of those.

One episode in particular (along with the more typical spoofs of public school, sport, colonialism and the Second World War) was titled 'The Testing of Eric Olthwaite'. This was the tale of a young man who talked ceaselessly about one or two subjects to the exclusion of all else. Eric was so boring, his parents ran away from home.

I wish mine had.

I was, and probably still am, someone who can talk endlessly about things that interest me. My father is the same, but since he does not share my interests to him I am boring. Throughout my childhood he mocked me because of this. I once bought a comic that said Sol Brodsky was dead. I thought my father, a 1960s comics fan would be interested. No. For years afterwards he recounted the tale in an 'Eric Olthwaite' voice saying "Sol Brodsky's dead today, mother". I was 13 years old at the time.

I learned a hard lesson here. Whether it has standed me in good stead is another matter. I learned not to say anything if I had any doubt about how what I said would be received. I learned that if I was enthusiastic about something, people would ridicule me for it. I learned that if something is enjoyable, then it's sad and pathetic.

Now I live an entirely enclosed life. I stay in this room and indulge my pursuits. And I don't tell anyone. They won't understand. I think they'd understand more if I was viewing porn and 'extreme' action videos rather than looking up Royal Geneologies and Adam Curtis documentaries. But sex and violence (and combinations of both) are not sad and pathetic.

Discovered enthusiasm is ridicule. You will be destroyed for liking things others don't.

And now, my parents complain I stay in my room and never talk to them. I'm sorry, but some things are hard to forgive.

Medical

I went for the medical yesterday. Went about as expected.

Found the anonymous building it was at surrounded with scaffolding and the sound of construction work. One of those things if you live in an expanding university town.

The office was remarkably large but barely furnished The doctor didn't bother checking anything physical on me. He looked and sounded bored as he ticked off the checklist on his PC. I can't really blame him if the people in the waiting room are any indication of those he has to see (I think most people would describe them as chavs - there was even a sign in reception that said "Consumption of Alcohol is Not Permitted on These Premises").

I was asked the usual questions. How did I feel? How did my feelings affect what I was able to do? Was I capable of this, that and the other? Do I drink or take drugs? Do I have any friends? Was I anxious in coming here today? And I was expected to know the answers to all these questions.

He asked me how I was getting home. I always find it unnerving when people try to make small talk, especially when they so obviously have no interest but do it because their training says it's a Good Thing to Do.

His report will be passed to my Personal Advisor, who I've yet to meet and probably has not learned of my existence. No doubt this will be a poorly-paid Civil Servant skilled in hassling and demeaning the 'unworthy' as those are the types who tend to be successful. Even if only people come off Benefits just to avoid them. It all goes towards hitting government targets. And we all know targets are more important than people.

Medical

I received a letter on Wednesday. I have to report to a 'Centre' to undergo a 'medical examination'.

As suspected, I must have tripped off a function in a computer program. I've been on Incapacity Benefit for a year. Therefore all efforts must be made to get me off it. No doubt the Benefits Agency have 'targets' to meet.

Since I'm on IB due to 'depression' (what my sick notes say), quite how they'll examine me is open to question. There will probably be a written test, probably box-ticking as this is easy to quantify. I will probably fail, and thus judged fit for some sort of work, as I'm not catatonic or psychotic. Basically, I'm being set up to fail because some civil servant wants a performance-related bonus, just as I lost my job because a manager wanted to make his presence felt.

After that I will be passed to what the letter terms a 'Personal Adviser' who will make me attend a 'Work Focused Interview'. This will assail me with hassling and demeaning words and demands that I justify myself, and prostrate myself in order to get work.

If my benefit is stopped, it's no real loss. I have over £30,000 in the bank so I won't starve. It's just disconcerting that I'm going to have to go through a system that presumes I'm a malingerer and must be punished.

My own plan was to start applying for temporary jobs in retail (my previous line of work) around November, when shops traditionally look for extra Xmas staff. But my plans mean nothing in the computer-generated, cost-cutting, target-driven world of the Benefits Agency

Alcohol

I drink too much. You don't have to tell me.

They say that an alcoholic is someone who drinks more than you do. I average a bottle of wine (or equivalent) a day. And what's worse, I drink it at home. Alone.

Despite the physiological evidence (ie. the liver breaking down alcohol at a consistent rate no matter the conditions), it's a 'given' that drinking alone is worse for your health than drinking while 'out'. That is utterly stupid. Maybe they think that being with people mitigates the toxic effects. Though I've never noticed any difference. I drink when I'm 'out' to numb the stress, rather than make me sociable.

What with the evidence from town centres every Friday and Saturday night, it seems that people 'going out' end up engaging in a lot of anti-social activities. But that's ok. It's traditional. These facts are known. Anyone who stays at home to drink is a depressive and violent family abuser. Right?

I've never hit anyone or smashed up the place after drinking alone. In fact, I don't even get what could be termed 'drunk'. My drinking harms no-one and nothing. But people maintain an inbuilt suspicion and distaste of someone who drinks alone.

You're probably thinking - but surely if I didn't drink, I'd feel so much happier? I can't speak for other people, but drinking or not makes little difference to my overall mental state. I had a breakdown at 18, at which time I drank maybe twice a year. I had problems and depression for many years without alcohol. So why do I drink, you ask. There's no complex psychiatric explanation here. I drink because it makes life less boring and stressful for the duration.

And anyway, society thinks I'm a sick weirdo. So why confound their expectations?

Room

I spend the majority of my time alone. It's better that way.

I have enough money to do a lot of things. I could 'go out'. I've heard normal people 'go out'. From what I've seen this involves going to loud places, drinking, dancing and being obnoxious to the opposite sex. I don't enjoy these things. Because most people do, this makes me a bad person. I've been told I should keep doing these things until I enjoy them. A curious suggestion.

I'm alone in my bedroom. It's getting dark. People will be out having fun. I don't understand them. My mother tells me the world 'doesn't bite'. Unfortunately, it does. It bites like a shark with lockjaw. I've been out many times. Often I end up sitting alone while the people 'do their thing'. Sometimes others ask what's wrong. It's too difficult to explain, especially in loud and impatient atmospheres, so I say I'm ok. I don't need 'help' or 'pity', I just want to leave. But that would draw attention to myself, and if I'm in a strange town, where would I go?

People eventually get annoyed because they don't understand me. Why do I bother 'going out' if I'm not going to 'try to enjoy it'? But if I wasn't going to try, I'd've just stayed at home. The problem is, I'm just not trying in exactly the way they want me to.

I can't match up to these standards of peoples' expectations. So I stay in. It's easier that way.

Shopping

I love buying things. Doesn't everyone?

Actually. I like having things and taking them home for my personal usage. I dislike having to go and buy them. The irony is that the things I enjoy the most are the most traumatic to buy.

The local Oddbins has much I want. I'm probably incapable of not finding something to buy there. It's a small shop, and not many people are usually in. I'm a discerning buyer. I like to look thoroughly. For some reason, the person behind the counter seems to think I'm confused. I'm not. I'm looking. I don't need any help. But I'm always being watched, or thinking I'm being watched.

The second-hand bookshop I frequent is worse. I don't mean it's a bad place. It's a place with books piled up everywhere in an order that may make sense to someone. The sign says it opened in 1867 and it seems to have retained most of its start-up stock. There's something for everyone in there. You just have to find it. The owner is a garrulous sort. He tries to start conversations with customers. I don't know what to say. Usually something stupid. I'm not good at general conversation. Specific things, yes. If he wanted to know about the subject of the book I was buying (for example Princess Andrew of Greece) I could talk about that. But no, he asks about me.

I used to work in retail. I know strategies like these are used to put customers at their ease, and project a helpful image of the business. All it does with me is make me anxious. I wander around the town centre in less demanding shops for ages before going in. When I finnally do go in, I spend ages in there, worrying.

I know it's silly. But I can't stop it.

Friends (2)

But why don't you find friends online, I hear you say? Surely it must be easier. Well, yes it is. But it comes with it's own problems.

This was long before MySpace or Facebook. Almost a decade ago, I discovered 'instant messaging'. I made a few friends. And I fell out with almost every single one. While the internet takes out the anxiety of face-to-face talking (and body language and other assorted 'skills') it makes neither you, nor other people, easier to get along with.

The few people with whom I managed even a medium-term friendship were no easier. The more we talked, the more pressure I felt under. If MSN started up, I was seen online. Many times I didn't want to talk, but not to have done so would have seemed rude. If they didn't talk to me, I wondered what I'd done wrong.

For me, nothing is ever simple.

They say that if you have problems, you should talk to someone. But what if you know that, whatever you say, it'll only make things worse. You will be expected to do something. If you don't do it, they want to know why. And always you ask yourself - why are they doing this?

I've often been told I'm hard work. If only people knew how much hard work they were,