Costa do good business from me at the moment.

After a stretch of unemployment and life on benefits, you appreciate the luxury of being able to go out for a coffee.

“You do have a job”, said the clinical psych the other day. “I know that right now that doesn’t seem to count for much, but it does.

Just having a job means you’re doing well”

I left home at 18 to Live in Leeds, then moved to London – over a decade down there. Full time contract, not a great job but still – just having a job means I’m doing well. Then the contract became part time but I was still studying. Then the job became vapour and then the studying became a breakdown, come back later.

I left a life in a vibrant metropolis to be near family, since you can’t live on vapour and can’t live in no home, and besides wouldn’t it be better for me outside the bustle and noise and fury and rage of London?

The dust settled, slowly, mostly. A handful of years passed, I got a job. Only temping, only a whisper above minimum wage, but just having a job means I’m doing well.

I got better, away from the bustle and noise and fury of London. I got better, swallowing a couple of pills every day.

And here in the quiet away from the bustle and noise and fury and cared for by all the people I love the most, I fell, and fell and fell and fell into black fury and poison and hate, and watched half helpless and laughing as I began to tear myself apart.

I don’t get to get better.