Sunday, July 26, 2015


At the moment I am engulfed in fear.  My anxiety has gone beyond what is normal anxiety and is completely controlling my life.  The problem is work.  Not the usual internal bullshit but external events that my work has no control over but which impacts me and everyone else every single day.  To be fair, my managers have been quite understanding but that doesn't prevent my constant fear.

I need to feel like I am in control.  I cannot abide living in a way that means my life is controlled by a third party but this is the position I'm currently in.  If I go to work a third party decides when, how and if I get home.  This leads to constant uncertainty and now that uncertainty has led to fear.  I spoke to my boss about it and she agrees that there is a perfect storm surrounding my work.  As a result she has agreed I can work in the office for a week to see what happens.  But the reality is that nothing will change in a week and my fear is so high that I struggle to cope with even the office.  I'm not there today because I spent last night driving around the area that I live because my fear had created a fixation that if I didn't do this then I would be trapped in my town forever with no way out.

I feel incredible guilt because everyone else I work with is facing the same situation but I'm the one who can't cope.  I've spent weeks discussing this with the serial killer and trying to find some escape from the oppressive fear I'm living with but I can't.

The grounds for my fear are rational.  My reaction to it is not.  I spent so many years trapped in a terrifying situation as a child looking for escape and knowing there wasn't one.  When I was about four I ran away.  It all got too much for me.  But I was four and I knew I wasn't allowed to cross the road myself so I just ran round and round the block until I got tired.  That is how I feel now - that the fear is all encompassing and I'm completely trapped and there is no escape.

I am constantly in flashback mode.  The flashbacks aren't physical reminders of what happened.  Instead I am reliving over and over the emotions of terror and being trapped and this resulting in bad things happening.  When I go to work I am constantly waiting for the bad news, for the inevitable information that I am, to all intents and purposes, trapped.  That I cannot leave and get home to a safe place.  That there is no safe place.  Instead of feeling the frustration, tiredness and irritation I should be facing, I feel the fear of waiting to be hurt in one of the hideous ways my parents chose to hurt me.

I don't know what to do.  I have been looking around for other jobs but there isn't really anything locally and I don't want to go and lose the support network I have here (social support because the cmht is still fucking me about.  They've discharged me but not informed the GP so the cmht won't offer any support and the GP can't because I'm officially still under the care of the cmht).

I don't know what to do.  I don't know how to stop the constant adrenaline that controls me.  I don't know how to stop shaking, being jumpy, seeing things, believing things that aren't true.  Yes, I do know that the flies that come in my house when I leave a window open are not spying on me.  Yes, I struggle to believe that when I'm hiding from them.

I have to cope with this.  If I don't I don't have a job.  If I don't have a job I can't pay my mortgage and then I'm fucked.  The only thing is that I can't escape from the oppression of almost 40 years of fear being focused in my mind because of how things are at work.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

The NHS has given up on me

Last week I was meant to have an appointment with the cpn but she cancelled it.  Instead she rang yesterday.  She told me that I have been discharged back to my GP.  I asked her what happened now and she told me that if I needed help with the madness I should speak to my GP.

It was last May that Dr Perky told me that I was being discharged so I could be under someone else's budget.  The (mainly erroneous) letter she wrote to my GP stated that I no longer needed such 'intensive treatment.'  The intensive treatment the cmht has provided for me is one psychiatrist appointment in the last three years and half a dozen appointments with the cpn a year.  I'd hate to think what non intensive treatment consists of - do they wave in the direction of your house as they drive past?

In the year since then I've discussed what my discharge would consist of.  Last time I saw the cpn I was told that I would be under the care of a cpn who is funded by my GP.  Apparently that is no longer happening.  I asked the cpn why and she said she didn't know.  She also told me that from yesterday I would no longer be able to make use of the crisis team.

There are reasons why I've not engaged with the cpn over recent years.  The main one being that she spent the whole time talking about herself and was useless when it came to me.  I know all about her parents, her nieces, her cousin who did time for fraud, her horse, her boyfriend, the fact her boyfriend's daughter self harms, what she likes to eat and which restaurants she goes to, what type of contraceptive she uses, what type of clothes she does and doesn't like to wear, the tattoos she's getting removed by laser, her relationship with her bosses, how seeing a waitress with self harm scars put her off her food, which psychiatrists she does and doesn't like etc etc.  I don't know if this is normal stuff for a cpn to tell a patient but it hasn't worked as a method of making me better.

Whenever I talked to her about things that were happening with me, her stock answers were 'that's just anxiety' or 'you need to discuss that with the serial killer.'  Her most impressive response was when I told her that my sisters had refused to give evidence to the police was 'well you just need to live with it.'

At no point has she provided any actual useful insights, skills or anything else that might make things easier for me.  When I asked for help to cope with the massive anxiety that underpins every aspect of everything I do she has told me 'when I'm anxious I go and ride my horse' and 'I don't know how to cope with anxiety, I don't have it.'  Personally I would have hoped that her professional training would have given her some ideas but ho hum.  When I spoke to her about my food problems she told me that there used to be a poster up that said something about eating but it had been taken down.

Thinking about it, there's no wonder I just couldn't face dealing with her on a more regular basis.  Repeating a pointless act over and over is pointless.  I think of my previous case worker who actually was useful at times although not all the time and the difference is enormous.

But even so I'm gutted about being discharged and I'm gutted that she couldn't even bother meeting up with me to tell me.  The reason I'm gutted about being discharged is that of the two GPs in my practice who were any good with mental health problems, one has left and the other is retiring next month.  The other GPs are of the type who just hand me my prescriptions once a month and probably wouldn't notice if I hanged myself in the corner of their consulting room.  There is now no one on the NHS side that I can go to for help.  I've been told that I can be referred back to the cmht but it's unlikely they'll take me on as they're going to be concentrating on crisis work because the crisis team is underfunded.  To be referred back I have to be at crisis point and then apparently the GP will send a fax and someone who I've never met will decide whether they take me on or not.

This seems completely ludicrous to me.  Why are they discharging people who clearly are not in a position to be discharged because they know it's only a matter of time before they are referred back again?  Why have they provided me with almost zero support for years and because I respond to that lack of support by not asking for support because I know I'm not going to get it, do they tell me I no longer need support?  It's stupid and short term thinking and fucked up and it hurts.  It hurts that they don't give a fuck about me, my needs, how I feel, how I am or am not coping and what my future holds.  It scares me because I know I need support but I know I'm not going to get it. At least when I was in the system there was the possibility that someone might be useful.  Now that's gone.  And I also know that the times when I'm in crisis are the times when I don't have the energy to go through the rigmarole of asking to be referred by a GP who sees you as a waste of time and has no interest in you.

I have the serial killer left.  That's fab.  I'm officially now only able to be mental between 1700 and 1750 on a Tuesday afternoon and then only if I pay for it myself.  But unfortunately life doesn't work like that.  I can't time my mental illness to coincide with the serial killer's appointment schedule.  And any time I ask the serial killer for practical advice on how to cope with something she tells me that that's not her function.  Which is fine but now there is nobody who's function it is to help me keep my head above water.

Life is not easy at the moment.  I'm in the middle of a three month attendance warning at work and can only have a specified minimal time off sick until it's over.  I'm wasting one of these sick days today because I couldn't make it to a 12 hour shift after spending most of the previous 18 hours crying my eyes out.  I'm struggling with my family.  I can't forgive my sisters.  I'm struggling with my new niece in that I love her to bits but part of my head wants me to kill her.  I keep seeing and hearing things that aren't there which scares the shit out of me.  I still have a yellow snake inside me that wants to kill me.  I'm isolating myself from even my best mates because I can't cope with trying to be half way normal.  I'm even isolating myself from fucking twitter. I'm increasingly obsessive about suicide and self harm.  I spend at least an hour a day writing and rewriting the notes I want to leave for people so they are perfect.  I'm selling off the things I don't need to make clearing my house easier for my executor.  I spend hours at night lying fantasising about how I'm going to kill myself, which method would be best for me, most effective, least bad for those left behind.  I lie there imagining the relief I will feel after I jump over that cliff or swim out to sea or jump in front of that lorry or whatever.

I'm aware that none of these things are good things but there is no one to talk to about them.  The only resource left is a helpline you can phone.  I've phoned them twice and both times they've told me to phone the crisis team.  Oh ooops I can no longer phone the crisis team because they don't want to pay for my care.

For some reason I no longer fit the NHS's algorithms so I am no longer someone they can be bothered with.

Friday, April 03, 2015

It's all a lie

My entire life is a lie. All my relationships with everyone are predicated on lies. I cannot be who I am because who I am is unacceptable to anyone.

My relationship with my family is a lie.  I have been betrayed over and over again by them.  My parents have betrayed me my whole life.  My sisters have betrayed me by refusing to speak to the police.  I have so much anger with them that it consumes me.  I cannot be betrayed more by them.  But still I call them, visit them, talk to them.  Still I pretend that everything is alright.  I pretend that I don't hate them, that I don't want their world to disintegrate so it resembles mine.  But the reality is I want to scream and shout at them.  I want to tell them that their selfishness has destroyed the tiny remnant of hope I ever had.  Their children have betrayed me by their very existence.  Mocking my childlessness and my lack of love.

My relationship with everyone else is a lie.  Tomorrow I will go to work.  I will put on a face and talk shite to my colleagues.  I will do my job, be friendly, chatty and smiley.  Inside I will want to die.  I will talk nonsense whilst internally trying to think of ways to kill, hurt and destroy myself.

My relationship with the serial killer is a lie.  I hate her at the moment.  She knows how bad things are but she's fucked off on holiday leaving me with no support.  I've texted the cpn asking for an appointment but she can't be arsed with me and hasn't replied.  Last appointment with the serial killer I screamed and shouted at her.  Told her how I felt.  Told her I didn't trust her.  She got really pissed off with me for the first time and started bullshitting that I was impugning her professional ethics.  I wasn't.  I was just trying to tell her how it is to be me.  I don't trust the cmht any more.  I'm still waiting to the response to my complaint about the psychiatrist.  They will more than likely lie and cover up her lies.

I even lie to myself.  I pretend I'm ok.  I fill my life with things to do so I can attempt to escape the reality of who I am.  The rational side of myself forces me to behave in ways I don't want to because it's socially acceptable.  But really I don't feel like being socially acceptable.  I want to be me.  And if being me means destroying everything then that's what I'm going to have to do.

Easter weekend is always extremely triggering.  I have no idea why.  There is probably some memory hidden in the recesses that I don't want to access.  Some awfulness that makes everything unbearable.  I think I've attempted suicide twice on an Easter weekend.  Last night I wanted to take an overdose.  I didn't.  I thought and thought about it. I realised I didn't want to die, I just wanted to explain that the real me is coming out.

What happens when the real me takes over?  What happens when the straining rational side of me eventually splits?  How will people deal with me then?  Will I be outcast from my family, my social circle, my work?  Will I just give up and not be anymore?  The effort involved in hiding the reality is too much.  The snake, Notgod and the creatures that torment me are exhausting me.  I have run out of bullshit methods of distraction.  A bath, a brew and a benzo no longer work.

I could phone the crisis team but what's the fucking point.  They've been told that they've got to concentrate on s136s at the exclusion of all else and I imagine with the long bank holiday there will be a lot of them and nothing for me.  The crisis team don't give a fuck anyway.  They just talk shite on the phone and then tell me they'll fax my cpn who six months later will make an appointment and talk about her horse.

I am so angry, so alone and so betrayed and decompensating and nobody seems to recognise that because I have lied to everybody and pretended that I'm ok because all I know how to do is lie.  I have been brought up to think that lies are truth and truth are lies.  The 1984 of my life.

The only thing that is giving me comfort is a line from a poem by Wordsworth.  I'm not really into poetry and I can't even be arsed googling the whole poem and reading it but this is the reality of who I am:

Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone

Except I'm no longer voyaging, I'm drowning.

Friday, March 20, 2015

The Yellow Snake of Words of Hatred

***Trigger warning***

And so I went to Scotland.  So many posts begin like this and so many of them have similar fucked up content.  I went to see my new niece about whom I have so many conflicted and complicated feelings.  I managed to contain these feelings inside me.  I saw all the other members of my family about whom I have so many conflicted and complicated feelings.  I managed to contain these feelings inside me.  I contain everything up there.  One leak would bring down the whole edifice.

While I was up there my sister and brother in law took the opportunity to go away overnight while I looked after the kids.  That is much easier now they're that wee bit older and can respond to common sense.  I played with them, fed them their dinner, mucked about with them, got them into their jammies, read them their bedtime stories and put them to bed where they went to sleep.  I felt like a child rearing genius.

I was curled up on the sofa downstairs when the bell rang.  I opened the door and it was my bloody parents.  They told me my sister had asked them to pop up to stay over so if anything happened with the kids I'd be ok.  I didn't want to phone my sister to check as this was the first time they'd been away together without the kids for six years.  I told them I was fine but they came in anyway.

After a couple of hours of excruciating non conversation I went to bed.  I was sleeping in my sister and brother in law's room next door to the kids so if either of them got up in the night and came through they wouldn't be freaked out.  My parents went to bed in the room downstairs where I usually sleep.  I thought about blocking the door but realised I couldn't as the kids would find it that way if they woke up in the night.

I fell asleep and was woken up by someone coming into the room.  I vaguely thought it was one of the kids and half rolled over to see if they were ok when a hand clamped over my mouth and nose rendering me unable to breathe.  My father.  My mind rapidly cycled through my options.  Fight was impossible as I couldn't risk waking the kids up.  Submission again meant letting him do what he wanted and the kids could come through and see.  I could feel the dizziness running though my head and feel myself almost pass out when I just rolled out of bed as I was lying on the edge, fell onto the floor, picked myself up and ran to the bathroom on the landing.

The bathroom there has no lock.  I lay on the floor, my feet against the door, my head and shoulders against the bath, trying to keep the door closed.  I just remember telling myself to lock all my joints so he couldn't get in.  Irrationally the song 'the knee bones connected to the hip bone' kept going through my head.

He tried to get in but he couldn't.  Instead he sat outside and hissed words of evil and hatred at me.  The usual words of my evil, my inadequacy, my destruction, my awfulness.  I saw them form into a yellow snake of letters and words of hatred which crawled towards me and got inside me, moving around inside my body and brain.

He went away eventually but the yellow snake has remained.  It has remained ever since.  I can feel it all the time.  I lie in bed and it squeezes my lungs until I can't breathe.  It coils round my stomach and makes me throw up.  It enters my brain and I hear it's parseltongue of hatred hissing inside my head.  There is no escape from it.  All the time it is there hissing its evil imprecations.

Yes, I am aware that it doesn't really exist.  Yes, I am aware that it is another manifestation of the massive stress I am under after something like that has happened.  Yes, I am aware of the massive Freudian phallicness of the whole thing.  None of these things make any difference as I experience what I experience.  I long to attack it with a knife, dig it out my body and my mind and kill it but to do that would kill me also.  Which may not in itself be altogether a bad thing.

Sunday, February 01, 2015

I am not normal

I was in Scotland last week for a long weekend for my niece's birthday.  It's the first time I've seen my sisters since they decided not to speak to the police and I was really concerned about it.  I wanted to discuss it with them but also knew that talking about it would be almost impossible as it's something we've never done.

I didn't even try to speak to my wee sister as she was 37 weeks pregnant and I didn't see her on her own and it isn't the kind of conversation you can have at a toddler's party.  So many times I tried to bring it up with my big sister but I just couldn't get the words past my throat and then the circumstances changed and it was no longer appropriate.

The truth is I'm tired.  I'm tired of being the only person in my family who will recognise the truth.  I'm tired of having to fit in with them but without them having to make any effort to fit in with me.  I'm tired of doing what they think is right for them without them even considering what could be right for me.  It just underlines the feeling that in my family I don't matter.

The division that was created twenty eight years ago when we were taken into care is still there.  I don't know why they were together and I wasn't with them.  I don't know why they had a more settled time in care than I did.  It was probably just circumstances.  The problems are the massive psychological effect it had on me then and continues to have now and the impact it has had on our relationship as siblings.  I struggle not to feel abandoned by them.  I have to physically tell myself that it wasn't their decision, it wasn't their fault, that as children they were no more in a position to inform council practice than I was but that isn't how I feel.  I feel unwanted, unloved, abandoned, lonely, alone and hurting.  

It's clear they have a better relationship than either of them have with me.  They have years more shared experiences.  While I was up they were chatting about things they got up to as teenagers,  I wasn't a part of any of that.  They aren't trying to exclude me but I feel excluded and that raises all the emotions I felt as a child.  They also live relatively close together and see a lot more of each other.  They are both much more mentally stable than I am and in some ways much closer in personality.  I am the awkward one, the one who doesn't know how to cope socially, the one who hides in a corner.  They are outgoing, sociable, confident etc.  

Maybe our respective personalities would have meant that they would have been closer as a general rule even without the years of separation as children but I would like to have experienced that and know it as opposed to every single innocent comment from them cutting my soul into shreds.

My wee sister had her daughter on Friday.  I now have a niece.  I am ripped into bits by this.  First of all I'm delighted that she is born and is healthy and very very cute.  That is the normal response to a baby being born.  Then come all the other responses.

I want to scream and cry at the unfairness of it all.  My babies are dead.  My sisters don't even know my babies existed.  I'm 38 now so the chances of having a child now are infinitesimal.  I will never experience what they have experienced.  I will never enjoy the joy of pregnancy, only the awfulness and horror.  I will never expectantly wait to discover and help to mould the personality of a wee person who is utterly dependent on me.  I need to mourn this.  I can't do it publicly, instead I have to hide my mourning.  Slap the happy face on.  Tears of a fuckwit.

They have chosen to use my sister's maiden name as a middle name which is quite common and shouldn't bother me.  It really really bothers me.  I see my surname as my father's name, as a part of him that I am forced to exist with.  I know I could change it but I don't want to have to deal with the explanations to all and sundry about why I have chosen to do so.  Knowing that tiny wee girl has the name of a man that raped small girls is disturbing to me to say the least.  Knowing my sister chose to do this says all that needs to be said about her view of the past.  Or maybe she's normal, maybe she just sees it as a name.  Maybe to her it doesn't have the insidious creep of him into me that I experience when I think about it.

I feel I need to protect the baby.  The problem is that my abnormal mind always goes too far.  The world isn't safe, the only real protection is death.  Yes, I know this is bollocks, fucked up, mental thinking but it's escaping into my head.  It scares me although I know it isn't something I would really do.  Thinking something and doing something are two very different things.  But I desperately don't want to have a mind that thinks about these things.  I don't want to be a freak.

I'm going back to work tomorrow after two weeks leave.  It's hugely important that I don't fuck this up and that I attend regularly and don't go off sick.  The problem is that the stress of the last few months has somehow become focused on this tiny baby.  This baby has irrationally become a symbol, a symptom and a metaphor.  I cannot become obsessed with this.  I can feel Notgod creeping into the sides of my head wanting to attack me.  This cannot happen.  Of course the birth of a child, especially a girl, is going to be massively triggering for me but I need to remain functionally sane.  I have to keep going forward, I can't afford to step into the world of madness.  But I know I'm not normal.

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Randomness of 2014

This appears to be a regular thing now.  I quite like my summaries of the year although I didn't like the year itself particularly.

Days of sick: 77 - dreadful.  But then that includes the dreaded IBS, pneumonia that wouldn't go away, falling down the stairs like a (sober) twat and the most stressful year of my life.

Amount of trips through Eurotunnel: 72 - much fewer than last year but then I worked in the UK for a while this year.

Number of trips to hospital: 4 - One with a friend as moral support, two to get chest xrays during the whole pneumonia thing and one when I fell down the stairs like the aforementioned (sober) twat.

Number of appointments with the psychiatrist: 1 - and didn't that go well

Number of sessions with the Serial Killer: 43.  I still find it so difficult to talk about things with her.  My whole body wants to shut down.  I can hear in my head what I want to say but my mouth clamps shut and refuses to let me say it.  One thing I can say is that there have been lots and lots of tears this year and a massive amount of pain, anger and sadness.

Number of sessions with the CPN: 8.  In the psychiatrist's letter they refer to this as 'intensive treatment'.  I'm not sure what non intensive treatment is.  Maybe if my cpn actually answered when I texted her it would be more helpful.

Number of appointments with GP: 13 but sadly lovely GP is now on maternity leave (again- she must be the most fertile woman on earth) so it's back to locums which isn't a helpful situation to be in.

Number of appointments with dentist: 6.  This included two to the emergency dentist when I had a tooth removed and developed a dry socket.  Ladies and gentlemen I do not recommend such a thing.  The pain is fucking enormous.

Number of trips to Scotland: 3 and the family came down once. Same as last year except one of these trips was for my wee sister's wedding.  I dreaded it but actually quite enjoyed it as one of the other bridesmaids was not family and therefore broke up the tension somewhat.

Number of books read: 325 which seems a lot but is fewer than last year.  But then this doesn't count rereads which I've been doing a lot of recently as I've read all my old books and financial constraints mean I can't always afford to buy new ones.

Favourite books of 2013: Scapegoat: Why we are failing disabled people by Katherine Quarmby, The Shock of the Fall by Nathan Filer, Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Moment in Peking by Lin Yutang, Far from the Tree: Parents, children and the search for identity by Andrew Solomon, Inconvenient People: Lunacy, Liberty and the Mad-Doctors in Victorian England by Sarah Wise, Burial Rites by Hannah Kent and The Blunders of Our Governments by Anthony King and Ivor Crewe.

Number of Orders from Amazon: 100,  That ashames me acutely.  But it is used partially as a handy method of ordering presents for family in Scotland.  Also I live in a town without a bookshop which does cause problems for people like me with a reading obsession.  Especially when I like books that are not always what everyone else wishes to read.

Best thing of 2013: I'm struggling with this one mainly because this year has mostly been a struggle.  The negative bits certainly jump out far more significantly then the positive ones.  I suppose out of grudging loyalty I have to say my wee sister has done fairly well by managing to organise an engagement, wedding and pregnancy within a single year.  But at the moment my sister isn't one of my favourite people.

Worst thing of 2013: The whole drama with the police which has made the second half of 2014 pretty much unbearable.  And all for nothing.  I'm still at the stage where I can't think or talk about it without dissolving into pathetic tears of frustration, anger and downright blahness.  I don't know how I'm going to recover from this.  Please God let my recent increase in venlafaxine lead me out of the current dark pit.  

Last year I said I was scared that this year would be worse.  It has been.  Utterly, horribly and dreadfully worse.  The only good thing is that in six hours it's over.  But then the change of the year is purely symbolic, it doesn't change anything else.  I just need a break.

Friday, December 26, 2014

Things not mentioned

This year has been a big year.  A massive year and I've been unable and unwilling to talk about it on here.  Now I can.

In the summer I had contact with the police.  They came down to deepest darkest Englandshire and I spent two days in a room at a police station giving a statement.  It was the most awful two days of my life.

The run up was bad.  I spent weeks vacillating backwards and forwards as to what to do.  Do I tell the truth or do I stick with the family secrets?  Both decisions had massive levels of guilt attached to them.  Do I betray myself or do I betray members of my family who I still love?  I made my decision and changed it many many times.  I only finally decided what to do the day before they came down.  Work were very good and gave me the two days off so I could do it.

I remember the room, every corner of it as I stared into space trying to remember and not remember.  Trying to put things into context.  Trying to discuss specific instances in forensic detail.  Dates, times, places.  Trying to think but not feel.  Trying to avoid the police officers' eyes as I feel the shame I know I shouldn't feel but I do.  Trying to reduce a life time to letters and words.

Then the waiting for what happens next.  Week after week after week.  I couldn't contact the police because I'd thrown their information out.  I didn't want it contaminating my house.  I know that sounds irrational considering the way the past has contaminated me and my mind but I needed to know that my house was safe.

Then the phone call.  My sister's have refused to give statements.  As a result they don't have enough evidence to do anything.  In Scotland two pieces of corroboration are required for every part of any charge.  There is no forensic evidence.  There is just me evidence.  And that isn't enough.  They decided not to arrest him as they didn't want to put me at risk and the only chance of a prosecution was if he admitted everything which was unlikely.  I understand intellectually why they made this decision.  I am broken by it.

I am trying to put it all behind me but I'm finding it impossible.  I know that it isn't that they don't believe me, I feel that it is.  I feel the massive waste of emotional energy that I have expended over months.  I feel the closing of the door of a future that could be honest.  I am left with living with the family lies if I want to have contact with the family.  It feels so unfair.  I feel like stamping my feet.  I feel like screaming at my sisters and tearing my hair out.  I want to wear sackcloth and ashes and repent for the sins of my family.  I can do none of this.  Instead I just have to pretend that everything is alright.  It isn't.

I couldn't write about this until a decision had been made because I didn't want to cause potential prejudice to any investigation.  Now I can because there is no longer any investigation.  Back to the same old madness with no escape.