This is the moment in films, usually buddy cop movies, where the dysfunctional partner visits the cop shrink. He sits uncomfortably in a large white-wash room surrounded by perfect looking objects from the counsellor’s life. The counsellor’s wife. Kids. All that shit.
My visit wasn’t anything like this. The room was very square and brown.

I turned up clean shaven and washed. Claire and I had spent most of yesterday recovering from New Year’s Day. We went for a walk and grabbed some Fish N’ Chips as we walked through the park. The chips were good, but I’ve had better fish. Not the best use of an entire day, but still, better than rotting behind a desk like some of my mates were doing.
The doctor I saw was an old friend of mine from my early, salad days on the force. When my mind was clearer. Strangely as I sat down in the chair and faced Doctor Smith (all I could think of was Agent Smith), I suddenly felt clearer. Having set a load of mines off in my brain the previous night my mind had had a chance to forget and numb itself. Amazing what a bit of booze can do.

Smith wanted me to answer some questions anyway and, seeing as this whole thing had been at my insistence, I answered truthfully.

No, I had no problems with parents growing up (although I never did get that David Bowie LP for Christmas that I wanted – Station To Station for those who give a shit) . Nor did anyone touch me who shouldn’t have. This sounds stereotypical, but Smith really opened with these god-awful questions. Is he really a friend of mine? Maybe I made that bit up. Eventually the idiot asked me why I was there and again I told the truth.

“I’m having visions. Hearing people who aren’t there. That sort of thing.” I said feeling incredibly stupid.

Smith shifted uneasily, although I’m certain that I am not the first copper he’s met who has gone mental.
He went through various possibilities as to why I might be seeing and hearing things that clearly weren’t there. The most obvious was my stress over Deacon’s sudden loss of health. We have been friends for ten years.

Ten years? Is that right? Shit. As I’m sitting here writing this I can feel my memory going. Is it more or less? Right now does Deacon even exist? Am I actually sitting in an old people’s home imagining all of this right now? It is almost eleven at night.

Smith then did two things. Firstly he suggested that if someone was trying to talk to me, whether the voice was real or imaginary, I should sit calmly and listen. Eventually either the person or my sub-concious will hear the message. Great. I’ll have to get seriously drunk before going through that fucking shit again. Last time almost caused me to expel my bowels into my pants.
The second thing was that he gave me sleeping pills. Just enough for two solid nights restful sleep.

“You need some serious catch up sleep.” He said and even though it seems obvious I really needed someone to tell me.

So, I am sitting here in bed with Claire asleep beside me. She has fallen fast sleep, even with the light still on, with the slight trace of a smile on her face. I could stare at her for hours but I need to take these pills and knock myself out.

I need. MUST sleep.
I hope I do not dream – I need nothingness to embrace me and take me away. Away from all of this. Not permanently.
Just for a short while.

Please.

Now that the wave has broken and the sand is drying, I am in a more suitable place  to start posting my diaries again.

This time, however, I will start from the beginning.

Expect more soon…

RDK