I’m a homicide waiting to happen and that’s no joke. I’m not going to confess outright, not right now. But I’ll tell you a little bit. I know the word is out on me and I know the end is nigh. In my own time I will confess. But I’m not ready yet. Just don’t tell me I’m making it up and don’t tell me to stop being so melodramatic. Don’t tell me to snap out of it either. Because that’s one of my triggers. And if you pull one of my triggers you’ll know. And believe me, you don’t want to know. I know.


I have a woman chained to my wardrobe. I’m planning to kill her any day now. I am afraid of prison, hence the apprehension to tell all. Last night she almost got out. I had to throw boiling water over her. I can’t tell anyone about her. Because if I do she might kill me. Tonight it’ll be a stick of fire if she tries to escape again. If I burn her maybe I won’t have to confess at all. She’ll be reduced to ashes and then nobody will ever know. It’s morning now. In the mornings I am always twisted with pain after the fight from the night before. The world has turned grey. Every thing moves in slow motion. Human beings come and go. Men laugh, women chat, children giggle and cry and I despise every one of them. The tears are burning a hole in my face, I can hardly speak for choking on my own phlegm. Whenever I try to articulate something I start to stutter in case I inadvertently mention her name.

So now I’m sitting opposite this doctor in a surgery. He’s looking at me, like they always do, with a mix of perplexity and patience. Before he can throw some condescending nugget of unsolicited advice at me – like they always do – I heave and shift in my chair. I’m at my wits end with doctors. I’ve never met this one before. Before he can grab a stethoscope I glare at him. I’ll just spit it out. I’ll just say the truth.

‘I’m not depressed.’

Because I know what he’s thinking. It’s what they all think. This woman is depressed. This woman needs medication. But I’m not depressed! How do you tell a doctor you’re a homicidal maniac? Huh? How? Cos tonight I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna kill the bitch in the wardrobe and then you, dear doctor, will have to section me or send me to prison. Tell me: how? How do I articulate this?

Insomnia – Doctors or Drug Dealers is a work-in-progress spanning 13 years of acute addiction and severe depression … 12 minute sample reading can be watched above or on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOPP9fXVwIY&t=4s

Completion of this project depends on time, resources and
– in the words of Blanche Dubois – “the kindness of strangers” …

PDF sample below: you are invited to read 2,500 words from the 40,000 word work in progress…

I.D.D is a factual account of an experience suffered by millions; depression, addiction, mental illness… the book is written from first-hand personal experience and will not be a glamorised account of these issues, nor will it be easy to write… while TNBW has recovered from most of I.D.D issues, she expects this process to be cathartic… the way out is through…
if you like the project thus far, please consider donating to enable the composition and completion of I.D.D, to give I.D.D the undivided, undistracted attention it deserves… donations are graciously accepted and never expected…
you may make a donation specifically to this project here:

Click to Donate

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