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FRIDAY:28 August 2026

Dear Chasers!

STATE OF GRACE

“I Am Everybody”

I’m often worried how well he will cope with the silence in our house whenever I feel too sad to say anything. I feel like typing tonight. Not very talkative in real life still.

This, me being quiet and shit, doesn’t happen very often.

I’d like to say I’m naturally chipper, but the real reason that I talk a lot (of the time) is that my mouth is so impulsive with people I love and trust.

I wouldn’t say I talk shit because everything I ramble on about means something to me and it comes from a good place, my heart seems to be in it, which is just as well as my head isn’t always activated at the same time.

He doesn’t like it when I get quiet as it’s generally a rare occurrence these days. I’m not even talking to him most of the time; it’s just me and my Mum on a video call. He listens in the background.

I guess he feels better hearing me waffle, and knowing it’s my Mum now who has to ‘put up with my crappy chit-chat’.

Nobody likes me talking or the way I ‘do it’ but it beats me making them feel the way they feel when I go silent. I’m sure it upsets them.

I wonder if they feel better when I’m motor mouthing because they know I am disarmed? I tell them everything that I think about to avoid talking about the way I feel.

I’m pretty sure when I die they will miss my stories of “plastic-bag-owls, and my constantly itching skin and the possible causes for the irritations.”

Would they even remember me for all those “amazing quotes from ancient, old, famous people who I couldn’t recall their name, or the song that played, or the lyrics itself but when I heard it I remembered something else!” Would they miss me?

I’m sure they could never ‘get enough’ of my intimate tangents of nonsense. I’ve been unable to speak carelessly recently , everything I would usually say to Mum or him didn’t present itself naturally.

Mum noticed and helped carry the conversations with me, which is lovely as she is quite a reserved person, a closed book so to speak, and maybe it seems so difficult for her to get more than four words in edge ways with the regular version of me!

I was concerned about the house being too silent this week. None of us, my partner or I, have been feeling very happy lately.

We have been grating on each other more than usual.

He has retreated back into his own emotional straight-jacket since he still hasn’t gone back to the gym and is punctuating life with days and nights of excessive drinking (with less and less gaming, more complaining at me, about me and bossing me about) than I care to feel ‘happy’ about. It’s another thing to worry about.

I worry about his moods and during some, if any, of my ‘okay’ moments throughout the day, I have to adjust myself around whatever he is ‘vibing’.

I did that today, I held it in, an uncontrollable urge to cry about something stupid. It was based on a feeling and a realisation as opposed to anything psychological or real, nothing tangible, I knew I was probably future-tripping.

I felt like I’d been tiptoeing around the top of a wall, the lip of a well and started to lose my footing, until somehow, I fell in. Unlike him who has this magical power of externalising everything, not letting anything that he feels be ‘blamed on him’.

Sometimes, I wish I could like him, being like that. He doesn’t have to feel ashamed, guilty, remorseful, confused, lost, hopeless - like I do. I blame myself for everything. I’ve been over-emotional. I could have done with being wrapped up in one!

Another thing I wasn’t sure I’d be able to cope with, other than the total silence, when I’m not talking, nobody stands in for me with conversation starters of their own, is the sinking feeling of being totally alone.

Existentially lonely and lost in a world of my own, fortunately, I couldn’t concentrate on my despair for too long, at any give given time, because that cunt clears his fucking throat about 900 times a day. He makes such a racket!!

Inside my mind I’m flying off into an angry rage, on the surface though, I’m pretending not to notice anything, especially paying no attention to him or what he’s doing.

I almost manage to feel something. Something more than detachment, other than emptiness and beyond the consideration of ending it all.

I can nearly imagine myself coming down from where my head rests floating in the back of a washing machine somewhere between memories and outer space.

I feel like he is deliberating trying to do something to me. Always bad things. I’m back to fighting off the urge to delve into the endless possibilities for his behaviour, words and mannerisms.

I don’t want to turn myself inside out trying to ‘work shit out’ now. I just want to work on myself and soothe this simmering sadness which is cooking underneath my skin. I have to keep a lid on it, even when it bubbles up to the surface.

I’m far from being religious or anything, but I’ll always trust the saying, “This Too Shall Pass” –I’m presuming it’s from the Bible.

I will trust it as it stands, and it has stood the test of time in my mind for so many years.

I mean, I wish I could find faith in something. My love is my faith and music, my religion. I’m a fucked up paranoid schizophrenic, I struggle to believe its raining even when I’m standing in it –what are my chances in believing in God or Jesus?

I do believe is words, quotes, messages, and thoughts* I trust the written word of those who have lived before me and yet felt the same pain as I do now.

*(believing thoughts)- Obviously not always good for me. I shouldn’t believe everything that I think, and definitely not take my thoughts so literally, or act on them.

I got as far as Buddhist books, mantra’s, quotes, mindfulness and meditations before it got too ‘dare I admit this’… too boring to me.

I welcomed the newfound knowledge that to be a devoted Buddhist would mean I would need to give up wanking. It was at that moment, I closed the book, switched on my Xbox and reimbursed myself into HALO again.

I don’t play games at all now , I was never good at them, and I didn’t love doing it either.

Love from Chasey! ..x

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THURSDAY:27 August 2026

MIXTAPE: “Chasey’s Day Off Mix”

Dear Chasers!

NOTICE OF SADNESS

“Red Cherry Light”

Anyone here for the LEON story?

Hopefully we’ll get to that part in the letter. It involves a bit of adult material ‘not safe for work’ type talk. Normally, I would revel in this kind of written ‘conversation’ with the people who have chosen to join me, following or by subscription. On this occasion, I’m struggling with my emotions. I’ll make sure I include the ‘funny part’.

If you could see the funny side. I don’t think there is one. Not tonight. Not the way I’ll write it, spit it out. I might cut it down to the most memorable part and if I can manage describing the other details and how I still have the ‘wrinkled scar’ at the corner of my mouth ‘to prove it’. That’s a BIG if (you’ll get the pun further down). Meh.

My DEPRESSION or “sadness” has nothing to do with Leon. In fact, remembering the back story which he features in will be my own little silver lining and reward for actually writing something this evening regardless of my miserable mental health condition.

Disclaimer: LEON wasn’t a massively important historical figure in MY life’s story. He was unique and memorable* but nothing exciting or tragic happened. He was in my life one minute and gone the next.

I really love to hope that he was too stoned to feel anything towards me at all because he was such a good guy who I’d be upset to know that he might’ve liked me after all.

I’m sure it was taken in his stride the night I spent with him in Moss Side.

I seen a t-shirt in a shop window, around the corner from me, the other day and, I just had to reference it at some time in one of my newsletters. I’ve now become a HUGE fan of the JAMIE DARBY CLOTHING line. I advise you to have a look at his artist handmade creations on his website: jamiedarbyclothing.co.uk

JAMIE DARBY CLOTHING (shop)

It was the first ever time I’d tried to fit a cock the size and girth of a coke cola can inside me, what made it worse I think, was the lights being off and I had nothing to help me with it.

Just both my hands and my trained thighs supported me as I hovered and lowered myself down on it, with ease, until the pain of the tip seared through me. I couldn’t believe it.

I even asked to inspect it with my fingers and considered it was a dumb trick being played on me. “Would he really do this? What with though? It feels real, it seems to be leaking already?” I was ‘torn’ between ‘turned on and fucking terrified’. I could turn this around couldn’t I?

I questioned myself, shocked in awe of this manly dick. It was perfectly stubby and short but the width was unsupported by my inexperienced anatomy unfortunately. I dived in the best I could but I already knew I had met my match. I felt defeated but knew that if he had forced that I’d probably have met my maker!

I was fucking gutted (yet, also slightly relieved because I didn’t want to get it ripped either).

I didn’t know how much it would hurt if I just managed to get it inside. It wasn’t long enough to hurt my stomach and make soup of my insides.

I’d never seen anything like it before (I couldn’t see this one) I’d never imagined it possible never mind ‘experienced’ something of such proportion before! That was the night that no matter how much I tried. Terrified it might ‘damage’ what I had to offer.

*Memorable. Leon was someone worth remembering. Except for his name actually, which happened to escape me the other night, it proved to be a bit of a tricky one to bring back to mind. You know like I was saying in the boring bit of drivel letter I sent to you last night dated Wednesday 26 August 2026?

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I was very much displaying early warning symptoms of my medication being on its last exit out of my system. I was complaining but in an arrogantly angry and ‘vulgar’ fashion. My descriptions were revolting.

A lot of it was half-written, leaving a lot to the imagination. I even questioned myself for the details I included as opposed to those in my deliberate omisions. Not only words, voice, “vibrancy” ;0, feelings and care were missing, I feel like my fucking soul was also AWOL.

I don’t want to do a repeat performance with whatever I write to you about tonight. YES I WILL INCLUDE LEON AGAIN ANOTHER TIME. It’s nothing fantastical, just a bit of ‘workplace history’ and ‘friendship’ and ‘sexual trials’ and lessons I may or may not have learned from those experiences.

I was able to write about ‘dirty things I did’ last night because I didn’t give a shit, my heart wasn’t in it. I might be a bit more reserved this evening. I love to write about crude topics and get over familiar about my personal bits and business.

That’s when I’m on top of the fucking moon and my heart, soul and fucking arsehole are all INTO IT and I feel amazing, can imagine you laughing WITH me about the silly shit I’m saying, when the universe and I are aligned - my writing shines, pulses and vibrates.

I was bitter and unhappy and being ‘too big for my boots’ without the usual benefit of thinking ‘fuck it’ or ‘buzzing’ about it with a sly squint of the eye, flick of the hair and cheeky bite of the bottom lip –to disguise the reflective smirk.

Instead, I just felt shit, numb and shit. The last thing I want to do is exert myself enough to elevate the mood I’m occupying.. oh fuck! here I go already, throwing out proper words of longer stature to avoid sounding like my usual cocky chav.

Only I didn’t write like that intentionally. I just clocked it as I did it. My depression is making me feel overwhelmed, overwhelmed by sadness and by being so fucking sad, I seem to focus, which makes me notice things I wouldn’t or haven’t before.

The mood I’m IN would have been sufficient. The fact that I happened to write ‘occupying’ instead was just a fluke for which I’m embarrassed and sorry for you now and, sorry in advance, for whatever I churn out. EDITING ME: SPOILER. I GAVE UP.

I swear, I’m not even in the fucking mood for writing. The other last things I wish to do are: a) let you down about LEON (most of you won’t know what the fuck I’m even on about). b) drag you, the world or even myself down and out by moaning and complaining because of the way I’m feeling).

The wisest thing for me to do right now would be to shut the laptop down, grab a book, get in bed early and rub one out! That’d send me straight into a lovely hazy sleep and hope for a better tomorrow. It will be one day closer to my depot (medication injection) day.

I guess for once I’ll do something ‘constructive’ as they say. In the wisdom of a Schizophrenic Writer From Manchester, my final thoughts are ‘Fuck It’. Goodnight, xxx

Love from Chasey! ..x

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WEDNESDAY:26 AUGUST 2026

Dear Chasers!

SCEPTIC STARES

“Remember The Good Ones”

Hello! Just a quick one tonight. If you missed my most recent one from the other day:

Sorry, Less ‘Red Nail Energy’ Tonight, Let’s Begin!

Sometimes, I allow all those people who have ever hurt my feelings with their observations about the way I look, their insults to my personality, their cruel behaviour towards me, and in my absence their lurid laughter and lies they’ve told other people about me, to create the reality that I live in.

I act out their descriptions, I let their words infuse the levels of my well being, self-esteem and BELIEVE in everything that I’d been feeling at the times when those things were happening to me.

Sometimes, I am as small as I felt those days, but then there are times when I realise, I have so much going for me that they might have missed, I am much more than the colour of the my hair, the size of my tits, the clip of my face and the cut of my jib.

All it takes is, whenever I feel like I’ve slipped back into being as bad as they made me feel, insecure, low confidence, lack of self control, is for me to go for a piss alone (obviously) and, take that quiet moment to recall those fucking arseholes, who did all this to me, once, a long, long time ago.

All of those nobhead haters, were once ‘wannabe lovers’ who had been between my legs once upon a time, for one time only (no doubt).

After lusting after me (again probably for ‘one time only’) and was fortunate enough to have ‘gotten’ inside me. I know with people like them, people nasty enough to try and hurt me again and again.

I would never have wanted to touch them. Maybe that’s how they got angry and insulted me or violently abused me back at them. Hurting me for my ignorant/innocent rejection of them. I wish I believed that wholeheartedly. I do and I don’t.

It would be a lovely way to think about it. I wish I would, or could weave those thoughts into a ‘reality blanket’ because fuck knows I could do with some comfort right now.

I wouldn’t have fucked them back. I would have lay like a sack of spuds, letting my mind wander off. I knew my pussy (like all pussies) would be enough to do the job alone without my input.

SIDE NOTE: nothing much has changed! Hahah! I joke. I’d like to hope that my perseverance and patience and pelvic floor muscle practice still pays off for something! With my life partner now.

I NEVER ZONE OUT. I might ‘blink and miss it’ but my mind is always there with him. I love him to pieces. That’s why I get so fucking mad about nothing ‘feeling passionate’ –we’ve got too deeply invested in the love, the emotional, the soulful sides of our relationship.

THE CHEMISTRY between us sexually can, at times, be quite off and that makes us both feel a bit shit but we’re used to it. (It breaks my heart when he noticed the way I looked at the muse on the laptop once and my partner said “you’ve got sexual chemistry with him).

A: He didn’t know he was my muse.

B: I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it takes two to make chemistry happen.

C: The only place I can’t hide love is in my eyes. My face may as well be made of putty, it looks bumpy that way, but also it’s hard and blank and bland, firm and stiff and as stuck as stone.

Our ‘sexy energy’ doesn’t see eye to eye, our minds do. We love each other and will pull this all the way through, eye for an eye, whatever the fuck!

Sexual chemistry has always been ‘off’ between us, probably always will be, but as long as he thinks I’m enough, and he knows that to me, he always will be enough for me; we will be reet (alright).

We really don’t mind too much how we did it. We had to force it because of our true love. I do admit it but I like to look at it as the ‘sacrifice’ made for the shitload of love-in-abundance we have been blessed with during our relationship.

Shit sex could have sent us both running for the hills in opposite directions, it never did, we fought long and hard for sixteen long and harder years, we’re grateful for our fucks with love, with each other, fucking our fucking hearts out for a good long and hard hot three minutes.

Those men got nothing from me, nothing within my control anyway, and without anything given from me, they lost all ‘self control’ (my mannequin pussy made them cum) when I gave nothing. I didn’t even blink an eye. They gave me everything they had emotionally, sexually, and all I needed was their company at the time.

The company of anybody who could bear witness and protect me in the event that somebody would attempt to murder me, the only culprit I knew about was myself. I was always a danger to myself.

They’d spend time with me. They paid the price because I was vacant the entire time, they didn’t like that about me. They tried their best to ‘get in’ and in the end all they got was my pussy in receipt. Fuck them.

I feel like I am the one triumphed. Dodged a bullet. If they had thought all those horrible things about me underneath, I must have seen something. I’m so glad I didn’t ‘trust them’ enough (or at all) to ‘’let them in’’.

That’s when they fired all those things at me, because they couldn’t have me. Sometimes, I need reminding that people can be pure evil, and I can also be confidently wrong in the way I tend to process evil information.

I internalised it to a degree, whilst in my heart I disagreed with everything I heard, and yet, I still keep it all in, then stood at a distance to a newfound ‘reality’ now.

I feel like a bystander and an outsider to my own life, like looking through an open window from behind the closed patio door.

My mind is not different from yours (in this respect). I’m pretty sure that you and many more people, especially those who tend to be self critical naturally, have been in a similar position whereby they sit and consider insults aimed towards them?

I mean, even the most confident person who has nothing but positivity about them, around then, and a strong mindset, might notice the odd bad comments; struggle to shake off, straight away (at least not before ‘analysing’ what they’ve seen/heard) without ruminating first.

It’s funny how I never forget anyone who has ever hurt or insulted me, however random. Come to think about it more carefully now, I’m not even sure if there were many of them.

What set me off on this mode of thinking today is one thing, well sitting smoking in the garden, scanning the sky for blemishes ‘reflecting’ and only seeing mine. My imperfections.

In my mind when I closed my eyes, I recognised the hideousness of my head, my hair, my legs, my thighs. I remembered the times when I thought they were at their best and that’s how it came about, I remembered them, ‘those dickheads had been right??!!!’

That’s why I feel this way about myself now. Unless, it is because of them, why I behave based on how I feel or think.

I have to act accordingly because ‘I’m NOT good enough to BE MYSELF’. I’m mouthy, I’m funny, I’m kind (of a cunt), I AM kind.

My personality is the same inside as it was when I was five! Even then I soon realised that to ‘get people to be nice to me, all I had to do was keep my mouth shut and not say or do anything to piss anybody off’.

‘They saw then what I see now’. That younger version of me, I thought was ‘a bit alright’ (I wasn’t too harsh on the old eye) but they saw then what I see now. Ugly, fat, full of flaws and blemishes.

Leon! Leon was the name of the kid who was kind to me. The good one. I spent at least 7 minutes thinking about him with my eyes closed, head on the pillow (wrapped in my ‘comfort blanket’ looking like fucking Aladdin!), before falling asleep.

LEON. I had it as Jerome, Jermaine, Dwayne (which I’ve always pronounced “Jer-Wayne”), JayJay, James. I was convinced it began with a ‘J’. Bless him. I might talk to you about him next time I write.

I won’t lie, it’s getting late and my neck hurts, my eyes are stinging and I’ve run out of steam. I’m thinking, I’ve said a few ‘thought-provoking’ things tonight. All the best! X

Love from Chasey! ..x

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MONDAY: 25 AUGUST 2026

Dear Chasers!

RED NAILS ENERGY

“Cool-As-Fuck”

I’m supposed to be writing now and have been in the ‘supposed to be’ phase for at least half an hour. Just as I’m ready to begin, like right now, I am irrationally concerned about one single, stiff, facial hair I just this second noticed on my cheek. Give me a second or two and I’ll be back with more exciting news!

Like when I thought I saw an ‘owl’ in my neighbour’s garden first thing in the morning!

Okay, so now that’s done (and by done I mean I have given up pulling it out by hand and now have a small stinging sore in its place, the hair was unharmed and is enjoying the soak in fresh blood), I will begin properly. However, all my thoughts and research on topics for this letter, in the run up to that ‘major’ distraction, have vanished. Anything could happen between now and hitting publish.

That’s another thing, I was ‘supposed to be…’

(Those fucking words again) the three most self-restricting words in sequence that I know! They’re a close third next to ‘I love him’ and ‘go fuck yourself’. If you know what I mean. (I hope you do because I just brushed my hand across my cheek again and I’ve forgotten the reference). I’m doing one thing, then another thing, while I need to do this thing. I’m all over the place. Please have patience. I’m multitasking! Badly...

I was supposed to be publishing this as a ‘blog only’ exclusive over on chasingthemuse. I don’t want to do that with this one because, I kept to my word when I told you I would be reading Friday night (late into the evening) so who really cares if I break my ‘plans’ about not writing to you now? I’ve come back refreshed and ‘talkative’, wanting to slip my stuff straight into your inbox again! :)

I wish to keep my chasingthemuse free blog active in the background, there are times when I feel like I need your attention immediately (not in the long run as a maybe) and worry you’ll miss an installment with me and lose interest of think “how the fuck have she gone from that to this? Not that anything much changes about me or my life.

It is what I say it is. Mostly shit, but you know what the best bit is? If my life wasn’t so boring, un-busy, lifeless, and shit, I’d never have all the time in the world to hole up cosy at home all day, procrastinate for hours on end, avoid social situations without it causing concern, not have to deal with people, plans, price of fish, not matter how bad the fucking cost of living crisis is hitting us!

I love cutting about the house like a fucking lost property fairy, or Rag’N’Bone bandit, in ripped dresses, teamed with knitted bulky bed-socks stuffed inside (too-big-for-me) pink Crocs that make my feet walk like Daffy Duck; and looks like I’m wearing a scuba diver’s flashy flippers and, even then, I still have the majority of time to write. The days are mine and so are the nights. I feel like my life is one big session of free time. I welcome the nothingness.

GOT IT! YOoooooU BAssssSTRD… oops.. sorry!

I’m so super excited for plucking that fucking fine (but fiercly fixed) face-hair out with my bare fingers! I hadn’t been able to shake off the fixation with it sticking out the side of my face like a fucking ten foot barge pole! The world has a way of taking you out of one head space, ‘delaying your fate’, into another and then back again, like ‘no sorry, Time is not ready for you yet, wait over there. All in good time!’.

At least I think I have but I didn’t actually see it out of my hands. I’ve had to wash them because I hate dried blood on my fingernails. Now I have a clean set of cuticles, I am obliged to stroke them with a soft brush of rouge nail polish, call me a slut but I love a good splash of postbox-red varnish painted neatly on my monkey-fingers!.

I had been alternating for a few years between black nails and a variety of yellows. Pale colours don’t really suit me so it’d be trial and error. Pale blue, nope -black. Pale peach, nope -black.

I ran out of my black varnish and when pale purple or lilac didn’t work out for me, I looked like a recently embalmed corpse with that colour, I had nothing to ‘go back’ to.

I rooted around and dug out of an old mobile phone box an unused but old red. I plastered it on my hands and thought nothing else of it. Shortly after that I was having a really hard time with something and ended up crying in a heap on the floor.

I was probably looking for something else and couldn’t find it (that sets me off), or just extra emotional but my partner came in to pick me up off the bedroom carpet, he plonked me on the bed for his best ever ‘pep talk’ yet.

I think about that every single time I do them and in turn I feel brighter, lighter and/or stronger. A little more confident. Especially when life is fucking me a bit too hard.

My plan was to talk about the books I read last night, or should say the books I read some pages from, but that all went out of the window with my fixation on that fucking stray hair. I hope it’s gone.

Somewhere along the line, I came to the conclusion that August would be the beginning of Autumn and Spooky Season and all things ‘fall’ or ‘horror’ would also be literally just around the corner.

It’s not entirely all my fault, I know I’m not the brightest mask in the carnival, but I was watching so much Booktube and people there seemed to be excited about ‘fall’ (which I have since googled and they’re wrong too).

Maybe it was the thought of Autumn bringing in the cooler nights, the stark bare trees, orange and yellow and burgundy leaves on the concrete crunching beneath my feet. Something had to have made me latch on to that mad idea of it ‘all in august’.

Long after my own Mum had told me not to “be so fucking stupid” she said (ever so politely), “its still summer” adding “I thought all these bloody heatwaves could have been a clue!” I subliminally heard Homer Simpson conclude with a “Doh!”.

Most of the shops near me are stocking autumnal candles and shite to do with Halloween, on second thoughts, I also saw a boxed Christmas tree somewhere too.

With me it’s always all or nothing. One extreme to the next. I either anticipate the season, readily and eagerly wait for it or I completely let it go by unacknowledged and don’t even notice that I managed to forget.

I’m a wee bit gutted. I can’t have everything I want all-in-one. It’s a good job really, I don’t know what I want and left up to me I’d create something ridiculous just so it fits.

I have to get through summer first, then make the most of the Autumn months (which if they officially begin on 1 September, then that’s also going to be my birthday month), which is something to dread.

My birthday will be the only day where I feel like: I should be doing something else, I should be somewhere else, dabbling in some fun. Epically excruciating to me nowadays. Fuck Organised Fun. I can almost hear the droning of that song “happy birthday to you” triggering an entire lifetime of trauma all at once. I’ll only be 44 years old. “All the fours! Diana Dors!”

‘It’s just another day’ also grates on me. Although, having an uneventful, unacknowledged birthday gives me ‘Cold Feet’ about being ‘me’ and in some ways I end up battling ‘birthday guilt’ about it being so shit –it is what they say it is just another day. I do like it that way.

I’d be mortified if some cunt rushed around getting banners out, blowing balloons up (side note: I’d love helium ones, heart shaped, see-through with glitter and a teddy bear inside!), piling a load of buffet food on top of an old pasting table with paper tablecloth from the PoundShop. I sound soooo ungrateful but it’s too much.

So the middle ground for me would be something along the lines of presents in bed in the morning to include bath-bombs, moisteriser, lip gloss, perfume, chocolate (all the usual suspects) and contrary to popular belief (or what most people dread) I’d cherish a pile of socks and underwear. I wouldn’t roll my eyes at self-care ‘essentials’ not even a little bit, not at fucking all!

No more Agent Provocure mind you! Long gone are the days where I could showcase sexy, black silk, diamante encrusted, bejeweled, crotchless thongs with my ‘wotapeach’ size 8, aged 21, toned bum!

‘Wotapeach’ was my first MSN username and for good reason. My arse was alright. A bit ‘goosebumpy’ in places, I don’t understand why but it always showed on photos. Now that’s gone. Not that I take many pics of my gigantic bottom, this day and age.

I doubt I could even reach around my spectacular stomach to get a shot of my crack!

I’m pretty sure that was the first and last time I had some posh ‘AP’ garments bought for me. I must have worn them once or twice on fucking webcam on MSN ‘obviously’ as you did back then lol and that was it!

The reason for the capitalised words and speech marks is because he made me a little ‘love-letter’ (attachment) in real life in the mail, he made a wee ‘voiceover’ his voice over a song* on CD with his own ‘lyrics’ once. I was enamored with this extra touch. It was a splitting up ‘goodbye, look what you’ve lost’ endorsement I guess.

Those were part of the lyrics and this is a little nod of recognition to him. I loved him once, so always will. I was thinking about him today on the trams and buses I had to travel on. This was the song*

As far as knickers goes now, I regularly go commando, (I thought spellcheck was going to correct it to ‘I really go cameltoe’ it just added another ‘m’ haha!) but, I’m beginning to phase out the ‘fanny out’ era. I’m heading into my slipping-into-something-slinky phase! Wishing to slip into something other than boxers!

Thinking, ‘slinky’ is probably out of the question but something cute and comfy would do. I’m talking M&S at best (they’re so fucking soft and cater for cunt’s with an arse the size of a crater on the moon!). Fingers crossed someone comes through! LOL ;)

Talking of arses. I thought that at the arse-end of autumn we’d be having Halloween!? Of course that’s not until October? November? Fuck it, but, for some stupid reason, I can almost feel the unease of the events and seasons, breathing down the back of my neck. I feel like it’s going to be different.

Something memorable, or pleasing. I could do more reading over autumn I think, well, I hope so. I’ve been perusing my piles of books (I have no shelves) and it looks like some of these need throwing out now. I’ve outgrown the thought of reading them.

I’ve made another Amazon ‘bookish’ wishlist and so far I have added about 3 different titles and about 3 of the same title in different formats and price ranges. Meh.

I can see this little task is going to prove more messy than I’d originally intended. It may be just a fad. I will get around to updating it and adding my delivery details. I doubt anyone would think about sending me any of the books on it.

I ‘accidently’ shared my link with my loved ones, my partner and my mum, both asked “what is this shit?”. Mum added “yeah you can have two if you want?” which, I don’t know about yours, but back when I was a kid, I’d ask for something extravagant and get told “yeah you can have two if you want!” (meaning fuck off you ain’t getting it), this could range from a toy to a fucking ice pop! lol

I haven’t thought about it since but I might update with a few new titles that I’m interested in buying. I might purchase one myself and tick ‘this is a gift’ and send it to myself. What the hell, why not! This one is proving a bit tricky to purchase in the UK.

I mentioned earlier about having to travel a lot today. Four fucking trams in total and two bastard busses! I was only going to my Mums to take her some Nourishment, Hazelnut Swirl flavour. She likes to drink it on days when she isn’t very pecksish (most days!).

She usually just gets basic flavours and when I spotted this one I tried and tested it then promised (myself) that I’d buy some for Mum and I managed to keep my promise.

I took her three cans of it and a coffee RedBull (insisting she try it), and a book she’ll never read, and some toys for the dogs. Also a ‘guardian angel’ little wood and metal decorative plaque? For the ‘grave’ in the garden.

Mum had many beloved pets who sadly passed due to old age health issues and they’re resting in the garden. Mum tends the grave constantly. We cherish their memory and it was the first time that I saw the ‘grave’ area in a while.

It’s now a magical, enchanted little secret garden, all of its own. With lights, ornaments and flowers and everything! It’s beautiful but I can’t look for too long because it still creeps me out.

–I’m not as macabre-orientated as I once thought–

See, Mum doesn’t mind the dead, the dying, the sick, the bleeding, the haunted, the haunting, the sacred space of graves and everything but she hates skulls and I am the opposite. I love a good skull, painting, ornament, earring, tattoo, or sticker on a notebook. I love that shit, but can’t stick to all of the (‘stuff’) above. I have an obsession with despair, I find it romantic, painful love, depression, its all in my head.

I’m not as brave as I like to make out. I’m quite a big softy really. I can confidently consider myself to be cool-as-fuck sometimes, and I guess, sometimes I am. Today, I got back home and put my feet up. Not feeling cool in the slightest. Looking around my empty home for proof of ‘coolness’ and couldn’t find a single piece of evidence about me being cool.

I was thinking that maybe my stacks of book could count toward it, or my lack of ‘figurine ornaments, or mass-produced art prints (ignore the Bob Marley mass-printed whateverthefuck canvas– there’s a story behind it).

We sort of stole/ rescued it from being thrown out of a Charity Shop! Also, I love Bob, what’s not to love?), and there’s not a single stenciled trio of words to be seen on the walls. No sign of a sad, hopeful, fucking pure LIE, of Life Laugh Love in our ‘gaff’ luv, but, does that make me feel ‘cool-as-fuck’? Nope.

What does make me feel cool-as-fuck are my post-it notes and coffee cups. Yep. Easily pleased. Would anyone else agree with me? Probably not.

I don’t mind, because upon further inspection the feeling dropped. I remembered, I’m the kind of closet-cunt who collects Bic lighters that are now over spilling from my Ted Baker pencil case! (Not even lying! See pic*).

She (me) sometimes cuts her (my) sandwiches, (which are filled with) jarred salmon paste - hold the butter (its fucking disgusting mixed with other things, pet peeve!), tastes better when its sliced into fucking triangles to eat ‘proper’ (nosh* to nibble!) watching Psychopaths On Netflix.

Nosh means two different things where I come from. Nana used to ask if I wanted some nosh and she meant freshly baked Brownies. I used to ask him if he wanted a nosh, I meant Brownie Points baby!

Thank you so, so much. Every view is music to my ears. Kudos to you for taking a peek. I appreciate all who do. Massively proud of you👏 I kid! Seriously, Thank you.

I might be back in your inbox tomorrow with a shorter little musing, letter, update, or more, or not. Follow or Subscribe to keep in touch. Lots of LOVE from me to you. xx

Love from Chasey! ..x

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FRIDAY:21 AUGUST 2026

Dear Chasers!

BALANCE OF DESIRE

“When The Walls Come Down”

My belly button hurts and if I told you how it happened, you probably wouldn’t believe it. I’m taking advantage of the fact that my partner has gone to bed early full of drink and food. It’s 9 pm and I’m here trying to bring myself to talk to you, no offense, it’s not a you thing it’s obviously me.

I’ve been clearing away the empty beer cans and rearranging my desk space to accommodate a one-off-late-night writing experience. This and more faffing around deserved a couple of cigarette breaks.

I’ve set up ‘stall’ on my partner’s desk, which is mostly empty except for a few bits and pieces of my shit which I have carried across and plonked down previously, which happens to be a corner by the window.

The problem with this situation is that the glitter lamp is now right behind me at the back of the room and I’m not benefiting from any of its glow.

My main light is a sexy neon pink (which can strain my eyes when tired but I don’t mind and changing it isn’t a thing, I love my pink lighting!).

There are no spare plugs near this area for the lamp, so I’ve improvised and kind of sorted it. I’ve plugged it into my right hand side near the back door and sat it on the electric fireplace (log burner style thing) which is what I usually sit on to smoke at the back door.

It’s still raining outside and has been all day, I even got caught in it twice earlier but that’s by-the-by and irrelevant to any of it. I just can’t go outside to smoke.

I’ve also set us a small stool to act as a side table for the time being and that is blocking the back door from opening. It’s a lot of messing about every time when I need to smoke.

I’m having to remove the lamp and move the stool away and then put it back again, every 45 minutes or more frequently depending on my mood, it seems a bit too stupid to do it.

It’s not impossible, just a waste of time when I can do what I always used to do, which is to open the broken window (now seems to have recovered during the heatwave and has proven still functional), lean out and close it when done, simple!

Here’s where the weird shit with the belly button I mentioned. I’ve been getting my big deep ‘innie’ navel hole CAUGHT on the fucking corner of the radiator! haha!

How fucking bizarre is that! (Stranger still is that I think that was my first ‘fucking’ swear word I’ve uttered thus far!).

I could be getting slightly tired, that’ll be why I’m letting the ‘professionalism’ slip.

I’m not sure how to go about it, either fuck off to bed after all my protests and miss out on the free-hall-pass to stay awake as long as I like, all night if I wish to write, what if I only end up writing this? what if this writing is shit? I should go to bed at midnight as per ‘curfew’ and start ‘something new’ tomorrow for you.

I know it’s a sign for me to start writing about stuff that’s been happening, or inspiring me. I am really sleepy (with stress). I’ll try to continue but forgive me for whatever you’re about to read, I can honestly say that it won’t be my best yet, and I’m sorry for sending this out like this. All writer’s have peaks and troughs in the standard of their work. It’s alright when something’s off. Not giving. Just plod on.

This feels like the third rung on the ‘writer’s block’ ladder. The hidden killer. Once I get too tired it’s Game Over. Stress sends me to bed. I am stressed but I won’t let it beat me.

I didn’t want to come here and start SHOUTING about how shit my fucking life gets sometimes because I knew, by the time I got down the page a few lines, I’d be in a different frame of mind.

I’ll save my complaints until the end and maybe start with something more boring. My inability to get away from the blank page by filling it with words, without fear.

Sometimes as a writer, it’s not that we get writer’s block exactly, and I guess I’m only speaking for myself here, it’s almost as if there’s very little we wish to say. I’d go so far as to stand by saying ‘wish’ like it is a choice.

I believe it as being a choice because in my opinion, we always have something available to write about, look at me for instance, I live a hermit like lifestyle which can be monotonous and uneventful most of the time.

I can still witness the beauty of a butterfly floating by, just like that seen by the eyes of an accomplished artist and still hear the same music as the most famous celebrity, wealthy business person.

On the opposite swing of the pendulum, I still walk the same concrete ground as the ordinary person, a more unfortunate person, the happy people, the saddest version of humanity, everything is always available to me as inspiration to write about as it is for the next man.

It’s the desire to write that can hold us back most of the time, not saying what you may assume here. The desire to do it (create) can be just as inhibiting as the desire not to (write). I’m not telling you anything new, I know this, I’m just getting myself into the mood to produce.

I’ve noticed that when I think too long or too hard of how to do something for you which I’d approve of being good enough for the audience, the more my mind clams up. I might have a bit of perfectionism as a negative trait holding me back too.

That’s another concept that I’m only recently beginning to contemplate and understand the truth about too. I wouldn’t have had me down as a perfectionist from my previous point of view and how much I actually knew about the term.

I thought it meant that everything you do or produce had to turn out perfect or else it wouldn’t get done. I’ve sent things out into the world full of errors and imperfections which had made me think —well, that can’t be true about me because I don’t care about it being ‘perfect’.

I have always known that I am finicky and concentrate too much time on the tiny details and have a tendency to overthink the technical shit (like layouts and .gif gimmicks, all the ‘decorative’ bits of my creations (newsletters), but I think now, recently, that I’m not exempt from the condition of perfectionism at all.

I feel the same pressure from it as the writer-next-door, the amateur, the experienced, the established, the nervous, the confident, any type of creative in the field. None of us are really immune.

I can’t write the way I wish I could do for you. The harder I try to be brilliant for you, my readers, my ‘Chasers’, the more I know that I’m going to fail before I’ve begun. I won’t let myself ‘try’ –if I have to try then it’s not the right thing for me to be doing.

It’s just that it’s been a few days, which to me is more than a while that I’m okay with, since I wrote to you last time (here’s the link to that one in case you missed it).

I’ve had lots of things happening but nothing inspiring me to write which is just what I was saying and typical really, a bit ironic how, when you get the action (shit to write about) you feel uninspired (without desire to write), then when the action is non-existent you have all the inspiration around you and still have no desire to write.

That’s ‘writer’s block’ to me. The lack of desire or too much thereof.

Sometimes I just don’t want to talk to anyone. When I’m writing, I’m always alone. I’m typing alone and talking directly to you, and when you’re reading this, you are alone too. I heard a quote that pointed this out to me.

Whether or not we have anyone around us, you when reading or me when writing, in reality (or actuality), my mind is thinking it out, alone and your mind is reading it out –alone.

I suppose this is what they mean by a meeting of minds. Sometimes I want to write and talk to you, others I can’t write because I need to be completely alone with my own mind. It doesn’t help that both my mind and being alone terrifies me especially when we put those two things together.

My schizophrenia has a way of making me feel unsafe for no rational reason. As much as paranoia appears to be the main antagonist in my story, fear comes up as a solid contender and enabler which adds fuel to the fire.

I worry that my words may hurt somebody, or make somebody want to hurt me. I worry that I’ll say too much or not enough. I’ve deleted so much stuff so far it hurts.

I feel scared to say what’s on my mind sometimes but I’ve never let it stop me from telling my story. It’s like being on an eternal see-saw where I need to ‘talk’ , want to ‘talk’ and yet ‘won’t’ or can’t allow myself to start.

I haven’t been having an all round good or bad time lately. My partner has ‘fallen off the treadmill’ so to speak. He was doing so well I have no idea what’s stopped him. He was doing all this ‘research’ and the next thing is, he sits on the couch all day half naked, covered in Cheetos’ dust refusing to take his week-old boxers off for me to wash and looking like a little lost soul because he can’t find the remote control.

He’s had over a week away from the gym, like a ‘staycation’ (is what I told him) when he told me his head wasn’t in the same place as it had been before that day / night of cocaine.

Yesterday he told me that he didn’t think he would be going back to the gym permanently. I thought, ‘oh fucking hell’ because I can see what that would mean, not only for him and his life, but me and mine.

He lets the gym mindset go and out goes healthy eating, 10,000 steps a day walking, more sex with me, a happier man at home, doing the fucking kitchen when it lands on him, and most of the wholesome things and routines that we’ve only just begun accustomed to.

I encourage him to do what he feels is best for him. I also give him a kick up the arse pep talk and ‘nagging’ when I feel it’s called for. Only to have him turn it back on me for either pushing him too hard into the gym or ‘enabling’ his poor choices, like drinking, shit eating and cocaine at the weekend.

The only one I hold my hands up in full responsibility for (because I have to) is cocaine – and the only reason I’ll take the blame is because it’s me, muggings, who has to pay for it the following month.

If I said no, it would mean no because on his own funds, he couldn’t afford to do more than one bag. It was actually him who encouraged me to ‘get on it’ first this month, after I’d just got used to the idea that I wasn’t getting anything because he was doing so well in the gym, healthy eating and good living, I had got over being pissed off at him for having one without me at his brothers.

I was resigned to the fact that it was fucking unfair but so is life and sometimes I just don’t care as long as most things are going well or alright for us at home. He has seemed to let everything go and I do worry about his mental health. He has a whale of a time over the headset, spending time gaming with his brother, both of them boozing down the phone.

I was happy that he was having fun with ‘good company’ since they both decided not to get together in person and drink together because even though they’re both in their 40s now, they still end up falling out.

Sometimes physically fighting and getting themselves in bits of trouble as the police were always called out about disturbances. They agreed after years of this happening, to only drink together when they’re both in their own homes. It seems to be working out for them.

They have a lot of common ground so this doesn’t add up to me. They have one of the closest relationships I’ve ever seen in families. It’s just their preference and there’s nothing wrong to say about their choice.

What pisses me off is whenever they’ve had a drink and called it a night, stopped gaming, ended the phone calls, I’m left with my drunken partner (who has been on his best possible behaviour all day.

Just in terms of watching what he says, keeping his opinions positive and less frequent than usual, blowing smoke up his brother’s ass is how I would actually say it, suddenly he’s gunning for me to be himself with. I don’t know why he does this at all but to annoy me is my closest guess!!

He either comes bothering me as a form of entertainment for him which involves in him doing everything he can think off to stop me doing my stuff and give him my full dedicated attention.

I make his meals, go to the nearest shop for things he needs, clear the empty cans away, put the bedroom straight and cosy ready for him to get his head down and all I ask is that if he’s tired, and saying so, he just fucks off to bed.

He switches. He has other ideas, he feels like now would be a good time to quiz me about things we disagree on so he can enter his ‘debate mode’ and tell me how fucking wrong I am.

He will slam my laptop lid down, flick my phone out of my hand, play-punch my arms, pull my legs from the ankle down or over to him, distract me, ask me to do things that he knows I’ll refuse to.

The other day, I’d just cleared his dishes away after cooking him some bolognais and that tapeworm-looking pasta ‘tangledtelly’. He had finished the entire plate and had the leftovers from the pan too.

He decided that now he would pester me to get into bed with him to SLEEP at something stupid like before 8 pm. He was devastatingly drunk and full with food. He knows I appreciate the quiet nights to type when he is safe and sound sleeping off the booze.

Yet, he asks and asks and asks me again, and again, and again, am I going to bed with him. He knows I don’t want to so it’s always going to be a ‘no’ answer.

When I stopped responding to this he bangs his hands and feet on the bedroom walls and built-in wardrobe. It makes an incessant, scary ‘knocking’ sound, really loud. It fucks with my nervous systems and trips my ‘blood-boiling’ anger switch.

After 30 minutes of him repeating this ‘trick’ and me staying silent in the other room. Too distracted to do anything but sit and scowl and pray for time to come quicker, I have to wait until he is sleeping or quiet to start anything.

He decides to tell me that he won’t be going to sleep until I make him fucking noodles. I’m fuming. At first I fell hook, line, and sinker for the trick. He didn’t want noodles, he wanted conflict.

He wanted me to be the wall that he could kick balls at.

The more things he kicked he expected the same reaction, always no, or the opposite to co-operation. In the end I made him those noodles, he looked sick and full to the brim but because I’d called his bluff, he was king and ate them all. Then he fell asleep, keeping to his promise. My promise to myself is a night of reading.

“We write what we read” is a new theory that I’m considering. If that doesn’t work out, then I’ll write a blog only exclusive and post it on chasingthemuse over the weekend. Stay tuned! Some days we’re on the ball and others we are the brick wall. x

Love from Chasey! ..x

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MONDAY: 17 AUGUST 2026

Dear Chasers!

CONUMDRUM

“Nothing To Hide”

There’s something so nice, almost spiritual, about going out in the rain wearing only shorts and sliders, no socks, no top or bra on either. I did, however, do the world a favour and ‘wrap myself up’ a little bit (for the benefit of the potential public). Choosing to wear his 5XL Karrimor sports jacket, for its long and lightweight properties, as I venture on a late night walk.

To me it doesn’t really matter that my tits are wobbling around untethered in a hot sweaty mangled jiggle underneath the waterproof protective covering, like long, loose socks spinning about a washing machine!

“Takes more than a bit of a ‘rough terrain’ plastic zipper, fastened right up to the chin, to keep these tits still from 'checking in’”, I think to myself nonchalantly, just an amusing silly nonsensical observation in a wonky sentence! I tend to do this a lot without a second thought.

It’s a calming technique, almost grounding. I do stuff like make up scenarios that seem absurd, happens often but is a subconscious observation. I’ve figured that by thinking these daft things, it gives me the opportunity to laugh back at myself, which in turn reminds me not to always take things about me or me-myself too seriously.

It’s relaxing without a mask on all the time. I love to drop my guard. I’m so proud of who I am behind the veil. I find strength in having ‘nothing to hide’.

It felt so magical, after a day spent half in bed, then the rest inside the house behind closed curtains. I imagine how beautiful moments like this are so often missed because who consciously thinks of it being a good idea to go out half dressed like this when there is rain happening outside!?

I guess people future-trip over the weather and prepare for potential hazards by going equip with umbrella to avoid standing out like a sore thumb. I don’t mind and ‘social’ repercussions or what people might think of me as I’m passing by, I could float by naked on a surfboard and the world will still be the same when I wake up the next day, the sun may still shine, the rain may come down, I’ll be fine.

Nobody is about this time when I step out onto the street, not a soul to be seen. It’s dark already but not that late. Only about 23:30 (thereabouts). I’m just nipping to the shop round the corner, near Crown Plaza area, to get me some snacks and much more importantly some urgently required Rizla papers.

It’s such a delight tonight. Just to be enjoying the dark rainy night in Manchester’s Northern Quarter, safe from harm, the cool breeze brushing over my bare naked knees and the charming raindrops tickling my ankles, teasing my thighs as they sneak in from the side, brings me back to life. I know how it feels to be grateful to be alive and tonight is one of those times when it really dawns on me and shines.

This time I am also feeling pretty pleased with myself for calling the ‘shout’ to go out dressed for the beach (almost?). In my idol day dreaming about the feeling of being a ‘superior in my method of thinking’ I suddenly feel the ground sliding down from underneath my feet. My Lacoste slider has lost its grip and slid on the slippy pavement as I’m crossing the street.

I’m down on one knee on the fucking wet concrete, doing the splits nearly (Ouich! Might have done myself a mischief actually) finding myself red faced and muttering ‘typical’ admitting defeat to the irony of the situation ahead of my musings.

My surroundings suddenly evaporated and it was then that I realised I wasn’t alone.

There was a darker witness in the shadows, who I only saw after the fall, from the bright glare of his phone illuminating his cheesy grin. I hoped he hadn’t captured footage of me, I doubt he did.

He didn’t seem to be interested in what I was doing and definitely wasn’t about to rush over checking if I was alright either. I wouldn’t expect this from the people with the ‘Best of British’ intentions in them, where there would be genuine concern, the most we’d get back from them would be a suppressed smile or nod of recognition, shown with a stiff upper lip.

I appreciated the fact that the stranger in the dark waiting by the closed and unlit part of the Craft Center’s doorways was just another Deliveroo driver, probably on a brief break, enjoying the night, standing in the shade next to his parked up bike.

I managed to land in a way where I regained my balance without smashing my knee on the ground, my stature and weight wouldn’t have let me stretch that way or that far down. It felt like I was within an inch of making some ‘life-altering’ physical injury or damage, like ripping myself a new arsehole, or tearing my vaginal canal -at least that’s how ‘close’ it felt.

Still undeterred and loving the cool air against my smooth, nice legs (which reminded me to try and think when the last time I shaved them would have been) another luxury of getting old. All the usual ‘shaving suspect’ places begin to thin and eventually stop appearing again.

So far my armpit hair has already retired. My legs are weird. One day they’re shining with fresh virgin skin sheen, then all of a sudden, we’re back in the desert again and he can file his nails with the back of my calves! Cactus legs are very rare for me these days, saves me some time on a ‘shave everything day!’.

On my way home from the shop I try to relive the pleasure of the night walk, I feel happy to be here (another rarity for me when my baseline is always ‘I fucking hate myself’ and its up to me to deviate from there.)

Generally, I accept my shortcomings without absorbing them completely, remembering the words my Mum always used and attributed to ‘fixing broken things’ —“we have to mend and make do”, is what she says.

I try to appreciate my ‘bounce-back-ability’ and tune into the fresh night air that stinks of damp earth and strawberry cream vapes coming from the open window of the flat above Yard & Coop closed chicken place. I feel alright which is good because right now I have had a lucky escape from my mind.

I begin channeling my soul’s most stoic soldiers.

My spirit animal if you like. What a blessed animal I think it should be. My free spirit sprinting ahead of me, I feel almost complete and undefeated, reconnected with who I deserve to be. I feel okay on this journey. It’s good to be okay. It’s not so often I get to see certain sides of myself. The strength of a feral animal I see and guess what? I believe on this occasion that it IS me!

I believe in myself again which is the important part of this escapade.

I realise that I might look like a beast and the only feral animal I actually resemble would be a Grizzly Bear or Orangutan or Yeti, Big Foot, Gorilla girl they should have called me. I don’t want my mind to take me back to yesterday yet. Plenty of time to think it over and write about it here soon. Oh, I forgot to liken myself to a Baboon too.

These are all beautifully fierce creatures. I have that essence in me too but I’m referring to them taking up space. They’re hardly, dainty wee things, agile or not, they are BIG and BAD but BEAUTIFUL always too, that much is true.

This shadow is my ‘Dad’ all over. I often see myself in the image of the memory I have of him. He left lots of himself behind for me to carry in me. I carry his heavy left footed ‘limp’ but I walk with more than just my bodily weight, I have the weight of the world already in me, let alone on me.

I feel a little ashamed at the size of the shadow I cast sometimes. I cast the same shadows all of the time but, on good days, the shadows don’t count. They say the morning sun casts no shadow. I wish my Dad was still alive. Every time I hear this particular song:

It brings to mind the way that I BELIEVE my Dad died, and much about his life while he was living it. I believe Dad’s life doesn’t end because we are all still here with it. It’s true what they say, we carry our lost loved ones with us in our hearts.

Anyway, even whilst listening to that song and holding back tears, not only do I attribute the lyrics to my Dad but simultaneously back on myself too. The only difference between us was that I failed at dying too soon.

I could have died with embarrassment on Sunday evening and felt like I was being punished for the bad decisions we had been making. It began with something amazing happening. I say amazing but nothing out of the ordinary –just a really good feeling. Happiness is when there is good music playing in the background!

Sitting in my bedroom drinking two cans of Budweiser over a period of about 4 hours. Taking small sips in between drinking my water with electrolytes in, a couple of RedBulls, coffee flavour, my new favourite energy drink. Its fucking fizzy coffee!!!

Where has fizzy coffee been my entire life! It’s delicious and stinks of cake too! Walnut and Coffee cake, however, the taste is like nectar of the fucking Gods. If there’s one thing to come out of what happened that day, this is the best of all takeaways. Fizzy coffee and belly laughs.

My fella had been gaming with his brother (over the headset) and drinking his 15 cans of Budweiser all day, it wasn’t until later Sunday evening, when his brother had got off for the night, that my other half came stumbling into the bedroom to chat with me.

I watch Cafe Mambo live streams all day whilst I’m writing and talking to my Mum on facebook video call things. I’d had an alright day, considering that I’d been panicking about him getting too pissed and being a dick to me after it. Budweiser is one of those drinks that make him switch for no reason. I was still enjoying the old stream, the atmosphere (and lighting) in my bedroom was perfect, and then he came in.

I’d sort of been, not walking on eggshells worrying, just kind of ‘holding my breath’ about it. I was dreading him coming in to me, but when he did, he was happy.

He sat on the side of the bed looking at the TV with me. We both noticed some girl dancing behind the booth, rather extravagantly to the music that the DJs were playing (back-to-back). I couldn’t help giggling with him.

Then, as we continued, people-watching, we noticed another woman, who had the unfortunate resemblance to a man who lives in our locality. Noting against any of them it was just a silly idea that this guy who we know would end up in Ibiza!

It’s the same absurdity of someone like me turning up on a fucking catwalk!

He is a bald white guy, built like a mop with slim pale legs that I’ve seen thicker legs on a fucking ironing board. He wears these goggly round thick jam jar style glasses, that make his eyes jump out larger than life at you, and this poor woman was his exact twin! Three scoops of blonde hair cut short was the only difference!

My giggles had reached a higher ground by now. I couldn’t blame my Budweiser but I was really close to not being able to breath and about to wet myself in the process. I had lost all sound now and was gasping, laughing, like Muttley the Dog.

The next thing I know is that I’m cutting it down the fucking road on my toes, through crowds of slow-living people, dawdling along on a Sunday evening in the city center. Probably perusing the possible pubs and wondering what the restaurants had to offer. Among the normal people is me.

I’m marching down the road, filled with stress now, and horrendous anxiety. What caused this was that the clothes I’d chosen to wear were a tad too small and the waistband was digging into my belly in a weird place. The tracksuit bottoms are a size medium, they fit to an extent. Too short on the leg and slightly tight around any part of my belly.

I can wear them on my hips perfectly, which I usually do, with a longer t-shirt on. I wanted to wear my BOSS top so had to do a few adjustments to save myself from the embarrassment of a muffin top stomach sneaking out under it and over my pants.

I couldn’t pull them up as high as I do my other ones, like sometimes so high up under my armpits that I do that thing again where I make daft observations that keeps me grounded at times when my head might try ‘taking off’ with self-confidence. I joke around in my mind about pulling my pants up so high that I could plop my tits in my pockets!

I was half okay with my outfit, thought I looked presentable, but also half uncomfortable. I’m marching down the road relentlessly to get to the tram that takes me to my dealer. I’m off to see the wizard for my fucking marching powder. It’s been a while and a long time coming. I’m only going to get a few for us. He made the call and sorted the meeting place out.

My fella warned me that the ‘Dickhead Dealer’ sounded a bit off-his-head and ‘chatting a bit of shit’ but he’s still going to do it. I wished I’d have never gone to get it. On the way there, I had nothing but anxiety and stress.

My fella kept ringing me constantly shouting loudly down the phone, not to be aggressive, just because he is Double-Decible-Derick whenever he’s drunk.

He booms out in high volume the rest of the time too. I’m sensitive to this sound and so it stresses me out more than it would most people. I guess I’m quite sensitive to stress too. I’m surprisingly a naturally laid-back person, besides worrying a lot and paranoia, my slender grasp on reality and poor perceptions in life, I’m so chilled.

I don’t get stressed easily. I hardly sweat the big shit let alone the small stuff. Going out in public is my main stress factor.

Having him screaming down the phone, repeating himself, saying incriminating bullshit that makes me feel ‘on top’ like “make sure he knows we’re getting ‘X’ amount of bags!” through my headphones, while I’m sitting next to a stranger on a busy tram, has a massive effect on my already anxious-avoidant-stress levels.

It’s the same level as having to tell someone they’ve short changed me, or given me the wrong order, or worse, having to take something back to the counter because they put onions on it and shouldn’t have done.

The more I feel uncomfortable the more angry I get. I fight off my stress with aggression. It’s my only coping mechanism. If I’m scared of stress I’m a ticking time bomb. A pan boiling on a stove with the wrong fucking lid on. I could EXPLODE!

It’s a mixture of both, explode or fold, I fold into myself and become childlike on the outside. On the surface. This is the better of the two possible ‘outcomes’.

I swear its on par with going to Costa and asking for a double-espresso-layered-mega-extra-shower-head-remote-control-mint-chip-latte-frothy-chocca-fucking-carno! with extra cream as my order! I wouldn’t put myself through it and hate when its out of my control and someone else is pulling those types of strings on me.

I got through the journey with no less than 8 phone calls like those.

I also received a few weird calls from the Dickhead Dealer. My partner was right, he did sound twisted or pissed and weird. He put on a strange voice at first and asked me stupid questions but wouldn’t accept my stupid answers. He’d be like:

DD: where abouts are you now?

ME: Stretford is the next stop.

DD: How many stops till you get here?

ME: I don’t know

DD: So how long will you be?

ME: I usually ring you when I’m at Timperly.

DD: So how many stops before you get there?

ME: I don’t know the exact route. I’ll ring at Timperley.

DD: Will you be 15 minutes then?

ME: Don’t know, should I call you in 15 minutes?

DD: Will you be there in 15 minutes?

ME: No

DD: When will you be here?

ME: I’ll ring you in 15 minutes.

This continued on more than one phone call which sounds like a ‘head-fuck’ but nothing more fucked up than the last call between us.

DD: I’ll meet you at the builders yard.

ME: Ok.

DD: With my builder’s bum hanging out the window.

ME: What?!!

ME: haha see you in a bit.

DD: For you to spank my little builder’s bum crack… (trails off)

ME: silence (I can’t be arsed with this nobhead shit). I’ve already got my own ‘dickhead’ pissed up giving me drunk stuff to listen to.

DD: .. long pause….. I’M JOKING !! what? Ring me when you get to the bridge. What?

ME: Ok. (thinking whatever man!)

Then when I get to the meeting place he rings again. It doesn’t sound like he’s in the car or driving. He’s asking me where I am and randomly saying “what??” when I haven’t said anything. Now, in the background I can hear a bit more clearly a girl’s voice. Sounded like she’s kicking off with him. That’s when I start putting two and two together but only coming up with two.

SIDE NOTE: What’s one multiplied by one? It’s one isn’t it? [1 x 1 = 1] So what is the definition of ‘multiply’? To increase in number yeah! I’ll just leave this here with you. I can’t remember where I was going with it, but you get the idea? The conundrum?

I’ve been renaming this document, as I’m preparing the letter, trying to be satisfied with each one, over and over again. I wasn’t settling on any of them as a title until this fucking moment! TaDa! Thank You! (Now back to the situation).

At this stage of the game, I’ve been dying for a wee since I was passing Sachas Hotel in Manchester, BEFORE getting on the tram. I forgot to mention this element beforehand but by now my bladder is being a bigger bastard than these two bastard fucksters! I was desperate for a fucking piss. I thought about it all the way on the tram. I walk past a big Tesco to get to the builder’s bit. Closed.

I’d not accounted for needing to take a piss so desperately, and it being a fucking Sunday, everywhere had shut early.

I made it to the meeting place, stressed, less anxious, more fucking uncomfortable than I’ve ever been in my life, and after taking this bloody call now,... I’m thinking fuck my fucking life!

Then I had my dickhead on the phone again. Screaming about how he has spoken to Dickhead Dealer again and some woman is kicking off in the background and DD is chatting ‘nonsense’ then hangs the phone up on him.

I just said to him, feeling all resigned to the situation, “It’s sounds like he’s taking the piss out of me, he’s said he can do it, got me to come all this fucking way (45 minutes one way) just to not show up! What a fucking cunt!!”

“I’ll make a roll up, smoke this, and if he hasn’t turned up by then I’ll just go somewhere for a piss and make my way back home”. My partner agreed in a lower tone, and said, “ring him back before you go though!”. With that I light my smoke and the phone goes at it again.

It’s DD and he’s in the car and he’s nearly here. I see him driving towards me. He is looking to his passenger side and is laughing and pointing at me. He’s pointing at me, laughing but looking there. I came up near the passenger window and there is a girl looking weird, almost shocked, angry but calm (relieved!). She isn’t exactly happy, friendly but made small talk with me for no reason.

I never talk to him when I pick it up. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. He took his time fucking around his battered wallet to get the bags out for me. I got it. I knew what I had been party to. He didn’t looked drunk or drugged up, twisted or anything, just old haggard and with a stupid fucking grin on his greasy lips. WHAT A CUNT.

I’ll tell you why he’s a cunt –he did a Cunt’s Trick on me!!

((editing me: I considered using ‘CUNT’s TRICK’ as the title for this but wished to remain inconspicuous, and decided against it also, to keep in line with being respectful towards professional standards)).

I became suddenly talkative and he suddenly froze with frothy foam white stuff around the corners of his gaping frozen mouth. It was the perfect time to tell him what I think has happened, while he is stuck in time catching flies, before he fucks off into the kitchen ‘secretly’ gambling.

It’s not a secret but we play the game of him promising not to gamble in there, and me saying ‘okay I trust you’, back to him coming out again hours later, admitting to have been gambling and me saying, ‘it’s okay, I love you’.

I think that those dodgy phone calls, with the Dickhead Dealer, during the journey to get the sniff, were all orchestrated by him to trick his girlfriend into thinking, or wondering, about who he was meeting up with.

I bet he made her think that his mate’s girlfriend (me) who was picking up the stuff for his mate (my boyfriend) was some kind of ‘something’ and made out I ‘fancied’ him?’ made her believe or wonder that she had some kind of slag or nutter on her hands to worry over, kick off at him about, or deal with herself.

I had retreated into my old ‘folded’ up state at that stage. I’d felt resigned to the fact that I’d wasted my time. My main concern was getting to the toilet fast.

I was glad to see her anyway, just so glad that they’d shown up. Glad to get the drugs and glad to be rushing the fuck off back home (which I had to do because everywhere was shut) so I could go and have my wee.

That’s another 45 minutes added on until I could release it.

Imagine it in real terms. A full football game needing to urinate!! Now you’ll understand my pain, if you couldn’t already. Anyone can. It helps me to understand my state of mind at the time too. I spoke to them both from a withdrawn place.

It should have hurt that I became the butt of the joke. She was an ordinary young girl with this Dickhead Dealer being her new boyfriend (or something, his most recent ex split with him, he’s had many, many relationships over a period of a few months they always leave him). This was a new girl (my partner told me).

She’s been on the way to meet me, probably expecting some other ‘ordinary’ girl, who possibly might be a slag around her boyfriend, a threat to her or whatever. Then she sees.. Me. Just waiting by the railing angry and miserable. Standing in clothes that show most of everything I try to hide. Fat. Greasy hair. Ugly. Butch. Mama Fratelli.

Angry as that fucking woman from the film Misery. Strolling over to the car ‘like a bat out of hell’ at her window like Meatloaf himself, until I spoke. Out comes this weenie whining little voice, that I could choke on the joke myself. The joke was me. On me. How can this Goliath of an oath (me) sound so helium ‘sweet’?

I wish I could say ‘only good will come from this’ and it did in its own special way. The real point I wish to make is that this hasn’t dampened my spirit in retrospect. I could have crumbled or ‘folded’ further in hindsight when all this became a matter of introspection. It’s not a reflection on me. It’s a mirror. It’s not only what they see. I see it too. It makes me want to improve my appearance. My mental health has held me hostage far too much now and for too long too. I’m gonna have to work it out. LOL

MORAL of this story so far as it stands right now? I’d much rather see something that states the obvious in front of me instantly, than to struggle with a conundrum that completely baffles me for weeks, months, years. I’ve always said ‘just tell me how it is’. I am too literal. I do need things spelling out to me. Even the brutal truth. I’m pissed off that it happened. I’m glad I saw what I did. Nothing to hide. This experience was shit but I still call it a gift. Best wishes…x

Love from Chasey! ..x

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TUESDAY: 11 August 2026

MIXTAPE ‘No Nostalgia’ by Chasey Delaney (2022)

Dear Chasers!

IN LIFE’S DEFENSE

“No Change”

Last night I rushed to send an incomplete letter because my partner insists on a midnight bedtime curfew. I am complicit in my own downfall for not getting my ‘work/writing’ finished on time.

I went to bed seething about sending it out as a text document without the additional aesthetics which, in my opinion, bring my words to life. I was unnecessarily unhappy with my efforts even though I hadn’t let anyone but myself down. I’d sent the letter out on time.

My words were all there and accounted for and available to read. I’d over-exceeded my regular word count of around 1400 approx. with a staggering 3000 approx. words of which I was somewhat proud of.

I lay on my pillow pissed off and raging on the inside. I felt hard-done by because I hadn’t been ‘allowed’ more time. Wrapped in the strong arms of my beloved ‘bossy-bastard’ as I called him upon wishing him a ‘goodnight’ before he dozed off - I couldn’t help but notice how fortunate I really was.

In a limbo of being thankful for his presence, his warmth, his love, his arms around me, his hot breath blowing the hair on the back of my head into my face, the lingering stench of his final fart before the snores, still I reluctantly fought back thoughts of ‘fucking hell’.

‘I’m a grown 43 year old adult and now I can’t even do what I want, when I want’. I admit it was a heavy internal conflict. Nothing I couldn’t manage. I kept my rage to a few huffs and puffs, and a lot of fidgeting inside the blankets.

I have a fear or phobia of being bitten by insects, spiders, touched by moths, making me itch. My current suspicion is that we must have bed bugs because, once I have a little itch, I just can’t stop. The more I’m thinking of it or them, the more I need to scratch everywhere. I know its probably psychological more than anything.

Who hasn’t heard of a schizophrenic that thinks there’s bugs in everything. According to my ‘husband’ its a common trait for mental cases to believe in bed bugs. That doesn’t prove we haven’t got them though! I can’t prove we have either but even so, just because my illness has psychotic symptoms doesn’t mean we’re immune to fucked up situations.

A broken clock tells the correct time twice a day for fucks sake!

I am a fucking responsible adult! I own a sofa, I pay most of my bills directly from my Velcro fucking wallet, I have acquired some fantastic debt, and only watch cartoons when I’m alone, yet here I am in bed, wide awake, because I’ve been told to go.

In the end, I snuggled into my best friend and sent myself off to sleep remembering when that’s all we were. Almost friends. I’d spend the days with him and his friends, longing for the days to end. Looking forward to the nights when it was just me and him.

My favourite hours were those where it was dark, the lights, music, TV, were switched off. The silent streets, the moon was out and the rest of the world was fucking gone. How can I complain about anything when I’ve got exactly what I want?

I consider my words to be quite strong in their sentiment, but my woes, my feelings, my moans and emotions are flimsy and fleeting. I write to relieve my mind, to document my time and to share my life. I like my life, and now I find myself coming here tonight in order to defend it.

Some kind creative decided to find a way to provide what I can only call ‘constructive criticism’ and ‘unsolicited advice’ by way of public commenting within the NOTES area on my news feed. Here is what was said and my initial reply:

I don’t understand why he chose to reach out that way. He could have tried to contact me privately in my DMs which would have been a bit more respectable considering what he had to say and how he said it.

This is what had provoked a response from that writer (I can’t say ‘reader’ because I’ve never heard of him before and have no idea how much or little of my stuff he has read – if any!). He is new to me. What a way to introduce himself. I hope he is well and that everything is alright for him at home.

I immediately subscribed to him and shared his most recent post. I am not too upset with his approach but yes it has triggered (that’s too strong a word) it has inspired this letter in (my) reproach.

Something about this letter ‘OVER-CONSUMPTION’ screamed “WOW” to him.

I’m really pleased that he felt so touched that he concerned himself with the crusade of ‘saving Chasey’ because he assumed? that I might be unaware of my own circumstances. I appreciate him not letting the ‘closed comments’ clue, that I prefer no interaction, get in the way of him charging toward me to publically defend my cause. I am sure he didn’t intentionally mean any harm. He saw me for what I present myself to be of course. A damsel in distress? LOL doubt it.

After he sent a lovely little ‘heads up’ to warn me that ‘something in (my) life needs to CHANGE’ He suggests I try vibrant Mondays! I was left with a no choice but to spread the word and do as he advised. Respectively, I did decide to ‘change my life’ (at least for one night). I put my plans, to write about my stagnant life tonight, aside, and have diverted my mind to write.

With the underlying knowledge that I feel DIFFERENT about shit too. It’s a weird bit of knowledge, this feeling of the tip of the iceberg being broken. Is this my first ‘TROLL’ online? Doubt it. It’s the first on Substack. Yay! My cherry has been popped, or my head has! Haha! I might have taken this to heart but it’s taken my mind off otherwise rubbish things tonight.

I know he was being completely sarcastic but harmless enough, I had my claws out prematurely. I too, mean no harm either. I just couldn’t help but play on this, besides, I’ve been picked on at home all day.

Well, since he returned home early this afternoon, completely sober and angry because of it. He accused me of being on OnlyFans because he was snooping at my locked phone and saw a notification flash across the screen. I reminded him of who I was and how dull my life is then sent him this screenshot to put his prickly mind at ease. Fucking Only Fire — that’s hardcore enough for me! As far as vibrant goes it does the trick for me. I love a good Fireplace Sesh. It’s pure gold, rock’N’roll, for me and my tiny writing life. Sorry, I’m not as radiant as you and me both might ‘like’ oops.

I’m so tired of tackling my homelife. I think now I will get all shouty at the nice man who wanted to tell me my life is not right! I hope you take the following information with a pinch of salt which is ‘thinner than sand and thicker than dust’. It’s the best I can suggest for (him) and everyone else who is reading this nonsense.

I’m tired. I’m just gonna write this then fuck off to bed, early. Happy to be with the man I love, in the house I adore, in the town I was born in, in the country I belong in, under the stars that are mine, and the moon that shines above me. It’s the best!!!.

You and I both see the moon at the same time. We therefore have one thing in common. My intentions are innocent. I am defending my right to reply, my right to write, in life’s defense –it’s fallible and knowing nothing about it is strictly malleable. I don’t care if you and the entire world think something needs to change in my life. I’ll take it as it comes, in its own time. I trust my fate enough not to fuck with it anymore.

If you dislike the life I am living and feel the need to write to me advising how something needs changing in it, then i find your comments disrespectful but don’t mind the behaviour towards me.

I really don’t know, or care for your motives, thank you for this inspiration, without you this letter may have been completely different. What a lovely change, your amazing, what this has done for me, has proven that my self-love/hate journey is real and winning in these streets.

I’ve got to the point in life where I don’t care who’s mad, why they’re mad, and who they are trying to recruit to be mad with them. It may be toxic, volatile, incomprehensible but my life is alright. I’m peaceful over here.

I didn’t think that I needed anyone to save me. I appreciate you trying to do so through unsolicited observations disguised as advice and although I really don’t mind what you think about my life, its kind of endearing knowing that people like you who are reading my words are not always comfortable watching me suffer.

I felt like you were a bit cruel to me, so I did something nice for myself. This is how I reinforced my worth after you felt the urge to express you WOW about how ‘something NEEDS to change in my life’ just because you refused to acknowledge it, how everybody lives their own way, differences included, your views were incredibly powerful in encouraging me to act on my self-love.

While you may think my life is a bit too dim for your liking, after reading your writing which you are so passionate about, I am still wondering what exactly is your idea of vibrant? What happened? When did you burn your heart out. When you sold your dreams did you lose something? Your soul perhaps?

I’m sorry if this isn’t as vibrant as you had in mind. It’s not Monday either but we can dismiss the details and concentrate on the facts of the matter. You need to know that you can’t advise someone to change, to live up to standards other than their own, change something they don’t think is broken, tell people that their world is not good enough, and saying something isn’t right (as you implied).

If people don’t show up for you, don’t take it out on anyone else, look closer to home. I can’t help or advise you, I don’t want to, I wouldn’t, I won’t but you can heal the part of you that keeps waiting for something more vibrant of your own.

Your opinions I can forgive but your methods of getting that information to me, I won’t rock with. If you catch me tripping, it’s over principles, morals, manners and dodgy flip-flops; not from unwelcome feedback, shitty opinions, failed entrepreneurs, or bitchy dickheads.

Some people, me– I’m talking about myself, might really thrive from their own life, their level of difficulty is probably different to yours, what’s dull to you might shine bright for them, your vibrancy might be their washed out yesterdays. I’m ok, honestly fine with my life.

I call it hardship, conflict, shitty circumstances, comfort.. Whatever the fuck.. It’s mine. I like it. I want it. I’m keeping it this time. You wouldn’t realise how many times I’ve changed just to get to where I am today. Change is over-rated. I changed to get here. This is my place. Now fuck off! — only joking, but you can scroll on if you want.

I might even enjoy the suffering, the struggle, because going through things laid out in front of me, may or may not, at times give me every reason to, every excuse to fail, to fall –the fact that I still show up here and write it all, or at all, shows that I am doing just fine.

Change isn’t the answer. It’s so much easier to look for change, or strive for it. I prefer to look for life, get to it and go straight through it. I have every reason to fail, to fall and still, through it all, I choose to stand. I think that says it all.

You must be the kind of guy who sees someone in a coma and says something stupid like ‘your chin hairs need plucking. Have you tried Veet lately?’ hahah! Joking. This is so funny though because that’s exactly the way I would take it, as an insult!

Maybe your own life isn’t vibrant? might be because every time your garden grows, you cut the flowers, just to prove to yourself that you’re a gardener. Real growth requires quiet consistency.

I do have to agree with you that CHANGE could be the mechanism that drives it. Whilst I don’t want to change my life in the slightest. I expect change to come organically. I prefer to cultivate my ground, mature what’s already here and eventually I might decide to ‘upgrade’ my expression of it.

My contentment levels with life are always changing so my life itself doesn’t have to. I’ll take your words onboard, but know this, I’m in my ‘absolutely fucking not’ era. I had to change a lot to get to this point. Please don’t try to fuck it up for me. My head. My era.

If you care to explain this vibrant Monday thing, please do so. You’re invited to my DM’s and if not you just do what you want like the first time. I don’t mind.

I won’t judge you for using healthy coping skills to stay alive, so don’t judge me for the sickness of mine. If you were me mate you would have fucking folded by now so next time you feel like ‘putting me down in public’ just ‘leave it out our kid’.

Love from Chasey! ..x

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MONDAY: 10 AUGUST 2026

NO KISSING MIXTAPE by Chasey Delaney (2022)

Dear Chasers!

OVER CONSUMPTION

“Includes: The Truth”

I had myself an ‘analogue day’ on Sunday night that began about 9 pm, right about the time when I usually sit down to write to you guys. It had been a funny old morning and an even more absurd afternoon. I’d felt bored beyond comprehension and too ‘over-consumed’.

Ooh look! I made a little rhyme up there didn’t I? It was unintended but if I let my fingers do the talking they’ll become infinitely never-ended.

Well, that didn’t work out right as a poem (don’t worry I’ll get back to regular ‘prose’ soon) so, without-a-do, let’s continue!

Turn down the noise from the inside just slipping into the mind of another with the intention of scoping them now, jotting down words that sing to you and making notes about the quotes which have stood out.

There’s grounding in your grip on the pen, comfort in the crinkle crunch of the crappy paper and warmth in the pages you’re reading, an intimate connection with another person who you don’t know.

The anticipation of what’s to come, what you’ll learn about, things you might find out. The separation from the inner world, with a clean mind freshly dispatched from the world without.

11.32 am - Monday 10 August

I just received a very unexpected and unwanted phone call which I dealt with incredibly well considering my discomfort but which has physically triggered some anxiety in me enough for me to go into autopilot after putting the phone down.

Unbeknownst to me my body decided to jerk up from off my chair, walk quickly towards the front door, away down the hall, cupping myself underneath both breasts, taking note they weren’t sweaty yet, nervously do a few full stationary spins (for no apparent reason).

Not even wondering what the fuck I was doing, just slowly made my way back through the hall again, did a weird full circle ‘lap’ around the small living room.

I just brushed my shin up against the reclined sofa and muttered some sort of ‘bastard’ insult at it; before heading back to my desk with an empty head feeling less agitated yet still slightly disturbed!

20:21 pm - Monday (still…)

I’m bloated now. I just ate a pile of pitta bread, BLT’s (hold the tomato) . It’s my latest craving that I am ‘over-consuming’. Pretty soon I will never want to see another slice of bacon, or pit, or leaf of fucking lettuce, that time could be now, the next five minutes or six weeks from now. I’m just pleased I managed to make my £3 chump change do me (and it did, £1.50 bacon, £0.68 lettuce, £0.50 pitta breads).

I started the day with £25 and an empty cupboard. My partner had his own share of the funds and spent it wisely. I, on the other hand, persuaded him to chip in with me for a big bag of Black Sheep backed coffee. I’ll attach a photo for the actual information (and I got a free large tote bag with it!). I put £16 towards the £31 beans.

I had to convince him (and myself) that it was totally worth the money and would last us ages, “like a month or more“ he agreed. He bought it from the actual coffee shop on his way home from the gym.

I also asked him to nip into Boots to buy me some Bonjela £5.90 - that’s another element of my reasoning for swapping food shopping for expensive coffee for stocking up on at a time when we’re so skint –my mouth is burnt, infection, bubbled up or something worse (possible an unknown underlying death sentense).

I remember eating some sub pizzas and the sauce sticking the dough to my teeth, the hot melted cheese stretching as I pulled it out with my fingers a bit too late, the sauce burning my gums long after I’d finished eating. I did finish eating. I continued and repeated the agony of the sauce, cheese, dough sticking, stretching, burning, all the way through the food until it was gone. I did this to myself.

It was only when, a couple of days since those pizza subs, and my mouth has swollen up, my gums are throbbing and stinging without me tongue punching them, that I finally realise ‘oops I may have a little problem here’.

My mind runs through the huge list of potential possibilities.

[–] Sepsis

[–] Abscess

[–] Cancer

[–] Herpes

A few hundred other causes first, then eventually…

[–] …could it have been that pizza Chasey!?

My plastic teeth (partial denture) won’t stay still in my mouth anymore while this thing is raw, leaving me no choice but to take it out until my gums are healed.

My mouth, without the plastics filling the two-tooth gap, makes me look like a flat-fanged fucking vampire (that and a hungry hippo chewing like a stapler!) so at the minute, I’m kinda dining out on this being a most plausible reason for staying inside the house. A bit buzzing by it, I can’t lie!

Not that I need any reason, it’s not as if anyone would notice if I didn’t leave the property for the next ten years. I could literally become completely housebound and not one person would bat an eyelid about it.

Most of the time I prefer the safety and comfort zone of my own home (much more than most) but let me get one thing straight now:

I DO go out when I need or want something -I can be in and out 5 or 6 times a day some days and sometimes more, albeit not going very far from home but still not sat picking my arse on the couch all day either!

I’m NOT (always) very lazy. I value my mechanics as much as my mind, but inevitably it is the latter which gets the most exercise.

I can go out as long as there are NO people around.

I mean, of course there’s people everywhere in public, the public is always fucking peopled. That’s fine. They’re alright, I’ll ‘allow it’ just as long as they don’t talk to me, demand my attention, initiate eye contact, or ask me questions or anything.

When I talk about being a bit of a recluse, what I mean is, I refuse to socialise, or spend time with my closest people, my loved ones in a place where there may be OTHER PEOPLE around. I don’t go to group events for obvious reasons!

I won’t even go out for dinner in a restaurant on special occasions, birthdays, BBQ’s, festivals (I used to), pubs, clubs, parks, for walks* and especially never any fucking picnics. I mean, it’d be hard enough managing my anxiety around other humans, let alone adding spiders, wasps and prickly grass to the mix.

Saying that, I came up with a very GRAND (completely stupid and probably impossible) proposal today, and that is to take my beloved on a long walk to Philips Park where I used to hang around all the time as a silly teenager.

We’d lie to our parents saying we were staying at our friend’s house and we’d ‘pull all-nighters’ like that in this particular park.

I have fond memories of playing football on the hot summer days, fishing newts out of the pond when I was young and later on as the years passed on, smoking weed behind the bushes near the allotments with the lads, then getting fingered in the graveyard (at best!).

Shhhush, I haven’t told my fella about that, I’ll just swerve that part unless we go past it and then I’ll retell him stories of yore about how spooky it was when I was young. Maybe make up a couple of ghost stories to throw him off scent and protect his blessed ignorance.

He’d absolutely refuse to go there with me if he thought about all that gritty behaviour. I am his butterfly now. Never has he ever considered how I got here. If only he knew I’d been a ‘chavvy’ caterpillar that had to churn myself to goo and mush (or whatever) to come out the other side of my ugly cocoon much later, more ugly than before but wise enough to try harder to become better (next time around!).

I suggested that IF my teeth fit again by Wednesday (his day off from the gym) that I will walk there with him, take him ‘my route’ (which to be fair is only by memory from like 20+ years ago, for all I know there could be buildings blocking the paths I used to use by now!). It’s about 2 miles from where we live but if my memory serves me well, it doesn’t really feel like it is.

I hope my mouth is still fucked by then but in my heart I want to do it. I know I’ve been overly ambitious ‘promising’ this. He has started his 10,000 steps a day again. He’s on day 3. On day two he was ‘an expert’ at it, he preached to me that I should do it. I know he’s right, he’s only being helpful, he cares about me; so I told him politely that “I’ve done 142 steps tonight and I’m already knackered” thanks but no, not yet.

Reducing me to a private personal ‘guilt trip’ hence this sudden urge to try and take part in his outside life a bit. We have rules, he reminded me that this would be a ‘walk’ not a ‘sprint’ and I chipped in that it would be a walk (I only march when there’s loads of people about), we’d avoid near contact with the public, it’d be fine, reminding him, its a walk though, not a fucking stroll. He loves to dawdle. I don’t.

I walk like an exclamation mark, with my eyes down to the ground. I hope I pull this off. The weather will be 30+ degrees (celsius?). I might catch a tan, or at least some sort of fucking melt down. OMG the park will most definitely be hammered. Fuuuucking hell. Oh well. Amusingly enough, even Google can’t help me out right now! Check this search result I was given just now! It’s a sign of bad times to come.

I can’t rely on anything, I can only have faith in myself. One thing for sure is that if my mouth isn’t fixed – I will have to call a rain check on it.

I was so excited to taste this coffee today that I was saying absolutely anything, still ‘dining out’ on the inconvenience of having no front teeth and agonising pain in my face. I couldn’t be arsed planning meals to buy with £16 quid to last me two or three days. I was like, “If I can’t go out then I’ll do without food shopping until the next time we get some money in, just buy that coffee while we can”.

He offered to shop for me, which I wasn’t going to take him up on. I know he gets embarrassed at the till when everything for him is meat, poultry, eggs and animal products – these to him being the dog’s bollocks of food shopping.

Which would look bizarre with my conveyor belt of carcinogenic crap coming up behind it! Cheap balsak volcano flavour..(google is working again, BULDAK not ballsack! noodles) and, bad smoked basic bacon, and other stupidly rubbish items. They’re hardly front runners to win any Healthy Eating Medals from ‘Yer Mom’s Grocery Awards’ contests.

More like an advert for a Netflix documentary called: What To Eat To Stay Fat & Die Faster.

I digress. I got what I wanted but not what I needed.

Earlier this evening - Still MONDAY (yeah, [10.08.26] still)

I was waiting patiently on the edge of the bed, naked arse up in the air stinking of baby lotion all over my arms, a distinct overtone of desperation with a hint of anticipation, just admiring my ‘wedding’ rings.

I couldn’t help but think, of nothing, except ‘’what the fuck is he doing the kitchen? hurry up darling’’

Feeling like its a hard knocks life for a fucking horny housewife of high feminist genius energy… hahaha just kidding.

If ever there were an advert for anti-feminist-movements (I’m sure there is one called ‘GRINDRR’ or ‘TRADWIFE’ or something. Not saying the right thing here. I’m losing my trail of thoughts. Listen: I don’t know what I mean, but I expect you to ‘get it’ for me.

I’m trying to say I’m a proper pinup for posters in alliance with the reason why feminists fight and the reason why or what for (I’m a bad women is what I’m saying!)

I guess like you get adverts for fucked up donkeys, charities raising funds and awareness for the crisis in the world, hungry - starving people, children, animals in distress.If feminists needed an ad to promote their cause ‘I would be the client of concern’.

—This is Chasey from the rough part of England, she has no formal education, is living in poverty, she who has never known women, she has no means to think for herself, she lives a half life, if we don’t do something now, Chasey may not survive past her 44th birthday – FUCKING FUND US OR MORE PEOPLE LIKE HER WHO CAN PROCREATE MIGHT BE THE NEXT TO SUFFER. What would you do if this was your neighbour? –

I wish I was a little bit better than I am at describing my own awareness. I can’t do anything but tell the truth.

I’m in the bedroom after being sent in there abruptly – being told NOT TO WASH MY MINKY.. oooh, I’m excited but at the same time slightly worried about whether it might be.., could it be .. stinky? He tells me not to spoil the moment. ‘You always ruin it and put me off running off to the bathroom to splash your gash and check your arse, you’re so fuck daft Chasey’.

Instead, I did a quick ‘swipe check’ with my hand. It was a faintly sweet smell, the skin felt smooth, supple, soft, and firm. Not at all dry with bits of toilet paper and cling ons stuck to it like I saw on his arsehole last time I licked it.

I checked the front of me too. Nothing to worry about. Not fishy or greasy, or dry like his cock the other day. I wanted to say to him that he’d cheated because it was fishy, like tuna but he’d been in the sauna and had showered after.

He told me about him eating tinned sardines, and then said it was piss, because he hasn’t been dabbing his dick but I usually enjoy that whiff. I mean, I hate fresh clean cocks. They’re fake in my eyes (obviously I like a clean dick) just hold the soap a bit.

I just take away everything I find about him and presume that my bits will be exactly the same. It doesn’t work that way. My bum never smells like arse but when he’s been scratching his I can smell it the moment throws his arm over my hips. It’s fair to say I panic too much. My thought system stems from a childish belief network I think?!

He waltzes in with an extra inch to him, all ballsy and jabs it in. I moan with surprise and pleasure and pain and demand he do it again, again, be rough, hurt me, ooh that’s hot, and just as I’m expecting the ride, he blows his load inside. Not awkward one bit!!

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I did no more than I usually would but made the awkward, awkward.

ME: “Are you ok?“ I check, hoping to hear ‘of course’.

HIM: ”YEH WHY“

- then before I can reply,

HIM: ”WHY THE FUCK DO YOU ALWAYS FUCK IT UP“,

ME: “Sorry, I was checking you’re okay because you seem angry!”.

HIM: “FUCK OFF CHASEY, WHY THE FUCK WOULD I BE ANGRY”.

ME: “because you didn’t like it?”

HIM: “I FUCKING BOBBLED* BECAUSE I LOVED IT (*ejaculated). CHASEY? Chasey, how do you come to those fucking conclusions luv? I don’t get it”

ME: “I don’t know, I try to match your energy but instead I seem to translate it”

HIM: “What are you going on about. Fuck off now. Now, You’ve done it”

23:46 pm - MONDAY (just about to send this shit)

I’m not entirely finished saying everything I wanted to say to you and this is one of the longer letters I write. It’s been a while since I allowed myself to stray away from the conversation in different ways like tonight. I will leave it here with a to be continued attached to it.

Tomorrow, I’ll come back with a fresh update. oxoxo

Thanks for reading me. Goodnight. 00:00 Midnight, my time is up now. Bye! xxxxx

Love from Chasey! ..x

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a month ago · 1 like · Chasey Delaney

“If you like your newsletters without politics or preconceptions or seeking a break from the norm you may have just found your new hangout”

This is a free publication. free to read, free to subscribe and always will be!

Chasey Delaney! Free Newsletter.

FRIDAY: 7 August 2026

Dear Chasers!

HAPPY DESPITE

“Keep Smiling Face Ache”

I wish to thank my dear Chasers and the community of readers that has grown around my words. My followers and subscribers have been the heartbeat throughout this two year Substack journey. This isn’t goodbye from me though, its more of a new hello, hang in there with me, and let’s see how this goes on in the forever of the future.

I was thinking the other day where the hell would I be writing if there was no Substack? probably still be barking up the same shitty tree of ‘The MUSE’ and others who always leave. (See that cheeky play on words, see I’m still smiling!).Trees Leaves Buttercups, fuck it. Oh to be the woman who never left home for her dreams!

I burnt my toasted teacake the other day. It was cremated to an absolute crisp but at least I know my smoke alarms are still working. The silver lining was spreading posh conserve all over it, too thick.

I’ve never had posh jam before and didn’t realise it would be so fucking bitter and strong and give me little sores at the corners of my lips after I finished enjoying the charcoal bits mixed with it.

I believe they used the wrong size needle for a start, put it lower down in the arm and not in the correct part of the muscle (but not so much that it became medically dangerous). Just that it hurt in the wrong kind of way, not the pain I usually embrace!

The guy this time was the professional who has done it for years. He assured me that I’d feel better after this one, which lead me to believe that I was right when I thought I hadn’t ‘felt the last one’.

I believe that I’ve been accidentally un-medicated for almost a month!

The only noticeable effect was that I almost lost my grip on sanity for a little bit. That’s worse because, through no fault of my own I might have ended up being removed from my home and locked away in some loony bin until I could prove I’m fit for living again!

It had been a guy who had stood in for the doctors who called in sick, for all I know of this guy could have been there fixing a leaking office fridge, or an electrician, receptionist or a fucking patient for fuck sake! Judging by how well he managed it.

The thing is though, it’s not his fault because most staff have had training for this kind of shit. Most depot injections are the same. They have the thin short needle directly in the arse and that’s it, no matter what liquid is inside.

Thank fuck for my nervous, prudish, shy and adamant instructions that I will NOT allow anyone to put any needles in my bum cheeks. I didn’t care who would be there, how it’d be done, where they would put it.

I wasn’t about to pull my pants down for anyone. I didn’t fancy the pain of it either. It wasn’t just that I was embarrassed. I was lucky. I just point blank was refusing this form of medication and thought that would be the end of it. Until they said otherwise.

They could stick it up their own fucking arse if I’d have no choice where to have that needle. Unfortunately, my anti-psychotic is potent enough to penetrate the blood stream through any muscle (including my arm).

The oral pills weren’t working out for me after years and years of trying most of the ones on the UK market, they were putting their foot down now. I had to go on the depot route. I thought I was doing fine but in reality I’d become acclimatised to them.

I feel like its the best of a bad bunch of medicines to be on. I generally get to have at least 2 weeks free of voices and hallucinations.

I still get the odd daily visual. My head is more quiet and less disquiet. I now how biceps/shoulders that resemble Pop-eye or like an 80’s jacket (shoulder pads). The injection site leaves permanent swelling after a period of time. I don’t mind.

Now I imagine how I would be feeling if I’d have not put up resistance all those years ago and just agreed to go on the depot. If I’d have been ‘brave’ enough to let them at my backside for the injections site?

I’d have a bumpy fucking bum by now, chubby arse-cheeks looking like a bag of spanners! I’m so happy it only looks like a plump crumpet instead! haha!

My new name to be called around the house now is ‘Droopy Tits’ because I made a point of pushing them up one day and saying “Look at these! They’d be belters if they wasn’t so droopy like Pitta Bread Tits” we both had a good laugh about it at the time.

I saw his narcissist eyes go wide, he stared intently at me, not because he was caring or relating, he actually stopped blinking. I could almost hear his brain clocking everything I was saying.

I saw him, as he mentally registered that this was something he thought would be my weakness. He didn’t just giggle with me, or pat me on the head and say there-there, or tell me he loves me regardless.

Nooo, he was excited to have been given a free pass to use this information as backlash when I upset or anger him. I sighed, knowing he would definitely use my ‘pitta-tits’ against me at a later date.

Only it wasn’t much later. That day was today, yesterday and the day before. In the end I just shrugged. The insult didn’t quite land on me because I’d seen it coming and blame myself.

I threw in a cheap shot too. Something about “at least my droopy tits are still useful, what’s he gonna do with his droopy dick though?“ We’re sad people.

It’s mad how sometimes I have a really cool self defacing observation that would absolutely crack him up if I told him about it, I know that I shouldn’t (and can’t and won’t) because he will stock them all up and either regurgitate them back at me as insults.

Worse than that I’d hate him to claim them as his own jokes to tell about me at his brother’s house. It’d really make his brother and the females there laugh. He’d take full credit and the fuckers would think he is hilarious - long before they see his dick! My own jokes are way better than the things he comes up with about me.

I only get disappointed that he used my pitta-tits joke to call me nasty names when I think its something that he must hate about me. It’s not my insecurity that I look this way. It’s not the fact they droop that hurts its that it is a problem for him.

I know my tits are saggy. I expect it at my age and for years I refused to wear a bra –even in the street. That ended when they were too saggy to get away with it. They swell and shrink on equal measures.

As does other more visible parts of my body. Nobody ever warned me about a bloating fucking face in old age! So along with my jowls and double chin/neck/cheeks/head I’m a walking bloody puffer fish (with the longest tits in history!).

I always wanted to have some though. I remember what his mate said one day when I’d knocked on his flat. We’d met only hours earlier. I heard his mate say “do you like her?” and my partner of sixteen years together now answered “she’s got no tits!”.

I have to show some sort of gratitude that my underdevelopment had been part and parcel of my malnurishment. I’d always been under weight, and flat chested. My running ‘joke’ when younger was always, ‘I take after my Dad, he’s got none either!’ The moment I went on medication, I piled on the fat, and my fat-boobs blossomed.

He spends many a night rubbing those fleshy fuckers and hasn’t made any complaints about them when he’s got off on them. I know he loves me for me, which is just as well because if it was for my breasts only we’d both be down on our luck! ;)

What really makes me me happy are the weird little moments where I’m busy doing life things, could be buttering burnt bread, folding a dirty pair of boxer shorts only to throw in the washing machine, and suddenly I’m drifting into the ‘in-between’ where I’m neither in the present, past or future.

Time has stood still for a moment.

I’m lurking in life. I feel an overwhelming sense of inertia – a gratitude and weird awareness. I feel an unlimited love, I feel like this will always be mine, this moment, this memory, this time. I’ve made it to where I am right now and nobody can ever erase all this now, what I have now, the me who I am now!

I didn’t come here to be THIS poetic (as if .. hahaha) or to complain, I came here to talk to you again and I’ve enjoyed my time spent ignoring time, chilling out, doing me!

My final note will be that even though, we all have hard truths, shit situations and bad moods to deal with, we always get through it. So keep smiling! We all find little times to feel nice. I can still find ways to stay happy throughout, even though, or despite – everything else, just like you.

Love from Chasey! ..x

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[Audiobook] The Firing Line written & read by Chasey Delaney (c) 2026

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a month ago · Chasey Delaney

This was my first attempt at writing for a ‘book’ to be self published. I think I tried too hard, got caught up in my childhood, adolescence, early adulthood, and the present.

Constantly dipping in and out of my ‘poetic’ imagination, at some points vague abstract with no real intentions but to just ‘write’. Tried to disguise my nods to The MUSE idea, give myself a fucking headache and made a right dog’s dinner of it all, hence why it is an UNFINISHED MANUSCRIPT.

I made it as far as to S3-E1: Restraint and stopped writing it at that point. I’ve read everything I’ve written including long-arse introduction and preface which I penned before ‘completing’ the book, BIG MISTAKE, I could never live up to what I wanted to do with the book.

I think some essays are incomplete and others just far too long to overcompensate for the brief ones. I had some fun recording this but I’m just glad its done and gone. Next time I will just write like myself BUT hopeful not ABOUT myself anymore. I hope you enjoy listening to whatever you can of it.

Best wishes.. x

Chasey Delaney!

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Chasey Delaney! Free Newsletter.

MONDAY: 3 AUGUST 2026

Dear Chasers!

After writing an exclusive blog only post over on chasingthemuse it accurred to me that I had completely forgotten my plan to try to write an ‘essay’ using an actual set structure!

Instead, I just let my fingers do the walking, giving it the old ‘Jack and Jill’ across the keyboard, and when I was done typing, I had much the same feeling as the outcome in that Nursery Rhyme too - “All That Effort For Fuck All”.

I hated that, half way through, my mind had wandered back and forth in the direction of a not-so-old, but long-gone ‘obsession’ I had created, formed from an old embarrassing crush. I haven’t been inclined to ‘remember’ those times for a while. They say it takes you half the time you were together to get over it when you finish.

Once upon a time, I’d had on an idea that I was ‘‘falling in love’’ with an ‘imaginary personality’ (that may or may not have been based on an actually public figure!) I had dubbed that shitty situation as ‘The MUSE’ and wrote so often about my love.

I have since dissolved my attachments to that freaky fantasy so I was gutted when I allowed it to come leaking back into that piece of writing.

The good thing, because I had forgotten to stick to a structure and maybe a loose theme or two, is that I don’t really count that blog as anything, it doesn’t even matter! I will try harder to remember on my next exclusive essay attempt.

There will no doubt be some mistakes, I’m beginning to think that the odd typo and grammatical slips are my signature style.

For now I will continue to write you a lovely off the cuff letter without any boundaries or tricks to try to keep you engaged.

I come back the next day and make edits to the letters on the blog once they’ve been sent out and received by my lovely Subscribers (who I think deserve the raw me as well as the um ‘polished’ versions).

I might not scrub up that well but the thought is always there, besides, I love bed hair and bad manners in men, I like to give as good as I get so fuck it. It’s my time now.

INTRUSIVE REFLECTIONS

“Little Pricks”

I’m cursing my brain, nothing will ever prevent this place from being a depressing shithole. I’m people watching again working my way up for talking or typing shit tonight. It’s almost 10 o’clock and my deadline cut off is midnight. Since writing that introduction at 6 am this morning I’ve done nothing but become more and more a cunt all day. I’m only just settling down back into being the nicer side of me and yet my fucking head is still being a judgemental little prick!

There’s a guy dancing with a face that’s slanted like he’s been hit sideways from a wing off a ceiling fan and he’s doing things with his hands that don’t suit the rest of his macho man physique or appearance. He’s dressed like an extra on Sopranos, with a tiny van dyke like a Mexican drug dealer, yet his little hands are doing cute baby claps real fast one minute, then one hand slips down to his nipple and does little duck quacks like translating the Morse Code the fucking next.

Why must I be thinking anything but ‘he looks like he’s having a lovely time?’

I feel akin with the bigger girls on screen. I could give my right arm to look half as good as they do but up against the stunners in the room they’re shuffled off, one way or another to the sidelines. The girl in the neon orange dress has my heart. She looks a little pissed off at the old women who keeps backing up into her looking like a DFS Fabric Sofa. I can’t figure out what she’s fucking ‘come as’ tonight, a circus tent or a something from 1980’s kid’s TV. It’s not your usual IBIZA attire to say the least.

Unlike me while I was there back in the day, many moons ago mind you. I went in just like her (just not as old and didn’t know better) unaware of the ‘’unspoken dress code’’. My ‘very best’ outfit was a black pleated mini skirt from Top Shop (cost a bomb so must be good) and fuck knows why I chose this, but a BLACK tiny boob tube. Did I hope that ‘boobs’ came included? I had two bee stings, a size A bra would bury me, what the eff was I thinking?

You know I dye my hair dark and leathered the sunbeds in those days but there was fuck all that could disguise my translucent pale-uninteresting skin!

I’m a red head (that tans) I used to say because my skin always had a creamy, almost oily sheen to it, with or without body butter. All the sun beds did was singe the edge off the Casper colour and give me darker freckles, once in a while they would join together and I’d have patches all over – one the shape of Bart Simpson, the other the shape of a watch (situated just over my crotch of all places!). I prayed some northern lad would as if I had ‘the time on yer cock?’ so I could say, “well actually… ”. I was all brave and played on words.

My sense of humour hasn’t changed much, its just reversed inward the older I’ve got. I wouldn’t dream of pointing out my own flaws, or bringing attention to my shit points and weaknesses. I was always so careful to protect my personality too. In this letter I let the guard drop. I just can’t imagine rocking up to Cafe Mambo wearing my granny’s curtains as a ‘going out frock!’I went as a ‘Goth’ thinking I was D’BOMB!. Ha!

I’ve not seen stripes and patchwork that close together on a person since …ever! Her dress could only be described as ‘Conservatory Shabby’. I had her down as some fashion designer,that or an independent artist from Worstershshshshire.

Similar to that woman from Goggle Box who lives in the cottage with a gorgeously thatched roof and her armchair is identical to the wallpaper they blend in perfectly. She always wears black sheer tights and itchy looking skirts (that are probably made from the same fucking fibers off her roofing!). I can just imaging what they would think if they were ‘people watching’ me. It works both ways, thank fuck I’m a hermit!

Where the fuck have all these people been all my life? I’m getting some good joke from it all because I’ve been a cunt all day. My usual empathic, caring, considerate, kind and inclusive self has vanished.

The other night, not long after I had proudly declared in one of my newsletter that me and my partner had been ‘off the white stuff’ for months (true) and I was having a weird, anxious, paranoid, unhappy day so I made this PODCHAT instead of writing that day.. well, that fucking day, my partner had only gone and got onit! At his brother’s house!! Without me. That day was only Friday just gone (31.07.2026).

ON Saturday I felt shit and wrote shit things I wish I hadn’t.

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🦋FERNWEH: 'Far-Sickness'🦋

"I am a phantom built out of pain... As I extract myself from my own body, it falls off me like old clothes... This fantasy is the only…

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a month ago · 1 like · Chasey Delaney

It’s now 3 August and I’m still waiting for MY TURN to get sniffed up. IN fact, I’ve made it my mission to get twisted out of my head on it as soon as I can get him to realise that ‘it’s only fair’. Petty. I know I am but why should I be the only one experiencing life ‘raw’ without getting sniffed up occasionally.

We used to have it at least once, one night, every week, 24 bags a month at £70 each. WOW. No wonder he doesn’t want me to have some again. No wonder we were always so skint and couldn’t afford to buy ourselves anything!

I felt an injustice today, I was bored. I suggested we just get 4 and that would do us and we’d only have 2 each (which means he’d officially had more than me but I’d let that go) only he told me where the fuck to go. “No chance are we going back to those days!”

I’d said ‘good’ because I don’t want that either, but in my mind I deserved just one night like he had at his brothers! He wouldn’t budge about it and played gatekeeper about it all day (its his ‘mate’ so it has to go through him). I made a show of myself for insisting against his resistance. I allowed myself to get caught up in the boredom.

I refused to do anything of any use and instead sat in bed watching Netflix documentaries, eating dark chocolate ginger biscuits, bananas and pineapple pieces.

Now I can’t even shit and feel constipated. It’s almost bed time (he has a curfew of midnight set against me so he can get ‘good sleep’ for the gym). I adhere to the rules to a certain extent. He stops me drinking coffee around 8pm so eventually my brain decides to die long before I give up the fight. Even as I say that I just want the night to be over so I’m going to call it a day here. Send this and write back to you tomorrow. x

Love from Chasey! ..x

PS: I think I’m going through my ‘I Wish I Was Organised’ phase that happens a few times a year and on the back of that, for now, I have decided to send letters to you every week day except Friday. The weekends are yours! I will write blog only exclusives between Saturday and Sunday. OMG even as I’m telling you this I’m thinking, can I live up to this plan? Is it going to fuck me up having ‘set rules’ of no! Take all this with a pinch of salt. In the meantime, see you again tomorrow. xxx

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Chasey Delaney! Free Newsletter.

FULL MIXTAPE

Paul Oakenfold - The Goa Mix

RADIO 1 Essential Mix - 18.12.1994

THURSDAY: 30 JULY 2026

Dear Chasers!

“PHANTOM RELIEF”

“What IS The Ultimate RELIEF?”

It seems obscene to write about the un-lived life and yet here I am doing just that. I heard a poet say the other day that he must be one of the ‘stupid’ people, who publishes his ‘trauma journals’ i.e his autobiographical poems, out to the public. Since then, I’ve been thinking about my letters to you. Isn’t that me? Is that what my letters amount to? fucking trauma journals!!?

What am I supposed to do? I’ve always called them essays but of course there never has been any structure. A mini essay focuses on one theme and mine covers a variety of themes without the correct information. I know the formula. Just not tried it.

4 ESSENTIAL STAGES TO A GOOD ESSAY:

SITUATION

DESIRE

CONFLICT

CHANGE

RESULT

I am going to try and write in this format for my blogs and if I like the ‘results’ I’ll do more personal essays using the same structure. As it stands, I’m shit, fuck that shit!

I’m not here for the same reason you are. I’m not trying to make a difference, promote my books, sell stories to the universe, of the universe and showcase my craft. I have limited skill, no education, and minimal talent. I’m here because I love to write letters..

“so fuck off under the radar, write some epistolary books, publish them, get the fuck on Amazon, make yourself an author – then come back to Substack!“

..I hear you!.. only that wouldn’t work for me. I like instant gratification. I like to see these letters come and then go. I call this my own digital footprint because I am THAT old.

I feel like I’m dying, my time is limited as much as it is precious to these, as are these moments where I’m completely me. I think all day and have all day to type whenever I like. I prefer to concentrate on things mostly at night when the thoughts subside.

I’m here because it’s been two years since I started my Substack ‘trauma journal’ and my first post was written while I was feeling almost ‘traumatised’ by my relationship and more so by my own mind.

I write for respite to form my own little ‘humdrum arena’ to become the largest portion of my everyday life. I wish I could write letters that will help other people, or just someone like me who’s going through it. I’m delusional not deluded, I know the things I say and write about are designed specifically to help me – and the act of typing them, just about do. It has become a routine that I love.

Some people have little writing rituals that even they aren’t aware of like maybe something as silly as wiggling their fingers over the keyboard, cracking a knuckle or two, tucking and re-tucking their chairs in without it actually moving.

I do most of this minus the cracking knuckle part.

Recently, I’ve been making an effort to try ‘habit stacking’ and so far I have invented my own manageable routine. Small things every day, done in the same way, in the same place, training my brain (or trying to trick it) into switching to flow-state.

Stop THINKING and START creating!

Then every day adding a new small thing to repeat the day after. It’s like that ‘shopping memory game’:

I went to the shop and bought:

a cake

I went to the shop and bought:

a cake and a dildo

I went to the shop and bought:

a cake, a dildo, and the will to live,

I went to the shop and bought:

a cake, a dildo, the will to live and a silencer!

I have made a conscious effort to only write in one place all the time. Having a laptop means I carry it around with me from room to room and type wherever I like. I’ve stopped doing that now.

I tried to write on the desk by the window (we have three desks in here and I’ve colonised all of them for now!) They are all mine, I’m a wanker!

I was buzzing to be by the window on his desk for the heatwave but that was also during a period of time where I was feeling brave. I wasn’t worried about windows or people peeping in at me (or him). I wasn’t as afraid to roll my blinds up during the day.

I was tapping away at 5:00am every morning and from 9:00pm until midnight all week for about a month. That was when I was excitedly working on a book.

Unfortunately, it all fucked up as life wouldn’t stop life-ing and my head wouldn’t stop trying to sabotage my ease. I felt confident at that desk by the window but that’s also where I badly lost it all too. I had to remove myself from that space in the room.

I felt like that area should be cordoned off with crime scene tape because I died a few times over there in that chair.

Now the fresh air scares me. The window is to be avoided at all costs. Since I’ve been back in my own little corner (by the wall), I’ve been feeling better about everything that I do. I am working on rebuilding my confidence too. I only write at my desk by the wall, my original desk, it’s the best now.

I write stream of consciousness so if you’re looking to read things similar to a fucking public ‘trauma journal’ –stick with me! If nothing else it does boost my confidence and it might even boost yours too.

You know like pretty girls look at ugly women to make themselves feel better?

Well, you can read my dog turd letters and know that you’re high flying in your own endeavours, with or without my influence, but especially in comparison to what I write about during dark times.

I know all about comparison being the thief of joy but ever been in a position like me? They can’t steal it if I don’t have it!! I’ll compare thank you very much!

Fuck creative writing!

I’m going through some shit dude! I haven’t got time to decorate my words or fluff them up to suit any of us. I’m literally trying to survive over here.

I’m gradually gaining real confidence not that cheap natural arrogance that we all have access to and choose not to touch it. I was struggling to decipher between them at times. I only feel confident with my writing when I enjoy reading it.

The best part is knowing you’ve seen it. I think I get the most pleasure when I know that I have avoided writing anything that could offend people or get me into trouble. It’s a phantom relief because I’m not in a position to judge that, or control it. I’ll never truly know it either. If I did know it –I’d probably find a way to disbelieve it anyway.

I always feel like I’m in trouble. I always feel like I’ve done something wrong, like I’ve been a bad bad girl again!

At that point I should have come full circle and repeat the cycle. Only its me we’re talking about so, me being me, allowed myself, my routine, my emotions to runaway with me, get the better of me, and we all went spinning off the fucking axis!

Gone are the good hair days now it was all dry like straw, receding, balding, falling out. Look like shit feel like shit, same shit different day, day in-day out and any other cliche!

Lost is the bliss of writing my ‘morning pages’ to be sent in newsletters at night, far and wide to people I dream off. Always hoping they’ll be there reading on the other side of the screen somewhere. I know what they’re reading will be either my best work or my worst.

I’m always there though in my the background after I’ve hit ‘send’, biased, stuck on the fence, in the crossfire of the ‘inbetween’ - on one hand I loved writing it , on the other I didn’t like the way I read it, I feel both excited for my readers, and guilty in case I have let them down. I still do.

Why would anyone waste their time reading me when they’d get nothing good out of it? That led me to spiral into reconsidering my place on Substack. I dipped back into the world of PDF documents. Writing all week alone without sending anything out at all. This wasn’t healthy at all but I can’t do both. I’m reconsidering myself being a ‘writer’ at all, but it’s all I know, it’s all I love and it’s all I want to do with my time now.

I decided to give my older routine a spruce up and go with the flow. I’ve been writing every day for a week now. I feel that it’s too much for everyone else but for me it feels grounding.

I’ve written some right shit lately, and I’m doing it again now. It’s all good practice for the day when I can manage to ‘do both’. To work on a book project and write to you too.

That’s what my mission is - every single day without fail I’ve sent letters of no less than 1000 words (most of the time it’s more). I’ve been proving to myself that I am capable of writing like a pro (word count not content quality.) I’ve also shown discipline that was frequently missing before. I even edited my profile to warn about my ‘prolific yet inconsistent’ form.

I think about that while I’m making my two brews (coffee), and place one on the far desk away from where I’ll knock it over as my arms are slapping the main desk. The other is behind me on a side table but close enough to reach easily.

I begin to prepare for at least an hour of typing. Just one hour without distractions will do me, I whisper inside my head. I tie my hair up in a high pony tail, check my glasses are on my face.

Headphones on. I try to turn the volume up when it’s always already on full. It’s my headphones that are broken. Only one cup works and that’s not perfect. I have to make do with them for now as I missed out on the opportunity of buying new ones the other day when I had the spare money to do so. I forgot I needed them. It’s always the way though.

I get the equivalent of ‘writer’s block’ every payday, except its ‘priority needs’ block where I buy bullshit stuff that I don’t need and forget everything else until I’m skint!

I feel excited to write my first ‘BLOG POST’ for you over on ChasingTheMuse which will be exclusively available here* and will NOT be sent as a letter or published anywhere else. I hope you’ll enjoy it! In the meantime you can catch up on previous posts while I start writing this ‘exclusive’. Best wishes, x

*I will update this post with a link to the 'blog only’ post once it’s available to read.

ChasingTheMuse! Free Newsletter

🦋🦋🦋FENWEH: 'Far-Sickness'🦋🦋🦋

"I am a phantom built out of pain... As I extract myself from my own body, it falls off me like old clothes... This fantasy is the only…

Read more

a month ago · Chasey Delaney

Love from Chasey! ..x

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Chasey Delaney! Free Newsletter.

WEDNESDAY: 29 JULY 2026

MIXTAPE: “MOOD” Made by Chasey!

Dear Chasers!

FAULTY FORTUNE COOKIE

“Test-Run Emotions”

He’s still asleep in bed. I can hear that it has disturbed him. Petty me thinks maybe it’s the neighbour’s ‘payback’ to us for our bickering in bed late keeping them awake. He speaks so loudly at night and the sound reverberates around the apartment block when all around us is quiet.

They’re hoovering upstairs and it’s only just turned 8:00 am. I’ve been sitting in the chair at my desk for 15 minutes and been in the garden for the same so it’s not bothering me. Just sounds like a lawnmower going over the ceiling.

I wouldn’t even blame them really and for someone who doesn’t pay much attention to the outside world, I noticed it’s only Wednesday they usually do all that stuff on a Sunday like a ‘Sunday Reset’. They have a new born baby now so I suppose they have to get these things done whenever they have the chance. Now it sounds like they’re microwaving a mattress! There is a lot going on unusually early.

I should be doing some cleaning really. I have two desks that are almost unfit for use because of the book-clutter. I keep promising myself to rearrange it because that’s all tidying up is about isn’t it?

Picking something up and putting it down somewhere else.

Today could’ve been the day I sorted my desks out but fortunately for us we received some well-needed money unexpectedly and of course he and I celebrated with a little drink. I had my usual three cans of Stella and that was it. It’s my ‘sweet spot’ which keeps me safe from getting drunk. I was feeling a bit warm and fuzzy after the first can and toddled off just across the street to a Charity shop.

My intention was actually to go to Sainsburys but as I was walking towards that road, I spotted a group of strange people. Not by any means ‘traditionally’ strange. Just unusual to me.

I’m not judging but I’d never seen a full blown big tall bearded man in a flower-print pair of dungarees with the straps fixed up over the shoulders before.

Now there were at least two of them in the group. The entire group were dressed like colourful flowerpot people. I just couldn’t face walking through them.

I made a quick detour and headed in the opposite direction. I was drawn to a Zara utility parka style worn out jacket and impulse bought it and Lacoste sliders which were practically brand new and half decent. The total cost for both was £15 -bloody bargain! (The coat was a steal at £7).

It was only the other day (yesterday?) how I was mumbling about having loads of shit clothes in rotation. That’s because other than sportswear, I only pick up bits and pieces second-hand, ever since my dress size went up in size.

My eyesight isn’t too clever either so when typing or reading anything on the Chromebook I have to rack the font up now, a few more numbers than I used to, just for a comfortable viewing experience. I’m now at point 14. If only my clothes were that size!! I wouldn’t be complaining.

I’ve gone back into my frumpy head and it shows in how I’m writing these letters. I guess you could say that I’ve reinstated my cosy-toes head space. I’ve managed to keep to my word and avoid telling him anything about the paranoid or ‘delusional’ or anxious worrying thoughts I’m experiencing.

He was lying on the bed this evening casually naked with the low window wide open. We’re overlooked from other high rise apartment blocks but only from both sides. The houses facing us may or not be able to see in given the distance and a few bushes or trees which might be blocking their view.

I walked in and immediately I was scanning the window and focused on the outside that was ‘definitely’ looking in at him.

This potential hazard put me at an instant unease.

I’m a converted ‘prude’ but this didn’t have anything to do with my shyness or want for privacy. It’s because his dick was out on show. I get quite possessive over it because in my eyes it’s all mine.

I didn’t ask him to close the window or to cover himself up because I know how that sounds and looks, he’d be on to me.

I often wonder if he pulls these kinds of daft tricks when he’s drunk, knowing how it affects me. Does he deliberately try to make me feel needy and clingy because I do. I feel overly- protective.

It makes everything around me disappear into the background like its zoomed and blurred out and all I can think about is that fucking window, his cock, the girls across the road, their windows, which one is it that he’s doing it for?

All these challenging thoughts and I’m desperately trying not to let him know about them.

I worry that I might be having a bout of ‘intuition and gut feeling’ again. Schizophrenia robbed me of trusting those. I’ve been told mine are maladaptive or malfunctioning – not sure, maybe both!

What if I’m fucking right? What then? More images, emotions that are reactions to the ‘possible’ scenarios being played out in my head. Has he been wanking for them to watch? Have they had their tits out at their windows and are they still able to see in our bedroom (we’re ground floor) while I’m in here with him on the bed?

I don’t just think about it, they run like a movie in my mind, it’s encompassing and I’m immersed in each and every one. I’m not able to switch off how my nervous system and emotional output is responding to each and every one as if it is real and happening. Predicting betrayals that ‘haven’t happened yet’ being totally intoxicated and passionate about love, enamoured, addicted, consumed by love, and petrified of losing that man which makes it the hardest part.

My fate in life is to feel love like a faulty fortune cookie.

It’s just gone midnight. I have no time to try and make this better or clever. I appreciate the ones who got off after my appalling letter yesterday LOL -its for the best, and for those who will drop after this one - good luck! They’re better off without us lot.

A HUGE nod to those who stay and a thank you very much for those brave souls who gave me a heart. You made THIS letter happen! (no shade, its another shit one, right enough) but its better than nothing. I am so delighted that I wrote something.

I was anxious about my performance, you big HEARTS out there helped me remember, I’m not a Monkey (might be a Mouse) but this isn’t an act. It’s real life as its happening and as it’s felt. Thank you! xxxx

Love from Chasey! ..x

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TUESDAY: 28 JULY 2026

Quick Audio Message

PLEASE NOTE: This is not my greatest of endeavours. This letter is as bad as it gets. It’s one that should ‘weed out the wimps’. It’s a showcase of my fowl language, boring bits and talking about my body in the worst ways ever! Its far from creative but my next letter (possibly out tomorrow) will certainly make up for this shit.

Dear Chasers!

Hello! Welcome! Welcome Back! & Welcome Home! I’m so glad you’re here. I bet there’s a few of you out there wondering where I’ve popped up from, how I got in your inbox and who the fuck am I?

I’m Chasey Delaney, Schizophrenic Writer from Manchester! I’ve been writing in so many places on my Substack account. Now its time for change. I hope this letter reaches and finds you well. I have included a full essay update as I mean to go on semi-daily (as much as can). Thanks for having me!

If you’re not on the list already, please join us here. The only way to get letters from me in your inbox in future will be at Chasey Delaney! Free Newsletter chaseyd.substack.com. Thanks for being here, its so good to be settled into one place finally, writing here, there and everywhere meant my head was also all over the place. It still is but that comes with the territory. I hope you enjoy another/first personal essay.

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A Personal Essay by Chasey Delaney

ALL TOGETHER NOW

“One For All & All For One”

Alone with my thoughts in the garden, totally unsupervised, I felt a strange sense of unease sliding through my mind.

I looked down at the clothes I was wearing in 28 degree heat. A turtle-neck black jumper and ankle length leggings. Those were cool material but I was beginning to bake under the sleeves of my top. I craved to be wearing a vest top to let my shoulders breathe. I wish I was a dare to wear my ‘guilty pleasure’ granny top that I was given recently. I only wear it when he’s asleep. He calls me ‘Dorothy’ when I’m in it!

I’ve not been happy all day in regular dress. Five top changes between three t-shirts. Kept the long leggings on all day which is unusual for me as I like to wear dresses or shorts in the house. I’ve not been outside anywhere still but today is an improvement because I have braved it into the garden. Yesterday, I couldn’t manage that.

I often change clothes throughout the day constantly its almost like refreshing my skin. Skin as the stickers we used to cover laptops and old phones with before cases and other shit came out. I don’t have much of a wardrobe just a mountain of crap clothes on rotation. I guess its the only way I can alter my mood by changing my ‘appearance’.

It’s funny though because I don’t bother with mirrors much. I have two old CD’s and a spare shower head in our house that we use for looking at ourselves. Him when he shaves his head and me when I amatuerly apply mascara layers onto my eyelashes every other day.

Seeing my face is not that important to me and checking how I look isn’t as mandatory as it may be for some other people. All I’d need to know is “is it clean?” I know that I’m clean. My lips sometime look as though I’ve been eating a melting chocolate bar. I have splotches of weird freckles that sometimes look darker than usual.

I assume the most prominent ‘freckle’ is actually a form of skin cancer. I can’t remember when it first appeared but like I say it seems to come and go away again. I’d rather not concern myself with such things as cancer right now. Fuck it!

I don’t want to fuck with my face at all. I’ve seen how removing tumors can mess things up and with a face already as fucked as mine it can stay there on me until I fucking die, even if it’s that which kills me!

I can’t stand what I see in front of me, my reflection drags me down a lot. I think to myself, I’m far too good to look this bad!

I was moping about the place on a massive carb-crash (for breakfast I had three packs of Beef flavor Super Noodles with Edam and Mature Cheddar pre-cut slices (two of each) mixed in at the end all on a fucking plate it was that stodgy and calorific!

Each pack of noodles is about 460 calories, fuck knows what a slice of those cheeses were but by this point, I’d already maxed out busting over my daily allowance, especially as I was considering trying a deficit diet soon.

“Not tired sleepy tired just low-energy!” is my most frequently uttered phrase. While he was drinking all afternoon gaming with his brother on the headset, I was just slopping about the house from room to room looking for my Mojo.

I was sluggish and felt like I wasn’t up for doing anything I love today. No writing this. Nothing was going to change for me today (so if I wanted ‘change of mood’ I’d have to do it myself.

There’s never a time when waiting for your mood to change, ever changes the mood.

I was moody (without the ‘bitch’ bit) just restless, not very talkative, contemplative, and fucking ‘TIRED’ all day.

Ignore what I tell you about not needing some more sleep. The low energy is true but when I’m going into sleep deprivation mode (sounds drastic, I had a full night’s sleep!). Something happens to my face.

He made me laugh earlier. He said “you’re tired go bed for a bit”. I’m muttering my usual phrase (as above). “I’m NOT actually tired-tired…” he looks directly at me and said “tell your ethnicity that!”

I waited for the explanation, me being so tired it was making me slower than usual. He replied, “your eyes look Chinese again!”.

He doesn’t mean any harm or nothing by it, it was what my Mum always points out when I’m shattered, said my eyes go like ‘piss holes in the snow’ and I’ve seen for myself I do look ‘Chinese’ then I open my mouth and I’m still just a horrible English old cunt.

I felt very awkward as I was typing that. I hope I don’t unintentionally end up offending anyone. I’m such a worrier when deep down I know nothing bad has been said. I am sensitive to what’s being said about others.

I’m fine with talking about things as long as I know I’m not thinking in any sort of way, my intentions are not deviant or malicious and I’m not deliberately trying to be derogatory.

Watching some really funny Comedy Roasts on Instagram today nearly cheered me up but at the same time the dark themes were “Woahhh..“ so fucking cringe and completely too dark (as warned) bit close to comfort for me. Some were so harsh for the jittering-dickhead who is paranoid about hurting people’s feelings and protecting them with equal measure, with pride and integrity from the safety of my sofa!

I was kind of giggling, a bit confused as it’s not like me but surprisingly I was finding SOME (not all) actually funny as fuck!

The thing about people like me, who would rather frown with tight thin lips pursed out of self respect and for the rights of others, when everyone else is having an innocent laugh, we stand out for the wrong reasons.

My Nana was the same when I was a kid, she wouldn’t agree with our ‘bad jokes’ and just grip her lips and shake her head. I used to think ‘Nana doesn’t get it’ and now I do just the same.

What’s SADIST doing in there? I was typing Satanist! - I’d love to be a sadist (if that means I like to be fucked hard and rough by someone I love but who doesn’t love me!) but that’s a nod to my mate and a totally different concern to be reconsidered one day, or vicariously through porn. Don’t think I didn’t notice that I just described my relationship in one sentence! haha! Anyway, I’ve started now I’ll research and finish.

* Googles: What is a Sadist and is the porn decent?

I was probably thinking of something else, should really delete all that but fuck it. Fuck YOU 50 Shades! I thought it was innocent, house-wife stuff, it’s TRIGGERING ME!! urm I mean, influencing me inaccurately? Sorry Chasers! I wasn’t expecting me to write this shit either, and now here we are balls deep in the reeds!

I do lighten up sometimes. Going back to the comedy stand-up reels that I’m obsessed with again lately. On this roast channel, all the comedians who were ‘roasted’ took the jokes with a great sense of humour and knew what they were there for and gave as funny back too.

One joke / roast was aimed at a person who has changed their pronouns for whatever reason who was also a wheelchair user. The roast joke that tickled me the most (and was funnier because the guy was cracking up himself about it) was that the wheelchair guy’s new pronouns are Beep/Beep.

!!!! OMFG I’m dead !!!

I just ran to the bathroom and to take an intentional piss. I slowly squatted over the bowl because I’ve had a handful of Stella cans so a little bit more cautious and conscientious, over-compensating for my lack of control on my behaviour.

I imagine I won’t miss the toilet, fall, make a loud noise and wake him up from his drunken-slumber.

I don’t fall, I get right on target — more concerning is that my intentional ‘meditation-maneuver’ to place myself on the toilet. Like you feel the plate when you wash it. Made my mind wonder over to the fanny below. The flaps must have thought this was a strange game to play so they played ‘Grab-a-Bear’ snatching the toilet paper out my hand.

I often feel like my flaps are really big, weird, saggy, (definitely could do with an iron or something) like saddlebags which is alright considering my age, I just don’t know where they go when I take a piss and it spurts up the front of my clit and splashes everywhere when I’m not careful. I don’t just tap tissue to dry the hole, or clit alone, I’m needing a towel to wipe that Maureen like I’m drying a Dogue de-fucking-Bordeaux !!

On that note, I need to start wrapping this up for now. A quick mental health update, things are much better. We’re constantly communicating with each other (my partner and I) about ‘helping prevent me from ‘going under’ and he is regularly making an effort to tell me how he’s doing and it’s all good.

I know at any point, I could get paranoid again and fuck it all up. I know any second he can withdraw and give me no communication, full blown, unexplained emotional shut down silent treatment. I know how to deal with that.

I hope you don’t mind that I merged my mailing list to include you. Thanks for listening, reading and hanging out with me. Time to go do one last dress-change, drink my last can of lager in my guilty-pleasure dress. *CLICKS HEELS* I feel a bit DOTTY now.! xxx

Love from Chasey! ..x

EXIT SONG

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ChasingTheMuse! Free Newsletter

JustClingingOn! Free Newsletter

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NOTE: THIS LETTER IS SO SO LONG !! _ TOO LONG TO SEE IT ALL IN YOUR INBOX. TO VIEW IT IN IT’S ENTIRETY YOU MAY NEED TO OPEN BROWSER OR VISIT THE APP & DROP ME A HEART <3

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SATURDAY 25 JULY 2026

Dear Chasers! 🎀

The Alan Parsons Project - Eye In The Sky (Full Album)

I hope you’re all following this journey with me. Thank you. x

MAKE A WISH TO MISS A TRICK

(Saturday Night)

I’m still doing it, still thinking like I’m in an Agatha fucking Christie novel. I’m not exactly paranoid constantly, I actually believed I was ‘over this blip’. I thought it had gone away completely but then I started noticing shit!

I’m not exactly paranoid all the time but my paranoia is easily ‘triggered’. All it took tonight was a reflection in somebody else’s glasses on a video call.

Yeah, unfortunately it was my Mum. I thought I saw her looking at the photo of my partner which I myself had sent her one day to show her his black eye.

He says I did it but admits it was in self defense, I’m sure I’ve already talked about this. I’m ashamed of it but he had honestly twisted punched me up and then flattened me on the bed, with him on top, twisting one arm, my teeth rattling in my head, face pressed to pillow or mattress and I just did all I could which was to send a right hand punch upwards into the air. That’s how I caught his eye.

I couldn’t see anything, even if I had kept my eyes open. The pain in my arm and the weight of him on top of me, the heat of night and the red ‘mulled’ wine burning me up was all too much. I thought I was suffocating. It was horrible because I didn’t know why this was all happening. It felt like he jumped me during an argument.

I remember the first slap he gave me to the face for something I’ll never know, only then did I start getting verbal in retaliation, thinking of the worst things I could say to him that might hurt his feelings. They were bad enough for him to punch me and pin me to the bed then like I said.

My point is this, he should never have a black eye caused by me, but he had one, for which I felt utterly guilty and he smirked at me every time I looked at it like he had me by the balls. He kept threatening to ‘report me’ for being abusive. I’m not an abuser but he has told me everything he can say that makes me sound like I am and that I am bad.

I really don’t do anything but he tells me my paranoia is abuse, he says I accuse him all the time. Let me get this straight, to me an accusation involves confrontation. I don’t tell him he has done anything, I just ask subtle questions so I can process his answers silently in my head, but I don’t get those answers. He flies off the handle as if I had accused him.

I don’t accuse him! I used to do it outright when I was in my early thirties. I don’t these days because I understand my illness a bit better and think I know myself more than before.

I used to instantly think that my thoughts and assumptions following internal investigations of the external world, were one hundred percent accurate. In those days, I used to think that if I confronted him with them, my thoughts or suspicions that if I was right he wouldn’t be able to (or try to, or want to) deny them. I wanted him to see how ‘clever’ I was in discovering everything he had done which had been a secret from me.

His brother once told me that everything I’d ever accused my partner of was true. He told me other things that I didn’t know too. He told me when he was drunk and annoyed with my partner and later withdrew his ‘statements’ to say he’d made it all up.

I didn’t believe him the second time, I knew he was telling me the truth the first. He was ‘grassing his brother up’ to get back at him. He wasn’t telling me to help me or bothered that it would hurt me either.

I tell my partner that I love his brother –I don’t love him at all– but I know it’s a soft spot, maybe his brother thought that I was his soft spot too, maybe his brother wanted him to be out of this relationship too? I only say those things trying to get under his skin when he’s ripping strips off me and my mind.

Going back to earlier today, I wrote a weird little letter about putting aside my paranoia. I was happy and hopeful but even as I closed the letter I began worrying that I was never going to stop seeing things, thinking shit, hearing shit, and feeling it.

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Always The Monster

Schizophrenia has turned my gaze inward. I write like a Memoirist on a daily basis. It provides a sense of control, a way to reshape my circumstances on my own terms and in my own words. This isn’t where I come to hide, it’s where I come to find myself, and in doing so I get to speak to you all…

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A couple of hours ago I saw a girl almost hanging her body out of her flat window, the same girl from when he had grabbed his dick and bollocks while he was sitting in our garden with her washing up at her window looking down on him. If you haven’t heard about that I wrote it somewhere else.

He reckoned he was ‘adjusting’ himself that time and since we’ve had this chat about whether or not they’re going to “lock me up and throw away the key in some mental facility” because he promises he is innocent and not cheating on me, I have told myself to let all these things that triggered me recently go. The recent past is still the past, fuck it off and start afresh. So I did.

Up until I came out of the bedroom tonight (Saturday 25 July) where I had been making a mixtape, I went into his room, the living room, and just in time, spotted him adjusting his shorts quickly and picking up his control pad again.

I opened the door to go out and smoke a roll up, I looked up and who the fuck was almost hanging her tits out of the window, but Miss fucking Galdys again and our living room window had been open and he was sat in direct eye line of her window, she was looking down this way too.

I couldn’t help but feel gutted – not that cunt again!. This time I didn’t tell him and I don’t want to tell him what I’m going through if this is just me making connections to things that I shouldn’t be. I just tried to help myself feel ‘safer’ from these thoughts by closing the window and offering him his fan.

He was fuming which is weird of him ‘for no reason’. Which cements again that he must have been having fun doing something with her through the window.

I can’t cope with all this ‘noticing shit’ and I remember some daytime TV shit from years ago that said, “Turn What Ifs into So Whats!” and yeah I can do that easily but my behaviour adapts to the change accordingly and it makes me withdraw from him and try to stop loving him.

It makes me defend myself more. It makes me try to improve my life with or without him more (which is mint) only then I resent him because he always finds some way to keep his foot on my head.

He gets in the way of me changing the things I do, or how I look. He doesn’t do it on purpose but the whole process ends up fucking tearing us apart anyway. It’s a hopeless situation.

I always revert back to the stance of I love him and will love him until I can’t no more and I know the minute his bullshit is confirmed I will give up. I realise he will be ready to walk before he lets me in on anything he is doing to betray me. Then I hate him for being in control of everything.

I wanted to believe him last night and tomorrow morning I will try to believe him again. I just wish I couldn’t see things that I shouldn’t be seeing. I just want to be happy again.

I know I’m reluctant to ‘relax’ deep down. I know that when I’m in an ‘oblivious state’ to this shit, that’s when it always happens more and later on I ‘find out about it’. I wish it was all in my head, and it might be, but the more it happens.

These signs, these moments of clarity and spotting stuff, I think I might not be mad but I could be making him mad for not missing a trick. That’s why this time I’m not going to tell him how I feel, what I saw, what I thought it was, and what it means to me if it’s what I think it was.

I’m so upset. I’m in a limbo, I don’t want to go back, I can’t move forward, the present was fine until two things triggered me. I need to forget which is why I can’t recall memories properly, I can’t remember but it takes a while for me to forget it too.

I’ve removed myself from the problem and gone back to the bedroom. I’ve showered but was too distressed to think about washing my hair or shaving again. I still feel depressed.

I feel like it’s all this stuff which plays so negatively on my self care, my motivation, and the important things are getting swept under the rug. Well, this letter has helped me a lot, because I just saw ‘swept under the rug’ as a euphemism so I must be getting back to my usual self now.

I’ve been writing on cdelaney.substack.com The Daily Chase! Free Newsletter - every day and have tried cross posting to include my Putting My Life To Writes subscribers and keeping you all in the loop. You’re invited to subscribe to that one too.

Best wishes, Love Chasey..xx

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2 months ago · 1 like · Chasey Delaney

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SATURDAY 18 JULY 2026

Dear Chasers! 🎀

MY LOVE IS MY LOVE - 18 JULY 2026 (Saturday Night)

It’s taken me almost half an hour to relocate my thrown wedding rings and half my life to get myself in a position where I can authentically wear them. We’re not married. I have had this engagement ring for years. I don’t feel like a wedding is required.

I’ve got myself in a state where I believe that if we did do the party and paperwork that’ll be the end of us. It’s totally overly-superstitious of me in thinking this way because I have held back for so long now that I get suspicious when he reminds me that he’s ready and waiting and I still ‘have a wedding to “sort out” for us’.

I keep saying “next year” like I’m not pulling party-poppers out of my arsehole in delight (on the inside!). I’ve never felt more buzzing about being asked anything in my whole entire life, it knocked my previous monumental moment in my memory right off its post.

I was asked to marry the fittest, sexiest, most gorgeous bloke who I adore with all my soul, and only hold back a bit because I feel like it isn’t reciprocated, not that he could ever get close to that kind of desire (nobody ever will).

How could anyone ever match my insane level of passion, my infatuation, my love and adoration I have toward them, and give it back to someone like me? It’s impossible, the way I feel about anyone I’ve ever loved or will ever love to feel such a way over me. My love is my love and it can never be matched and nor should it, but bless him my husband-to-be, does try to emulate it for me.

This is why him ‘proposing we wed’ blew the socks off someone asking me when I was younger ‘did you make that yourself, WOW, that’s amazing!’ I couldn’t by this time remember what person had uttered those words to me as a kid but I held onto the magic associated with them, I lived to hear those words again. Which, “Marry me Slutface!” did!

In reality, it would be the perfect way for me to try and make myself feel like a respectable member of society for once in my life before I died. It would be an unforeseen circumstance that I would never have dared to dream for me.

I was delighted and at the same time felt a little sad. Our relationship didn’t seem to be ‘working’ and some people call me crazy for saying so after the longevity of it all. To me we were still trying to work things out. In which case marriage to me meant a cheap fix no win solution.

Along the same lines that couples who are going through some heavy shit decide (and I mean, make the decision) plan to start a family in some strange vain hope that having a child together could save the love they have already created, but is a crazy idea, a child can’t save something you’ve already destroyed.

I’m non-applicable to these certain circumstances so my opinion is merely a side thought of an outsider looking in. I have seen, whilst looking, with my own two eyes, heart and soul how very often, two people who love each other, have a child and stay together happily. That child is loved and looked after equally and did seem to bring the couples closer again, like glue. The thing with glue, although I never stuck around long enough to see the final outcomes, is that once the bond has been removed (like the kid leaving home, like my Nana dying) what’s left behind is a load of broken individuals.

With our family us that were left behind were lost, just random relatives wandering of as separate pieces, but as the saying goes: “It was good while it lasted”. I didn’t want to FIX anything, and especially not with a tired tradition, or legal ‘glue’.

I value the privilege of being legally registered in a way where I’d feel like I finally belong, like I have a family unit of two, something strong, but apart from the formal documents, this isn’t Tolkien, and nothing could bind us both together forever — unless, I figured, we wait to get through the broken patches of toxic and volatile relationship issues.

One day, I kept saying, one day we will sign those forms, and have a honeymoon holiday, and for those who doubted us we can toast them with a big FUCK YOU ALL. The biggest fuck you came from both of us aimed at each other. I was excited about romance, connection, sex (obviously) and the same kind of intimacy we already shared.

He was busy seeking out some security should I die or if I tried to kick him out of the house I rent because its a one-person property and he’s not allowed his name on the tenancy. I don’t blame him really, we go from being cosy, comfortable, peaceful, to unstable, aggressive, disagreeable, and sometimes apathy and violence towards each other.

I started to get paranoid every time he ‘reminded’ me about how he wants me to be his wife. I thought there was more behind this than there probably was. I presumed it was still him seeking security, that he wanted to get life insurance for me, that he wanted our finances to remain tied up even if we split up and go our separate ways. It’s not really paranoia, I think its called being cautious but romance isn’t cautious, sex isn’t, love isn’t. I’m not stupid enough to believe that you have to be in love to love someone, or that you have to love someone enough to marry them.

This illuminates the worries I have always left unspoken, even to myself, that I am to him, nothing more than a convenience. I have become his comfort-zone. I am more the problem than I have ever known. Is he also a victim? Am I a victim?

Dickheads call it co-dependency, but what the fuck do they know about us or our history, oh so now its a trauma bond, well no, because only one of us is suffering at any given moment. He seems fine when I’m down and I’m alright most of the time, I elevate him when his mood drops, encourage him, carry us through. He does the same for me. We have a lot going for us, I just don’t believe he should marry me.

It brings us back to square one. I threw my rings in the bedroom when I’d decided that all these ‘clues’ of him being unfaithful to me so far as my Mum is concerned, whether it be just verbally, emotionally, sexually, physically, I had too many of the flashback reminders grouping together in my head. All these important pieces coming together. They were fitting in place to form a bigger picture, with some missing gaps, like on a half finished jigsaw puzzle that I didn’t want to finish.

I decided to throw the board up in the air metaphorically speaking. I concluded that the best plan of action was to suggest something that would make all our lives better. We should go our separate ways. I’d no doubt find out sooner or later, or shortly thereafter, whether or not my mother stays in contact with me or not once we split up. I had made my mind up and felt this peaceful terror spread all over my body, from heart to head.

He was in the bath this time, and yes he kicked up a storm. He almost accused me of accusing him of things I hadn’t even thought of or noticed before between him and my Mum. The more things he thought I was throwing at him the more he revealed. I still don’t know the truth anymore. I told my Mum the truth. A brief message or two before he phoned her immediately and discussed me while I remained silent. Apparently, I’m ill.

I’m not feeling delusional. I know my thoughts are uncontrolled. I haven’t got a grip on those at the moment. He continued to bellow at me, telling me how abusive I was being towards my Mum financially. I almost lost my shit at that slander, I told him straight, he better ‘stop lying or I’ll get him done for inciting hatred against me or defamation’ (of course I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, just wishful thinking that he would be punished for such a crime as calling me an abuser).

He was screaming it loud with our window open. I was worried about what the neighbours would hear, and believe him. I raised my voice and adjusted my tone to sound like an angry Stormzy. Big base and spoke directly to his face, even wagging a finger in front of my own a few times!!

“How do you go from me wanting to end our relationship to me abusing my Mum?” He said it was because earlier on that day I had borrowed £25 quid from her to buy some tobacco, now I was accusing her of something. I understood where he was coming from but it was a lame low blow.

What hurt the most is that throughout all this, not once did he want to know what or why we had come to this, how I was feeling, or anything. No consideration was aimed at me. No one give a fuck about my ‘well being’.

They both said over the phone (loudspeaker) that they “can’t believe she’s doing this after she’s got her tobacco first she’s taking the piss”. All he wanted to know was if I had any more communication with my Mum. He kept saying I’m cruel, snide on her, she helps out, has done nothing wrong –to which I jumped in and said ‘I don’t have a problem with her’ and I don’t– he was using the guilt trip trick on me too. Telling me how my Mum is worried about losing the puppy that she is buying because the mother has an infection, “what if that puppy dies and you’re doing all this shit to her!”.

On the same note when they were on the phone, Mum was agreeing along with him when he was complaining how it’s not fair on him all he does is go to the gym, so in my eyes, they care about each other’s emotions, not one of them asked if I was alright. If I was actually unwell, the only concerns they shown about it was how the fuck to get me out the house to hospital.

They just couldn’t believe the audacity of everything I was putting them through -oh ‘for nothing’ He left me alone for a long time and I relished in it. I was so upset but kept a straight face, a hardened composure, until I thought long and hard about my side of the story. If I am right, and self doubt had crept in by this time, if this is happening to me, its so fucking CRUEL ON ME! Not them. It’s tight on ME.

I have probably always been a pity-me/pity-need type of person. I know that I don’t mind being pitied because it’s the closest thing to being loved when I was a kid and the kindest thing next to being understood as an adult. I don’t want pity so the other person feels something for me.

I want pity to prove that I have been through the worst and it’s true. I resorted to self-pity in those lonely moments on my bed while he kept gaming in the other room, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary, until he talked to me again, chanted the same script at me again, getting louder and louder because I wouldn’t respond the same way I had previously, if I responded at all. The guilt trip was slowly sinking in.

I fought it but started crying for everything that was happening to me. I wanted to feel guilty. I wanted to be wrong but somewhere in between there had been moments of hope. If I get out of this relationship I might find my romance, sex, intimacy, connection and soulmate that feels real, love that I can feel, see, touch and in the end get married.

Then he would come in sit on the edge of the bed and tell me how, if he left, I’d have parties, sex, and let any old dickhead, smack-heads, wrong-uns in, nobody would love me again after him and if I wasn’t killed dead by anyone I did ‘all this shit with’ then I’d die like my Dad did, because he also pushed everyone away (his words not mine) old and alone in bed.

I kept telling him that my future has nothing to do with him and I don’t care about his predictions, he’s probably right. Then again, I thought to myself, this isn’t the first time someone I loved told me that nobody would love me again like him, and look at me now 16 years deep with someone pretending to LOVE me! In reality, I don’t fancy my chances either way around. I don’t believe I’m wrong, I don’t believe I’m right, both positively, hopefully, negativity and realistically. I am in limbo, back where I have been all my life.

He reminded me how I was born with this ‘problematic concept’ built into me and all the drugs and the schizophrenia programmed it deeper into me. I’m the one who is the problem, I’m ‘OBSESSED’ with cheating (betrayal). He is innocent, he said. He told me he loves me which is why he is kicking off. He was talking about my Barbie doll’s and the games I used to play with them when I was 7 years old. I would have Barbie and Ken be ‘married’ and Ken was cheating with Cindy. I don’t fucking understand it. It is what it is.

He says he ‘loves’ me yet he called me names and insulted me when I told him I want ‘done’. I said, I’m not kicking you out but you can’t live here. We can get you somewhere sorted and all that buff but I couldn’t imagine how that would feel, living under the same roof for months while he got sorted.

I walked into the kitchen to get a coffee during this separation discussion and relationship purgatory situation and he had the cheek to shout through to me that ‘It’s 8 o’clock at night, NO COFFEE NOW, its too late, you know the rules“. I mean, for fucks sake, we’re not together, I can do what I want! Even if we were still together, after going through all this ‘future-trauma’ building alone surely I should just make myself a cup to get through it. Special circumstances and all that.

He moaned how he loves me and the way he shows it is by kicking off but all of his visible and verbal anger stem from me ‘making him homeless’ like if he had somewhere else to go that wasn’t his family, he would easily just fuck off! I raised this query with him, challenged him if you like…

“Are you aware that I’m NOT kicking you out, I’m ending our relationship, which means you living with me has to cease, it’s a bi-product not anything I’m doing to you– your living arrangements are collateral damage sorry!”. He doesn’t know how to deal with my acute awareness at this point he reverts back to an earlier script about my Mum and how I am an abuser. That was the script that I had conceded the most reactive entertainment, response and distraction for him.

He had 100% heard me sobbing into my pillow after that one earlier, and the cunt just left me doing it, turned a deaf ear, was probably delighting in my broken link of armor. In the end I couldn’t see a proper way out without it being harder on myself more than anything else. Then I thought to myself, what if this is all designed for me to kick him out like this so that he looks like the actual victim? Have I played directly into their hands yet? Or is he still biding his time with me until he is ready to leave? Either way, it’s all on me, I suffer.

I decided to lean back into what we already have because I once strived and fought to get where I am now, for him to be in this position. He was what I wanted, still do. Fuck it, he made me a coffee, talked me into ‘trusting him again’ no physical contact from him. No kisses, hugs, or strokes on the arm. He is distant, fuming, he is thinking and thinking fucks him up.

My Mum knows he almost grassed them up himself. Mum knows more than I do. I know nothing. I am good at being insignificant. Why should I keep wishing for better? Better things, better life, better sex, better love, better anything? He is the best in my eyes. I could get bigger things, and I’d still be me doing the same things, would someone else murder me? probably. Would they do worse things to me than he does, maybe. Do I want them at their best or him at his worst? Him.

Right now I’m fuming at him because he hasn’t reached out even though I’ve forgiven him and promised not to ‘threaten to ‘’kick him out’’ ever again’ (I didn’t say I would!!!). That’s not a worried, caring, grateful person, that’s some manipulative cunt that’s just bought himself more time (at my expense!). No one is coming to save me, not even my muse. I will save myself ‘One Day’.

ESSAYS I SENT OUT TODAY on chasingthemuse.substack.com

Chasing The MUSE

🦋"So I Can Feel Happier"💀

“Everyone is writing about all of this political stuff all day, and I’m over here like…

Read more

2 months ago · 1 like · Chasey Delaney

Chasing The MUSE

🦋"Most Faithful Mirror"💀

“Everyone is writing about all of this political stuff all day, and I’m over here like…

Read more

2 months ago · Chasey Delaney

Subscribe now

—MY MOST RECENT LETTERS ON HERE IF YOU MISSED IT—

Subscribe now

EXIT SONG:

With All My LOVE, Until Next Time! CD..x

Subscribe now

MY RECENT STUFF & HALF-LIFE ‘LETTERS’

sent out on chasingthemuse.substack.com

SUBSCRIBE

Chasing The MUSE

🦋"TO BE LOVED"💀[The Prism of Love Pt. 2]

“Everyone is writing about all of this political stuff all day, and I’m over here like…

Read more

2 months ago · 3 likes · Chasey Delaney

Chasing The MUSE

🦋"Shitting Through The Eye of A Needle"💀[THE PRISM OF LOVE pt.1] + {Mixtape & Updates}

Read more

2 months ago · 2 likes · Chasey Delaney

Subscribe now

EXIT SONG :)

I’ve missed you SUBSCRIBE so you never miss me :)

Speak too you here tonight!…x

All my love Chasey! 🎀

MOST RECENT PODCAST EPISODE:

all episodes and more here: chasingthemuse.substack.com

Chasing The MUSE

PodChat: "Medusa Head Morning Musings!" @ChasingTheMuse -x/Chasey [14-06-26] xx

Another fly-on-the-wall from the night before then solo conversation with Chasey Delaney! you know what to expect but needless to say, I’m Just A Girl Talking To Myself, I hope you enjoy listening! x…

Listen now

3 months ago · Chasey Delaney

Subscribe now

“If you like your newsletters without politics or preconceptions or seeking a break from the norm you may have just found your new hangout”

NOTE: THIS LETTER IS SO SO LONG !! _ TOO LONG TO SEE IT ALL IN YOUR INBOX. TO VIEW IT IN IT’S ENTIRETY YOU MAY NEED TO OPEN BROWSER OR VISIT THE APP & DROP ME A HEART <3

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FRIDAY 17 JULY 2026

Dear Chasers! 🎀

It’s 22:55 and I’m sneaking about in my own house trying to catch the glare of a mobile phone shining in the dark bedroom where he drunkenly swore he would be sleeping in five minutes’ time. Only it’s not been long enough for my paranoia to disperse yet.

I can’t talk about the ‘who’ I expect him to be texting or whatever. I can only tell you the why, and that’s only a ‘maybe’. Let me try thinking of how far fetched this has been and where it is now. I can hear him snoring, that’s a good sign. Doesn’t stop me holding my breath and listening to the ambient noise around me, (not through a dodgy app this time!).

I’m afraid the voices are coming back. In some ways I hope that the whispering is auditory hallucinations ‘voices’ in my head because the alternative would hurt so much more. They both have the same outcome. Me being in a solitary campaign mode daily living situation, challenging myself to process and act appropriately, as opposed to behaving ‘accordingly’ to my environment and the people around me.

I feel like a beginner every time taking on something I don’t understand that’s way too hard, difficult and challenging for me at the level of life I’m at right now. My problems in life just accumulate and the older I get the harder they become. It shouldn’t have to be this way.

I had one goal, to get out of where I was, to do something to show them fuckers who I was, to find out who the fuck I was, to love someone, to be loved by them and live happily fucked up ever after. Anyone who knows of my story, my plight in life, my previous arc could say or might think, I certainly touched base on most of all of those things. I still don’t feel like I know who I am yet, and I know I don’t feel the love I am told is constant now.

In advanced player mode on a nightmare game of ‘who dunnit’ with myself, I often allow my intrusive thoughts to wander, to step out of line a little so I can draw them back in, doubt them all as gut feeling. Dismiss the delusions as a whole not on merit or level of ‘being convinced’.

I mean deep down I know strange people are NOT spying on me and hiding in my lamp shades! God forbid, but low and behold, when alone at home have a bit of a silly, acrobatic positioned wank over the bed, getting really into it, biting my wrist and backing up into fresh air, about to cum and grinding like my life depends on it; I always consider it – yeh, part of the pleasure comes from imagining them watching it.

The general shame afterwards when I’m panting and playing with my hair while I catch my breath, comes from the same place. I cautiously look up to the light fittings, or the poorly painted holes in the ceiling and walls, where the plaster has fallen out.

Scared to make too much eye contact with the naked bulbs in the bedroom, only scanning the cracks where cameras could be hidden, then defiantly, I do the usual checks, I wipe my slimy pussy on the front of my t-shirt and a quick sniff of my fingers, beautiful! I lick the middle one and flip the bird to the offending four walls. This makes me feel sad and laugh at the same time.

The last time I laughed properly was when he was choking me out from behind in a headlock, it was funny because my false teeth were spinning around my mouth like in a fucking washing machine. I couldn’t laugh out loud so to speak, I was busy trying my hardest to put them back in place with my tongue or at the very least stop the urge to swallow. I punched upwards to get him off me so I could spit them out and tell him about them. In the end I didn’t think he’d see the funny side. I’ll tell him tomorrow when it’s light outside and he’s bored.

The reason for this ‘creeping’ about business is because I found out he had been talking to someone who is a trusted family member of mine and now I am suspicious of his intentions. The night when we had that fight and the police turned up and everything which I wrote about here:

Chasing The MUSE

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“Everyone is writing about all of this political stuff all day, and I’m over here like…

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2 months ago · 2 likes · Chasey Delaney

He went missing, remember? and I locked him out of the house and we were both woken up out of sleep at 4:00 in the morning by the boys in blue? Well, I had been wondering for days where he had got off to. I figure that because of the state of intoxication he had been in, add to the fact that we had physically fought, add to that, that he had been angry at me ‘for no reason’ just because I got drunk when we were fucking drinking TOGETHER!

I mean, what did he expect me to do? Drink all those bottles of wine then go bake him a fucking cake?

It made sense that I wasn’t high on his priorities that night, I was in his bad-books, the dog-house if you like. He wouldn’t have any sympathy towards me, to think of being good, loyal, respectful to me. His conscience would be set for revenge, blaming me for everything shit about him, his life, his attitude, it would all be my fault. He says he has no sex drive and he openly says I’m the root cause of it, to some extent I agree. I say its because he doesn’t find me attractive. Makes sense, but he lies to me.

He says I’ve made him ‘afraid to fuck’. He says all ‘mental heads’ have crazy sexual appetites. He says all the names I’ve ever called his dick have put him off letting me suck it, he feels inadequate — bullshit. He tells me that me not trusting him puts him out of the mood. He lies, lies, lies!!!!

I blame it mostly on my DNA and Ginger genes. There was once a time when I didn’t fancy ginger people either, like ewww… they’re too much like me. Corned-beef skin with all the freckles, pale white, copper pubes, oh what’s that there mate?…WOW you’ve got a massive meaty cock and a twinkle in your eye? I bet you’re as hot as I feel inside. Yes please, I’ll have me a bit of ginge!

Mark B. was my favourite shag when I was at school. He was my dream man. I never told him anything. I like the peace he brought me. He always rendered me speechless, and he didn’t talk much either. Wicked wonky toothed grin, the porn star style dick, the laugh and the speed he ran when I got caught in the car we’d be in and was arrested for TWOC. He flew past me and I was in awe. I couldn’t keep up. I never saw him again after that.

Coming back to that night with my fella running out of the house while I was shitfaced drunk, leaving me alone and vulnerable with just one bottle of wine and he took the other two that I had bought. I was so scared with butterflies in my stomach the next day that I didn’t even bring it up or quiz him about it. I couldn’t face the lies, or fucking worse, the truth.

Days later I was fuming again after he was sitting outside with a girl I hadn’t seen before, flashbacks of the night his whereabouts were unaccounted for, I felt sick about that. Then he was in the garden on the chair and I saw the new neighbour across the way from us washing up at the window, his eyes were looking up at her and his hand was ‘grabbing’ his balls (he does that regularly and makes you think he has a mampy cock) now I know better.

He is big and tall (well, about 5’10 like me) he’s stocky and sexy and blond and blue eyes and beautiful and he’s meant to be all MIIIIIIINNNE!

His balls are the best, big, wrinkles, hard and round, unless he’s just got out of the bath water that you could cook pasta in, then its like melted chewing gum, being pulled like a cheese string, from the sole of your shoe and the pavement. On other days they’re just like two perfect scoops of elephant skin. I fucking love big balls, balls like that, I love it but it also enhances his projection in the bulge department.

I seriously believe the girls who have shagged him behind my back presumed he had a nice decent sized dick and WANTED THAT… but after he did it, smooth, pretty, pink, perfect sized, prick - and the way he does it? They thought ‘nah’ they probably were still young enough to be used to hard rough hardcore fucking, not a gentle little penis that makes you succumb by a peaceful protest. That’s the only reason he really hasn’t left me yet, I bet.

I found out the truth when I was moaning about the garden dick grabbing thing, where he was merely adjusting himself apparently. I was running a bath and getting ready to climb in while we were arguing. I was swirling the bubbles about furiously and checking if the water was too hot or not before I got in, last thing I wanted was to be screaming at him for cheating and stick my foot in to get my ankles scorched and sting and have to hop back out as he came barging in behind me.

The water was fucking freezing actually but that was alright for me, perfect, I could calm myself down while refilling with the hot water. He was raging about me ‘getting ill’ accusing him of every tiny little thing. Usually, I would internalise the situation and try to process everything myself first in confusion.

When I lose my temper, and it takes a fucking lot to get me on a raging autopilot, if one thing I do have self control over is my anger. I didn’t go to anger management when I was 13 years old for nothing. I came out knowing something, I came out knowing I never wanted to go back there so I would apply self control in angry situations. I had to drag a little from the pussy department but we are a thriving company, my mind, body, pussy, soul and I. haha!

I was autopilot this time because I found myself saying something ssooooooooo right I even surprised myself where it had come from. I told him directly, that this all happening, me being hypervigilant and mistrusting of him, was all HIS OWN FAULT because he went AWOL and hasn’t explained to me anything. I don’t know where he was or anything. He simmered down so I knew I had a fair point this time. While I slathered myself with bubbles, chuffed as punch that I’d said a very sensible thing that stuck up for myself without using my anger to be horrible against him, he was on the the fucking blower now ‘telling my mother I was getting unwell’.

Why do you keep ringing my mum every time we argue? every time I tell you that I want to split up? Are you taking her with you or something? Why do you always try to turn my mum against me? You know she doesn’t like me when I’m mental? She gets worried or scared or can’t be arsed with it? She always says that I’ll ‘end up in hospital’ or “locked up” as she calls it, that’s exactly why I have NO NEXT OF KIN on my medical records. They need consent from next of kin to section you, if they get it they don’t have to apply to the courts - is what I believe.

Mum comes on the phone and tells me on loud speaker, don’t worry he’s not cheating, are you getting sick? Don’t be daft? He doesn’t do anything, he only goes to the gym. Then he chips in telling her the ins and outs of a cat’s arsehole to do with our arguments and mostly his argument against me. Him playing the victim (is he a victim? that kills me. It hurts me. I mean, I’m not mocking or laughing. I’d hate it) is he fuck a victim. I don’t ACCUSE that would mean confrontation, I’ve long since learned my lesson. He kicks off at me for thinking he’s cheating because that is a subtle accusation he says.

All I can do is process my own thoughts with the information I have in front of me and in my gut. I don’t really rely on gut intuition anymore, schizophrenia robbed me of that ability. I don’t confront or accuse, unless in full blown name calling situations, I’d say anything, I told him he can’t fuck when he can and its me begging for it all day. I tell him his horrible hair is the colour of seagull shit and ash and he has the nerve to take the piss out of my colourings! Of course Gingers can by default expect to be ridiculed all their lives for their skin and hair.

I hate having to secretly investigate my position in life. So, Mum pipes up. How could he have been cheating the night he went missing? He was on the phone to me, she says, the whole time, he only hung up when he was nearly back home. See, love, he was with me. He said, OMG I forgot I was talking to your Mum, see there’s the proof you need I wasn’t cheating!! and, I’m like “Oh really? Well that’s nice enough but I swear its ripped open trauma wounds you’ll never even know of, torn my soul to shreds, and opened a brand new bag of worms baby”

Now my head is fucked again. I feel alright, even quite loved and a bit dare I say GOOD throughout the day, but when we’re alone and away from each other, I hear their voices in the breath of the breeze. I don’t want to live like this forever. I want to live with him until I die but my death will be a disaster if I never get what I want while I’m alive.

I just want to know who does my old body belong to now? Who do I get? Who the fuck am I? I am so lucky to be with the man who loved the younger version of me, who says he loves me more now, who would never ‘go back’ to the beginning with me, who reminisces the madness we’ve been through where layers of my memory are missing. I love him but there’s ‘a NEW muse loose about this house!’

...to be continued.

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Song I’m Loving:

YOUR WOMAN 1917 by White Town

Something Personal: MIXTAPE made by me(click image for link to listen on soundcloud) Enjoy! x

PHOTO OF ME TONIGHT:

With All My LOVE, Until Next Time! CD..x

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🦋"TO BE LOVED"💀[The Prism of Love Pt. 2]

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🦋"Shitting Through The Eye of A Needle"💀[THE PRISM OF LOVE pt.1] + {Mixtape & Updates}

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EXIT SONG :)

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Speak too you here tonight!…x

All my love Chasey! 🎀

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Another fly-on-the-wall from the night before then solo conversation with Chasey Delaney! you know what to expect but needless to say, I’m Just A Girl Talking To Myself, I hope you enjoy listening! x…

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3 months ago · Chasey Delaney

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“If you like your newsletters without politics or preconceptions or seeking a break from the norm you may have just found your new hangout”

NOTE: THIS LETTER IS SO SO LONG !! _ TOO LONG TO SEE IT ALL IN YOUR INBOX. TO VIEW IT IN IT’S ENTIRETY YOU MAY NEED TO OPEN BROWSER OR VISIT THE APP & DROP ME A HEART <3

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Monday 13 July 2026

MIXTAPE: removed cos it was shit!

MONDAY 13 JULY 2026

Dear Chasers! 🎀

What Did I Really Want?

Hey! Hope you’re all well and grab yourself a ‘handy-dandy’ mug of coffee and prepare yourself for a rather more pleasant shit-show than the one I just sent out on chasingthemuse.substack.com my ‘naughty place’ although by that I mean a bit bad, a little less filtered, more sweary and raw —- whatever! I’m like that everywhere, who am I kidding? This is an unexpected check-in letter and all I’m going to talk about is this fucking Trip that keeps coming up over and over again, getting me tripping over it, and I wish that I WOULD JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT but I really want to try it.

Chasing The MUSE

🦋"There Are No Juicy Bits"💀

“Everyone is writing about all of this political stuff all day, and I’m over here like…

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2 months ago · 1 like · Chasey Delaney

Before we get into it (not that there’s much to get into really) I wanted to tell you that I am beginning to notice that my newsletters are kind of convoluted and all over the place. Some days I prefer streamlined letters that are easy to read and nice on the eye. Most of the time, I’m just so excited that I’m reaching out again to my readers that I have so many things I wish to share with you.

I know I’m showing my age with all the .gifs too but I swear they are my favourite parts when going back and editing after the rough draft is sent to subscribers in the rawest form, holding the realist energy.

I like that they get a glimpse into the untamed version of me before I shit my kecks and slip into the blog to ‘take stuff out, tidy up and titillate it a bit more’. Sorry if that’s a bit of a backward way to do things. I want everyone to see everything, so if you don’t Subscribe please do so, if you haven’t followed and can find a way to do it as a Subscriber (something I can’t do!) then jump on as a follower too.

Don’t worry about looking keener than you actually are because I never seem to get many notifications about new subs or follows.. but to those I have seen recently, hello darlings! and a huge welcome to you! thank you all, old and new, you make me feel whole again like I wish I ever was. C’Mon! Whose singing this in their head right now? *after listening to this it WILL stick in your head and if it does I LOVE IT.

Queens of Pop - Atomic Kitten - Whole Again (Parody)

So all that happened was we were talking about going away, locally, in t’countryside in the next couple of months for our FIRST ever ‘holiday’ together. We’ve been in each others pockets (pardon the pun, although I wish that was the case!) for 16 years. * Shut Up Chase! I bet you’re sick of me moaning about not getting my hole filled and so elegantly ‘apologising’ for banging on about it. eek..!

You know when you want something so much and then all of a sudden, that’s all you see everywhere around you? I’m not referring to my porn addiction which I have pulled completely out of lately, pushed it the side and got off from it. I’m talking about it occurring, out of the blue, every time you turn around of tune in to listen or type about something. The alphabet is mocking me every time I write to be serious, it jiz starts taking the golden showers out of me!

Its a strange bizarre experience which my Dad used to call a coincidence and drummed into my head that ‘there are no coincidences!’ - Dad was a schizophrenic like me, before me. He wouldn’t trust anything, or any other word for these weird ocurrences in life. I called it Synchronicity and he told me to ‘stop being such a tart!’ (In a fake Del Boy accent!). Still there was one word he adored. Completely unconnected. Serendipity. It never stuck with me because it was too close to double jeopardy in my mind and I was afraid of that! See how strange we all are? fuck this, where was I?

Yeah, this synchronicity thing with me and sex, even though I appreciate I’m long past my sex-by-date, and appreciate the rest of the day when we can chill in each others arms, and mooch around the house and do things together with no pressure; I still get yearnings and feelings of grief. I think I’m should be grieving my Motherhood. I am fortunate enough to be child-free by choice, that’s not the point.

I used to be so afraid of becoming pregnant, I’d pop the morning after pill, like a polo mint after tongue-punching some hot hairy arsehole. I made a mistake. I think I made myself infertile. I was just very very SERIOUSLY fortunate that I developed a chronic mental illness that knocks 15 years of my lifespan and makes me a fucking nutjob, too mad, to daft, to fat and too fucking sad to become a Mum. So I put the baby first, the potential one I might have deleted from my storage with all the tablets I swallowed, back when I was shagging my boyfriend behind the music building at high school in first year, every day and chewing his bubblegum.

When you so want to become a Mum - all you see are prams, and Mums and Dads and children and families. If you’re lucky you might even clock a titty or two in the high-street as a pretty “VOLUMPTUOUS” new yummy-mummy feeds her offspring! That happened many moons ago, when my partner descended an esculator and clocked this happening in the Arnedale Centre in the middle of town (Manchester). He was in his late late teens but decided to go right back up the fucking other side to have a proper look one more time.

I just need something better to do with myself whenever my fanny flutters and I get the urge to be something I’m not …. sexually active. I mean, sometimes he flips me over but its fucked before we’ve fucked and seems perfunctory. I can’t be arsed either.

I decided to let go of my sexual appetite and pour all that unspent energy into experiences and such like. I’m not about ‘making memories’ - I can’t retain them ever since my two attempted suicide where my organs failed, I had to learn to walk again (got that song in my head still… YOU CAN MAKE ME WHOLE AGAIN) all that jazz that has fucked me up ever since.

Like my eyesight is so freaking bad! (I managed to see him sitting with some sparrow-legged scrawny little rat (a slag) in their own habitat near the Millstone Pub down the street, having, you’ll never believe this IN BROAD DAYLIGHT public! They were having a CHAT. That’s right, a fucking chat, this slag, my fella, my saviour, my dickless-cuddle-creature. I was feeeeerrrrrrr-heeerrrr-FUMMMMMMMING !

I just got free NHS glasses because that’s how I roll. I’ll show you further down so make sure you scroll right down all the way until you cannot scroll no mo! Exit Song is my favourite ‘holiday’ vibes track, one of them, I mean you nearly got me closing this letter with my parody type, tongue in cheek, what-not: Cliff Richard’s - Summer Holiday! haahah!

It’s not that. Just remember to scroll until the entire screen stops.

I think that because he got ‘caught’ talking to that ugly, crackhead slag who ran off before I could come back and book myself some stretch in the jail by ‘knocking her block off’’ LOLOLOLOL hahah.. Not heard that saying or phrase for years! OMFG.

Well, the last time he said we should try going away together was after we said goodnight to our beloved dog, Lola. So, I kind of shuddered and thought -what exactly is he trying to distract me from this time? why would he be trying to make me feel better? - you know I’m a fucking calculator of patterns, its about the only fucking things I remember, smells, colours, body-language, and emotional patterns.

We had aleready agreed to put ‘holidays’ on the back burner because I’m a paranoid schizophrenic weirdo (by my own admission) and can’t handle going anywhere.

I guess his motives where meaningful or honourable or just him trying to get me burried in AirBnB apps for hours and days again. He brought on the conversation later on after that discussion/altercation (VERBAL) happened early this afternoon. Out of the blue he said, c’mon Chasey lets go away. NO DRINKING FOR YOU.

We don’t have to book online, lets jump on a train one pay day and go somewhere new was his solution to that. He said, “I will go sit in the nearest pub and have a few while you can go look for somewhere we can stay and book us in!” He said it to me so genuinely happy for me, like he was offering to fuck me on sex swing in the middle of picadilly gardens or something equally exciting. WOW! I can’t wait to ‘CHECK IN’.

Once again I was laughing and fuming. The thought of his lack of ideas for me to ‘have some kind of fun’ was SHOCKING. I know it’s not up to him but it made me feel inadequate that he had made up something so shit for me ‘to do while he drinks’ the very first instant we arrive!

“Who the fuck do you think I am, Mary, Joseph and Jesus!?”

Oh please let me go trotting off straight from the platform, oh whimsy-wee how much fun I shall have on my travels just me and the bags and cash yippeee!

I’ll just toddle off on a whistle and a prayer looking to book us a bed for the night while you just wait here at the train station flipping beer mats propping up the bar.

Yeah, you get cosy with the locals while I do all the leg work, don’t worry hun, I’ll drag all our luggage with me to the check in. I’ve always wanted to be a fucking mule hoofing it around strange towns.

I don’t know what I was expecting to be fair.

Being warned the rules are I’m not allowed to drink alcohol should have bothered me to begin with but it doesn’t because I don’t want to get pissed in public anyway. I don’t even want to have a quiet drink in the hotel. I’m not hinting about doing anything else. If I’m honest with myself this letter is my way of thinking about what I do want and telling you about what I’d rather not do as well.

I just thought, what the fuck? Its OBVIOUSLY COMPLETELY UP TO ME TO ENTERTAIN MYSELF HERE OR THERE. I looked at my hands and realised, I couldn’t stop, I needed my fingers for everything.

A glass of wine to me is not the kind of winding down fantasy that I have so its fine that he has banned that vice for me. It just made me think of what I would want to get out of ‘going on a break away’. Let’s face it if you know me or us by now, you’ll already know that its not going to be a ‘Dirty Weekender”. Oh damn! I’m not arsed again, I mean I’ve been feeling like I’d rather be dead lately so one thing I’m not interested in is paying charges at some posh AirBnb for dampening bedsheets. No siree. Not me.

I doubt it would even get that far but I’m really not complaining today. I’ve had a lucky escape. Somehow, my mindset has changed. I am feeling almost ‘good’ about my lot.

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Books On My TBR:

• Bad Manners by Amy Beashel

• Nightmares & Dreamscapes by Stephen King

• The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

Song I’m Loving:

BOOM BYE BYE - by - Buju Banton

Something Personal:

“Typing in my bra and pants, sipping on cardamon tea (3 sugars) & REGGAE… I’m not on holiday we just had a disagreement and now the ‘getaway’ break is OFF”

PHOTO OF ME TODAY:

With All My LOVE, Until Next Time! CD..x

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🦋"Shitting Through The Eye of A Needle"💀[THE PRISM OF LOVE pt.1] + {Mixtape & Updates}

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EXIT SONG :)

I’ve missed you SUBSCRIBE so you never miss me :)

Speak too you here tonight!…x

All my love Chasey! 🎀

MOST RECENT PODCAST EPISODE:

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Chasing The MUSE

PodChat: "Medusa Head Morning Musings!" @ChasingTheMuse -x/Chasey [14-06-26] xx

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3 months ago · Chasey Delaney

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[PDF] DROWN ME IN IBIZA (true reflections) [PDF]

It’s weird how soon you forget the sound of a dead person’s voice. I thought I would have his accent, his cadence, his laughter (more sinister in retrospect), forever haunting my head, like for all eternity (that’s the ever present not the everlasting) especially as the last thing he ever said to me down the phone was “to leave him alone or he will come down to Manchester and cut me in ribbons!”

I’d never been to the past, I’ve thought about it from wherever I was in the present, that’s a blessing and a curse. Not be able to revisit the place where you left your heart and soul behind. It wasn’t that I was trying to return to the person, or rewrite the events which made history.

I wasn’t relocating my brain to a place where I could love him. I loved him from everywhere. I stopped longing for the person after a while. He was still taking up space in my brain. I wasn’t aware of what I was doing but I had been attributing my ability to be loved and my chances of happiness solely towards being with him. I attached the missing framework of my being, my heart, my soul on the image of him.

I couldn’t go back to the past and at the same time I couldn’t get out of it.

I was never present in my present. It felt like my mind was forever stuck somewhere in that old timeline. I had to erase the idea of ‘time’ itself because it was an easier concept to fathom compared to what had happened. I can comfortably think of the past knowing that I have never been there and can never return. I can’t travel back to when he told me he loved me then tried to drown me in Ibiza.

I think of him as the past from where I am now because there is no physical place such as that. I used to contemplate his character as he and I grew older. I would reach a milestone birthday or start a brand new year and think of him - adding a touch of wisdom, age and life experience to him and I each time.

I knew too well, like everyone else, that time does not stand still. I wasn’t disposed to wishes of going back or doing things differently - that’s the shit regrets are made of. I just wanted at one time to correct and continue where we had cut off, and eventually that longing turned to yearning aching for explanations in some form of closure.

I couldn’t let go when I was trapped in a feeling. I had been so totally utterly bound by love that when he fucked me off, I was naked, alone, vulnerable and cold, he didn’t remove the zip ties, the blindfold but took the ball-gag out of my mouth, not so I could breathe but sadistically so he could hear my heartbroken screams.

He exists only as memories, records, and thoughts inside my brain at this exact second. I cannot ever return back to that time. Yesterday doesn’t exist anymore. Twenty-two years have passed and I can still smell the… new red carpet in the hallway as real as if I was pulling fragments of it out of my bleeding skull again.

I still feel phantom bruises on my ankles at night, from how tight he had to hold them when dangling me over the banister and threatening to drop me on my head. It took a lot of strength for the 6’ 4 and fucking mental bastard, to hold on to my 5’ 11 size 8 frame, for long enough for me to ‘fail my escape’. I’d thought I could protect my fall, if it was a fall (not a push) it didn’t work. He didn’t throw me, I struggled for freedom like any idiot fucking person would and landed on my head.

It’s made how scents latch onto situations and store themselves as memories. I still remember the different fragrances he wore. His moisturiser from the Bodyshop back in the day, and his Wellla Shockwaves wet-look hair gel, they always used to shock me. I didn’t get dumped after suffering violence. I didn’t even realise that I was traumatised or suffering at all.

I thought that I was so in love that I could never recover, sometimes blamed myself but never saw the bigger picture until two years ago in 2024.

I’d been dating him in my late teens to the early twenties approximately, I remember speaking to him online from my 16th birthday but didn’t meet him until I was 18 or 21. I’m not good with calendars or clocks for recollecting dates, I think we split up in either 2004 or 2006. It matters no more or less than I ever mattered to him. I was never bitter, bitterness is a cancer, it eats from its host.

It doesn’t matter that he hurt me, I knew that not everyone who hurts me cares. At times my mind only registers the love I thought had been real, I wanted to stay in that magical bubble of hope and adventure.

In settling for some closure, I was giving up on ‘our’ love, my love, not the person I thought he was. I kept him up on that fucking pedestal; much too high and for far too long. I know that I could have done things differently. It bothered me that I couldn’t put the puzzle together. I didn’t know if I even had all the pieces.

Organising memories from our history together into chronological order was never an option. I was always a ‘living in the moment’ person, and had no concept of time. I have since learned that I didn’t absent mindedly ‘forget’ those times of my life, or that I didn’t create memories of them. My brain deliberately hid them from me as a trauma response. This is called Disassociative Amnesia.

My mental logbooks were gatekeeping, making me unable to capture emotions and now I am struggling to put them into words. I’m not even sure exactly what I went through for years as I was fully encompassed by the heartache— agonising over him as a ‘loss in my life’. I was grieving all those dreams of a future together, I was grieving the death of our relationship, I was grieving him.

He’s not dead! Still very much alive and thriving, it’s been a long time since I ‘checked in on him’ (I did so sporadically for years and never received a reply), but I’ve listened to some of his recent mixtapes on his public Soundcloud page. They don’t hit like they used to because I know now that they’re not made for me, aimed at me, or express his ‘feelings’ for me; that never happened. Period.

My ‘timestamps’ are few and far between. ‘Memories’ pop up occasionally like surprise birthday parties, and reduce me to the same flat, unappreciative feeling, one I am not allowed to be angered by, carrying a grim smile and built-in guilt trip. I wish my brain had proper folders to compartmentalise things like this in but, how do I file away long drawn out experiences that haven’t been processed?

I disassociate and my mind is fragmented. I guess, I break stuff out of the bag, colour code in categories like I do with Fruit Pastels, eating all the shit colours first. Swallowing the worst flavours, savouring the idea of a reward with my favourites, just saving the best to last. It comes to me in waves, usually as flashbacks that I used to laugh at then but I don’t find funny right now.

I can attribute my giggles and grins to being my level of survival apparatus at a time when all I could do was feel and think. Why I did that I’ll never know, but I never knew, and still don’t, how I was supposed to deal with what I call an absolute emergency of the soul, a ‘spiritual disaster’ I suppose.

That thing where we do whatever it takes to forget about the sinking ship to protect the heart, you just focus on keeping warm, listening to hear the music (as opposed to the distance screaming from your heart which has become a slaughterhouse for dying souls), and staying hydrated as best we can!

Our ‘now’ is never moving forward. Now is not a moment and it’s all we have.

To love someone for eternity is to love them in the ever present, not the everlasting. All we have is the present, if time existed we could go forward to the future or travel back to the past. Time is a concept not a static canvas.

I do have a ‘when I used to work’ period which coincides with my ‘when I used to go to the gym’ phase of my life. I worked from when I was 16 years old up until I was 24 -26. It started at a publishing house believe it or not, if that’s what you called Newspaper Offices back in the day.

I was a junior doing an apprenticeship working for £70 each week and for this ‘honour’ I had to do night school to complete a National course to receive a vocational qualification. Business Admin NVQ Levels 1 -3. I was so fucking into it all that I wanted to do level 4 as well because I’d finished earlier than planned. Level 3 was supervisor level and the company had to bring in a new junior employee for me to ‘supervise’ to enable me to complete that element.

I would never have made managerial level and couldn’t conjure up such a way of blagging the work side of it. The academic and technological course material came quite naturally to me, which is surprising because I’m not academically minded or even compatible with learning. It just so happened to feel easy.

I enjoyed everything I was ‘learning’ because it felt mostly like a lot of common sense and a bit of technical skills. Where I’d struggled dealing with people, I made up for when dealing with PCs. I’d been computer literate since the day computers were available to the public. Which would sound weird to a young person now, I imagine, especially little kids. I’m absolutely ancient to anyone who was born after the millennium!

I came from the 80s —- the 1980s not the 1800s. It’s funny how the kids in our family have, in all their beautiful innocent wonder and ‘wisdom’, scrutinising my dusty yellowing old face, with wrinkles all over my crusty old skin, looking me dead in the eye, asking, “Did you go to school with Oliver Twist? Were cars invented when you were little? Are you glad you didn’t go extinct? ”

The legal secretary and personal assistant career moves started when I was 18. I was with the same law firm employers who took me on first and stayed with them for the longest time (6-8 years) as a loyal reliable member of the company. I remember celebrating my 21st birthday and the secretarial girls bought me a silver butterfly bar for my bellybutton piercing. I was humbled and delighted.

I’d fallen in love with ‘Gilbert’ (that’s Manc slang for cunt! I think?) He lured me into living with him in Essex. I was eager to do so but when we did come to collect me and all my things, he told me “you don’t have to come if you don’t want to” I couldn’t read the room but in my gut I just knew he didn’t love me. He was looking around and never in my eyes.

He had changed his mind. He didn’t like me. He didn’t want me. He could see exactly where I came from, northern poverty. He came from a posh family from down south, one of them; soft and posh. I didn’t really feel too proud of who I was or what I looked like, but I was proud of where I come from, who I lived with and hated him for looking down upon everything that made me, me.

He tried to cover his disappointment, it’s his own fault if he had been expecting something totally different but by now he was in too deep, after he drove for five hours from London to Manchester just to come and collect me. He then suddenly says “oh, you don’t have to come back with me, it’s fine to change your mind”, while eyeing the cobwebs on all the rave flyers covering the ceiling.

That to me says nothing but carries a lot of ‘some things’. I was gutted by his reaction because I genuinely loved him. I was in love with him. I was excited to spend my entire life with him. I wanted so much to impress and please him. I believed him when he said he needed me, told me he loved me.

he had begged me to be with him after we’d met and I tried to break it off with him. I got what we call today, bad energy, the vibe was off in the hotel on the first night. I didn’t get the sex I wanted, a 60 second in out that filled the fucking condom— not my idea of passion. I assumed he ‘just wasn’t into me’.

When I got this new ‘bad vibe’ which was more intentional on his part, he gave me a get out of jail free card. I should have just taken it. Looking back in hindsight now, he might have felt sorry for me. I think the entire ‘relationship’ was a scam of his which is too complicated to get into here.

I should have sat down on my bed, accepted it for what it was and let him go without me but no, not me, I thought, ‘fuck you, you fucking Prick! I love you and I’ll prove it!’ — we can’t prove love. I wish I’d have known this, but it didn’t matter. You can’t give somebody your love if they don’t want it. You can prove your loyalty to a person but that means jack shit when they don’t want you.

In my head which was whirring, I made up another daydream narrative. Told myself “Oh, I’ll move in and get a job and if you still don’t like me I’ll fuck off and live out there on my own!” - I didn’t tell him any of this.

I just cracked on all stupid like pretending I didn’t get it. I wasn’t bluffing him, I was just kidding myself. Clutching straws, I wished it was true that he was just being kind or protective of me, making sure that I was sure about leaving my hometown and giving up work (I’d already handed in my notice!) and that he was just a nice guy!

He was so nice that when I begged him not to change his mind in a curious style, he considered telling me the truth, leaving me there in a room with piles of boxes and bags, and driving off into the darkness never to be heard of again. I sensed this coming so I begged and tugged on his zip, dragged his jeans down, dropped to my knees and sucked the life out of his dick, I was sucking for love,

I was sucking for my life too.

I had plans in my mind’s eye for the future. With him or without him. I saw £££ signs in front of my eyes. I considered it to be a win-win opportunity. I could make at least twice as much money working in London in my profession as I did here. I wanted to be with him permanently, I thought this was the beginning of everything, my forever person.

I thought history was repeating itself for the good this time, a natural fate.

Mum had lived in Brixton in London when she’d ‘gone away’ and left me waiting outside Nana’s backdoor in the garden at some silly age like 4 or 5? Mum, who is only 17 years older than me, would have been only 21 herself. I never ask my family for real details of my past, I often wondered but had my chance and couldn’t face it. All I knew is that if my disillusions ‘protected’ life was a bit shit, fuck knows how I would feel knowing all the ins and out of the horrible bullshit.

I didn’t want my opinion of my Mum, the missing entity I used to put on a pedestal like an fairygod-mother who might ‘come and save me one day’, to change. I didn’t want her to be what I’d heard people say she was, ‘evil incarnated’ because I knew she wasn’t that. I knew she was like me, alone and pissed off at the world. People were mean to her because she had nobody and because she had nobody she had to be everybody. She had to be the strong one, the sad one, the kind one, the helper, the loved one, the friend –all on her own.

I used to have dreams when I was a small baby, of my Mum being in danger of dying. I was always trying to save my Mum in these repetitive dreams. They weren’t dreams but nightmares. I was always ‘worried’ for her. I was a weird little kid. I worried for her life all the time.

Mum has been around me for so many years now that I can see she is thriving and doing well considering the life she has had, some bad over 20+ good years; now she is mourning her partner. He had been a role model / step dad figure in my eyes and had known my Mum and me since I was 14 or 15 years old.

Mum is stronger than ever, although, I think she is just the same as me, she might be fighting her battles inside like I do, only she does it silently. I know she will survive because she is mine, my mother, I love her and besides my guesswork —my eyes don’t deceive me. I know that she is safe now, and that means the world to me.

I’m definitely still a people pleaser and pleasing people pleases me!

What I didn’t know about my historic people pleasing ‘condition’ is that I, as a kid tending to the world, the emotional climate around me created safety, so I continue to be ‘The Over-Extender’ or ‘The Caregiver’ in my adult relationships. I have since tried to understand this behaviour, discovering that children learn to develop roles or ‘how to shop up’ in their environment and in their relationships to secure connection and belonging.

In childhood, that is what sustains our existence. In my childhood I have learned that there was no space for me, and in some ways that turned me into an underachiever, keeping myself small, not to share myself with the world because at one time, avoiding presence kept me safe. When I learned that love was conditional, I began to make my sense of worth by people-pleasing and ‘overachieving’ to give me value, based on how I was showing up in the world.

It wasn’t until I began to acknowledge the role that my past was playing that I was ready to create new ‘choices’ and tried to get out of these “fused” personality patterns that I had to develop to adapt to my earliest circumstances, and ‘reflexes’ I take them to be, just who I am, when in reality they’re who I’ve learned to be.

Taking people ‘with a pinch of salt’ hadn’t worked out for me, it just made me overthink things, act nonchalant and feel suspicious. It’s how we think, act and feel that creates our personality and that becomes your ‘personal reality’. My reality was always scary, uncertain, unpredictable. I was afraid to let anyone get too close in case they left without any reason. Internally I was clinging on to the idea of having them to protect me.

My nervous attachment style remained well hidden and under wraps for so long. I didn’t want to admit that I needed people, I longed for someone who I could depend on unconditionally. I also knew that for some reason I was always too much for people to deal with too. I was very much introverted, with the will of an extravert. I hated attention or the spotlight being on me but when I got it I thrived off it. I could viscerally see my own soul shining through.

It may have been three weeks or three months I can’t recall but my stay in a proper relationship living in Essex was cut short abruptly.

He drove me back to Manchester. He stole some of my belongings, namely a gift from my Dad that I had kept in its original packaging. It was a plastic novelty money box inspired or ‘created’ to be mass produced by an artist called Keith Haring, before he became as popular as he is today (2026). I didn’t notice it gone until years later a photo of it popped up on my ex’s facebook page!

I knew he’d ‘accidently on purpose’ forgot to load my binbag full of all my CDs into the back of his car even though I’d insisted he check they were there. I’d been collecting them for years growing up. We weren’t exactly on good terms at the time so between us we communicated by hushed grunts and loud barks. There were many silent tears as I tried to keep a ‘stiff-upper-lip’ composure.

I didn’t notice anything missing other than him. I was heartbroken. The years passed quickly, uneventfully. I think I may have tried to return to the gym and work life but my heart was destroyed, I was inconsolable, my whole persona was one of despair and my mind was following suit falling into disrepair.

I was extremely paranoid and broken without knowing that I had an illness at this point. In fact, I remember now. I did get back into work and the gym for a year. Directly after coming back, I landed the biggest job I’d ever had in the most prestigious law firm in Manchester. I was earning the most money I had ever earned before.

On the premise that I would repay a loan from my step-dad for £1500 (I think), I was fortunate enough to put down a deposit to rent a flat in the city centre, my first ever ‘home’ of my ‘own’ in the Green Quarter. It was a fairly fancy, highrise community.

It was a hot new-build not too far from Strangeways (which I think has changed its name now) but the notorious Manchester prison for men. The saddest thing is that, my memories of this time are blurred, and I have huge gaps where I have no memory at all, for some reason I didn’t repay the loan.

I live with the guilt hanging over my head now and will for the rest of my life, because my Mum worked hard to go out of her way and clear the debt for me. I’m sure she wasn’t best pleased about it, maybe even put under some form of pressure to do it. Mum had supported me enough to be trusted with it and I had let her down. She repaid every penny on my behalf.

This wasn’t the first time Mum had backed me up and paid for my mistakes. I remember in Wales when I was between 13 and 15 years old. My Mum stuck up for me and ended up going to jail for the fight she had with the women who wronged me. I was too wrapped up in my own head to process what Mum was going through at the time. I loved her then and always appreciated her actions. I think I acted in a way that was in freeze mode.

I remember saying to my Mum that I wished she hadn’t hit that woman but deep down I knew Mum did the right thing. I was just too ashamed of myself for putting my Mum through all this. I hadn’t done anything wrong but I thought my Mum thought she had cleaned up my mess. I used to think that my Mum didn’t believe me, I was under the impression that she thought I was a horrible slag.

If she had thought that it was too expected, given that I had a promiscuous past. I was so upset that Mum didn’t trust me (if my thoughts were right). I knew that if my Mum didn’t trust or respect me, I knew it was all my own fault.

I was babysitting for a woman who sacked me for no reason and accused me of doing something that I didn’t. I can’t remember the argument, I think she thought I was having an affair with her husband or something because her friend had said she’d see her husband kissing the babysitter. The thing is she had a lot of girls babysitting.

I think if it was true that it would have been ‘that girl called Ginny’ because she was the girl who stole my own boyfriend. The woman who sacked me did it because I was English and she didn’t think to blame any of the Welsh girls, I wouldn’t mind but she was English too, and from Derby for fucks sake!

We were all young teenagers, I was so upset that I got the blame. Her husband was not what I would call God’s Gift, far from it. He wasn’t my type and he wasn’t available. I would have been surprised if he had two brain cells in his head to rub together. He was a right fucking gorp!

I had a strong moral compass on relationships, cheating, cheaters, and women who get involved with another woman’s man. I fucking hate it. I despise it. That’s what made me cry so much. Accuse me of anything but doing that! Nope! Mum stuck up for me, backed me up and ended serving time in a woman’s jail. That is another terrible guilt I will always live with.

Knowing what had happened before, Mum still made sure I was given a chance to support myself in life. She trusted me to pay the money back. I’m so gutted that I let her down and can’t remember the details now. I am so lucky that she got a loan from her partner for me.

Without her persuasion, I doubt I would have been trusted. It was given to me as an adult, the fact that Mum was on my side and supported me still, after going through all this for me, is amazing. It shows what an amazing person she really is. I appreciate her for everything.

It’s taken me many years and a lot longer to process all this because when your psyche shatters, your brain breaks and you have a nervous breakdown (which eventually I did) you kind of get tunnel vision. I think everything stops working. You stop experiencing things, feeling things, remembering experiences, you black out, disassociate and go into survival mode constantly. That’s the only explanation I have for my massive memory gaps.

The next thing I remember was it all falling apart around me. My mental health declined, I walked out of my job (jumped before I was pushed), I had to give up my rented city center apartment and beg Nana to take me back home. That didn’t last long because of my ‘unexplained’ psychotic behaviour and paranoia.

Everyone blamed it on the fact that I was still sometimes smoking weed, or that I was still enjoying cocaine as often as possible, a couple of Es washed down with JD whisky or something equally as lethal like vodka or my favourite tipple - tequila. Not a great combination for a mentally unstable heartbroken outsider.

There’s a sad picture if ever I painted one about me. I was entertaining recreational drugs in a solitary setting. I didn’t have a single soul around me. My support network was my Nana and close family who weren’t on the same page as me, I couldn’t open up to them either, they obviously wouldn’t approve of my ‘self-medicating’ routines, and rightly so.

My point is that I was always alone. Just me up in my own head, torturing myself. I ended up leaving, (jumping before being pushed, again). I’d caused a lot of problems during my final time living with them. I believed my delusions. I don’t believe them anymore but now it’s too late. I was gutted that I’d told them before that the doctor thought I had early onset schizophrenia, this information was dismissed by the looks of it.

I was convinced that Nana thought that everything I was saying or doing was all my horrible personality and I ‘was just like my Mother!’. I was never given any support during my illness. No recognition or forgiveness like they always did with my Dad when he was unwell. I heard they’d even gone with him to the hospital before he was diagnosed with Schizophrenia when I was little. I did all that stuff off my own back and on my own.

I didn’t know I was as dangerously sick as I actually was, I was heading for a major mental breakdown, but I had given up on the world at that point. This in itself meant that I was the only person who could help myself out. I saw an exit route and figured that was the only way out.

I only went to the doctor to tell him about the ‘ants crawling under my skin’, the fact that I had very ‘loose skin that didn’t fit my bones’ properly. I need to talk to him about everything as a human being who was not biased (against me!).

I blurted out EVERYTHING: starting with telling him about the stranger who was stalking me and spying on me in my bathroom through the fibres of my toothbrushes.

I explained to him that my ex was living with my Auntie and Uncle across the street from me, coming and going, stealing my family, going out with my cousins, hiding from me.

Every time I peeped through Nana’s net curtains, when I was in her front bedroom, I could hear him talking outside my window. I could hear their voices coming through the walls. How they’d wired the box room up so everyone could spy on me and listen to the conversations I was having with myself. I had nobody, nothing and my neck hurt and it had cancer!

It seems obvious now that I wasn’t well. I just went there to get it all off my chest and to get something done about the ants and the cancer checks. Turns out it was a bunch of blackheads on the back of my neck that’s all. He was concerned about me having schizophrenia though and put me on some mental health team. I was to be referred to the early outreach people and was signed off sick.

I left my Nanas for the last time, was walking down the path expecting the door to be slammed behind me again, harder even. It wasn’t, Nana came rushing out behind me and hugged me tight, she handed me a tenner to help me out. I hadn’t asked her for anything. I wasn’t even going to say goodbye.

I was grateful she came out and saw me. I hoped she was coming out to stop me leaving, to help me, to save me, but she couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the sad look in her eyes. She didn’t want to let me down but I wasn’t allowed to stay.

Nobody could help me anymore. I was definitely out on my own now, this time I wasn’t ready, I was vulnerable, I was scared and I didn’t want to go anywhere. I braved it again, smiled and did not cry. I knew that this was my own fault. Nana had been right the first time. She told me that once I left I could never go back.

This is so confusing, my memories are all mixed up in various places, pieces here and there along weird non cohesive timelines. Nothing in ‘The Firing Line’ is linear or in chronological order, nothing is directly on point, at those times neither was my mind. Even now, my aim might be slightly off —I know this and that’s the way I manage to hit the right target. I will get my point across.

Something in me died when I said goodbye, like it did many times before, I was getting certain that soon there would be nothing of me left to die.

“You have to die a few times before you can really live”-Charles Bukowski

I was dead on the outside and inside was thriving, internally I was never equipped for living or dying, only surviving. My body wasn’t ready for living yet. My nervous system was slowly deteriorating. I felt like an old soul that had lived too many lifetimes and was ready to call it a day. Days rolled into nights.

I still had many spiritual deaths to deal with dates with dark nights of the soul.

I considered that maybe I was being punished for going to live with my Mum when I was younger. I thought that maybe I should have stayed at home with Nana. The only difference would have been my limited freedom to fuck up. I didn’t need to sell my soul, it was already packing up.

If I had not had the freedom to get myself in trouble I might have turned what was left inside into something more habitable for my psyche to come back and live.

It was never my Mum’s fault, or Nana’s or Dad’s for the way I turned out. I didn’t blame or resent anyone for the way my life had begun, and didn’t attribute my early experiences to how it was mapping out now that I was in the driver’s seat. I didn’t even blame myself.

I believed I had lessons to learn and I would indeed ‘learn them the hard way’. I frowned upon the idea of an easy ride. I just hadn’t known how sinister, how risky, how much of a real life nightmare my actual life would be. If I could relate to the loneliness in my bones, and give it a name, I’d called it a fungus or a plague. Loneliness is a parasite and I was critically infected.

I marched off down the road and went through the nightmare trials of trying to get myself a bed for the night in a women’s hostel. I didn’t succeed but I was allowed to sleep in the waiting room on a chair.

The next day I was fully processed and because of my young age, I can’t recollect how old I was because I have about three main eras of life where I remember my ages, I’d guess I was in my mid twenties. I managed to get booked in and given a room on the grounds that I agreed to have a psychological assessment.

While waiting for that to happen I met a girl in the waiting room while they were getting my room ready (they told me it would take 4 to 5 hours) and I was shattered from the rough night before. I remember thinking “what the fuck are they doing in the room, redecorating?”.

The girl I met told me she had what they called Multiple Personality Disorder. She was a bit weird but I liked her from a distance because close up she smelled of body odor. I put it down to her living conditions and thought to myself ‘that’ll be me in a few days time, fucking stinking!”.

It never was me, I kept myself clean and didn’t ever smell bad at all, they provide you with toiletries but I had a load of my own in my rucksack.

The funny thing which did surprise me, was that the psycho-doctor who did my mental health assessment, told me he suspected I had ‘multiple personality disorder’. I thought ‘hang on a minute mate’ seems to be a running theme here. ‘Is that the only disorder he knows? Is it the hardest to prove if asked for a second opinion? or just his default-go-to-condition –bless him!’

I didn’t believe him but at least I was able to stay for a while in my own room, the same as the other girls. It had a Yale lock on the door but reception had a spare key. There was a bed with sheets thinner than my socks, a pillow that when folded over to double it up was the thickness of a fucking ice cream wafer. I wasn’t complaining about it at all though when I was there.

It was a luxury for me having just spent the night sleeping fully dressed on a hard waiting room chair. I appreciated the space. The window opened out onto the main courtyard. There was a sink and mirror, and a stand-alone wardrobe. On the wall I saw a massive cork board nailed down. What was that for? Photos? Letters from home? I didn’t know, but rolled my eyes and sighed.

It was a bit like a prison cell.

I’ve never been in a prison cell.

Maybe the HMP provides better living conditions than this?

It was like, what I imagined, living in a community care home for kids might have been. I shivered and was grateful that Nana had not given up on me and let me go into the UK Care System as a baby.

I couldn’t believe what they called a ‘temporary diagnosis’ of MPD (now in 2026 it’s known more formally as DID - Dissociative Identity Disorder) and I still don’t believe it. I reckoned it was only temporary because the guy who assessed me must have been a substitute doctor standing in the main one, or even a student doctor in training.

If I hadn’t met that girl in the waiting room, I might have been more concerned about my ‘temporary diagnoses’. She was the first person I’d ever heard talking about that MPD, telling me she had 8 personalities, one was a boy, the other a dog, the other a baby and so on and so forth. I was skeptical and mean, all I could think of when she rambled on was that she looked like a frog!

We became friends and she encouraged me to phone my Dad so that he could tell Nana and the rest of the family where I was, which I did but bailed out with telling the truth. I knew Nana would worry herself sick about me every day if she knew. I knew I had to say something because even not knowing where I was would raise worry and concern from my family.

I phoned Dad and told him that I was on a university course and staying in student accommodation. I thought he’d believed me because he asked when I was coming to collect some of my stuff that had been stored at his.

I called his bluff (not knowing it was one) and me and Miss Froggy (I’m awful with names and well she had too many to remember anyway!).

We travelled to South Manchester in a mate’s van to collect ALL of my stuff. I took bedding and boxes of newer CDs and make up and teddies and all kinds of things that could be stolen from me, and was, that I thought I actually needed.

One day afterwards, when things started to go wrong for me and my belongings began going missing, I missed my family, I felt like a tramp, I was hanging around unsavoury characters who were built for horrible conditions because they had been through much more terrible experiences in their lives – with no signs of improvement. I felt sorry for them but at the same time I didn’t like them either.

I got stoned one day and they tricked me into thinking this girl could read the future. She told me that one of my family members had died and he used to call me ‘babes’ and he had brown eyes. Me like a twat was smashed out my face and was ‘amazed’ how accurate she was about ‘grandad’ but the fact that she said he had died while I was away from home reduced me to tears and a quivering mess.

I ran downstairs to the communal phone booth because I had no credit on my little Nokia mobile, and rang Nana asking for Grandad. He was fine, alive and missing me. While I was out of my room it was ransacked by the cunt who had done this to me but I had no proof. I didn’t have anything valuable to steal, but sentimental value meant more to me than monetary items. I was gutted.

I still hung around with them for a short bit but the next time they tried it when I was stoned they did the wrong thing to the wrong person. They were trying to show off in front of the new woman. She looked like an old, beat up truck driver, a battered-butch type of lesbian, hard-faced, chainsmoking hag.

She was also over 20+ years older than all of us and she was fleeing domestic violence from London. She looked like she’d murdered her partner and everything about her situation was kept hush-hush. The visitors she kept getting were men and women with clipboards in trouser suits and looked like CID.

She reminded me of Bea from Prisoner Cell Block H, or Mama Fratelli from the Goonies. I didn’t trust her or like her. I was wary of her too, which is unusual for me. I never had anything to lose so my fear only came from within, I was terrified of myself and not a lot else.

People didn’t frighten me, I just hated them for no reason. Nothing worried me like my thoughts did, my paranoia did, just my lifestyle and my wide open mind.

This psychic girl tried to play another trick on me where she came barging into the room acting ‘hysteric’ and her sidekicks were pretending to ‘calm her down’. “She lost her mind and went crazy, they screamed” while she was wailing in over by the open window, half her head in and half out of it. They immediately ran over to me, “what shall be done? What shall we do?” expecting me to panic or be scared or get over animated too.

I just kept my cool, smiled and said, “It’s alright love whatever is bothering you won’t get you’ sit down chillout. The others said how are you so calm about her losing her mind. I said, well my Dad’s a paranoid schizophrenic, and I’m a schizophrenic too, we’re used to it, aren’t we (I asked myself) and answer ‘yes we’re cool’ like the fucking nutjob I am. HA! I’d got them back. They soon darted off for a ‘lie down’.

It was snide to pretend to talk to myself like that but it put an end to them thinking they could take the piss out of my emotions whenever I was stoned. It didn’t occur to me to stop smoking weed, but it helped me feel less like I belonged here either. It’s weird how not belonging somewhere gives you more freedom to choose how long you stay anywhere.

I decided it was time to go. My family felt more like home than ever before, wherever home would be in the future, I was drowning here now and it was time to get afloat.

Published on Substack // PDF - 6 JULY 2026 © Chasey Delaney

Pdf Drown Me In Ibiza True Reflections Essay By Chasey Delaney

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Saturday 4 July 2026

CONTENTS:

1. Let’s See What Happens! + Audio Message included.

Dear Chasers! 🎀

Hello! Sorry this is quite a jam-packed ‘chaotic’ mishmash update. I appreciate your eyes, and apologise to them for what they are about to see, if you include listening to my recordings, both voicemail and music, I must extend that apology to your ears too!

I’ve been busy trying to pull my head out of my ar….mpit and have fallen back into music as my main creative outlet ;) was gonna say ‘arse’ there because that’s what ‘despair’ feels like, everything is so shit like that.. the world around us stinks!, but it comes and goes and just like consciousness it rows in and out of reality, or is that just mine? I chose armpit because it still stinks but ain’t half as bad as ‘the other’ and hey, I’m writing so that helps when trying to remain chipper!

I have a treat in store for you! (the kind that disappoints but you’ve been very good with waiting patiently for me to come up with something better than my last loaded letter. I can’t remember what it said but I wrote here to you last time:

The theme for this letter was going to be based on the heart shaped leaves of the linden tree but I’m all over the place so just threw a few pieces in to knit it all together.

“For centuries, the linden tree’s heart-shaped leaves have served as nature’s ultimate shorthand for eternal love, fidelity, and emotional warmth. From ancient Germanic folklore to romantic poetry, this distinct botanical symmetry has long symbolized a sheltered, idealized bond between humanity and the heart. Yet, nature’s symbols are rarely so static, and the human heart itself is seldom so pristine.”