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By Paul Carson

This illness has turned me into a slothful selfish demonic. I realise this, and it fills me full of guilt and fear. I have the most superistic ego, but not in the sense that I feel I'm better than anyone else - no, I'm the worst sinner in the world.

God, yes God, who and what is this mysterious power? Sometimes I feel I'm being disciplined by him. The sun acts as a kind of divine communication. When the sun comes out I'm being told I'm in his favour. On a cloudy day my senses are in havoc. I see colours of cars as a meaning of other people trying to communicate with me. If someone parks a white car outside my house, for example, I think they are telling me I'm sick. Or, if it's a red car, I think they are threatening me with unification of socialism.

So how do I survive this torment? Even birds singing or not singing has a relevance - a compilation of torment!

Have you ever heard of Saint Dymphna? She is the patron saint of people with nervous disorders. 'So what?' you say. How does a person who died hundreds of years ago help you? Well, its a question of faith. I feel confident going out with thoughts of her in my mind, knowing that she will protect my thoughts and actions. It's very therapeutic for one to write this for you. Thanks for finding the time to read it. I don't think I've lost the battle by accepting my illness. Rather, it has become a challenge, a battle of the nerves. Who ever could think that just taking the dog for a call in peaceful England could turn into a nightmare, like going into a war zone. Ah well, I'll keep taking the pills and hope, hope, hope.