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Schizophrenia has turned my gaze inward. I write like a twat on a semi- 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 share my writing!
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 keep thinking of things like this, whoever he is these days. Knowing nothing of the new tends to take me back inward to the old, contemplating, pondering, often wondering;- ‘what would make you happy?’ ‘who am I asking?’
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’m happy now I’ve had my medication. It wasn’t exactly confirmed that last month’s ‘semi-schizophrenic-episode’ had in fact been caused by the mis-administration of my medicine.
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.
Mine is different. It has to be a long thick needle cos the fluid is thicker but the good thing is I can choose to have it in my arm.
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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