Intrusive Reflections
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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.
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.
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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