When I realised I could generate a script with ChatGPT, my mind exploded with possibilities. One idea gripped me almost immediately: creating an episode of Mr. Robot, one of my all-time favourite shows, but loosely based on the madness of my own life. I didn’t think it would actually work, but ChatGPT didn’t let me down. Before I knew it, I had tapped into what felt like the coolest script ever—well, by my amateur standards.

For months, I hadn’t made anything. I’d sit at my laptop, fingers hovering, mind blank. Then I met AI.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been tinkering with computers. They’ve always been my tool, my outlet, my connection to the world. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the moment I discovered AI. It wasn’t just a tool; it was magic. Pure, unadulterated magic.

The day I lost my passion for video gaming was like losing a part of myself—a hobby that had been a constant, a source of escapism, and pure joy. Or perhaps it didn’t die, but instead, it evolved. See, playing games with one hand after losing my arm was not just a physical challenge; it altered how I connected with something I loved. It became frustrating. Games I once dominated suddenly felt insurmountable. It was disheartening, especially with the looming excitement of GTA 6 on the horizon—a game I'd been looking forward to for years.

I’d been trying to get a job for months, maybe even years if I counted all the false starts and missed opportunities. It wasn’t just about the money—though God knows I needed that too—but about the structure, the purpose, the feeling of being part of something. Before my accident, I’d always had a job to go to, something that challenged me and kept my mind busy. Now, every day felt like a slow bleed of time and self-worth.

Supported accommodation was supposed to be a sanctuary—a place to heal and rebuild after the worst chapter of my life. Instead, it became a battleground where I learned that evil doesn’t always lurk in shadows; sometimes, it blares through thin walls, masked behind terrible rap music.

I was at my lowest when I moved in, reeling from the trauma of losing my arm and the storm of emotions that followed. I wasn’t in a sound state of mind to handle conflict, much less the sinister drama that was about to unfold.

After my accident, I realised just how lucky I was to have the NHS. Without it, I would have been dead—or, failing that, utterly bankrupt. The kind of care I received, both immediately after the incident and in the long months that followed, was nothing short of remarkable. It was a safety net I hadn’t even appreciated fully until I found myself tumbling straight into it.

The platform buzzed faintly with the hum of late-night commuters, but to me, it felt like a hollow void, the noise distant and meaningless. My thoughts were loud, deafening, urging me toward a choice I no longer had the strength to resist. I stared into the darkened tunnel, watching as the distant light of an oncoming train began to grow brighter, closer.

In the depths of my most fragile state, when I felt like I was unraveling, my world took an unexpected artistic turn. It was during what I can only describe as my "2D from Gorillaz" phase, a surreal time when reality felt as fragmented and otherworldly as the band's music videos. I immersed myself in their universe—not just listening, but living, breathing, and, somehow, creating within it.

The office in 2019 was a cavernous, empty space—just the two of us in a room big enough for a small army. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional clatter of a keyboard or the hum of the air conditioning. But what really set the stage was the glass wall separating us from the care company next door. Every day, a parade of young, beautiful women streamed past on their way to meetings, coffee breaks, or the photocopier. It was like watching a surrealist dance, a "gloomy conga," as the Last Shadow Puppets once sang.

And spiral I did. It wasn’t just a stumble; it was a full-on nosedive into a chasm of despair. My thoughts turned darker and more irrational with each passing day. Somehow, in my mind, I managed to twist my personal failures into a catastrophic narrative: I hadn’t just let myself down, I hadn’t just let my loved ones down—I had let all of humanity down. Every mistake I’d made, every missed opportunity, every ounce of potential I’d squandered became magnified into a global tragedy, a weight I carried entirely on my own shoulders.

Without Russell as a catalyst, I found myself back at square one again—adrift, untethered, and uncertain of where to channel the energy that had consumed me for years. The obsession that had once fuelled me, given me purpose and a sense of destiny, was gone. And in its absence, the reality of what I had lost began to sink in.

The news that Derek had stolen my idea was a blow I could never have anticipated. It hit me harder than anything I’d ever faced, and yet, I couldn’t even let myself grieve it properly at the time. Instead, I buried the pain as deep as I could, hiding behind the walls I’d built around myself. I tried to push it away, convince myself that it was just another setback in a life full of them. But deep down, the wound festered.

Around 2017, something else happened that added another layer of complexity to my growing sense of the extraordinary. I stumbled upon the work of Simon Parkes, a man whose beliefs and teachings resonated deeply with what I had been experiencing. Simon, for those who don’t know, is a fascinating figure—a man who claims to have had contact with extraterrestrial beings, specifically the Mantid beings.

It was during one of the most surreal moments of my life that I felt a sense of clarity like never before. Everything seemed perfectly aligned. The universe, in its strange and inexplicable way, felt like it was offering me an undeniable sign that everything was in place, that everything was perfect. I had never felt so elevated, so connected to something bigger than myself.

For half a decade, I lived in a holding pattern—watching, hoping, unraveling. I wasn’t expecting a grand proclamation or an earth-shattering revelation, but maybe... an invitation to talk? A chance to share my story with a larger audience? Something. A podcast appearance seemed like the natural step—a way to reach the world with the message I was convinced I carried, without being too overt.

But that call never came.