Cracking Up Twenty-Two Years Ago

From my autobiography My Musical Journey self-published 2018, following an incident when a strange man followed me home the previous evening back in 1997:

My emotions were out of control in the morning. On the way to the bus stop, I passed a paper boy, kicked his bike and swore at him. I drank cider on the bus, even though it was not yet ten o'clock in the morning. By the time I got to Hertfordshire, I was in a crazy state of mind, not caring about the possibility of consequences, only about what had happened the previous evening.

On the high street, I pushed people and spat at others. Once I got to my friend's flat, I started swearing at his friends and throwing furniture around before finally trashing the bathroom.

Then, I reached for a razor and slashed my face.

Afterwards, I sat alone by a pond in a local park in the heat, drinking cider from a plastic bottle as passer byes averted their gazes, not wanting to get involved. I sat there numb, a spectator watching events happen to someone else.

The numbness wore off. Enraged and still drunk, I fought the urge to hurl myself into the path of an approaching bus before getting on the bus. The bus journey over, I took to the streets, the dry blood visible on my face. I charged into a gang of Oriental youths, roaring, swearing. I escaped any repercussions, even later when I walked up a street close to my home, banging on shops and takeaway windows, challenging strangers, my rage as volcanic as spewing lava.
                                              ____

And still, things got worse. The relatives continued to demean and torment me. The self-inflicted wound became septic. Pus oozed from the slash wounds and I found it difficult to open my left eye when I woke up in the mornings. My cheek and jaw area became swollen. I felt feverish, but I could not complete the course of antibiotics due to nausea. This led to a recurrence of infections and persisting swellings close to the throat.

Frightening.