Something inside so strong Catching sight of a rabbit meandering across his garden lawn, a surge of excitement swelled within his modest countenance. With uncommon alacrity in men of such advanced years he turned to his wife of sixty years only to yield to the unpalatable truth; his wife was gone. I cannot explain why the old man felt the need to share his pain with me; the haunted whites of his eyes spoke of a loss beyond my understanding. I fell upon the idea that, beyond the shell shocked man I now saw in front of me, was a man whose faith had deserted him. The notion that he and his wife might be embracing each other (as you read this text), in a place of such intense happiness as to be beyond our comprehension, is so compelling to me that I struggle to accept the fact that I will live a lifetime and never know the truth. In the desolate ruins of what were our hopes and dreams, there are to be found experiences like this - pieces of a jigsaw, part of a bigger picture lending itself to something more, something yet to come for all of us. Our loved ones, why?……. Mother, why do you believe a stranger before you believe the son you gave birth to, just because he has letters of the alphabet after his name? Father, why do you believe in a stranger who doesn’t care if you live or die over a son that would lay down his life for you? My friend, we lived our lives as one, from boy to man, a bond so strong we said death itself couldn’t break; and yet, you listened to a stranger, before you talked to me. The truth is so incongruous with Wessely’s Narrative that it feels like a violent crime is taking place right before our eyes. We scream with toxic fury only for our loved ones to look past us, beyond us, through us. They continue to walk by, silent and unnerved. Closer to death than to life, have we become ghosts? What will you do when they call you from Dignitas; what will you say when they tell you we’re gone? Whilst suffering from wrong thinking and indulging in a fear of activity I applied for yet another position with a leading employer. Despite bone crushing, soul destroying pain I resolved to march right through this b*****d illness. I was successful; I was now a Data Entry Clerk; eight hours a week leading to more, dependent on my health (which I understated with deliberate bluster; some might even say I was conservative with the facts; I might even admit to you, I lied). I did so in order to engage a position of any kind, anywhere, for the minimum wage. Give me the health to do so, and I would gladly sweep the streets of England for the rest of my working life. This might be what desperation reads like; it is undoubtedly what determination feels like. I was a somebody again, I had some semblance of self respect. The shame I felt, upon receiving my benefits forever and a day, subsided. The happiness I felt in being in employment was to be found somewhere beyond words. It was witnessed some days earlier when I saw a boy, arms stretched out wide, running as fast as he could, shouting as loud as he needed and laughing as much as he wanted. Tell me, when did you last feel like that? Why can we no more keep hold of that feeling than stop the earth from turning? I have never stopped trying despite all confidence in my own abilities vanishing in an instant, only to return, like a street light flickering on and off during a storm. I never will stop trying because like a moth attracted to a flame that will kill it, I can’t help myself. Perhaps most poignant of all, my dear brother. His meagre wages were the only defence we had against our house being repossessed. He hated his job so much that, at times, he confessed to being unable to see a way out. I used to see him at 5am setting off for work on a freezing cold January day with sadness permeating every fibre of his being. He tried to hide it, but the more he tried to hide it, the more able I was to see it. Like the whites of the old man’s eyes I saw in my brother something that had died. It hurt me so much that its resonance will haunt me for the rest of my life. You cannot see the tears rolling down my cheeks, but I wish you could see the pain inside. Perhaps those of you that are still reading this, and who remain convinced that we suffer from wrong thinking and a fear of activity, should look away now, because I have nothing left to say to you, I have nothing left to give you. Please, with love and compassion look behind The Wessely Narrative. In putting the pieces of the jigsaw together for yourself, the picture will become clearer. I know it’s not easy, the picture might never be of high resolution, pixelated images sowing seeds of doubt; I understand, all of us with M.E understand; that the psychiatrists wouldn’t do such a thing would they? Surely our Government wouldn’t allow it - and our G.P’s, well, if you can’t trust them, who can you trust? While psychiatrists like Wessely and his alphabet, snaking on behind him, slither from one conference to another, from one research paper to another, from one interview with the BBC to another, those with M.E are living this illness, suffering this illness, dying from this illness. From every fibre of my being, if you don’t believe the truth for the sake of all those suffering from M.E. then believe it for the sake of yourself, your children, your loved ones, because this barbaric illness is gathering momentum. M.E. is a life tariff, without any prospect of parole. That, and the shameful politics that have infected the medical profession, have the capacity to take you and your loved ones to a dark and disturbing place. And my job? I think you already know the answer to that question... Dedicated to Professor Malcolm Hooper and all those other scientists who, despite intense political pressure, dared to speak the truth on our behalf.