Always The Monster
The Daily Chase! Free Newsletter sent by Chasey Delaney..x
Schizophrenia has turned my gaze inward. I write like a Memoirist on a 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 speak to you all!
Welcome to The Daily Chase! Free Newsletter.
SATURDAY:25 JULY 2026
SOUNDSCAPE ‘CONCEPT’ MIXTAPE
Dear Chasers!
My heads not with it today, I’ve been worrying about everything that I’ve been thinking and writing about. Although, today (Saturday) is kind of a happy day its laced with self doubt about the near-future. I have been given the opportunity to see things from an alternative perspective, a reality check if you like. What I do with that is up to me!
If I still feel, think, see things differently from my previous beliefs, i.e. betrayal in my relationship, daily hallucinations, listening to the voices (auditory halluncinations) in my head instead of ignoring them, and acting out on these beliefs — then, I’m in serious trouble of being Sectioned which means hospitalisation potentially! eeek.
Sitting here now typing this for you I’m laughing into my brew thinking “Oh how ridiculous this all seems and sounds to me, of course I’m no poorly, I’m just under a lot of pressure from my schizophrenia at the moment, which I am.
I may or may not have had a little emotional meltdown, or mental collapse what we call ‘a little blip’. I’ll update you with my new thoughts and outlook and happenings and I hope you come back tomorrow for another check in with Chasey!
PS: I know some of you have asked me to turn the comments on but I’d rather not have things added to the blog itself, I would love to hear from you any time, just send me a private message (DM) here on Substack. I’ll be happy to hear from you.
In the meantime, I leave you with my humble observations and more of me examining me. It feels quite self-absorbed and sometimes consuming being my own muse! I have prepared an update in the form of an essay ‘ALWAYS THE MONSTER’ below….x
"At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification."—Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein
“ALWAYS THE MONSTER”
"If I am to be the monster in your story,
let me be the one that weeps for the hero
that it was forced to break."
I used to think that he made me ‘talk dirty’ to him during sex was purely to try and help keep him hard (because, quite clearly, I didn’t look good enough, or his head wasn’t into it – pardon the pun!). I hated the times when he told me to talk to him through it. It distracted me from feeling his dick and I thought I was making it worse because I knew that I didn’t have a clue what to ‘talk’ about. It made me feel inadequate.
I blame my feelings of inadequacy on many of the problems which we have been facing together lately. I have to admit that when I thought I had ‘discovered’ who he has been cheating with (I thought it was my Mum of all people so that has hindered the relationship I have with her now, although she has been really kind and supportive of me about it), I felt a sense of relief. A boost of finality. A psychological reprieve.
I weighed up the pros and cons of losing both the people I love in one hit. There were no pros. I had to make some up.
This would be the start of my new life alone without anyone around me to stop me being ‘me’, I thought. Just like when I was a kid. I did alright when I didn’t have anyone to depend on. I was a better person for it, I thought.
My heart was breaking in my chest. I could feel the hammer denting it with slow blows of realisation. I couldn’t kid myself that I could go it alone but ‘apparently’ it had been their fault why I had been going out of my mind and not feeling right for so long a time.
I recently started to write about my life again instead of skirting over the actual issues as to why I hadn’t finished my book project, or continued my YouTube channel. I thought I had only been grieving the MUSE and was dealing with the reality of that situation - through the schizophrenic lens - and feeling sorry for, and ashamed of myself. I didn’t know I was sick and that my reality was different to everyone else’s. I thought it was only my perception that might be slightly off.
I believed I had been falling in love again with the Muse and didn’t know that had been a coping mechanism and a spoke in the wheel working against my mind and at home in my situation. It was distracting me from my real relationship.
I lost the MUSE but found myself again through it. I figured if I lose these two people who are all I have in my life, I could find the person inside who has been suffering everything on the surface. I was finally understanding how wrong I’d been there.
Now, after speaking with my Mum again. Listening to what my partner is telling me. (He says I’m delusional and he is worried about me going through another schizophrenic episode), I am wondering if this has all been in my head!
Has my low confidence, hermit lifestyle and mental illness been the cause of all this emotional distress?
After a night of conversation, mostly while he was drinking and drunk and I wasn’t, we sat side by side and talked about the way he had been feeling and this seemed to be the ‘evidence’ I had been quietly seeking to prove that he was NOT cheating. I felt embarrassed and hurt and ashamed of myself for not noticing or considering his innocence in all this.
What if he hasn’t been cheating?
How do I explain all the signs, the overheard conversations, the feelings, the lies, the real evidence that I couldn’t get out of my fucking mind! All the clues adding up, what were they?
Mental Illness – Delusions – Insecurity – Paranoia – Triggers.
Even then while he was opening up about his feelings towards me being that he would never leave me, he loves me, I am his world, he needs me the same way that I need him. Not just trivially fluffing me up to put me off track, real talk. I felt I needed to believe him this time. I felt sick from the sickness. I was tired of fighting against his words being true.
I cuddled and kissed him, patted his back while he was tearing up with his tear-jerking confessions, wiped my tears on his shoulders, ruffled my fingers through his shaved head. I didn’t know how to comfort him. I wanted to. I thought I was doing a great job at it considering my body began to go into ‘freeze mode’ like it did when I visited my Dad’s dead body.
"When I looked around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned? I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me: I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge."—Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein
I was enamoured with this new realisation that he LOVES me just as passionately as I love him. I had to believe him now.
Then I happened to say something that I thought was nothing, he’d just told me that when he dies there’s no other person he would want around his bed (aside from his family of course) than me. I said, “Oh that’s exactly what I think about when I die, who I’d want there and it’s you. So for you it is me?”
With that, and because he’s very drunk by now, he throws his arms up in the air knocking mine of him and screams: “You always make this about you! You’ve got no compassion for me!” and I was sat there in shock. Then I realised, my petty little arm rubs, sloppy shoulder kisses, and shit pats on the back weren’t enough. We were back to square one where I was being shown that I’m not enough.
I did care and was compassionate over him, I was just too close to show it, too close to allow myself to pour it into him. I felt guilty because I used to imagine how good I would be at loving the Muse, how I could help that person feel so much better by caring and showing them a compassion that they seemed to be missing from others but oozes out of them the same way I thought it did me, comes naturally I believed.
I vowed that in the morning, I would be a better girlfriend. I would make him loving me worth it. I would believe that I am enough and try to stop reading into situations, looking for subtext in body language and things I don’t understand. I would take life as it comes and embrace this gorgeous, beautiful soul that professes to fucking love me.
I would allow myself to be happy. He would be happy if I did.
He says he is so totally happy with our tiny little lives, no friends, no 9-5, no mortgage or kids, never being able to do regular things together like most couples would, he doesn’t care as long as he is with me. He is so happy because everything is the way he likes it.
I used to panic thinking this would be my downfall, all these things that he listed as loving; and no, he wasn’t being sarcastic he was saying it in a funny way to make me laugh and pull my face but at the end of it he paused for the impact. Its all this crazy fucked up hermit stuff that I love about us. We’re both the same.
“You think I want pubs, clubs, restaurants and loads of people around us – do I fuck! I’d hate all that these days, and I know you’re a cunt around people too, so that’s always my excuse – you don’t know how much I fucking love you Chasey!”
He says I’ve stopped him from going bad, getting into trouble and saved him from a life of, not crime, but danger and uncertainty, considering the crowds we used to associate with.
We’ve both been off the white powder for months now, chopped contact with the friend who had provided us with it. He was a friend more than a dealer, but always a dealer first. It’s so sad really because a lot of our life was also left behind.
I wonder if so much we’ve had to drop and get rid off, now we’re open to new stuff but what will that be? We’re lost for options, please read my newsletter about ‘our holiday plans going tit’s up’ and everything else that wasn’t exactly stable between us.
This morning when I was sitting on the side of the bed, having filled him up a big bottle of water for the day from the special filter, and made myself coffee from our new ‘ancient’ machine.
Please excuse the mess, dirty cups and ‘white powder’ which is creatine!, coffee stains, in this video, and the little cup bit was when I thought the machine would rinse first as it sometimes does but this time it didn’t so I need to make a quick cup change maneuver, almost let the water overflow as well so forgive if any swearing can be detected in the audio). If you’re wondering what the point is for this video, take note of my tattooed hand which is mentioned later! — still is a bit silly including it. LOL.
I’d heard him stirring from a drunken sleep, I thought I repay the sentiment he always offers me which is an ‘annoyingly sweet’ bedside show of affection. To me being woken up with kisses and cuddles is a double edged sword. I’m a grumpy fuck in the mornings.
I hate waking up and don’t like to be disturbed but at the same time, how can I be mad with his gorgeously juicy lips pecking kisses all over my face, and his heavy manly hands cupping my breasts!
I love the tit grope because I can morph that into my dream. The face, unfortunately, I have no control over the wakefulness happening if anything touches my face.
I don’t usually do anything to him while he is still sleeping. I always presume he will appreciate waking up naturally like I prefer, but it dawned on me that I should be more tactile, more considerate, and show my caring the way he does it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed I begin doing the only natural-to-me thing I can (because I don’t want to fake the attention) I just start to stroke his leg like a weirdo!
I find my hand gravitating towards his inner thigh, stroke his back, play with his hair/head and kiss his belly! I guess, I get all my skills for loving from my love for pets. I considered that I only know how to show the same affection as I would a dog.
I switched it up a bit as he was smiling with his eyes still closed, I massaged his little arse cheeks, and continue my thigh inspection, then he rolled over with a cute erection and said adoringly in a sleepy voice, “sort this out Chasey”, he arched his back and his boxers stretched to the tip of Toblerone and I was thought ‘ooh give a dog a bone!’ - now, I know what to do! “Let me at em, let me at em”. Grrr.
The thing is while I released the beast, and twiddled the tip, easing in to a good solid grip with thumb and forefinger, resting a good thick knuckle from my other finger on his shaft, like a make-shift miniature finger-vice, the sight of this beautiful, pretty, perfect looking cock against my wrinkled, freckled splattered old hand, I began to lose my bottle a bit.
I took it upon myself to start talking, nothing too dirty, just nice little compliments about how gorgeous his dick is and this and that, admiring the tattoo on my ‘wanking hand’ with his initials in fancy typography.
The idea behind it being there was so that every time I had his cock in my hand, I could be reminded of our love by looking at this fucking tattoo! The drunken mind of a 28 year old me back when we first met was still ringing true 16 years later at 43 years of age my hands had changed but his dick was still the same, silky, smooth and supple.
Within a moment of me opening my mouth (not to cheat and suck it) I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it without, seemingly the sound of my voice, or what I was saying – or both – brought him to his explosion rapidly.
I was clearly quite pleased with myself when he removed the pillow from over his face, until I realised, thinking, “that cunt couldn’t put a ‘bag over my head’ so he stuck one over his own!” Men are visual creatures, this whole time I’m feeling proud of myself his face was buried under a fucking pillow.
I hadn’t taken it personally though, I wouldn’t cum if I saw myself in the mirror, he also gets embarrassed by the faces he pulls but lets face it, the image of me concentrating on his cock would not be remotely sexy, in fact it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d have no chance of surrender!
The point of the matter is that, not only does he make me talk to keep him hard when he’s inside me, he must like me doing it regardless.
I began with pride and high hopes of blowing my own trumpet but it turns out this could be something else to moan about, to feel sorry for myself about. I have still managed to turn it around on him as ‘proof’ he ‘must be’ cheating otherwise he is missing out on a lot! It’s always my low-self esteem and because I’m not good enough for him, that’s on me, it’s my problem - not his. I’m beginning to reconsider my thoughts about him in all this.
It’s a scary consideration to think I might be having another schizophrenic episode. If he isn’t cheating at all (I know its not my Mum!) but not with anyone else at all, then most of my beliefs are unwarranted and delusional. Its a bitter pill to swallow finding out that maybe it is me who is always the monster.
Love from Chasey! ..x
"‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony. ‘Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust?’"—Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein
