Me, today… and it’s not fun.

I don’t feel like writing this; the words seem to weigh a mountain, given the crushing burden I feel I’m carrying, both emotionally and intellectually, at the moment.

But there’s another reason too. My worn-out, knackered keyboard? No. My eyes playing up? Not even that. But the damage to my neuromotor function, which makes my ability to type more uncertain and clumsy. Yes, I suspect where this is coming from, as I’d been warned: 25 years of migraine attacks and chronic migraines would eventually take their toll. Everything wears out, and the pain accelerates that wear and tear. (And I also have chronic sinusitis, which is getting worse too ; otherwise, it wouldn’t be much fun!)

But I can’t verify the cause of this symptom. To do that, I’d need to see expensive specialists, which means I’d need health insurance in Switzerland, which means I’d need at least 500 CHF to put towards it, which means I’d need to be able to earn at least 500 CHF a month reliably and consistently.

Since AIGen came along, it’s become a lost cause. Year in, year out, I used to earn around 1,000 to 1,200 CHF a month. Now, it’s… 300? 400? No, actually, I’m not even going to lie to you – for the last eight months, it’s been even less than that.

First, there were the effects of COVID on my fragile health, which were disastrous and started to cause me to build up stress and depression. Then came the arrival of AIGen, which reduced the illustration market to a massive joke and ruined illustrators, myself included, in, what… six months? Then came the knock-on effects. Less money, so fewer resources to look after my health; unable to get new glasses, so my eyesight deteriorated, so I found it increasingly difficult to draw, which made working uncomfortable, leading to frustration, stress and anxiety, then depression… and so even less money, even more problems and frustration, self-contempt, anger at myself, muted, yet growing, all-consuming and overwhelming…

And then, eight months ago, in this series of cascading disasters, another little gem of shit was added to the shite cake. I had an English-speaking friend, a very close friend, the son of Harry Harrison (that’s his pen name; his son’s name is Todd Maxwell Dempsey), the author of the novel Make Room! Make Room!, which you’ll know better by its US title: Soylent Green. You would have loved him; he was everything a humanist, a progressive, a lover of the human race and a fierce defender of the noblest ideals of inclusivity, respect and humanism could be. He was into role-playing – both tabletop and in virtual worlds – and he had a sort of paternal, mentor-like aura that worked every time. I had a very close bond with him, and there was… er… no, there wasn’t a single subject on which we didn’t see eye to eye.

And he died, aged 70, on 6 November 2025, of a heart attack, without having time to see it coming. A death that’s actually rather enviable, and I’m glad he died that way.

But it devastated me. Talking about it, especially now that I’m feeling terribly fragile and shattered, still brings burning tears to my eyes. He lived in the US, in California; not only do I not have a penny to go and pay my last respects, but since 2025, I reckon that if I try to set foot in the US, I’ll end up in one of their camps. And anyway… he’s dead… my being there wouldn’t change a thing.

This silent grieving is, in a way, the final blow needed to finish burying me, and it has shattered something inside me that was just waiting to break. My spirits have plummeted; I’ve suffered a bout of depression, and I’m still in the thick of it. The symptoms of neuromotor damage have started to appear unmistakably, giving me the impression that I’m becoming dyslexic again, but in fact it’s my manual coordination that’s becoming more difficult.

I’ve only been drawing on commission – the few commissions I’ve had – and I’ve hardly written at all. When I stop creating, it means I’ve stopped dreaming; when I stop dreaming, you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m dying inside. And that’s exactly where I am right now, caught in a terrible, all-consuming downward spiral: no strength left to really fight, so no money, so no way to get treatment or sort out the most urgent health issues, so no way to get better and regain that much-needed strength.

And I don’t know how to get out of this. But I have to get out of it. It’s driving my Angel to despair, it’s upsetting my family, it’s worrying my friends, and as for me… it’s killing me.

That’s it. Stay strong and love one another, everyone.