THE HAUNTED Frontman: 'Insomnia Has Been There With Me For As Long As I Can Remember'

THE HAUNTED frontman Peter Dolving has posted the following message on his MySpace page:

"I start thinking at night when I can't sleep. Insomnia has been there with me for as long as I can remember. It's become something I'm not even trying to resist anymore. I suppose I can try, but I allready know it's not a battle I can win. I can ride it out and wait. And when my body decides it wants to, I fall asleep like baby. That's all there is to it.

"So I write. I read. I spend the hours trying to make time pass as painless as possible. It's funny how things work out. Or maybe not.

"Trying to sleep in a giant tin can on wheels, going down the autobahn at 60 mph got me thinking. I thought about Pete Steele and the dudes from TYPE O NEGATIVE. Heres what I was thinking: How the fuck is it possible? How do they do it? I've been fortunate enough to meet Mr. Steele once in my life. So, not only did he seem like a nice enough dude to me, but seriously — that man is the biggest mutherfucker I have ever shook hands with ever in my entire life. So I wonder — how is it possible? How the hell can TYPE O ever have toured? Seriously. I mean, I've been in tour buses and vans for a good 15 years and I ain't ever one sinlge night slept well on the road. Because tour buses and vans suck ass.

"OK. That might be me being a big wuzz. Or not. I'm not 5-foot-3 like my hero Prince, three apples tall like Mr. Glenn Danzig (rock giant nevertheless),or a couple of stacked pints like Ronnie James Dio, which could possibly help the situation. Nor am I any taller than say Per Möller Jensen, the drummer of THE HAUNTED. Actually my 6 ft 3", 189 pounds of rock flesh and bone are just about as much a dude can be and get any sleep in a regular tour bus at all. So all these other rocksters I know that are taller or fatter, end up sleeping on a couch in a bus lounge for months at end. Or on sedatives and muscle relaxers. How the fuck does that work out in the long run? Does it?

"It all made me feel just a tad new age or something — Mr. Scream & Bleed, all tender foot and soft inside.

"I'm one of those people who preciously cherish sleep. Really, I never feel I'm getting enough of it. Now, when I'm on tour doing the rock thing, I sleep poorly in a bed that is more like an undersized sweaty casket. 6 ft 4" by 2 ft 10", with enough headroom to lift your face high enough to hurt your self if you think that you can actually sit up straight.

"When I'm out doing spoken word or lectures I sleep in two-star hotel rooms. Rolling around in oversized two-star hotel beds feeling pathetic and fucking lonely until three hours before I have to get up. The airvents and traffic outside, the bachelor parties, the low murmur of travelling couples and people fucking in supposed secrecy.

"Sleep becomes a mirage, something I do in transit, or moments of meaningless passing of time. I could be at instant peace, but I am not dumb enough to go back to drunk stupors, Stilnox and the dreamless state of chemical daze. No way.

"At home I have one sleeping aid that works. My kids. Problem is, they don't want to sleep. I wonder where they got that? After reading bed time stories, one each with one kid on each arm I crash like a seagull on morphine and radiator fluid. They, on the other hand are usually both awake when my wife get's home. The youngest one building legos ON my face and the oldest one listening to post punk from the early Eighties, ROBYN or soul. They are then ushered to bed, again — by their decisive aerobic group leader of a mom, happily accepting reality and magically they go to sleep.

"I, on the other hand, force my self awake, against the laws of nature for some private civilized time with my wife. By the time I am finally concious, her eyes cross, she starts giggling stupid little nothings, my heart swells and then she stumbles off for some Z's. Me? Wide awake. Nothing to do but wait. A mellow panic slowly growing by the minute, as I know the hours of wonderfully rejuvenating, soothing and peaceful bliss, nightmares or no nightmares - rapidly slipping away with the ticking of the clock. So I end up accepting the fact, working, surfing the internet, pointlessly watching another documetary on 9/11 or hopelessly attempting to get through a Paul Auster novel for the hundred and tenth time only to fail again, until finally my mind and that body gives in and I fall asleep. Just in time for alarmclock, my beautiful hungry kids ready for breakfast and cuddling and no matter how tired I seem to be - It's not like I can tell them to fuck off. Shit, I tried that. But no... My kids are fearless little beauties and they know how to get me out of bed. Give me some laughter and I'm all yours. So we end up having breakfast and I'm exhausted, but grateful. Sheepishly smiling at how cool I think they are...

"But at 60 mph, in box made of sheet metal, rubber and glass, and a fever burning me up, that somehow seems far away.

"Another night of raging fear. But not this time around. Not anymore. That instiable hunger inside. The constant provocation of anyone at any time. The closer, the crueler and more irratic. Clueless to the implications of my malfunctioning personality. Pushing myself further into the things I fear. Living inside the consequences. The warzone. A DMZ of a war I was never a part of. Never a thought of my own irrational behaviour. All the strange late night sudden compulsive obsessions. Driving me on. In to night time walks through the darkness. Pushing past strangers. Crashing through innocent drunkards and likeminded alienees. Imitating the twisted shadows of what I thought would make me stronger. Harder. Grinding myself down while casting the blame on a world I knew nothing of. The lifetime of misfires and false starts. 25 years of pointless draining, shaming and breaking myself to make myself hard enough. To endure. To take the pain. Practicing the fine art of selfannihilation in a vain attempt of proving myself. Embracing selfhatred like some ghostly twin fetal residue inside myself. The mornings of loathing my own reflection. The twilight zone of illusive selfdeceit.

"Crawling through life were others simply walk.

"It was endless. My refusal to accept my own worth as a human being.

"It was me.

"It was always me. I just couldn't see it.

"So again, another sleepless night. But this time it's not because the creepy crawlies are screeching and clawing at the walls of my hollow soul. Tonight, my sore body slowly winds down after the show. I accept it. Tonight, my aching bones are burning away infection. Passing the hours coughing mucus. Sweating. Shivering. The fever burning my flesh. Eventually, it simmers down. Coming to rest.

"I find in me a deep tranquility. A sense that I am free to do anything I want. I have a choice. I no longer need to test my self against ridiculous presumptions, or measure my worth by how much pain I can withstand. I am free. I have a choice. I am free, to make decisions today that make me stronger tomorrow.

"Today that choice was easy. And it was mine.

"Yep. I am an obsessive addict, a raging animal machine. But I'm clean. I'm sober, today. Madly in love with the very things I regarded my natural birth right when I was just a boy.

"I do have the right to live.

"I have a right to be strong.

"I have a right be as intense as I can be. A living fire.

"I am alive.

"And at the centre of that, I found peace.

"No longer a void. I remember: I was loved. Love made me, not fear. Not hatred nor distain nor indifference. Love.

"I know love. I know what love is, I just forgot for a while. I'll be fine..."