I know you thought that you were getting rid of me but I missed my connecting bus so I've now got a few hours to kill before I have to catch the next one. Therefore I thought I'd do something that I haven't done in a while and pour out every single one of my thoughts. There are quite a few so unless you've got a strong stomach or are incredibly bored...I'd advise you to look away now.
I want to be close to someone, really close to them - in body and in mind. I have rekindled my Christianity in a vain attempt to find some peace, or something, in my life. Right now I really need someone, or something, and since I don't want to have to see my friends cry again anytime soon I found myself at Church. Despite what many of you might think, I have not gone mad. I have always been curious about faith since I went to Sunday School as a child and have watched my mother go to Church every Sunday since then. It felt like the thing I was missing and for the moment, it's keeping me alive. I know that it's a cowards faith as I'm only there really to cling desperately to some form of reality, but it's a faith all the same and maybe someday God will even forgive me for all that I've done and welcome me back.
The title of the blog is something I was thinking about on the plane this morning. Am I becoming too fond of depression? It sounds absurd of course but I wonder if just maybe a part of me is afraid of what I could be without it - without self injury and without medication and without therapy. What's left of me? What would be left of my life? Am I really relishing my pain? I never stop talking about it, making you and others feel uncomfortable. I think that the idea is not all together unfounded, although it is sad and slightly unnerving.
I sound like I'm having a mid-life crisis I know. At 17. I know. But to be fair I've done a hell of a lot in those 17 years and by some people's standards I have reached middle age. God. The truth is I am very unlikely to go to Uni, now. I can't afford it and though my father can he believes I should make my own way in the world, which is fair enough. But really I don't think I can. I don't want to become him or my mother. I would rather be a nun than spend my working life in Guernsey at some private bank going further and further up my own arse until one day I just disappear and no-one notices until I'm washed up at Fermain, or something.
So I have decisions to make. I have to choose a life. But first of all I have to choose a Nikita.