Animosity

Because I'm a lazy wench and not very festive I shall take this opportunity to collectively wish all my readers a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

There, that's that out of the way.

I've often wondered what it would be to have a meeting. A meeting with everyone who ever read this blog, and decided to stay with me as I chart the peaks and troughs of each wave of my life. Some of you I have met, of course, whilst others are the stuff of pictures and Facebook profiles.

I wonder whether we'd get along in 'real life'. I wonder whether we'd like each other. I've wondered where we would meet and what we would do. Would we talk or stand/sit embarrassed that this group of strangers, with whom we've shared our lives, are right here with us?

Just a thought for the New Year

PS - great article on Saturday Paul

Blogland Publicity

Good Evening all

I've written nothing of substance for quite some time, however today I have been struck by several ideas and thoughts which I feel would be perfect to explore here. I have promised people that I will write a diary but guess what? Screw that, this is my diary - this has been my life chart for over three years and though it has had its not so good moments it has still always been the first place I turn to when I need to justify my thoughts.

On that thought: sex blogging. I am pretty sure that there are very few readers of this page who also frequent this blogging phenomenon. I have just watched a Channel 4 programme, and though it focused on sex blogging it also raised interesting points on blogging at large. Most people I know have, or have had, a blog at some point and they've had readers. It has become apparent that many published authors were found via their blogs - this staggered me as it alerted me to the fact that these blogs attract millions of hits everyday. Maybe not mine - but the ones of substance.

Oh and on the subject of sex, since women are becoming more liberal, I had never embraced it until I met Will - it was something to be feared and something that men could use as a tool against women to hurt them. It was something I just wasn't supposed to think or talk about - but now I am in a stable relationship and sex has just become something which is spontaneous and makes our relationship more fun - and cheeky ;)

The next thing I wanted to talk about was the time of year; of course it is still officially autumn but outside it feels like winter. I just walked to the village in search of fatty food and everywhere you look there are beautiful shining crystals of ice - I could see every exhalation of my breath and those who hastily walked past me wrapped up in coats and hats and scarves and gloves - you'd think they lived in the Arctic, not East Yorkshire. I just had on boots, joggers and a hoody and I took my time walking. I saw the frost, I slipped on the ice, I laughed as my breath looked like delicate smoke. In Edinburgh there is snow, in Manitoba there is snow; here there is none, neither in Hampshire, neither in Guernsey.

Today I handed in my third and final essay of the first semester, with a sense of pride - it was something I did quickly but thoughtfully, like many of my essays. I went into town for Starbucks. I went to the Doctors and I picked up my ever-increasing repeat prescription. I came home. I finished packing. I cried. I hurt myself and then I cried a little more.

This, dear readers, is not the stuff of books - this is the stuff of my life.

And miles from where you are I, lay down on the cold floor

It isn't long until Will leaves for Scotland.

I had another CPN appointment today, my medication might change.

Will is 21 on Saturday.

I haven't written a poem since October 2006.

Writer/human/thing...in despair.

Force 7

I've been feeling 'iffy', as it were, for quite some time. I dismissed this as depression and nothing to take into consideration; sure Will took me into hospital and I discharged myself, but I figured a big fuss over nothing.
I've been having a lot of memories which forced into perspective a lot of my previous memories, and it now emerges that the bipolar disorder with which I have been diagnosed, has fabricated many of my memories and traumatic events.
Today I went to the neurologist (a condition of my discharged AMA) and he told me that legally I cannot drive for one year as they think I have epilepsy. I have to have more tests to see if they can confirm that my fainting is actually seizures; and thus epilepsy.

NO DRIVING

FOR A YEAR?!

YEAH-FUCKING-RIGHT

Peter Pan and Goblin Market

So I am busy. Not just at Uni but in my head and my life and my finances and my thoughts. Right now I am reflecting, reflecting on all the chances I didn't take and mistakes I made and friends I lost.

I threw away a poetry scholarship to Cambridge, a scholarship to UKSA and a Volvo...but those things wouldn't have changed my life, just made me a little different. I'd still have thought the same, just maybe lived a little different.

I still listen to Shania Twain, I still browse Clinique catalogues and I still say 'fuck you' to people who judge me. But I do none of them with conviction.

I don't cut myself but I do hurt. I don't drink but I do crave. I don't frown but I don't smile.

I'm still a mess of a person. But slowly I'm realising that I am a beautiful mess. And if I want to wear a sleeveless gold dress on a cruise to Amsterdam then I'm downright gonna do that...and I did.

We went to Amsterdam for a few days and it was fab; it showed me that I am me, no matter what my surroundings might be.

Un mot, et tout est perdu

Well, well, well, well....

Nowt much to say here from Le Hull...

I am considering giving up French...

I have done no Christmas shopping...

I want to be a Primary School teacher...

Will's blowing up monsters on his PS3....

I am always hungry...

I am always tired...

Musings

Hi everyone, anyone...

This past week hasn't been my best, save for handing in an essay and going to an English lecture I have not been to Uni. I've been scared to go into Cottingham. I've been scared to leave my room. I've forgotten things, and people. I've been sad.

Today, it's a little less foggier. I still feel sad. But not so sad. My medication got doubled and next week I have three appointments with various professionals who want to help me...me! Fancy that...

I haven't got dressed today, and I don't intend to. I have a lot of work to catch up on I'm sure, a lot of apologies to make to tutors and lecturers. I shall concern myself with that on Monday.

I'm still in love, and by some miracle I think I'm still loved. I know I sound up my own arse today but it's one of those days...so deal with it ;) I've got things to worry about, and uncertanties and sadness. But it's okay. I'm not on my own.

Thanks everybody for bearing with me

You've missed me right?

Well sorry but even if you haven't it's time for a proper update, methinks.

You all know that I'm at Hull Uni, studying English and French with a view to attain a Joint Honours in these obtuse programmes of study. Ooh only one week in and I already sound like a pretentious, somewhat scatty, english graduate. Fancy that.

You don't know that I've been very down lately. Really down. I did not go out for Freshers (not that I drink anyway) but still. I do not leave my dorm room open, I close it and lock it. I do not get up until 4pm for my 4:15pm lectures, and sometimes I don't even rise for those. Now I know that Freshers is tough on everyone, I know that everyone's in the same boat.

But it doesn't feel that way.

Since I left Guernsey back in...July? I've seen no Psychiatrist, taken no medicati0n (save for my secret emergency stash of Diazepam, and now even that's gone) and basically not opened up to anyone - not even the man I am going to marry.

Of course now I've booked an appointment with the Uni Mental Health team - whatever the fright that is. Registered and booked an appointment with a local Doctor. And cried all over Will for what I estimate to be around 3-4 hours a day. I even ate last night and didn't throw it up, for the first time in a long while.

I have been eating, of course, I shan't let myself get ill over this. But it seems every other meal I do force down, forces its way back up. Why? I have 'aucune idee'.

Nastiness aside, I now have two fish swimming around in a bowl next to me. Frankie, and Benny - because the petstore is right next door to which American eaterie....
I did have Sharky and George, but I seemed to have killed them both within hours of carefully introducting them to their new home. So, never one to be phased, I sent Will out the very next day to get me two new recruits. And I'm pleased to say that they're doing well. Frankie is the Goldfish and Benny the Comet, by the way...

Oh and before I forget. Yes I am living in halls and no there are no pets allowed. But you won't tell will you?

This is the earliest I've been up in days. I look around and yes, my room looks like home - not a patch of wall bare. I see Will asleep on the floor over there, next to my single bed (he too has been snuck in, to take care of me). I don't see anything that upsets me or scares me, yet I am both of those things. Why? Who knows...

I promise this was not intended to be what it has become, a long and pitying rant from a middle class girl with nowt but a few bad scrapes to be upset about. So, once more, I apologise.

Oh but I have gone quite a little while without harming myself in any way now...go me.

Welcome back readers, it's like neither of us ever left.

The University of Hull

Well hello there my gorgeous readers (if there are any of you left!)

So I am officially enrolled at Hull Uni, doing BA Joint Honours in English and French. I have attended lectures today, and apparently I do still know a thing or two!

My room's pretty big and my blockmates aren't at all bad. I've forgotten totally all my MSN details since it's been so long so watch this space for yet another new address - my phone numbers are also new so let me know if you want them.

I can't think what to say

I'm not fat

Just thought I'd let you all know that I am not fat. Nope. What Will says goes and he says I am not. So there you go. I'm a perfectly healthy, and very possibly sexy, normal size.

I'm living in Doncaster atm pending my start at Hull Uni sometime in September - I will find out exactly when I start and whether I have anywhere to live, I promise I will.

Sorry if I've been hard to get hold of lately; I'm not sure what to write most of the time or I don't have anything of note to say... Either way I'm still around and you can get me on the e-mail at anytime - I check them most days.

I hope you're all doing okay, I will start reading blogs again soon I just need to get settled and then service will resume as normal.

Smile and be beautiful

Obstacles

So you know the bit about leaving Guernsey and finding the dream boy and planning the wedding etc etc...what you don't know is that I am a somewhat stupid person. I figured all of this would 'cure' me of my ills and put my bad memories to rest.

But for two weeks now I wake up several times a night being shaken by Will from a nightmare in which I'm reliving every bad experience ever...it's like being there again, being through it again. It upsets not only me but Will also.

I cry and I'm still cutting.

What's going on? I do not know.

I got my A Level results today and they weren't what people expected of me, I'm going to Hull University rather than Edinburgh and strictly speaking I didn't even make the grades for that...

So I'm living the dream, but still the black nightmare appears to write the scripts.

Love

So. I am in love. I am engaged to the most beautiful person you will ever meet. Soul-mate, life partner, husband...whatever you choose to call him that's what he is. I call him mine. Someone wants me and I want them. We are in love.

I have no idea what to write. I can't write. I'm too happy and overjoyed to even think about what writing is. Writing's always been my escape and my salvation, well right now Will is all of those things and more.

*sigh*

Current status? No idea...

I've had a lot of shitty problems lately, I'm sorry if any of you have e-mailed me and I've not replied...basically I didn't get them through one way or another.

I'm living in hotel staff accomodation with the boyf.

I'm jobless after losing mine.

I'm fat because chinese food makes me happy.

I'm lonely because the boyf is at work.

I need to get out of this Island.

I'm in love and it is scary as hell.

I have a lot I need to say; I left my medication and my therapist.

I can't say any of it.

Life Update

I've been neglecting this little space recently; posting photographs and odd words with no real insight into my actual current life, I'm sorry. Well here I am now and I'm going to tell you it all. I'm afriad...

So I have finished 6th Form College and as of Thursday 22nd June I will have completed my A Levels - the results are out on the 16th August. I go back for final assembly on the 29th June, if I'm here then in Guernsey. Right now I have no idea where I might be then. This Wednesday my boyfriend is moving back from his home to Guernsey where we and a bunch of friends are going out for a belated Birthday party on Friday 22nd June. After that we're job hunting in either Guernsey or Jersey.

Guernsey doesn't sound or seem quite so awful when you've someone here loving you, someone willing to move hundreds of miles to look after you. In September we will either both be moving up to Edinburgh University or I'm taking a year out to spend time in the house he just bought in Venice doing it up and the like - depending on my A Level results.

As for the crazy stuff, well I'm doing ok. I haven't seen my psychiatrist for a good few weeks now, through clashes in both our schedules. But I have been taking my medication and spent last week reducing it - I'm not going to base my happiness around the boy who loves me but I don't want to be on the pills when they're not really necessary. I know now the signs of when I'm getting down and I'm better equipped to stop it, and if all else fails I know what medication works for me and what doesn't.

Family are all well, my Mum and Sisters are thinking of moving over to the Mainland when I leave; but that's just an idea at the moment, so far as I can tell. I don't see my Dad very much and I think we're both happier for it, I think there came a point when it hurt me to be with him and know he didn't realise what he was doing, I realise now that if he's going to change it'll have to be off his own back - I can't do anything more for him. I'm eighteen years old now and he's forty-seven. We can't play role-reversal now, I'm ready to start my life, just for me.

Last week I went to the beach, to swim, for the first time in three years. I wore a bikini and I swam with my boy on the beach. I got a suntan on my arms and my shoulders for the first time since I was just fifteen. I got driven around. I got looked after. I felt like a someone. I feel like my life is starting, I feel like Nikita is now living for Nikita - not for Mum or for Dad or even for Friends. I want to be happy and for the first time ever I feel I deserve it. Or course I feel selfish for churning all this out, but I know I probably shouldn't.

I have moments when I panic, but I can see through them. I can drink without getting inebriated within an hour. I don't smoke. I don't go to Church, rather I live by little philosophies and quotes which I like. I smile at people. I study when I have time. I chat to people who I love. I know that this is by no means it, I know I am only eighteen and there are tougher times ahead. But I know what I've gotten through and I know where I'm going tomorrow, the rest is superfluous and all part of the ride, right?

Eighteen

Well there we have it folks. The ripe old age of 18. I am now an adult. Ish.

I feel I should share some wisdom, but I haven't found any yet - gimme another 18 years and I'll get back to you.

As it is I'll leave you on this...

... Fall in love quickly

Smile unquestioningly

Look deeply

Live forever

GGS 6th Form Leavers Ball 07

The best evening of my life

Wobbly

This might not be the best time to write a blog because I am in a somewhat snappy and unimpressed mood.

I had a fantastic French exam on Tuesday.

It is my prom on Friday.

I take offense so easily, you know? The slightest little thing and I'm in tears and wondering what I've done wrong. I'm emotional today. I'm tired.

No, not pregnant. Before I get accused of that.

I dunno

Change

I've always written or bragged about being someone who can handle change, maybe even someone who thrives on change, and maybe I used to be. Used to be. I've got to know what it is to be me more than ever before this past academic year and I've got my safe routines; I always take my pills at my locker, I always give Kayleigh a hug and walk round the school before classes start. I always go to the Candie Store to get lunch, then go to the gym and then home for a shower. These are all tiny things but they're things I've come to rely on. I don't mean I'm never spontaneous; there's nothing better than a piece of cake in Pelicans or a wander round the shops with my girls.

What do I do now? Find new routines when I'm working here there and everywhere? Find a new place to eat lunch while I'm travelling? Fit revision and clearing out my room into the day to day business of surviving?

It might seem like I'm exaggerating all this and maybe I am, it's just today though that I realised change isn't always that great. And while change might be great when I have the choice, when it's thrust upon me I don't feel comfortable with it. I haven't planned for it.

One day at a time then, I suppose

An End

I will post more photos of the end of my era, but I shall wait until all exams are conquered. Sorry I look so fat in here; it's the girls of my English Lit class. I'm going to miss that class the most. Mr Samuel Thompson was our mentor; he is getting married on Saturday. The end.

Fuck Yes

You know what? I've been writing this and known some of you for quite some time; you know I'm a fickle bugger and one to drown in self-pity on regular occasions. I am self-obsessed and let's face it, pretty selfish all together. Tonight I have absolutely no idea how to make my life work. But you know what?

I feel fucking fantastic

It makes no sense. But then things rarely do, I've learnt to spend a little less time deciphering the good moments and just relish them - there'll be plenty of deciphering to do when the next down comes. But just now, right now; I feel amazing.

I feel like surfing, I feel like hiking out on a damn big yacht, I feel like staying out all night on the beach, I feel like travelling a million miles to see an acquaintance, I feel unstoppable. I am going to ride this wave out until the very last wash; my board may be scuffed and a little run-down, but it sure as hell still slices that water.

Don't ever give up

Ugh

It's all I can say today.

I'm alive.

Through all the pain your eyes stayed blue

Just before you all realise; no this photo has absolutely no relevance to what I'm going to post about today. I just found it on my laptop and realised it's over a year since I last stood looking up the skirts of La Tour Eiffel in Paris. Funny how time flies when you're having fun huh? I know it's a stereotypical view of Paris - but I don't care, I even bought a 3 euro beret when I first went to the city of romance. One day I shall run away there and just spend everyday sitting in a cafe outside Notre Dame and strolling past the stalls on the Seine.

*Enough of that romantic clap-trap.*

I really don't have a reason for posting today. I have just got broadband installed and so I am now to be found most evenings at my laptop beaming my ugly mug out via a webcam to any poor person who happens to be online. Wireless is dangerous. Although I will say it's giving me something to do at 3am when I seem to be waking up at the moment.

However just now I should be doing a French Listening practice test. I love french. I just can't bring myself to spend an hour listening to some english person trying to talk about police brutality in french. I will do it before school tomorrow, I promise.

Someone give me a purpose

Crying in the Dark

Forgive me, I need to get this out before it consumes me.

I am so lucky. So lucky. I have a house to live in, I have family, I have friends and I have air in my lungs. I am loved. I love.

Yet

I am crying. I am crying because it hurts so much to have these things. It hurts. It has done for as long as I can remember. I heard such a sad story yesterday and I've cried about it - I can't tell you as it's not mine to share.

I ignored my best friend, Saffron, all day today. All day. I ignored her. I wouldn't let her close for a hug. I wouldn't answer her honestly.

I have my beautiful boy who loves me and who I love.

So what the fuck is all of this in my head? These tears? This hurt?

What is it?

I have no credit on my phone, thankfully. There's no-one calling me and I can't call anyone. I've pushed too hard this time.

Poetry In Motion

I went to this fantastic evening last week at Guernsey's new Performing Arts Centre.
Grace and I set off in Reginald the little Micra and arrived much too early to be greeted by all of the poets posing for their group shot.
Mr Samuel Thompson, our A Level English Lit teacher is a member of the PIM group and is a fantastic published poet - I have both of his books. I like to think we made his evening by showing our support - indeed he dedicated his second set to "All the young ones out there" - by the immortal Bruce Springsteen.
All of the poetry was fantastic and the handouts of collected works have been read and re-read a million times over the weekend. There were so many different styles and I came away with a notebook full of new ideas, as well as a big grin on my face.
The retiring collection was in aid of Help a Guernsey child and they made a welcome sum that evening from the full audience in the black drama studio.
If anyone wishes to read or learn more about the Poets in Motion please let me know - I can't recommend them enough.

PS I am in love. I spent the best weekend of my life with the most beautiful boy in the world and I love him...more. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Don't Touch

This morning I write to you frustrated, I am out of my numb and ponderous stage and have now moved to being highly annoyed and ridiculously jumpy.
Why? Well to be honest if I knew anything I'd not be asking that stupid question now would I? I'd be basking in my own glory wearing something suitably divine and looking like heaven. Which I do not.
I am fed up with therapy. It's too much like hard work - there's a reason I blocked all those shitty things out and to be honest talking about them with a middle aged man who's now annoyingly like a friend while he sits there getting angry about things I am not is doing nothing for my temper. I am reducing my medication also because I would rather like to go to University without being under the care of some CAMHS team or another - I would like that particular part of my life to be scrubbed from my UCAS application and just for once I want to see whether I can do it on my own.
Y'see that was the whole point of going to Uni far away; to start again. Who the hell am I kidding? It was to run away. And that's what I'm damn well going to do; I am going to run away without a diary or a prescription or a blade or a tear.
For the summer I am working in a Hotel, a Bank and a Hostel.
I am not able to join the Sail4Cancer team at Cowes because the parentals think I should be working on my long summer; not making use of possibly the last one I'll ever have without debts.
I am spending money like there's no tomorrow and damn it, it's not making it any better.
I am lonely and I'm damn well glad of it.
I'm going sleeve-free and I don't give a damn because the scars won't get any better without sun exposure so everyone else will just have to deal with it; people at the gym have been ignoring it for years. Apart from the old people - they don't like it at all.
This mood, I know, marks the beginning of a manic time. And you know what? Damned if I'm going to stop it.

I am aware of how many times I said damn.

Ah

I've no idea what the hell I'm doing here. I just needed to connect, I think. Spiritbear, who dropped by the last post - which was very kind of him, noted that I pour my heart out here.

This struck me.

I am very honest here, yes. Possibly even too honest.

But this is by no means an account of my life. There are a lot of things I cannot say here, wouldn't say even if I could.

I don't know. Ignore me. Keep sparkling.

The big H

That 'H' of course being hiding, or hidden.

All this week I have been being supported and guided and damnit downright cajoled into being around people at school and in the evenings in the probably correct thought that 'it'll be good for me'. So I did it. I stayed for all my classes, I did all my assignments and I gratefully accepted at least 10 hugs a day to keep me together, literally.

Until Friday. Friday I woke up and couldn't do it. Friday was a day no matter how many hugs I was going to get I couldn't be with people; couldn't be me, couldn't be who I am for them. So I stayed at home all day until I went to my psych appointment, which I have also been avoiding.

We talked, for the first time since we met three years ago in A&E, about my Dad. About his violence and his abuse and his alcoholism and his friends and...things I cann't write down even now. I sat and I spoke to my hands and cried into my skirt for an entire hour. I poured out every bad memory which had been plaguing me at night for weeks. I talked; not about my mood over the past week as I've spent every other session doing, or about whichever medication he thinks would be good for me. I talked. I don't know if it's wise but I asked to stop medication, so I'm now working on that.

I went to Dr H on Friday with a view to get myself withdrawn from his care (ironically he said I wouldn't have been allowed anyway) and came out from what was the first useful therapy ever. It made me sad and it made me cry but it made me stare in the face exactly one of the biggest things I've ever had to come to terms with.

And the ending never comes

I am struggling with some thoughts at the moment, some thoughts and images which I really hoped I would never see again. They are plaguing me and really they're quite difficult to come to terms with, to bear even.

I had such an optimistic week planned; and it fell through each day as my hopes and expectations were dashed; it was a fate I have trained myself to withstand yet this week I cannot decipher exactly what is going on inside my mind. I had lunches with friends but one way or another my daring and somewhat dangerously formed hopes provided no rewards. I let myself get into a position where I was at the mercy of others; and that's not something I like to do. Obviously I accept that I sometimes need help but I have not for a long time put my fate in another's hands. Until this week when I was reminded exactly why such barriers were created.

I wonder what's happening sometimes; I hate to drag age in again but I'm only seventeen - very nearly eighteen; should these thoughts and analysis even be coming from someone who as my mother so expertly put it; "hasn't even lived"? I think I've experienced a few misfortunes in the short amount of life I've had, but perhaps I am merely being melodramatic? I've never claimed that I have it tougher than anyone else, but perhaps I have it better than I think? I know that my entire life story is not told through these pages; some of it is too painful for me to type, let alone to put in public domain - so afraid that I am of rejection. I have found myself talking; via e-mail or MSN about things I wished I could forget, but am slowly realising that I won't. I've received a lot of beautiful words via e-mail from equally beautiful readers - but through reading this page alone my life-story is not apparent. I often wondered about writing it down, but who on earth would read it?

It's times like these when my mind is flooded and I've no idea what day it is that I wish it would just all end; but I am not suicidal - those thoughts come later when I begin to realise that it's just another day and those thoughts in my head are just there, all is calm in my mind when thoughts of taking my life arise. I have cancelled doctors appointments and all sorts this week; for I feel that I'm not worthy of the help I supposedly *need*. Maybe you think this is just the apathetic nonsense of a teenager. I don't know.

Mini-Golf and Monsters

Don't you just love sarky and somewhat pretentious titles which you assume will have nothing to do with the actual content of the post? Well I do.

However that particular title is relevant; it is the brief description of my saviour.

You can't have failed to notice that I've been drowning in my own self-pity for a fair while now; I write to you today with my spirits somewhat lifted.

On Thursday my best friend in the entire world and her boyfriend got me round to their house and we watched 'Monster House' - which believe it or not I found funny. They taught me how to cook and her boyfriend who's in a similar state to me talked to me, at length, about how we could help each other. At the end of the evening/early morning I hugged both of them and drove home ever so slightly more cheerful.

The next day however I decided they were humouring me and didn't really like me; I hid in bed until 2pm. Then they called me and invited me to play Mini Golf, which I accepted. It was the best afternoon I've had in a very long time. The game was amazing and we had a real laugh - it was hot and I rolled my sleeves up and we were all comfortable with it.

No-one ever say that girl-friends are just there for shopping

My demons have a date with me

So; it's not been brilliant around here recently. I'll not go into all the details - mainly because I'm in a messed-up kind of way and only writing this to save myself from impending insanity.

It seems that years of winging it and doing pretty well without trying have come to an end; I got my report card yesterday and for the first time in my life I was sorry that my parents were getting a copy of it. I knew how those kids felt when they hid it in their bags and intercepted the post for years. Finally I'm seeing what the school have been telling me for years; I can't cope. I can't just turn up - that's not enough. By the time I get there I'm exhausted from just making it out of bed and into the car, intellectual thought is not high in my mind and this is not a great time for that to be the case.

I've tried to carry on these past few weeks - do whatever it took to survive, usually that gets me through the other side but now? Now I don't know what else to do. I've tried to write and to run and to draw and to scribble and to shout. I took the pills, I didn't take the pills. Neither made any difference. I cut, I didn't cut - I couldn't feel fuck-all anyway.

I let myself get the shit beaten out of; just because it's easier. Less fuss. I let myself. Nothing to do with him at all. So now I'm in bed; under strict orders not to move unless I want myself in an even worse state - which to be honest is looking attractive just now.

It's Easter holidays though, so at least I can reasonably stay in bed all day without being interrogated...

Just a quick thing though I want to say thank you to my best friend Saff; she called me last night and spent hours listening to me cry and trying to sort me out. She's invaluable and I love her.

Anger

The very first time I was sat in front of my GP regarding my *lack* of apparent mental health he told me that he saw a very angry young girl. This, perplexed me somewhat, I'd never thought of myself as angry before - and up until this past month or so I've never understood what he meant.
Last session with Dr H he noted how angry I appeared to him; as though my demeanour was forced because it was hiding anger. This, of course, was my cue to throw a fit. Luckily he didn't bring out the straightjacket...

Just recently I've begun to understand anger; I am usually stuck in periods of self-loathing - anger directed purely at myself. But now I find myself in a new world of anger. I can feel it rising up inside me; it takes so much strength not to shout and scream and just throw things. What scares me the most is the urge I've had to be violent; this is not good. I am not my father, I know; I would never act on these urges. But what if one day I did? Maybe that's what it's like to be my dad - anger that he just can't surpress. Even if I'm not being attacked or aggrivated by anyone I just find myself in angry tears willing pain upon myself and anyone who ever hurt me.

I am angry and it scares me. I've felt things very strongly in the past but predominantly sadness or ecstasy - this anger is like a whole new form of energy. It drives me to speed along the coast not paying attention; it drives me to go to the gym even though I'm not physically up to it (I passed out on the treadmill today; luckily no more harm was done to my poor ribs apart from further pain!), the anger drives me to do things I know are not rational but I can't stop myself from doing them. I HAVE to drive fast. I HAVE to exercise. I HAVE to write an essay.

I'm sorry for glossing over the car crash; I have a lot of shit in my head about it.

'Abuse Culture'

I've stolen that phrase from somewhere; I'm sorry I can't remember where.

Before I start I better point out that I'm sort of low and pretty fucking angry so be prepared to take my rambling with a pinch of salt.

SO I was looking through the book review listing table thing in the paper this morning and what are about 50% of the books about? Abuse; surviving abuse, childhood abuse, domestic abuse... Are you noticing a trend? I know that people like to feel loved and wanted; maybe we even want sympathy - you know how many times I've come on here pretty much broken and needed picking up. But why the sudden increase in the publication of people's survival stories?

Does it really make the survivors feel any better? Do they gain anything from it? I understand, of course, that therapeutic techniques such as talking and writing are invaluable to discover how we feel about our past (and present) trauma; but publication?

I guess I was just wondering. Feeling alone and angry. Needed to write.

Respond how you will, if you will.

Baby it hurts so bad

Evnin

I'm in Leeds.

I was in a car crash on the M1. I survived. Obviously.

But it hurts. It hurts so much.

*deep breath*

That hurts too...

Right now I can put my hand on my heart and swear I wish I weren't here.

Things have gotten bad.

17; that's all I am.

I've been through fuck knows what but has it made me stronger? No. Hell no.

I am a wreck.

I don't want to be this.

Forget you're broken and you might get fixed...

Last night whilst talking to the oracle who is Spencer at work, I had a sort of epiphany, if you could call it that. I was rambling on about something to do with the French assistant who left us each a bit of life advice; mine was as follows "You're irreparably broken, Nikita, but if you forget you're broken maybe you can be fixed" - or something along those lines. Me in my childish naivety didn't get it at first; well it is a little contradictory... But perhaps she meant that the past will always be with me, but I don't have to be with the past. It will always be in the past; I need to learn to keep it there, because right now I'm living that past everyday I wake up - and it hurts, a lot.

When I go to University (or should I say if) I will make a start at getting better; I cannot do it here where I so frequently 'walk into doors' or into four or five other people who've already hurt me when I walk down the High Street. I need to learn to be brave and go to groups; I need harsher therapy because as much as I love sitting talking to Dr H every week it's not getting me anywhere except to make sure I at least talk once a week, and deprive the health system of Kleenex.

So I send this to you, my loving void, as a fucked young lady; that is my truth. Who would I be if I weren't? Pointless question; I am me and whilst I am hurting so deeply right now, perhaps one day I can live with it.

Perdre

The french verb 'to lose'.

Well it's Thursday and I'm in that dark quagmire once more; this is getting tedious, I know.
I am 17 years and nine months old, today; roughly.

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah...

I thought I was done with all this; didn't I promise you guys that I was? Didn't I say I would never let myself get this far down again? Truth be told I should be used to this; should be well-rehearsed in the art of hiding away, should know when to stop reaching out to people so they wish they had their phones off... But I don't. I never did do very well on my own...

When I'm happy it's almost as though I seek reassurance that I really am happy; when I'm sad I seek solace in someone else's kind words or embrace. I fear I may be co-dependent...infact I'm pretty sure of it.

The song which gives this post its name has been on a loop in my car; turned up so loud the poor thing vibrates and when I start to cry in queues of traffic women look down their noses, men leer and children grin on; unaware as yet of what it is to be depressed.
Many people have been telling me for many a year that depression is an illness; I simply see it (in myself only) as a weakness; as something I should get over.

Before this turns into yet another self-pitying rant, I shall leave. X

Je ne suis pas sur

Quite by accident I haven’t written in a while, a while by my standards anyway; I thought I’d give you all a rest from the junk sprouted so regularly…

Last weekend I did a mini indoor triathlon; it was only a few km and involved rowing rather than swimming but for some obscure reason it meant something to me. I’ve had a gym membership since I was twelve and at one point just before I was thirteen I was going everyday and neglecting to eat much. Classic teenage scenario. Anyway once that was rather forcefully put a stop to I didn’t go again until I was about fifteen and only every now and again. These past two weeks I’ve been going everyday in my free period, I’ve been eating just one meal a day and eating cereals and drinking water in between. I went this morning only to find I’d forgotten my trainers so I went home thinking it didn’t matter if I didn’t go; I sat down and got a drink. I got up and went back to the gym. I had to go; I felt too guilty if I didn’t. Just like the other day when I ate chocolate…but we won’t go into that.

I haven’t cut since I’ve been going to the gym and it would appear to the more fastidious readers that I’ve replaced one obsession with another; which I freely recognise. My question is which is worse? Is one more detrimental than the other? Millions of people go to the gym everyday because they want to keep in shape, or get fit; I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with that. Am I right? Some people might argue that anything which exercises control over us is something to be wary of; as with anything which forces us to do things we may not want to. Surely going to the gym everyday and eating healthily is advantageous over taking a blade to ones arm.

On a less surprising note; I have no English ability whatsoever to speak of. Since everybody was far too kind to tell me that my poems were shite and my prose laughable I suppose the grade E on my poetry/drama English re-sit might just serve as confirmation of my fears. Reassure all the Universities that I shan’t be massacring their literature programs as previously planned.

This afternoon I have been to lunch with my father; I graciously ate a tuna sandwich while he polished off the biggest lunch I have ever seen, complete with a dessert and three pints of lager – even though he was driving. I’m not going on another drink-driving rant, I promise. On leaving the bar we went out to the car park and first my car; it was too dirty, not parked straight enough and messy…apparently. Then he saw it. The Scratch. Some bastard either at work or college took a chunk of paint out of my Fifi and he saw it; needless to say I was given my due disapproval from His Lordship for not ‘taking care of it’ before he skulked off and I went to get checked out. I did receive an apology text and a voicemail saying if I called my insurance he’d get the guys at work to take a look at it.

Still it was a large enough blow to penetrate the damn black fog tugging at my heels and enough for me to shirk all invitations for the weekend to write this in bed. I shall, of course, go to work and the gym; this gives me more motivation to push my body further, because I am stubborn and always out to prove myself; you’d think after seventeen and a half years of him not noticing I’d take the hint.

So now it’s the evening and I’m just here thinking, about the E in English, the C in French, the three Bs I need… Plus the insurance for the car which will go up if I make a claim, to add insult to the already serious injury of £700 for a teenage driver. Plus I’m hurting through my own fault and others. Plus I feel sick from a mistake I made earlier (I’m ok). Plus it’s that time of the month. So don’t annoy me, ok?

x

Notice

Someone who used to love me pointed out the other day that this blog has only one subject on which all the posts are written. This is true. I have tried many times to write what I think people want to read but you know what? Sod it.

It's my blog and I never say this stuff out loud. It's my therapy. I don't mind if no-one reads it, but I love it when people do.

Sorry, who?

I sat in my bedroom last night and decided to do my psych homework, which also tied in with Lou's suggestion of getting a bit creative. I spread out my huge throw thing on the floor and then laid down on it with packs of pens and crayons and a big white drawing pad. What was I trying to do? Identity. I was trying to discover what exactly it is that makes me what I see as this despicable creature placing these words before you. I went for the red pen and started to write and write; all of the phrases starting with 'I' and all of them representing how I feel about myself. Then I wrote my name in a black pen all over the page. It was a bit of a frenzied mess but it felt like therapy, I sat up and looked at it and cried, a lot.

Dr H suggested that a lot of my 'issues' lie in my perception of myself (no shit...it took him 12 years to study for that?!) so putting them all down on paper visually seemed like a good plan. I've stuck an equally large piece of white paper on my bedroom door so that anyone who comes to it can write or draw something that they think represents me, in a week I'll compare my drawing to theirs. See if anyone writes 'I hate you' like the vitriolic little bitch I abandoned at 11 would.

I was also discussing with the old oracle the concept of physical self harm; by that I mean hurting oneself instantly - not through the use of long-term 'fucking-up'. I myself maintain that self-harmers are not intrinsically insane, or mentally unstable as he would have me believe. I believe that the only common theme we have is self-hate, a deep-rooted and crushingly angry deploration for ourselves which leads us to believe that hurting ourselves is deserved and something 'we just have to do'. I also believe that there are differing degrees of self harm; I have talked to a friend of my sister's who is 13 years old and has been scratching herself for about three years now. I meet with her once a week and we talk; kind of like a mentoring scheme. I can see the stark differences between her and myself. This girl is not trying to grow up too quickly, this girl has no trauma, this girl is pressured by what it is to be living. She's lost and self harm to her is an expression of the frustration she feels, but it is a frustration which, she tells me, diminishes day by day as she makes choices and grows in herself. I firmly believe that if I were to visit her after I've finished University she would no longer feel the need to harm herself; I think that the idea of the health system hospitalising her and putting her on medication is sick. Then again you never can tell; often self harm blooms and becomes something which will never leave the victim and (I'm not denying it) often it is a symptom of mental illness; I just don't think that society itself should be so quick to say "Ugh self-inflicted injury! Freak! Lock them away..."

There have been times when I've been a danger to myself; right now I'm the only true enemy I have. There are going to be times in the future when I'll be sitting somewhere wondering where the fuck it went so wrong, so young. But I wouldn't exchange my mind for one which doesn't need to tear itself apart; not today, anyway.

Tonight

This morning, I was on top of the world and the world could do me no wrong. I got out of bed even though I didn't want to and I peered into the world with a sense of relief; this is something I can do. I can get up and go and do things; I'm not ill and not insane. I was lying; to myself, to everyone I could possibly hope to care. I feel so painfully reckless that right now, were I not at work, I think I could viably cut myself until there was nothing left to cut; I could extinguish myself, my soul.
Recently I have been told/diagnosed with a, condition; an end to all my wonderings. I have been granted an explanation and hope rather than the uncertainty and prozac I've been man-handled into for years. But does it help me? No, rather it makes me feel even more than ever than I am fundamentally flawed; I am told that how I appear to others is not my true self, what then is my true self? Have I a self?
If you are reading this it is probable at some point that I will have hurt you, or pushed you away, or made you wonder what kind of monster I am. I am sorry. I have realised that I have pushed away the friends I used to hold closest; I go to college and go to class, then I scuttle away again to hide. I know when I'm brushed off by a friend that it is because I am no longer the kind of company one wishes to keep.
Tonight I feel not only foolish for writing this and placing myself in such a painfully public domain but also for even trying to convince myself that in a big old world such as ours I could be desirable; it sounds to you all like I am a drunk madwoman but I promise you not a drop of alcohol has passed my lips. I know now that people befriend me, or are befriended by me, and then wish at some point in our relationship that they hadn't. They will avoid me, they'll be convinced I'm nothing but an attention-seeking fake. And maybe I am; I've been told now definitively that I am not, but for some reason it doesn't wash with me.
So tonight I am stuck. Without company I will surely go home to my room and cut myself. With company I'll be evasive, I'll hide myself because revealing would be too costly. Tonight it feels so explicitly painful to be living, and so foolish for saying so.

For Dana...

When I’m sailing I feel as though I am alive; sailing is the one part of my world where it seems none of my life has seeped in. When perched precariously on the edge of a boat, any boat, I feel that I could do anything; when I fall in it feels thrilling. If I’m ill, I sail just as though I were well; sailing is the thing that makes my heart ache when I stare into the distance from my bench above the harbour. I would leave tomorrow – or even today – if I was offered the chance to just sail away without any care. I think of a life without the sea and it’s bleak. I like to play music, I like to hold my friends close to me, I like to write and I like to drive; but I love, I love to sail. A writer knows they’ve found their passion when they cannot write about it but only stare into its shadow and dream.

I think my favourite place, is Paris. When I was a child my favourite film was ‘The Aristocats’ because, well I don’t really know. I wore out two copies of that tape, and then my sister was born and she ate the third copy – well chewed it and poured Heinz baby juice all over it. To a child, the portrayal in that film of Paris was just magical; the watercolour streets and American actors with French accents and when I first visited Paris every street looked as though Marie and Toulouse might have run through it whilst escaping the evil English butler, Edgar. I don’t own a copy anymore, they stopped making tapes of it and I’ve never gotten around to finding a DVD; plus I’m afraid that watching it now would ruin the unquestioned memories of a five year old romantic.

Music is like sailing, but for my ears. I always have music playing; when I get home I walk around the house and turn all the radios and stereos on, I don’t even park my car without putting on a CD and turning it up very loud. I don’t know if I have a specific piece which has touched me though; I have favourites of course but I’m hesitant to pinpoint a specific highlight. I could easily put together an ‘essential’ collection but as my mood changes from moment to moment, so do my musical needs.

I have so many dreams, for after university – really university is just borrowed time that I’ll use to dream some more. I want to work on a lifeboat and go out to sea; I want to be a part of that orange hope powering towards sailors in distress. I want to be an interpreter or translator in Paris and spend days in a café poring over beautiful French. I want to be a lifeguard in Cornwall and spend the summer guarding the beach. I want to be a park ranger in New Zealand. I want to sail around the world. I want to visit every country in the world. I know they’re only dreams and they’ll probably never happen but what’s a person without dreams?

Forever

Forever. I love that word, and at the same time I detest it; forever is how long people claim they will love you for, forever is how long you have to live with your past. It’s really just for and ever stuck together; conjugated to make a lovers word, a mourner’s word and a liar’s word. ‘I love you yesterday, today and tomorrow; I love you forever’; how many people have heard that and have believed it? It’s kept people going through their lives which bring them nothing but shit which they try to pass off as sacrifice for the ones they love; try to call it soul-making. Forever starts tomorrow but no-one knows when it began or when it will end, we have no reason to believe it will ever end and everyone’s forever began on a different day. Forever is like a promise which won’t necessarily be kept; it’s the type of promise which provokes the beast of cynicism who thrives at weddings and at engagements. If you have a bad memory; like the day someone you loved died, it feels like something inside of you has died when really something inside of you is being born; it is the ghost of forever that will haunt you from now on. Perhaps you have a trait, an addictive personality; that will be with you forever; forever will peer over an alcoholic’s shoulder as they order a glass of fruit juice, forever will taunt the drug addict as they walk past a forbidden alley. I have things that I will be forever, things that I will remember forever, and ghosts that I will try to erase from the grey shadow of my soul, forever. But forever isn’t something you can succeed at; you will stop being loved in quite the same way, your memories will never be forgotten, your lies will always be there in the mind of the person you cut down. Forever. Forever. Forever. Forever. It’s an eternal promise and an eternal curse; it’s inescapable and elusive at the same time. I will live with what I have done to people, forever; and they will live with what they have done to me. I will wish my past away, forever, and whatever I do tomorrow will be done not with this in mind, but with a will to make forever a better place in my mind; a place which is dark but with shining stars, rather than a place which is dark and absolute. Not everything is forever, of course; or else where would the lover and the liar be? I will have scars, and make scars, forever; just like you, but I won’t want them to get lost in the quagmire of forever – some days I’ll want them to be there forever, as a reminder, but some days I’ll curse the forever and curse my skin and my heart and my mind. I will love the sea forever, I will be afraid of the dark forever; I will love not only calm seas and I will be afraid not only of the darkness in my mind but the darkness all around, and the darkness in rough seas.

On that note...which was definitely an E Minor chord

Meaning that if the last post were to have its very own chordI suspect it would be E Minor; favoured by violinists the world over...

Anyway someone's, thankfully, put down the violin and it's time for a bit of sax I think. A bit of reflection; a bit of Jazz. Not too upbeat, but not down in the gallows either.

In these times of blog identity crisis I would be thankful of any ideas/thoughts/suggestions/roses thrown in my direction.

aloha

Not forgetting...

This is just a quick revelation to chuck out there. It seems that this blog has fallen into a sort of inescapable pit; by that I mean that my life is no longer being documented whilst my mental health, or lack of it, seems to have taken precidence. It struck me, therefore, that I should stop being such a self-centered 'ikkle gurl' and perhaps focus on some more open topics that mean more to some of you. So I call a rest to documenting depression and self harm, because they are only part of me; not ME alone, and because someone once told me to never write what I know... Although he was drunk...and an Irish sailor...

J'ai besoin d'une etoile

I need to write. I haven't written any fiction at all this year. I know it's only January but that's a long time. Judging by the appalling grammar in the previous lines I'm guessing I've forgotten how to, too. I get paid tomorrow - I've been broke all week. I kept paying for stuff and taking money out, I never realised none was going in... Work had 'forgotten' to pay me for three weeks. Bastards. That's about £550 - and I need it! I owe money to everyone...for Ribena and chocolate and cigarettes. I guess now would be a good time to give all of those things up but damnit I don't want to. If I have to take meds every morning I'm sure as hell gonna make the rest of the day better and right now those three things are doing it. And the gym. And rowing. But not for the past two weeks because I'm a lazy sod using depression as an excuse. So prepare for reports of a coronary when I go back to training next week.

There are so many thoughts running through my head but I can't quite conjugate them into coherent sentences; I want to say so much but at this rate I'll still be saying the same when I'm 25. Incidentally I'm fed up of being 17. I don't feel 17 at all. According to the law I can't drink or smoke and I've only been legal a year... If only they knew...

I need another change I think; different hair again and different clothes. Maybe I just need to be a different person. A different Nikita Elizabeth. I tried to go a bit more quirky but to be frank my hoody is far too comfy and if you male population think that's lazy - damn straight it is. I suppose there's a limit to how many times I can change. Either way I'm running low on clothes - I'm not a high street kind of person. In fact I'm not a shopping person. I hate it. My mother thinks I've failed as a girl; she probably thinks I'm a lesbian too. She worked tirelessly to make me more elegant - I'm just not made to be elegant! Maybe I don't want my hair straightened or heels on my shoes. Sometimes, like today, I wear a skirt and heels and jewellery other than my staple bracelet and shell on a necklace; I wear a lower cut top. I like to be able to choose. I like that yesterday I wore trousers and a hoodie with Vans and today I'm wearing a black lacy skirt and green top. I like that I've no idea what I'll wear tomorrow until I roll out of bed 10 minutes before I leave. I like that if my life has taught me nothing else so far it's taught me not to give a fuck what other people think. If I did then who knows...I might still be crazy lady.

blank and black

The past two weeks have been tough. So tough I found myself writing to my psychiatrist and him phoning me to check I was actually still alive - I haven't been to an appointment in a while. Somehow depression has found me; this is not a few bad days or an emo cutting-crazed fortnight; this is depression. This is laying on my bed for hours not conscious of anything around me. This is bursting into tears anywhere, anytime, anyplace. This is methodical self harm. This is niki not going to college regularly, and not being there when she does. This is despair.

When I am really depressed I will not text, will not call - will not make any voluntary contact with the outside world. When I am depressed I conceed that I still need that medication and I take it desperately needing it to work. When I am depressed even obsessive compulsive whatdoyoucallit pales into the background. When I am depressed there is nothing on my mind; it is full and it is painful but I cannot see what it is. When I am depressed I am neither relaxed nor tense but caught in some superficial net.

I do not want sympathy. I do not want to be judged. I do not want a hug. I do not want to be.

Pulsing through my brain...

It is an absolutely gorgeous evening here and I’m sitting on the Reception of a capitalistic hotel with the door open and the sea breeze just gently fluttering in. The large gold curtains cover the effects but the vase of pink lilies is ever so discreetly waving at me from their perch by the telephone. I can hear the comings and goings in the port, I can hear the occasional car and a strange melange of people getting home and going out; making use of that last bit of their weekend. It is evenings like this which mellow me; there are still some birds awake but the hotel is silent apart from the odd creaking floorboard or slammed door. There’s an indefinable air of contentment; like no matter how many people are arguing all over the island still everything is well right now.

Evenings like this; when I’ve nothing more to do but observe said comings and goings whilst reading ‘The English Patient’, make me feel that really it’s not so bad to be living. I have faults, like everyone else, but I’m probably not inherently evil. And sure I take a blade to myself sometimes but perhaps that’s just what I have to do right now in my life; there are worse things – I could be doing crack or drinking but at the moment I don’t crave either one. Every single person in the world has scars – whether they be visible or not, it just so happens that mine are but they’re surely a testament to what I’ve dealt with?

Nobody has a perfect life; everyone could, at some point, sit down in front of a therapist and say “Well when I was a child…” Is that going to solve anything for them? No of course it isn’t. I’m not saying that everything’s down purely to brain chemistry but blame never got anyone far in their soul. Right now I may be ill, in some abstract way, and there are things I will have to confront. But I have today and I have tomorrow and probably a bunch more days after that with which I can make things better.

This isn’t to say that I’ll never beg someone not to leave me because I’m afraid of that big pack of codeine in the bathroom, or the implements in my wardrobe. There’ll be days, of course, when I’ll cry without any sign of stopping. There’ll be weekends when I slip into a strange idea that alcohol will make it all better. But all of this will pass – seventeen and a half years has to be some sort of proof of that…

Has no-one told you she's not breathing?

I have been pestered to write a new blog; so here it is. (Although really Jon sweetheart to have a say in my blog you have to actually comment…) I’m really not sure what on earth to write; I’m at home in the middle of the day because I can’t go to school. Well I can, but I can’t. I should go but I can’t quite make it through the day – yesterday I skipped it all together but I went in for a while today before I came home to bed. It’s pathetic, I know it’s just I don’t really know what to do. I know I have to pull myself together but what the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past two or three years?!

Next week I have re-sits; Spanish which I no longer take, English Literature (namely Chaucer) and an Ethics paper – the subject of which has escaped me. I got Bs in all of them except the Spanish, which doesn’t even matter anymore, but at least I’m not sunk when I fail them.

Last night I spent a long time looking into my own eyes – have you ever noticed how rarely you do that? I stood and I stared, and then I ran. I ran as far as I could then I walked as far as possible; I walked to the ferry terminal and sat for a while, then I decided against it and walked to Castle Cornet. I stared for a while at the markings out at sea, then turned and walked home in the rain. I live in a tragically selfish little bubble, but at least it’s not my dad’s achingly decadent life. Incidentally last Wednesday I had a little run-in with him – one day I promise I will learn to handle him.

I met a girl I used to know at school the other day; she goes to a private college now but we used to be rivals – the first to finish the school reading scheme, the first to pass our music exams, the first to be a hall monitor – it was all friendly though. She has an offer from Cambridge and one from Yale, to do law of course – she’s not changed, just her successes have grown. Me? My offers are for French and English – real academic… They’re at mostly average unis, the ones I have chances with anyway, and ABB is optimistic for me. I’m skipping school and cutting myself; she’s taking 6 A Levels and looking at me piteously. It’s strange how things turn out. How people change.

It’s exactly a year ago today, the 10th January, that I tried to kill myself. I was lying in hospital wondering why they hadn’t left me to die, this time last year.

Wow; this blog used to be called CrazyCapers – it used to be pink and my biggest dilemma used to be which Clinique moisturiser to take on DofE. Look at it now – it’s black and I have red stripes. I should’ve made a new blog when it changed names; read the archives from 2004 and see if you can spot me in it. The me of 2007 I mean, the Niki, the failure – the depressing little teenager! I should go.

New Year, Same Shit

First, before this post goes downhill I'd like to thank bj, laura, katie and dana for their comments on the previous post - thanks guys for caring enough to jot a few thoughts down. Be kind to yourselves.

Now the real stuff of this post. I'm sorry you guys - someone said to me that this blog was attention seeking and I got a bit defensive but you know what? It is. I need people to be there - want you all to say that I'm right and that I'm doing what I need to do. I need to be needed too though - that's why my phone's always on. I want people to need me and I get paranoid when they don't, wrong as it sounds that's the truth. At the same time I'm not a person who can cope with being on her own - I can't do that. I end up tearing myself apart and just crawl into the corner next to my desk or sit down in the high street and bawl..

Last year I vowed to get a hold of myself, stop hurting myself and stop drinking so much. Have I acheived any of this? No. Of course I haven't - what do you think I was doing last night? So I'm not even going to make targets for 2007 because I won't get any closer to realising them - probably I'll get further away, as I have done last year. It feels right now that I'm being crushed by something but I don't know what, people keep walking over me and leaving me which I know is my fault but I never force anyone to talk to me, and I never leave anyone that I love.

I'm thinking of finishing with the whole education thing - to be frank it's all going tits-up and I'm not sure I can handle the failing of exams. It's a decision I have to make anyway, and I'm not sure exactly what to do about it. No doubt I'll let you know.

I once thought I was quite a levelled young lady who could handle whatever was thrown at me - of course that was when I was 12 years old and really more like a 30 year old. Now I'm 17 and I know that there are no certainties, I know that each day could either lift me up or drop me. I know that I can praise myself or drive myself into the ground but it doesn't make me feel better or in control, it makes me feel vulnerable and even though I vow never to let anyone look after me deep down I think I need it - I just never let anyone get close enough. Maybe I never will, maybe I'll always drive people away when they care.

This is a mess, like me. I have nothing profound to say, no poetry to spout just a long date with my car and the beautiful vistas of Guernsey.

Sleep tight