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