2 weeks pre-Xmas madness

Woke up at 9:30, went to Oxfam for their re-opening in a bigger venue. Its freaky because the place looks gorgeous and looks so professional-linoeum floor, central heating, proper lighting, a jukebox the works! They even have this massive poster/painting/picture of Sgt. Pepper which erm Peter, em Blake! had signed. There was booze everywhere, of course and everyone was happy but I was just delighted I wasn't on the till cos the place was going mad. We must have gotten at least 2 grand, and all for charidee.

I got cornered by the lovely Hilary and I went raffle-ing. First prize was a signed Eric Clapton LP (who, at the launch party, hardly anyone liked!) and each raffle was £1 each, and I sold over 100 tickets. Feeling quite proud of meself, methinks. Then I managed to escape that around 2:45pm (its soo hard to sell raffles half-pissed, lol. There was no orange juice-anywhere), and went to Grandma's where I had a hunky chicken soup and did a quick gasp of Christmas shopping in this great £1 shop and bought plenty of christmas cards, and other stuff (can't say cos Ria's present is involved and she reads this.) and by the time I got home my feet were screaming. I had pretty much been on my feet from 10:30am to 17:56pm. Oh, the aarghness of it all still reminds me how much life I'm living at this moment, and how I need to use it properly (ie: all the charity work I'm doing, the new friends I've made, my writing).

I also decided to keep SG. . .

It turns out, I can't look after myself for more than a week. 6 days was the longest I was able to last without having to...I don't know. But I knew I had to. One of the things I liked about myself was that my hands and fingers were warm whatever the winter and I've always liked that because it made me seem cuddly, and approachable. (Ria) would always ask me to warm her hands because hers are always freezing. But since I've started cutting, my fingers are always cold and so its harder to type than usual which is particularly depressing. I decided to look on the web to find out if this was normal with "prefects" (my brother's in the room), and they've actually compared it to heroin addiction, that "prefects" apparently get the same rush when they er, "discipline" themselves as a heroin addict. Some "prefects" even get prescribed the same medication, its nuts and quite scary. I remember emailing a friend why I couldn't give SG away: I'm addicted. If I was a drunk I'd have lost all my friends and I'd be in spiralling debt, not at least stinky and scratchy. If I was a crack/heroin addict (how appropriate) I'd be careless, in some descript blank walled house begging for more, half dead. I'm not there yet. And I don't wish to be.

When I wasn't disciplining myself last week I was completely numb, which is so much more dangerous than the burning version of depression. People with numb depression plan suicide perfectly, and execute it perfectly. I know this because my plans were beating inside me and would not go away. Death didn't scare as much and that fact didn't scare me. I couldn't cry, at least properly. Tears would just come out of nowhere, and it wasn't a release, it was just a fact of life in Betty's life. She cried, and it was nothing to be worried about.

My life is (was?) nicely organised, but I was just falling apart on the inside. Now I feel I have to cut, slice away all those slices of dust on my mind. Dust used to make me happy. ("remember that there are little squares of light rushing around to make you happy" - blog post I made in June), but now they are demons. Everything is out to get me and everyone, almost everyone is killing me. Their "normalcy" is killing me. Its so unfair, and I'm crying again. It feels painful, not a release, not yet. I still have a few cuts to go before I can feel everything again. I'm stuck within my own madness.