I should have realised this so, so long ago. Razorlight alleviates depression. I had remembered it when I was bopping along to Stacie Orrico (I'm NOT ashamed. She has a good voice.) or imaginary Blondie. Anyways, just now I was gorging on Waiter Rant and Stumble and Fall came on my computer. I just had to boogie. While lost in this boogying, the injustices of the day came back to me.
It's been dull at college. Everybody's muscles ache from the monumental pull of the Higher Education fair. Your arm aches, you suddenly have no idea of where you want to go in life and everyone assumes you're going to Wales or Manchester because they do politics. Huh. And, I had the new Diva out and I just wanted to read it. But, after getting a C in my Iliad mock exam (about half way through I had stopped caring and I haven't looked back since), and sharing pens in Politics, we discussed books that had pinpointed very important parts of my life. People were off spouting 1984 and Anna Karenna an old french dramas they read when they were 14 and how it changed them from Neo-Conservatism to Utilitarianism, neither of which I'm fully assured of their meaning. I mean, where was the giddiness, the blushing, the blind faith and hyberbolic intensity when you opened the page, read the first line and everything was right for you, and read and read, through the night in your bed when you really needed sleep, through your exams, behind the sunset on the bus/train home and you had this blind God-crushing faith that this was the best book you could ever read, and if there was a better book you don't want to read it cos, well, it's your favourite book and who wants to upstage that? They had defined their favourite books in such a standard stature. It felt so...academic. But then it was a voluntary advanced english course. We were supposed to know advanced grammar, and like their ellipses (the three dot gap ... I learnt that one recently) and so on. And they didn't even seem that excited, apart from this really nice, well-spoken lass (she's nice to chat to on the train) who read this book about the unfair justice system, and she seemed a little passionate about that.
My favourites? Well, there's Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli - that book introduced me to this impossible yet lovable character, and I felt ashamed for knowing I was part of the high school that shunned her for her betrayal, as compassionate that betrayal was. When I reading it for the first time, I could feel my eyes lighting up. I dreamed of that book. It seemed like hell. And it made me realise I needed to act myself, for my-self is - was? - a different body to the education I was growing acclimatised too. Okay, it made me feel like I should be different, or at least myself, and I figured I was different. And, it got me closer to Ria, my best friend through mutual love and estranged circumstances. I think it was aa decent summer. I force myself to see it that way. Other books? His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman springs to mind...I've got to go. But please, people dance like you don't care and read more often. Change your life a little.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Today I saw a Lady Reading the Ann Summers Catalogue, and I Felt Frisky for Feminism
What a day I’ve had. It all started off quite nice, actually. I had a nine hour sleep, and I was allowed a small, important sleep-in: no jumping out of bed, no tumbling into trousers, just lounging round watching the outrageous sexism of Trisha on Ch.5 (This mornings episode: Too Butch to be Babe) I also had a bit of intuition: the sun was shining its merry way down, and Ell had left the house after blaming me that the washing machine ate his favourite hoodie, but I figured my black, woollen man-jacket would do the job.
Today had all the remindings of a day at my old high school: everything is new again, and you’re just dawdling round hoping you’ll bump into your friends eventually. I had got there at 12:15, as part of the forgotten, loony lefties of politics, history and humanities students: The Awkward Squad, Faculty 6. The college conspired as a whole to annoy me. Friends came and went, and not the precious few I could hold on to. I tried to get into the golden apple, the liquid centre, the Apple of Adam where all of the unis were waiting with their gleaming, shiny dead trees, but I was denied access until 1:30-for half an hour, a bit pissy considering that was when my Higher Ed. Talk was at the same time. It was quite stressful. The damn talk only lasted for half an hour, and the man attempted to patronize and put us off as much as possible: he told us that getting degrees would mean better jobs, and therefore more pay…while I got over my surprise and started to take notes feverishly he mentioned that its important to make a good choice. “No kidding,” I breathed. Everyone else was getting out, one by one into the last of the sun. He then went on about courses in medicine, veterinary science and chemistry, never mentioning politics or history – though he did say we could, possibly, take both as a subject. And that oh, these courses also last for three years. To top it off, he impressed us all, by saying that due to the backward promise of the Labour party (Pop-up fees), the cost of living each year will rise to 6,000 pounds a year. The remaining streamed out, very impressed though pushed through some imperative demand to escape. But suddenly the heavens opened and pissed on us, and I fell in love with my man-jacket.
After the dash to the Golden Apple (which like being born-the contractions, I mean, and all that water splashing down your face and other people’s backs), I made it in, and grabbed, attacked and interviewed the stall people with my friendly journalistic technique, and got out some information. I also sneaked some bags – 4 in all – and staggered back to this library, tired, and underwired with glossy trees filled with big words and drastic expectations.
From the top of my head, I grabbed/applied for:
Aberystwyth, Cardiff, Swansea, Bristol, Queens in London, London School of Economics, Oxford, Warwick, Kings’ College, Goldsmiths, Liverpool and Manchester…
So far I’m loving Goldsmiths, Cardiff, Oxford and Manchester. Warwick’s was funny. I told her I was interested, but it was a campus uni in the middle of nowhere, and I’m a city girl. She interrupted me, gave me a big smile and told me about their health service. Maybe she thought I was mad for dissing the Wondrous Warwick, or maybe she assumed being a city crow I’d be indulging in promiscuous sex and drugs, drugs, drugs and assured I could roll in whenever I wanted there. So that was funny. But I’m exhausted. So now, when I have some time, I’m going to grab the Sheffield and Durham prospectuses cos they seemed interesting and challenging. And they’re up North and I feel I’m due to pay some homage there, if I don’t take in Goldsmiths…
Actually, something funny happened on Monday. My friend Helen, told me about this thing called the Goldwin/Godwin experiment/effect, where you say a word and you reply without thinking the first thing that comes into your head. She was freaked out, because she replied “bear” to “baby”. So I tried it out:
“Okay, Betty, remember just reply without thinking. Cos you know when people go erm, or stop for a few seconds you know they didn’t like the first one…so – Chair!”
“Wank!”
Stunned silence. I tried to laugh it off, and got hysterical. You know how the funnier you find something the quieter your laugh is, and it shakes you to pieces and busts your ribs instead? That was I – bent over, my head hurting with the force of my laughter. At least I didn’t make her seem weird. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal. Especially when say “wank” to “chair”. What the hell was I thinking, hey? Oh, well. Laugh it off.
And here’s another funny thing from my best friend, Ria: http://rianbow.blogspot.com/2005/04/dirty.html#commentsThat is my WORST nightmare!!! And with a dirty laugh I wish you undead. I guess you can tell I got some of my shit together and I won’t throwing plates for some time. I ‘ope.
Today had all the remindings of a day at my old high school: everything is new again, and you’re just dawdling round hoping you’ll bump into your friends eventually. I had got there at 12:15, as part of the forgotten, loony lefties of politics, history and humanities students: The Awkward Squad, Faculty 6. The college conspired as a whole to annoy me. Friends came and went, and not the precious few I could hold on to. I tried to get into the golden apple, the liquid centre, the Apple of Adam where all of the unis were waiting with their gleaming, shiny dead trees, but I was denied access until 1:30-for half an hour, a bit pissy considering that was when my Higher Ed. Talk was at the same time. It was quite stressful. The damn talk only lasted for half an hour, and the man attempted to patronize and put us off as much as possible: he told us that getting degrees would mean better jobs, and therefore more pay…while I got over my surprise and started to take notes feverishly he mentioned that its important to make a good choice. “No kidding,” I breathed. Everyone else was getting out, one by one into the last of the sun. He then went on about courses in medicine, veterinary science and chemistry, never mentioning politics or history – though he did say we could, possibly, take both as a subject. And that oh, these courses also last for three years. To top it off, he impressed us all, by saying that due to the backward promise of the Labour party (Pop-up fees), the cost of living each year will rise to 6,000 pounds a year. The remaining streamed out, very impressed though pushed through some imperative demand to escape. But suddenly the heavens opened and pissed on us, and I fell in love with my man-jacket.
After the dash to the Golden Apple (which like being born-the contractions, I mean, and all that water splashing down your face and other people’s backs), I made it in, and grabbed, attacked and interviewed the stall people with my friendly journalistic technique, and got out some information. I also sneaked some bags – 4 in all – and staggered back to this library, tired, and underwired with glossy trees filled with big words and drastic expectations.
From the top of my head, I grabbed/applied for:
Aberystwyth, Cardiff, Swansea, Bristol, Queens in London, London School of Economics, Oxford, Warwick, Kings’ College, Goldsmiths, Liverpool and Manchester…
So far I’m loving Goldsmiths, Cardiff, Oxford and Manchester. Warwick’s was funny. I told her I was interested, but it was a campus uni in the middle of nowhere, and I’m a city girl. She interrupted me, gave me a big smile and told me about their health service. Maybe she thought I was mad for dissing the Wondrous Warwick, or maybe she assumed being a city crow I’d be indulging in promiscuous sex and drugs, drugs, drugs and assured I could roll in whenever I wanted there. So that was funny. But I’m exhausted. So now, when I have some time, I’m going to grab the Sheffield and Durham prospectuses cos they seemed interesting and challenging. And they’re up North and I feel I’m due to pay some homage there, if I don’t take in Goldsmiths…
Actually, something funny happened on Monday. My friend Helen, told me about this thing called the Goldwin/Godwin experiment/effect, where you say a word and you reply without thinking the first thing that comes into your head. She was freaked out, because she replied “bear” to “baby”. So I tried it out:
“Okay, Betty, remember just reply without thinking. Cos you know when people go erm, or stop for a few seconds you know they didn’t like the first one…so – Chair!”
“Wank!”
Stunned silence. I tried to laugh it off, and got hysterical. You know how the funnier you find something the quieter your laugh is, and it shakes you to pieces and busts your ribs instead? That was I – bent over, my head hurting with the force of my laughter. At least I didn’t make her seem weird. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal. Especially when say “wank” to “chair”. What the hell was I thinking, hey? Oh, well. Laugh it off.
And here’s another funny thing from my best friend, Ria: http://rianbow.blogspot.com/2005/04/dirty.html#commentsThat is my WORST nightmare!!! And with a dirty laugh I wish you undead. I guess you can tell I got some of my shit together and I won’t throwing plates for some time. I ‘ope.
Monday, April 25, 2005
She's Hearing Voices
Hey Hey Hey!
I'm thinking of studying economics, it'd be fun. If I could understand how money works, then I could take over the world. Aand, I could do some basic algebra - I LOVE algebra, its the only part of algebra I love cos its such a compact philosophy - a perfect balance achieved through the giving and taking away of elements. Maybe thats not algebra at all, but I still love it. And I could do this business plan I've been thinking of, which I can't exactly say cos you know, someone might take it. But it's a good 'un. It would be great, I'd be a multi-billionaire, a youngish black lesbian who has lived through her mid-teen crisis to grow into a new woman. That would be quite fab, actually.
It might stop me eating too. Some people just seem to stop eating and their so...not alone. I stop eating and suddenly its a fucking festival of food indulgence. I don't deserve to be indulgent. I deserve to starve. Thats the only solace I can gain in my hideous ugliness. But enough self-hate, its poisoning this blog. Who wants to comment on a self-hating, quasi-alcoholic, bulumic, self harming black lesbian?
So...as a new woman, I'd buy my dad a house, I'd go to one of those laser clinics and get rid of all of my scars, except for the ones on my wrist, because it'd be wrong to get rid of all the past. It might not define me forever - I hope - but for this while thats getting longer and harder to untangle from. Recovery can be such a drag.
EDIT: 9:52 pm I'm sitting here, wondering if I should OD. Not to kill myself, I don't want to kill myself. I really don't. But, there's this big hulk of depression shaking me to pieces and I want to kill it. If I'm gone for a while, great. I feel as if my heart is being stretch over my shoulder, like someone is trying to take it away from me. This is no salesmen. This is myself, wanting to...destroy everything I've worked so hard for: sanity, good will, non-violence, bland happiness. What is happiness if it isn't bland? I feel so weak, weaker, stupid, stupider. I just seem to enjoy inflicting damage. I know I'm fading away, into nothing, into nothing that people will bother to remember. Why am I letting myself die? Why am I killing myself this way?
I get it, I get it. This is my problem. I have to figure out myself, just like the rest of my thoughtless existence. But I just want to...I don't know. I don't think its death. But its like that. But I think thats where I am right now. Stuck between nothing and absolute nothing. I might as well be dead. Shit.
I'm thinking of studying economics, it'd be fun. If I could understand how money works, then I could take over the world. Aand, I could do some basic algebra - I LOVE algebra, its the only part of algebra I love cos its such a compact philosophy - a perfect balance achieved through the giving and taking away of elements. Maybe thats not algebra at all, but I still love it. And I could do this business plan I've been thinking of, which I can't exactly say cos you know, someone might take it. But it's a good 'un. It would be great, I'd be a multi-billionaire, a youngish black lesbian who has lived through her mid-teen crisis to grow into a new woman. That would be quite fab, actually.
It might stop me eating too. Some people just seem to stop eating and their so...not alone. I stop eating and suddenly its a fucking festival of food indulgence. I don't deserve to be indulgent. I deserve to starve. Thats the only solace I can gain in my hideous ugliness. But enough self-hate, its poisoning this blog. Who wants to comment on a self-hating, quasi-alcoholic, bulumic, self harming black lesbian?
So...as a new woman, I'd buy my dad a house, I'd go to one of those laser clinics and get rid of all of my scars, except for the ones on my wrist, because it'd be wrong to get rid of all the past. It might not define me forever - I hope - but for this while thats getting longer and harder to untangle from. Recovery can be such a drag.
EDIT: 9:52 pm I'm sitting here, wondering if I should OD. Not to kill myself, I don't want to kill myself. I really don't. But, there's this big hulk of depression shaking me to pieces and I want to kill it. If I'm gone for a while, great. I feel as if my heart is being stretch over my shoulder, like someone is trying to take it away from me. This is no salesmen. This is myself, wanting to...destroy everything I've worked so hard for: sanity, good will, non-violence, bland happiness. What is happiness if it isn't bland? I feel so weak, weaker, stupid, stupider. I just seem to enjoy inflicting damage. I know I'm fading away, into nothing, into nothing that people will bother to remember. Why am I letting myself die? Why am I killing myself this way?
I get it, I get it. This is my problem. I have to figure out myself, just like the rest of my thoughtless existence. But I just want to...I don't know. I don't think its death. But its like that. But I think thats where I am right now. Stuck between nothing and absolute nothing. I might as well be dead. Shit.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
48 Hours
I forget that its my diary sometimes and I can say whatever I please. Purge it all out. Right now, my diary is being read by someone else and I can't censor it...I just feel drained, and tired and weak and I just wan purge every little cell in my body. Fuck the dust. It left me a long long time ago.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do next to tell you the truth. I was reading the Observer Music Monthly and I was enjoying the writing, I felt witty and smart and quick-minded. Now, god, I don't know whats going on inside my mind. I don't want to go there right now. Can't it just fade away and play or chess or something for a day or something? I want to play dead. I, I'm jut feeling useless and teary. If my Dad wasn't looking at the TV distractedly I'd be pumped full of god knows and I couldn't make this post. But no, I'm just depressingly insinuated and happily void. Or void in the happy sense, you can make your own mind up.
Why don't people comment on my blog anymore? Not that I've written anything substantial to comment on. I'm just fucking fucking fucking crazy. God. If I don't stop typing I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know who to be anymore. I used to be the quirky funny lass but I'm too slow and stupid. I used to be the brainbox but I can't breathe. I used to be a poet, but I've lost almost all of my rhythm. I am precisely nothing. Nor funny, nor pretty nor happy nor devious. I don't seem to lie anymore. I...just...mope. Meander round like a silly bitch. I'll have to stop typing now and see what happens. Maybe I'll be able to pull something - like myself? - out of the void I've just tripped into. Bloody hell. I've been caught by surprise, haven't I?
I'm not sure what I'm going to do next to tell you the truth. I was reading the Observer Music Monthly and I was enjoying the writing, I felt witty and smart and quick-minded. Now, god, I don't know whats going on inside my mind. I don't want to go there right now. Can't it just fade away and play or chess or something for a day or something? I want to play dead. I, I'm jut feeling useless and teary. If my Dad wasn't looking at the TV distractedly I'd be pumped full of god knows and I couldn't make this post. But no, I'm just depressingly insinuated and happily void. Or void in the happy sense, you can make your own mind up.
Why don't people comment on my blog anymore? Not that I've written anything substantial to comment on. I'm just fucking fucking fucking crazy. God. If I don't stop typing I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know who to be anymore. I used to be the quirky funny lass but I'm too slow and stupid. I used to be the brainbox but I can't breathe. I used to be a poet, but I've lost almost all of my rhythm. I am precisely nothing. Nor funny, nor pretty nor happy nor devious. I don't seem to lie anymore. I...just...mope. Meander round like a silly bitch. I'll have to stop typing now and see what happens. Maybe I'll be able to pull something - like myself? - out of the void I've just tripped into. Bloody hell. I've been caught by surprise, haven't I?
Friday, April 22, 2005
I thought I'd tried to figure out some things
Advanced Global Personality Test Results
|
personality tests by similarminds.com
ALSO:
I'm: messy, tough, disorganized, fearless, not rule conscious, likes the unknown, rarely worries, rash, attracted to the counter culture, rarely irritated, positive, resilient, abstract, not a perfectionist, risk taker, strange, weird, self reliant, leisurely, dangerous, anti-authority, trusting, optimistic, positive, thrill seeker, likes bizarre things, sarcastic.
What do you think?
Monday, April 18, 2005
Words to Choke Upon
Today was a nice day.
I got things done, I didn't do much work, I've managed to maintain my high-B average. I had apples and biscuits for lunch.
I was glad that things work for I was determined to make sure everything went wrong. I woke up and my mouth was almost too dry. I haven't purged for a week, and I felt like a fake. A fake, with plastic nails and tape-recorded laugh that rang and rang and never got anywhere, like an unending echo. It wouldn't go away, so just before I left I drank two swigs of Jamaican rum. This worked in two ways: the shimmering pain on my left leg disappeared almost completely and I could run for the bus. Also, I could disassociate from the masses on the train journey. A bunch of heads, floating, monster, tactile, unassuming heads. They'd pass over my head, no problem. And I could carry on reading the Bell Jar. It's my own rabbit hole, and I'm tumbling further down into it, so I won't have to think for myself anymore.
I had cried last night, but I was just too exhausted to do anything about it, so I simply cried to sleep. Being drunk was a lot scarier. For one thing, vomit did not seem far away. Something must be known: if you do refrain from purging after you get you used to whatever binge/purge cycle you may have, which for god-sakes, do it! then your stomach is full, all the time, it does not leave. In fact, it's like gastric/tummy contstipation - the food is building up and up and up, and refuses to leave. It doesn't even decompose. The lumps crawl at my mouth: they want out they want out they want out. And it tickles you, your throat, your gums and desperately bellows at you that if you just unclench your jaw, your frustration would just ease out, and a waterfall of disgust and self-hate that had overflowed, unmowed - ExPeLLed. And you can't stand it anymore cos you're scared that if you laugh too extravagantly they'll a bit of sick in your mouth, and the shame forces you to unclench your jaw. And its not that easy, but a little work, a little strain, then a little more, a bit more. You're there, and you can't stop, even when you think "I can't breathe, I'll surely die!" And you're finished - almost literally. It's been hours since you unclenched your jaw. Your arm shakes a bit. You worry your parents or your brother has heard you. You frantically think of excuses before you are lost to sleep. You wipe the mess from your mouth. An for a milisecond you ask: Was it worth it? And on instinct-back to instinct - a grin comes up unplowed and undeterred.
Of Course!
I guess thats explains bulumia a bit better.
I came in today, hoping in my slight drunkeness for people to see through everything. Of course they didn't. I was a bit grumbly about my weight, and a bit louder and chattier, but they appreciated it, rather than saw right through it. I feel horrid, and I'm not sure why I do, cos I was feeling really great for once and I hoped to carry it over. But now it's flopped, plopped, down in the valleys, happiness on its last legs, running far, far away from me and I don't know when I'm going to see it again for a longer stay than 6 bloody hours.
I got things done, I didn't do much work, I've managed to maintain my high-B average. I had apples and biscuits for lunch.
I was glad that things work for I was determined to make sure everything went wrong. I woke up and my mouth was almost too dry. I haven't purged for a week, and I felt like a fake. A fake, with plastic nails and tape-recorded laugh that rang and rang and never got anywhere, like an unending echo. It wouldn't go away, so just before I left I drank two swigs of Jamaican rum. This worked in two ways: the shimmering pain on my left leg disappeared almost completely and I could run for the bus. Also, I could disassociate from the masses on the train journey. A bunch of heads, floating, monster, tactile, unassuming heads. They'd pass over my head, no problem. And I could carry on reading the Bell Jar. It's my own rabbit hole, and I'm tumbling further down into it, so I won't have to think for myself anymore.
I had cried last night, but I was just too exhausted to do anything about it, so I simply cried to sleep. Being drunk was a lot scarier. For one thing, vomit did not seem far away. Something must be known: if you do refrain from purging after you get you used to whatever binge/purge cycle you may have, which for god-sakes, do it! then your stomach is full, all the time, it does not leave. In fact, it's like gastric/tummy contstipation - the food is building up and up and up, and refuses to leave. It doesn't even decompose. The lumps crawl at my mouth: they want out they want out they want out. And it tickles you, your throat, your gums and desperately bellows at you that if you just unclench your jaw, your frustration would just ease out, and a waterfall of disgust and self-hate that had overflowed, unmowed - ExPeLLed. And you can't stand it anymore cos you're scared that if you laugh too extravagantly they'll a bit of sick in your mouth, and the shame forces you to unclench your jaw. And its not that easy, but a little work, a little strain, then a little more, a bit more. You're there, and you can't stop, even when you think "I can't breathe, I'll surely die!" And you're finished - almost literally. It's been hours since you unclenched your jaw. Your arm shakes a bit. You worry your parents or your brother has heard you. You frantically think of excuses before you are lost to sleep. You wipe the mess from your mouth. An for a milisecond you ask: Was it worth it? And on instinct-back to instinct - a grin comes up unplowed and undeterred.
Of Course!
I guess thats explains bulumia a bit better.
I came in today, hoping in my slight drunkeness for people to see through everything. Of course they didn't. I was a bit grumbly about my weight, and a bit louder and chattier, but they appreciated it, rather than saw right through it. I feel horrid, and I'm not sure why I do, cos I was feeling really great for once and I hoped to carry it over. But now it's flopped, plopped, down in the valleys, happiness on its last legs, running far, far away from me and I don't know when I'm going to see it again for a longer stay than 6 bloody hours.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
I Feel so exhausted its pushing the typing forward using a million different impulses
Inpulses...I used to be impulsive, but now I have to be careful about things. Considering my left knee is gross and full of liquid, I still decided to go down to Oxfam to pay my penance and then go on to trek on down to Children's Express to work on my radio story.
My dad wasn't happy, but he was still in bed when I left and couldn't do anything about it. Oxfam was alright, and we had THE buy of the week: A man came down all the way from Stratford to Ealing Broadway (over an hour on the Central line), to buy a Prince CD Holder Cutout....that's right, a Lifesize (well, slightly larger) carboard Prince cutout. We made it flat with masking tape, he paid £30 and set him on his way. How hilarious! It had been with us since I actually started in the old shop last July, and I didn't think we'd ever get rid of it, let alone have someone come all the way from the other side of London come down for it. But anyways, he looked soo happy that I almost envied him cos my left knee was still giving me hell.
When I was putting away a box of DVDs (filed) it bangs my knee and burst the massive white spot on it. It was gruesome, but I could walk easier, so that was cool. Going to Oxfam was a good thing! Buuut, next week I'm staying overnight in Canary Wharf! So professional, so...modern Londoner..so trendy. I've never been trendy!
By the time I actually got to Children's Express I was almost fed-up. I've been reading the Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (depression made a literary brand, but not bad at all), and it's been filling me with this lazy, melancholic, aarghness feeling. But I got busy. The radio story is finally taking off, even though I'm still trying to figure out how to use a minidisk, as that's BBC's weapon of choice. Basically, I talked over what I've done so far - the survey, the research, etc with this Irish guy called Marty who had this gorgeous accent which I just loved, and we talked about what to actually put on it cos I had NO idea, and we got ideas for music, and I found out I don't have to speak much (yay!). Eventually, we managed to interview a couple of lasses over our main points, and the future seemed rosy. Hmm, if I ever managed to not be such a horrid technophobe (and I didn't cringe at my voice), I may try to get into the world of radio journalism! Watch out, erm, Radio..erm, 4. Woo!-ooh! Ahem.
I did get home, and I'm totally exhausted. After all of that walking from my poor leg its getting twinges and I'm going to rest now and try really hard to not aggravate it anymore. I'd like to avoid crutches.
As you may know, my Dad's been noticing my eating issues, and he keeps trying to help. He went into my room! My Room, sacred, teenage secrets which fathers aren't supposed to plunder (my diary was out in full view. He's being really nice to me, but hasn't said anything, so I don't know whether to be nervous or not.) And tidied it he has NEVER tidied my room since I could tidy myself. He even got me to make dinner with him - curry chicken, rice and peas. It was lovely, and only 375 calories (around), but I just want to get it out of me. It feels like it's eating my body, and if I keep eating, there'll nothing left but...leftovers. I never thought of it that way, actually.
But I don't want to disappoint Dad. All I keep thinking about are the cookies in my bag from yesterday, and my 8 and half stone weight target (just below 120 pounds). So I just keep typing..trying to smile, but I'm so exhausted, I might as well give in. I think I need 'Me' time, whatever that means. I'm not the type to pamper myself unless I really have to. My idea of pampering means not being on call, or having to do anything except curl up with a good book and some cookies, or hot chocolate, or chocolate hobnobs. Or sleeping. A good 12 hour sleep is almost excessive pampering to me, then I have to wear myself out with volunteering work, or over-exercising, or gardening, studying - something.
So the idea of the whole hot, lavender filled, candle choked bath, and chocolate covered strawberries, cucumbers on my eyes, and sandalwood oils, then followed by a hour long Thai massage and the palm leaf fans sound Absolutely Absurd. I'm probably shooting myself in the foot by saying that, in case if one of my friends was planning this for me. I just don't see what all the fuss is about pampering and all that. It's all cool, perfumed air.
My dad wasn't happy, but he was still in bed when I left and couldn't do anything about it. Oxfam was alright, and we had THE buy of the week: A man came down all the way from Stratford to Ealing Broadway (over an hour on the Central line), to buy a Prince CD Holder Cutout....that's right, a Lifesize (well, slightly larger) carboard Prince cutout. We made it flat with masking tape, he paid £30 and set him on his way. How hilarious! It had been with us since I actually started in the old shop last July, and I didn't think we'd ever get rid of it, let alone have someone come all the way from the other side of London come down for it. But anyways, he looked soo happy that I almost envied him cos my left knee was still giving me hell.
When I was putting away a box of DVDs (filed) it bangs my knee and burst the massive white spot on it. It was gruesome, but I could walk easier, so that was cool. Going to Oxfam was a good thing! Buuut, next week I'm staying overnight in Canary Wharf! So professional, so...modern Londoner..so trendy. I've never been trendy!
By the time I actually got to Children's Express I was almost fed-up. I've been reading the Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (depression made a literary brand, but not bad at all), and it's been filling me with this lazy, melancholic, aarghness feeling. But I got busy. The radio story is finally taking off, even though I'm still trying to figure out how to use a minidisk, as that's BBC's weapon of choice. Basically, I talked over what I've done so far - the survey, the research, etc with this Irish guy called Marty who had this gorgeous accent which I just loved, and we talked about what to actually put on it cos I had NO idea, and we got ideas for music, and I found out I don't have to speak much (yay!). Eventually, we managed to interview a couple of lasses over our main points, and the future seemed rosy. Hmm, if I ever managed to not be such a horrid technophobe (and I didn't cringe at my voice), I may try to get into the world of radio journalism! Watch out, erm, Radio..erm, 4. Woo!-ooh! Ahem.
I did get home, and I'm totally exhausted. After all of that walking from my poor leg its getting twinges and I'm going to rest now and try really hard to not aggravate it anymore. I'd like to avoid crutches.
As you may know, my Dad's been noticing my eating issues, and he keeps trying to help. He went into my room! My Room, sacred, teenage secrets which fathers aren't supposed to plunder (my diary was out in full view. He's being really nice to me, but hasn't said anything, so I don't know whether to be nervous or not.) And tidied it he has NEVER tidied my room since I could tidy myself. He even got me to make dinner with him - curry chicken, rice and peas. It was lovely, and only 375 calories (around), but I just want to get it out of me. It feels like it's eating my body, and if I keep eating, there'll nothing left but...leftovers. I never thought of it that way, actually.
But I don't want to disappoint Dad. All I keep thinking about are the cookies in my bag from yesterday, and my 8 and half stone weight target (just below 120 pounds). So I just keep typing..trying to smile, but I'm so exhausted, I might as well give in. I think I need 'Me' time, whatever that means. I'm not the type to pamper myself unless I really have to. My idea of pampering means not being on call, or having to do anything except curl up with a good book and some cookies, or hot chocolate, or chocolate hobnobs. Or sleeping. A good 12 hour sleep is almost excessive pampering to me, then I have to wear myself out with volunteering work, or over-exercising, or gardening, studying - something.
So the idea of the whole hot, lavender filled, candle choked bath, and chocolate covered strawberries, cucumbers on my eyes, and sandalwood oils, then followed by a hour long Thai massage and the palm leaf fans sound Absolutely Absurd. I'm probably shooting myself in the foot by saying that, in case if one of my friends was planning this for me. I just don't see what all the fuss is about pampering and all that. It's all cool, perfumed air.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Benefits
Hmm, although this week has been a little bit crap I believe I will benefit from this. It's the only way to go.
To tell you the truth, monday and tuesday aren't that important - mainly since I don't remember them. I was sole task was to finish my big courswork paper on the Female suffrage for a third of my final AS grade. I got very distracted. For one thing, my left knee fucked up, but not as bad as my friend Richard - he ground his cartilige and to get to Politics he has to climb 6 flights of stairs. It's draining his energy like a Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine. And my leg? Well, i can't twist it round and it hurts to lie down, sit still, and walk and I haven't considered running just yet. My doctor blamed in on my fattyness. Nice. Oh, and she blamed my period problems on that too (the issue that I haven't had any since december - I swear you can become infertile after a while?) I left, walked - well, limped up and down my road, crying like a fat baby. It's strange because everyone says I look thinner, but I knew I was fatter. There's the proof. So...I spent that Thursday cancelling lessons and Oxford appointments, so I could try to work and cry now and then. How sad. In the end I gave up and tried to sleep with Doves playing, my eternal source of comfort. I called Ria and made her cry...then I had to limp round college trying to buy printer units from my cheapskate college. Now my coursework is done, and it's just along sprint of practice essays from all sides until exam season May 19th - June 8th.
Where's the benefit? I still 'disciplined' myself, worse than ever. I cried stupidly like a leaky boat in the pacific. Well, I wrote a poem for the first time in a couple of months, I texted Richard a very watered down version of my feelings, so now he knows just that little bit extra about me. I don't feel so alone anymore. I feel as if there's things I can do, as if there are answers for me from great beyond that would-be-heaven. Despite everything, I feel so much stronger. And from that strength, i will fight my salesmen. I will stop displining myself. I will get back into the daylight. I will ignore, and spurn my salesmen. I will i will i will.
To tell you the truth, monday and tuesday aren't that important - mainly since I don't remember them. I was sole task was to finish my big courswork paper on the Female suffrage for a third of my final AS grade. I got very distracted. For one thing, my left knee fucked up, but not as bad as my friend Richard - he ground his cartilige and to get to Politics he has to climb 6 flights of stairs. It's draining his energy like a Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine. And my leg? Well, i can't twist it round and it hurts to lie down, sit still, and walk and I haven't considered running just yet. My doctor blamed in on my fattyness. Nice. Oh, and she blamed my period problems on that too (the issue that I haven't had any since december - I swear you can become infertile after a while?) I left, walked - well, limped up and down my road, crying like a fat baby. It's strange because everyone says I look thinner, but I knew I was fatter. There's the proof. So...I spent that Thursday cancelling lessons and Oxford appointments, so I could try to work and cry now and then. How sad. In the end I gave up and tried to sleep with Doves playing, my eternal source of comfort. I called Ria and made her cry...then I had to limp round college trying to buy printer units from my cheapskate college. Now my coursework is done, and it's just along sprint of practice essays from all sides until exam season May 19th - June 8th.
Where's the benefit? I still 'disciplined' myself, worse than ever. I cried stupidly like a leaky boat in the pacific. Well, I wrote a poem for the first time in a couple of months, I texted Richard a very watered down version of my feelings, so now he knows just that little bit extra about me. I don't feel so alone anymore. I feel as if there's things I can do, as if there are answers for me from great beyond that would-be-heaven. Despite everything, I feel so much stronger. And from that strength, i will fight my salesmen. I will stop displining myself. I will get back into the daylight. I will ignore, and spurn my salesmen. I will i will i will.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
The Wind Up, The Grimace, and now the Itch
I think, right now I'll type without abandon.
I haven’t been able to blog or comment because I've had no internet. This is, of course, the basis of withdrawal symptons, so I went a little crazy besides which included, but not limited to:
Throwing Apples
Throwing a tippex pen...all over a black leather sofa, of course. It’s murder to clean out. A hundred white dots, crap.
And It was one of those nights so lonely you’re not sure they’re going to end. I was in the extreme fatigue phase of my depression: I could barely move off of the sofa, and any move I made was throw things or hit myself. I drank some whisky straight for the bottle and sought out Samaritans. The guy was crap. He could barely listen, I think he had been drinking too, but his voice was so clear. But so was mine, and after half an hour I managed to figure out what I’d known all along: misery gets me nowhere. I have had this cruel lonely night so many times before: I call Ria, and she’s out somewhere. My immediate family mysteriously disappear so that I could listen to the rightful destructive music and I could binge/purge or cut (“discipline”) or punch as I see fit. So many times this happens and I just cannot see straight. For the last…well, since Feb 2004 all I’ve been seeing is red, is black, is grey. I had painted myself into a situation where I distrust (and always will) doctors and psychiatrists, where counselling is too easily malleable for me to reside in, where friends just aren’t there when you’re falling just a little deeper into your rabbit hole.
(If anyone cares, in my rabbit hole friends die over and over again, my family are non-existent, I go paranoid, delusional/crazy and I’m encased in the four walls of an empty Motel, complete with a dank swimming pool and an ever-full liquor cabinet)
In that case, you might as well kill yourself. But in my mind I’ve been fighting my salesmen. (I can’t believe I’ve gotten so bad they’ve made The Bid.) There is another answer. If you see my post: Finally (I hadn’t been able to post because blogger messed up) then you’ll see how much I crave to swim. I knew this forever. I knew this last summer when I was talking to a counsellor (?) on OneLife, and she told me to get back in the pool. It was my plan to have my scars healed up enough to go swimming again, but that just can’t happen. I’d disgust and repel everybody, including myself, for I know I’ve gotten fatter, despite everyone saying I’ve lost weight. I just seem wider, you know? And I can’t type for much longer because I have so much darn work to do…bah.
But I’ll have these two minutes.
Because yesterday was a decent day…I went to the Lesbian and Gay Film Festival in the National Film Theatre right by the South Bank and I went with Alice’s gay group, Metro who are lovely bunch, especially Matt who saw me at once after not seeing each other since Christmas, and he remembered my name, age, where I’m from and live what I’m studying, which unnerved me a little, considering I couldn’t even remember his own name. The film was called the Young Ones, a series of shorts from all over the world about young gay people coming out, all gay actors which I liked. I like them all, but the the Palestine (it was on the Gaza Strip, I think) struck a chord because you knew there was no happy ending there, and it was so sad…the American one was very “clichaic”, but for a reason: it kept away from the horrors of not being gorgeous and gay, and it was funny. Then there were two from Helsinki with this lesbian who I connected with because she too was best friends with a Catholic, although hers took it much worse than my Ria, who I am so grateful for accepting me, I realise. Then there was an Irish one which I enjoyed because they played the Jam and The Undertones and it was much more ‘my scene’, even though I actually have no scene: I’ve never been clubbing, never had sex, never done anything harder than weed (and that was smoking on a stick twice nearly two years ago), and I’ve gotten in a bar and tried to get alcohol because I’m underage and until now I’ve had no one to go with, but Matt might change that, and I don’t mind cos he’s lovely and intelligent and he loves lesbians, especially me, lol. And it was a little strange, because Alice was there, even more beautiful now than when we dated in her 50’s chic clothing and Doc Martens, and I’m sure she’s going to get a girl/boyfriend before I do. But that’s everyone thinks I’m straight and I have no idea why. Maybe because only men perv on me and other girls are scared. Don’t be! I’d make a very submissive, funny, crazy girlfriend…so I had to leave straight after (after seeing some random college friends. I’m so out, and I love it) Came home at 5pm to collect Asda internet shopping (namely 40 cans of baked beans and cereal amongst other crap). Called Ria, chatted, started to plan our gap year, watched QI and Vanilla Sky (actually living a dream…I’ll have to blog about that later), ate ice cream, and cut for no reason other than the one sided pursuit for pleasurable pain. And my three minutes are more than up. They obliterated. Too-de-loo.
I haven’t been able to blog or comment because I've had no internet. This is, of course, the basis of withdrawal symptons, so I went a little crazy besides which included, but not limited to:
Throwing Apples
Throwing a tippex pen...all over a black leather sofa, of course. It’s murder to clean out. A hundred white dots, crap.
And It was one of those nights so lonely you’re not sure they’re going to end. I was in the extreme fatigue phase of my depression: I could barely move off of the sofa, and any move I made was throw things or hit myself. I drank some whisky straight for the bottle and sought out Samaritans. The guy was crap. He could barely listen, I think he had been drinking too, but his voice was so clear. But so was mine, and after half an hour I managed to figure out what I’d known all along: misery gets me nowhere. I have had this cruel lonely night so many times before: I call Ria, and she’s out somewhere. My immediate family mysteriously disappear so that I could listen to the rightful destructive music and I could binge/purge or cut (“discipline”) or punch as I see fit. So many times this happens and I just cannot see straight. For the last…well, since Feb 2004 all I’ve been seeing is red, is black, is grey. I had painted myself into a situation where I distrust (and always will) doctors and psychiatrists, where counselling is too easily malleable for me to reside in, where friends just aren’t there when you’re falling just a little deeper into your rabbit hole.
(If anyone cares, in my rabbit hole friends die over and over again, my family are non-existent, I go paranoid, delusional/crazy and I’m encased in the four walls of an empty Motel, complete with a dank swimming pool and an ever-full liquor cabinet)
In that case, you might as well kill yourself. But in my mind I’ve been fighting my salesmen. (I can’t believe I’ve gotten so bad they’ve made The Bid.) There is another answer. If you see my post: Finally (I hadn’t been able to post because blogger messed up) then you’ll see how much I crave to swim. I knew this forever. I knew this last summer when I was talking to a counsellor (?) on OneLife, and she told me to get back in the pool. It was my plan to have my scars healed up enough to go swimming again, but that just can’t happen. I’d disgust and repel everybody, including myself, for I know I’ve gotten fatter, despite everyone saying I’ve lost weight. I just seem wider, you know? And I can’t type for much longer because I have so much darn work to do…bah.
But I’ll have these two minutes.
Because yesterday was a decent day…I went to the Lesbian and Gay Film Festival in the National Film Theatre right by the South Bank and I went with Alice’s gay group, Metro who are lovely bunch, especially Matt who saw me at once after not seeing each other since Christmas, and he remembered my name, age, where I’m from and live what I’m studying, which unnerved me a little, considering I couldn’t even remember his own name. The film was called the Young Ones, a series of shorts from all over the world about young gay people coming out, all gay actors which I liked. I like them all, but the the Palestine (it was on the Gaza Strip, I think) struck a chord because you knew there was no happy ending there, and it was so sad…the American one was very “clichaic”, but for a reason: it kept away from the horrors of not being gorgeous and gay, and it was funny. Then there were two from Helsinki with this lesbian who I connected with because she too was best friends with a Catholic, although hers took it much worse than my Ria, who I am so grateful for accepting me, I realise. Then there was an Irish one which I enjoyed because they played the Jam and The Undertones and it was much more ‘my scene’, even though I actually have no scene: I’ve never been clubbing, never had sex, never done anything harder than weed (and that was smoking on a stick twice nearly two years ago), and I’ve gotten in a bar and tried to get alcohol because I’m underage and until now I’ve had no one to go with, but Matt might change that, and I don’t mind cos he’s lovely and intelligent and he loves lesbians, especially me, lol. And it was a little strange, because Alice was there, even more beautiful now than when we dated in her 50’s chic clothing and Doc Martens, and I’m sure she’s going to get a girl/boyfriend before I do. But that’s everyone thinks I’m straight and I have no idea why. Maybe because only men perv on me and other girls are scared. Don’t be! I’d make a very submissive, funny, crazy girlfriend…so I had to leave straight after (after seeing some random college friends. I’m so out, and I love it) Came home at 5pm to collect Asda internet shopping (namely 40 cans of baked beans and cereal amongst other crap). Called Ria, chatted, started to plan our gap year, watched QI and Vanilla Sky (actually living a dream…I’ll have to blog about that later), ate ice cream, and cut for no reason other than the one sided pursuit for pleasurable pain. And my three minutes are more than up. They obliterated. Too-de-loo.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Aargh!
My has completely fucked up. It's slow, its now cumbersome, and whats the point of having a recover button if its not publishing??? Spread the Word!
Finally
Right now I’m feeling dangerous. I can’t handle boredom. It’s a sea, ever rolling of blandness. I can’t live with that. I’d rather die. Sing to me a lullaby. Is everything going to be alright? Lie! Lies! I don’t like to breathe. I am falling again. Bother. Don’t bother me, I simply tire you out. Obviously, no one can care about me. Would I be a whole lot prettier if I smiled once in while? I do smile. Fuck this. I kicked the alcohol. I kicked the medicine and the mini overdoses, the slapping is always there, because I need to WAKE UP. I am dead, here, I am dead, writing a blog, writing crap because I cannot hack into the soft underbelly. Maybe because the soft underbelly would get a sharp kicking. I cannot stand to be beside myself. I cannot stand any-anything. Bye, bye. I forget sometimes I’m a stupid motherfucking twat who shouldn’t take up the limited oxygen. I forget that I am a waste of space. I almost forget I’m depressed, god forbid. Should I? Live my life and smile a little, sing lullabies, write articles become whatever I had set out to be? I’m not sure my worthlessness could comprehend the jumping of hurdles, cataclysmic success. I meander around raindrops and cement blocks. I feel no power in my fingertips. I can only feel understated anger.
That was last night on my Microsoft word thing before I went to bed. Where I cried, and listened to Lene Marlin. She's a coolie. Buy her stuff (her album is called Playing My Game). One of her songs gave me some hope:
Where I'm Headed
(pass by don't dare to stop)
Got a suitcase in my hand filled with stuff most precious to me
Sidewalk brings my feet
Wherever they're headed
There's no direction given
Just some trust in human mind
To rely on and to hold on to
BRIDGE
Honestly don't know where I’ll end up at last
Won't even count the days
One thing I’m sure of
I won't move so fast
My mind in complete haze
CHORUS
I pass by
Don't dare to stop
When there's someone i see
There's no one here but me
I'm fooled by something inside my head
If I lay down now
I might look kinda dead
Just keep on wasting time
Scary thoughts and frightening sounds
In my mind still I try to avoid it
Heading through this
Hope not one way ally
I can't really sense my surroundings
Seems to be all dark around
Nothing there to lighten up my way
***
It's just my song. In my mind the chorus was: "I pass by/And turn to stone/There's no one to see/There's no one here but me..." I don't know. I just loved the lyrics, they seem so real I can almost touch them, but I'm afraid that if they're industry tried and tested I couldn't dare place that near my loves of words. But that’s a little over-dramatic.
Today was no good. I crashed briefly at 5:30. I spent about two hours crying and...slicing. I don't why it started. I was feeling tired and defeated/deflated because I wasn't finding anything useful in my history books (I'm doing my coursework essay on female suffrage/enfranchisement) and in my room, I just lay down on my bed and slumped to the floor in self defeat, and cried without speaking. It was nice, I guess because there was no howling, no massive bottomless well of horror waiting to unleash itself...yet. From my 'calculations' my next proper freak out is due in the middle of my exams, and I don't expect anything easier. Bah.
Right now the Games is on channel 4 which is a laugh - I love all things athletic. To Watch. I remember one time I tried to do the javelin for sports day. Partly because I was the best in the class, partly because I wanted the day off. My personal best is 13 metres...and my boobs rule out everything else *whispers* I'm a G cup *whispers* what? The only sport I could have become some kind of champion in was swimming. I'm a water baby. I can do the breast stroke for three hours without feeling exhausted until I dry off, then I need to eat like three chocolate bars. But I can’t even do that now. My arms even repulse me these days, but I can’t complain, can I? I’m the one who did the disciplining to me, but this is too much, even for my fuck-ups. Forget not wearing strappy tops or being afraid of my nakedness with other people. I miss swimming (on my own, with my friends, at a beach) more than anything else. Before, my exercise used to consist of swimming for two, three hours a week in the local swimming pool on my own, letting my own thoughts get away in the chlorine water. But I can’t even do that anymore…its my fault, isn’t it? So I know I’m not swarming for sympathy, that’s all. I just know that I have a problem and those damn consequences.
That was last night on my Microsoft word thing before I went to bed. Where I cried, and listened to Lene Marlin. She's a coolie. Buy her stuff (her album is called Playing My Game). One of her songs gave me some hope:
Where I'm Headed
(pass by don't dare to stop)
Got a suitcase in my hand filled with stuff most precious to me
Sidewalk brings my feet
Wherever they're headed
There's no direction given
Just some trust in human mind
To rely on and to hold on to
BRIDGE
Honestly don't know where I’ll end up at last
Won't even count the days
One thing I’m sure of
I won't move so fast
My mind in complete haze
CHORUS
I pass by
Don't dare to stop
When there's someone i see
There's no one here but me
I'm fooled by something inside my head
If I lay down now
I might look kinda dead
Just keep on wasting time
Scary thoughts and frightening sounds
In my mind still I try to avoid it
Heading through this
Hope not one way ally
I can't really sense my surroundings
Seems to be all dark around
Nothing there to lighten up my way
***
It's just my song. In my mind the chorus was: "I pass by/And turn to stone/There's no one to see/There's no one here but me..." I don't know. I just loved the lyrics, they seem so real I can almost touch them, but I'm afraid that if they're industry tried and tested I couldn't dare place that near my loves of words. But that’s a little over-dramatic.
Today was no good. I crashed briefly at 5:30. I spent about two hours crying and...slicing. I don't why it started. I was feeling tired and defeated/deflated because I wasn't finding anything useful in my history books (I'm doing my coursework essay on female suffrage/enfranchisement) and in my room, I just lay down on my bed and slumped to the floor in self defeat, and cried without speaking. It was nice, I guess because there was no howling, no massive bottomless well of horror waiting to unleash itself...yet. From my 'calculations' my next proper freak out is due in the middle of my exams, and I don't expect anything easier. Bah.
Right now the Games is on channel 4 which is a laugh - I love all things athletic. To Watch. I remember one time I tried to do the javelin for sports day. Partly because I was the best in the class, partly because I wanted the day off. My personal best is 13 metres...and my boobs rule out everything else *whispers* I'm a G cup *whispers* what? The only sport I could have become some kind of champion in was swimming. I'm a water baby. I can do the breast stroke for three hours without feeling exhausted until I dry off, then I need to eat like three chocolate bars. But I can’t even do that now. My arms even repulse me these days, but I can’t complain, can I? I’m the one who did the disciplining to me, but this is too much, even for my fuck-ups. Forget not wearing strappy tops or being afraid of my nakedness with other people. I miss swimming (on my own, with my friends, at a beach) more than anything else. Before, my exercise used to consist of swimming for two, three hours a week in the local swimming pool on my own, letting my own thoughts get away in the chlorine water. But I can’t even do that anymore…its my fault, isn’t it? So I know I’m not swarming for sympathy, that’s all. I just know that I have a problem and those damn consequences.
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