Now, edited....
(Idea strikes, first lines of Coldplay, the Scientist)
This post, is going to last as long as this song. No proper chekcing of spelling and punctuation just yet. Just writing.
Thinking about terrorism. Is it wrong for me to want to not care anymore? Its too painful and complicated and scary and I'm still 16 and people half my age are dying for a cause no one seems to want to tell me anything about. I'm so stupid... I was just guessing(at numbers and figures), basing everything on some of kind of sense and principle. (we're now in the middle of the second verse, people)
I used to believe what my dad thought, but now I know he'd just rather kill Bush and dust off his hands in 'achievement'. He just hates the world, and I'm not there yet, because I hate myself enough, thanks very much. Why is everything so hard, so fucking varied, so underhand, off course? Who the hell is normal these days, anyway? Who ever was? Was it just books and theorists and the media playing one big trick? (end is nigh of song)
I just don't know. So confused. So sad for Ken Bigley even though he's only one man and millions die of ignorance and passion. And this happens every day under our clean noses.
The song has finished.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Friday, October 08, 2004
Important Info
Its about salesmen. What they do. This isn't what counsellors ask, because I don't think they can understand how someone so 'pretty' and not disfigured is soo unfine.
I have weird habits which I'm pretty sure are out of my control. Its a measure of how fucked up I am, and how my salesmen work.
(cold mist rising, an unearthly cackle...) I see dead people.
In daydreams, waking nightmares, drifting soap operas. They don't stop. Everybody I care about dies. They are killed, before their time, before I could really appreciate them. They die either by car crash, or some stranger shoots them or they're stabbed or drown. Unusual deaths. And I'm the one who has to organize their funeral. And despite me knowing what happens, I'm constantly mourning, and of course I can't mention this because whenever people talk about dreams they're fun kooky mad things, whereas mine are about losing everyone I love, becoming truly alone. So of course this builds up. I have to cut, I have to cope. This is how I'm still cheery and confident, the scars keep me on the straight and narrow. If I'm forced somehow not to cut, I'll find some other to hurt myself. Or 'crazy shit' will happen. So don't expect to go cold turkey. It isn't a drug, its almost like a religion a way of life I'm fanatical about.
*****
I've been thinking about things that make me mad. I can't stand people who are insecure about their knowledge. Like in the presentations we do, they say things like: "Well, Thetis is Achilleus' mother, right?" or "I think this line is really expressive...yeah?" as if their emotions have to correlate with a sheet of answers on the back.
You can be arrogant.
You can be rude.
You could do things out of spite because you think it teaches people a lesson.
You could patronize people and believe its helping somebody.
But don't you DARE, ever, EVER, burn books.
Its education! Its truth in several forms! Its paranoia, and all the other annoying things above mixed together in a danger pastime! Its barbaric! I'd never burn Mein Kampf, because we have to remember some people believe that Jews are destroying the world and we should just kill them all, so why would you burn Harry Potter? Why can't people leave Philip Pullman alone? They're only the victims of great writing and unsecret thoughts and ideas. It's just wrong, people. Hehe.
I just wanted to end this double post on some level near to normal...
I have weird habits which I'm pretty sure are out of my control. Its a measure of how fucked up I am, and how my salesmen work.
(cold mist rising, an unearthly cackle...) I see dead people.
In daydreams, waking nightmares, drifting soap operas. They don't stop. Everybody I care about dies. They are killed, before their time, before I could really appreciate them. They die either by car crash, or some stranger shoots them or they're stabbed or drown. Unusual deaths. And I'm the one who has to organize their funeral. And despite me knowing what happens, I'm constantly mourning, and of course I can't mention this because whenever people talk about dreams they're fun kooky mad things, whereas mine are about losing everyone I love, becoming truly alone. So of course this builds up. I have to cut, I have to cope. This is how I'm still cheery and confident, the scars keep me on the straight and narrow. If I'm forced somehow not to cut, I'll find some other to hurt myself. Or 'crazy shit' will happen. So don't expect to go cold turkey. It isn't a drug, its almost like a religion a way of life I'm fanatical about.
*****
I've been thinking about things that make me mad. I can't stand people who are insecure about their knowledge. Like in the presentations we do, they say things like: "Well, Thetis is Achilleus' mother, right?" or "I think this line is really expressive...yeah?" as if their emotions have to correlate with a sheet of answers on the back.
You can be arrogant.
You can be rude.
You could do things out of spite because you think it teaches people a lesson.
You could patronize people and believe its helping somebody.
But don't you DARE, ever, EVER, burn books.
Its education! Its truth in several forms! Its paranoia, and all the other annoying things above mixed together in a danger pastime! Its barbaric! I'd never burn Mein Kampf, because we have to remember some people believe that Jews are destroying the world and we should just kill them all, so why would you burn Harry Potter? Why can't people leave Philip Pullman alone? They're only the victims of great writing and unsecret thoughts and ideas. It's just wrong, people. Hehe.
I just wanted to end this double post on some level near to normal...
Stop It
After reading Lionness' blog entry about terrrorism, I felt like being angry. I don't think I'm angry nearly enough, and I don't say it well enough. I'm way too scared to do that.
But the last two days I feel like a package labelled 'UNSTABLE PSYCHO-PATRONIZE CAREFULLY'. I've seen a doctor, a counsellor, a nurse and now some other person. I'm a freak. How on earth am I going to move on when they believe its something I could just snap out of?
Why didn't they tell me this when I was 12, and I had a bottle of paracetemol in my hands, and I was serious. What the hell stopped me? I had almost lost Maria, I was losing everything and nobody had a clue. It'd make the headlines, but I didn't do it because it hurt too much. I couldnt bear the idea of death, of drowning, my voice came out, told me what to do and I was reborn. It had nothing to do with what I looked like.
They say my case is 'very worrisome'. I know that, so why are you asking about my family, about college how everything is so new, how exams must tire me out, how do you handle the pressure. You are so brave, seeing us like this, being so honest, but I must say you seem a little to happy to be depressed. Too confident, too coherent. Are you sure its not a phase you're going through? Maybe you need to lose weight. Get a grip. Take some drugs. In six months, you'll be happy (again). Tut tut, you've been cutting yourself again, haven't you? This is silly. You're too 'precious' for this.
Admit it. I'm a bloody drop in the ocean.
Goodness, why didn't I hear about this sooner? I mightn't had to cut my arms, I could swim again. I could sing words about being 'cut up' without wincing. I wouldn't have to be so afraid of losing everything, because I shouldn't be depressed, yet I'm way too sad to see clearly. Think wisely. Listen properly. I wouldn't be so scared to be loved.
Can you expect me to fall at your feet, cry my heart and suddenly make sense? Must I tell you Why....despite the good grades, good friends, good future, good family, good living, great music, great books, in this sea of greatness and good stuff I'm drifting further away from ever being happy again. Why? Because two days ago I was so low I cried to my friend, slid down to the floor and realised the wrenching inside my gut will never go away. That this will end in some way. That I'm just terrified because I'm not sure how its going to end and I'm scared of telling the people who are supposed to help because they might take away more of my liberties. They might shove me under the mental health act, into a loony bin for a month so I could forget who I am and become so...much...better.
There are tears in my eyes and I don't know who I'm shouting at, but I think I can face my salesmen now.
But the last two days I feel like a package labelled 'UNSTABLE PSYCHO-PATRONIZE CAREFULLY'. I've seen a doctor, a counsellor, a nurse and now some other person. I'm a freak. How on earth am I going to move on when they believe its something I could just snap out of?
Why didn't they tell me this when I was 12, and I had a bottle of paracetemol in my hands, and I was serious. What the hell stopped me? I had almost lost Maria, I was losing everything and nobody had a clue. It'd make the headlines, but I didn't do it because it hurt too much. I couldnt bear the idea of death, of drowning, my voice came out, told me what to do and I was reborn. It had nothing to do with what I looked like.
They say my case is 'very worrisome'. I know that, so why are you asking about my family, about college how everything is so new, how exams must tire me out, how do you handle the pressure. You are so brave, seeing us like this, being so honest, but I must say you seem a little to happy to be depressed. Too confident, too coherent. Are you sure its not a phase you're going through? Maybe you need to lose weight. Get a grip. Take some drugs. In six months, you'll be happy (again). Tut tut, you've been cutting yourself again, haven't you? This is silly. You're too 'precious' for this.
Admit it. I'm a bloody drop in the ocean.
Goodness, why didn't I hear about this sooner? I mightn't had to cut my arms, I could swim again. I could sing words about being 'cut up' without wincing. I wouldn't have to be so afraid of losing everything, because I shouldn't be depressed, yet I'm way too sad to see clearly. Think wisely. Listen properly. I wouldn't be so scared to be loved.
Can you expect me to fall at your feet, cry my heart and suddenly make sense? Must I tell you Why....despite the good grades, good friends, good future, good family, good living, great music, great books, in this sea of greatness and good stuff I'm drifting further away from ever being happy again. Why? Because two days ago I was so low I cried to my friend, slid down to the floor and realised the wrenching inside my gut will never go away. That this will end in some way. That I'm just terrified because I'm not sure how its going to end and I'm scared of telling the people who are supposed to help because they might take away more of my liberties. They might shove me under the mental health act, into a loony bin for a month so I could forget who I am and become so...much...better.
There are tears in my eyes and I don't know who I'm shouting at, but I think I can face my salesmen now.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Phone Call
I've just had a very strange phone call.
I was watching BBC2 and this show called the Apprentice which was making me laugh-its great entertainment. I had lost weight-I had had loads of chocolate, I got appreciated for my poetry and I'm going to The House of Commons tomorrow (UK version of the White House, just in case-I'm not being patronising) . To top it off I watching rain on the bus-there is nothing more beautiful about travel than rain-it makes the greatest sound, it reminds you're going somewhere. The double rainbow was giving me focus-you could see the whole semi-circle which you never do... Life was being cool.
Then I got the phone call.
It was from a doctor, who used to treat my Granddad who has really bad arthritis (he can't walk anymore because of it) and it turns out he also got the message that I was 'feeling down'. He was just talking about his whole process-about some letter he recieved from I don't know where, and that he probably knows about the overdose which I've gotten over on-it happened, it was shit, its over. Anyways, I have an appointment with him on Friday at 6. I'm seeing my counsellor on Thursday, as well as the nurse so she can check on my scars and I'm going to show her my feet (more later).
I'm getting over subscribed here-its scary. He was saying he can fix it scientifically-with tablets!-and thats he's not going to tell my family, and I'm on the other line almost shaking, I'm horrified here. Everyone is helping me. Depression is my way of life, and everyone is trying to cheer me up. Its twisted, but you have to understand this has been an extending, more extreme addition of my life for four years now. I'm bloody terrified. If I end up telling my parents and going onto pills, you may shoot me-I'll give the assigned address and everything...
Oh yes, my feet. See, its been my method of not cutting without really hurting myself. I'd start scratching them. It was first athlete's foot. Then it became a nervous habit. Now its an obsession. I keep scratching my (left) foot till it bleeds, it looks like it been diseased or something. I have single handedly fucked up my foot, but I would like to find a way to fix it, and so I'm taking it up with the nurse.
So, the best thing for me is to take it all in my stride, because this is how I do things. I'm a spontaneous super power. My best pieces of work, poetry, things I've bought have been a result of reworded phrases of 'What the hell?'. So I'm reading slash, thinking about homework, and saving up cash.
I was watching BBC2 and this show called the Apprentice which was making me laugh-its great entertainment. I had lost weight-I had had loads of chocolate, I got appreciated for my poetry and I'm going to The House of Commons tomorrow (UK version of the White House, just in case-I'm not being patronising) . To top it off I watching rain on the bus-there is nothing more beautiful about travel than rain-it makes the greatest sound, it reminds you're going somewhere. The double rainbow was giving me focus-you could see the whole semi-circle which you never do... Life was being cool.
Then I got the phone call.
It was from a doctor, who used to treat my Granddad who has really bad arthritis (he can't walk anymore because of it) and it turns out he also got the message that I was 'feeling down'. He was just talking about his whole process-about some letter he recieved from I don't know where, and that he probably knows about the overdose which I've gotten over on-it happened, it was shit, its over. Anyways, I have an appointment with him on Friday at 6. I'm seeing my counsellor on Thursday, as well as the nurse so she can check on my scars and I'm going to show her my feet (more later).
I'm getting over subscribed here-its scary. He was saying he can fix it scientifically-with tablets!-and thats he's not going to tell my family, and I'm on the other line almost shaking, I'm horrified here. Everyone is helping me. Depression is my way of life, and everyone is trying to cheer me up. Its twisted, but you have to understand this has been an extending, more extreme addition of my life for four years now. I'm bloody terrified. If I end up telling my parents and going onto pills, you may shoot me-I'll give the assigned address and everything...
Oh yes, my feet. See, its been my method of not cutting without really hurting myself. I'd start scratching them. It was first athlete's foot. Then it became a nervous habit. Now its an obsession. I keep scratching my (left) foot till it bleeds, it looks like it been diseased or something. I have single handedly fucked up my foot, but I would like to find a way to fix it, and so I'm taking it up with the nurse.
So, the best thing for me is to take it all in my stride, because this is how I do things. I'm a spontaneous super power. My best pieces of work, poetry, things I've bought have been a result of reworded phrases of 'What the hell?'. So I'm reading slash, thinking about homework, and saving up cash.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Whirlwind
I'm at college with nothing to do for the next...ten minutes so I thought I'd post something. In response to CarpeDM, they dont do anything cos I don't give them a chance to figure anything out. I'm not close enough to mum, and I only see Dad about 2 hours a day, tops. And during then I'm a little perky, so I appear to be the same goofy, crazy happy lovely daughter I was supposed to grow up into. Also, the bandages are hidden over my long sleeve-its just a backup ploy or something to do on extremely hot days-which are completely non-existent (including this summer..sigh.)
I'm quite excited because I just took out the Odyssey from the library. I'm excited because its an ancient text that is interesting and coherent. Not the Iliad isn't interesting but the (epithets-sp?) descriptions of every character everytime they speak is slightly unnerving. I mean there's swift footed, and godlike and this is when they're arguing with each other! Goodness...at least you understand the kind of epic Tolkien was aiming for when he wrote LOTR.
Anyway, i'm off to double politics, a dyslexia meeting thang, signing up for the ~Community Sport Leaders Award 'lunch', double classics and I'm sure I missed something else here...just the way my life is...but hey, its all in the plan of getting my life back, and if I end up doing too many things, so be it.
I'm quite excited because I just took out the Odyssey from the library. I'm excited because its an ancient text that is interesting and coherent. Not the Iliad isn't interesting but the (epithets-sp?) descriptions of every character everytime they speak is slightly unnerving. I mean there's swift footed, and godlike and this is when they're arguing with each other! Goodness...at least you understand the kind of epic Tolkien was aiming for when he wrote LOTR.
Anyway, i'm off to double politics, a dyslexia meeting thang, signing up for the ~Community Sport Leaders Award 'lunch', double classics and I'm sure I missed something else here...just the way my life is...but hey, its all in the plan of getting my life back, and if I end up doing too many things, so be it.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Why I love Blogger
I had a problem with the site, and try as I might I just couldn't sign in.
I realised with a blush, that I have must
Forgotten a password and given a wrong address
-Such a mess!
I sent an email to blogger
And imagined I'd be a waiting
For a millenia and a day to fix my conundrum
But no! No! No!
It took 6 days...
What can hotmail say about that?
Howzat!
Blogger, Serialangel aka Betty B, salutes you.
I realised with a blush, that I have must
Forgotten a password and given a wrong address
-Such a mess!
I sent an email to blogger
And imagined I'd be a waiting
For a millenia and a day to fix my conundrum
But no! No! No!
It took 6 days...
What can hotmail say about that?
Howzat!
Blogger, Serialangel aka Betty B, salutes you.
I am not a housewife.
At college, my favourite subject so far has been 19th Century History, especially 19th Century Women, which is our coursework piece and so I feel very assured it will be epic...
It's just that life is so different its almost scary. At the beginning of the 1800's, some men believed women didn't have a soul...you could (illegally) sell your wife, beat her with a stick as long as it wasn't thicker than your thumb. Husbands owned their wives, as a quote once said: "My wife and I are one, and I am he."Classic.
Anyway, it's stirred up my feminist fire again. I was feminist to the point of sexist towards guys, then I got some sense back. I'm making all sorts of Richmond now. There's this girl called Alice in there with perfect red hair and cheekbones I'm secretly in love with, a Brazilian guy named Ickarus who has the title of 'Coolest guy in RUTC', Clare my Clare Bosworth lookalike fabbygirl and Richard who I've really clicked with. I'm making progress there, definitely.
For one thing I'm helping myself. I went to my first counselling session yesterday. The lady was nice and we just outlined stuff. She said things I was thinking she would say: that I was at risk, and that I should see a GP for treatment for the depression, and that I had strange contrasts in my life: my (relatively) healthy diet, good grades, settling in well thing yet I got the cutting. She even suggested a residential thing, which obviously can't happen for my parents not to know. But it was nice to get started again.
Then I had to see the nurse, because NHS direct called her about my overdose and she's been looking for me since. Turns out she was born in my home town too so I liked her immediately...she put some cream on my arm where the scars are because it was dry, and then put some bandage thing on (the sort of thing you put on sprained muscles) to help them heal cause I had cut for three nights in a row and it kept creating friction against my shirt and it was driving me mad. It also gives me license to wear it on hot days and say I bumped my arm. A genius move, as I'm going to this Greece trip in March(hopefully). I'm seeing her again. I'm going shopping tomorrow, going to Childrens Express, Parliament trip next week, poetry open mic night coming up...loads of homework (bah!)....I think I'm getting my life back.
It's just that life is so different its almost scary. At the beginning of the 1800's, some men believed women didn't have a soul...you could (illegally) sell your wife, beat her with a stick as long as it wasn't thicker than your thumb. Husbands owned their wives, as a quote once said: "My wife and I are one, and I am he."Classic.
Anyway, it's stirred up my feminist fire again. I was feminist to the point of sexist towards guys, then I got some sense back. I'm making all sorts of Richmond now. There's this girl called Alice in there with perfect red hair and cheekbones I'm secretly in love with, a Brazilian guy named Ickarus who has the title of 'Coolest guy in RUTC', Clare my Clare Bosworth lookalike fabbygirl and Richard who I've really clicked with. I'm making progress there, definitely.
For one thing I'm helping myself. I went to my first counselling session yesterday. The lady was nice and we just outlined stuff. She said things I was thinking she would say: that I was at risk, and that I should see a GP for treatment for the depression, and that I had strange contrasts in my life: my (relatively) healthy diet, good grades, settling in well thing yet I got the cutting. She even suggested a residential thing, which obviously can't happen for my parents not to know. But it was nice to get started again.
Then I had to see the nurse, because NHS direct called her about my overdose and she's been looking for me since. Turns out she was born in my home town too so I liked her immediately...she put some cream on my arm where the scars are because it was dry, and then put some bandage thing on (the sort of thing you put on sprained muscles) to help them heal cause I had cut for three nights in a row and it kept creating friction against my shirt and it was driving me mad. It also gives me license to wear it on hot days and say I bumped my arm. A genius move, as I'm going to this Greece trip in March(hopefully). I'm seeing her again. I'm going shopping tomorrow, going to Childrens Express, Parliament trip next week, poetry open mic night coming up...loads of homework (bah!)....I think I'm getting my life back.
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