Get a Grip

I'm emailing my blogpost this time. Well, I've shook off my hormonal, self-pitying selfish weirdo of me last night and got a grip. I'm really glad for it.

I was listening my cutting CD (yes I have a CD, though not especially made), when Cry by Alex Parks came on, and I was reading my old diary. It had my original 20+ wishes. I had completed a lot of them - going out into Central london, getting lost in a place I can get unlost in, coming out to dad, getting a job, changing the world just a little and one of my favourite: "to write loads, reams and masses." Done that too. I also realised I had a beautiful girlfriend who I had blew off yesterday cos my mind was that fucked up; that I had been making myself throw up while my Dad was relaxing to jazz downstairs. I realised how bratty I had been. Yeah, I had hit a rock bottom of sorts, and I needed breathing space but it didn't mean I had to push everyone away. I'm better than that. And so, I got a grip on my dissolving grip. I didn't cut last night. And today wasn't too bad. But I have an essay to write and time too is dissolving (until thursday 17th when Xmas hols start)

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.

I Have a Plan

^Last words written on me paper diary.

Maybe, not all hope is lost. Is it possible that the last bits of creativity have thought up a great send-off, my salavation, perhaps?

I thought it up yesterday, decided it was a crazy, mad, folly idea and why hadn't I thought of this in the first place?

I'm going to spurn my SG. Literally. Physically. I'm sending it to Ria, and I won't cut (we only have disposable razors and I can't get the blade out) cos I literally can't.

I got to this conclusion because Mancs was so much fun, and interviewing all those people, the four hour train journey, Lazerquest (think paintball, indoors, in the dark, with lazer guns) gave me much needed breathing space. I able to look at my problems from many miles away, for I didn't bring SG (scissor god) with me in fear of sharing a room and losing myself. But I had my own room, and at night I walked around in a strappy red top which I hadn't worn for months. I wore long tops instead at night in fear of being caught. I hadn't worn short tops since February (!!! February !!!) and I felt so, so comfortable. The idea came there.

This may/may not turn me mad, but this is my last chance. I can't relive being 12 again. Its made me the fucked up piece of shit I am, and I can't survive that. Never. So, thats the plan, and I'm sticking to it.

Quick post before manchester

I'm going round in an emotional circle, I can feel it. I'm 12 again. I'm all moody and hunched and psycho depressed and I'm thinking about death way too much. Is this what happens when you totally give up on yourself? Or is this a circle of depression?

See, I was wondering why I had been so honest and that I managed not to scream at my patronising doctor this morning when I swallowed my pride and asked for a psychiatrist. And I wondered why I gave Richard that 'story'. And I wondered why, only a week ago, I was almost free. I felt normal, like happy, crazy, beautiful, angsty normal like any other 16 year old. And then the depression is back and I'm near tears but I'm not surprised because the depression is back and my Salesmen have got down on my knees, on the fucking edge and I don't know if I really want to live any more.

I just, can't believe I've given up myself. I just assume I'm hated and that I'll always hate me so why bother...

I just believe I'll cut forever so why be nice to myself. Why be nice to anyone?

And I know the meaning of life. To figure it out, to search, to travel. So I'm done. I'm never gonna have children, I've fallen in love (once with Ria, now Alice), I sort of understand the truth about love and I've given back to the world. I just haven't had sex or had my works published, but I'm sure that can be done when I'm dead. Whats left?

I can't believe I've gotten this far, and that I was close, and that I've just soo lost it. Almost, crying, I bid you goodnight. I'll see you on monday. I'm going to Manchester to do journalism stuff. (I'm living my dream, but so fucking disconnected. Exactly the same thing I would have written four years ago. I'm back where I started. I have nothing left.)

The 25th Hour

I'm at home, alone. The heating was off before and my fingers are freezing. I can't type well...I'm supposed to be doing my politics essay, but I'll have some time off, methinks.

Feeling horribly depressed. And cold.

I got drunk last night-not by a lot, but I felt sleepy and silly. I took the knife from the kitchen cabinet - the sharp jagged one, with the black plastic handle. It's inexplicably shiny, and I was excited. This knife, you see, I almost cut with four years ago. I hated using it for cooking since, but last night I felt as if I had to finish what I'd started. It was mine. I hid it in the waistband of my knickers, which dug a little into my thigh as I walked upstairs, but it did not cut. In my room, I was choosing my music. I had kissed Dad goodnight and his music was on, my bro was in his room not bothering me. I chose Lene Marlin eventually and got listening. I even wrote a little prelude in my paper diary, I was that pretentious and excited last night.

Then it got to the last song. I was crying, shaking and oh god, so nervous. I thought there would be blood everywhere. I hoped I would gape. I thought the pain would take me somewhere new, so when it came to the doctor's appointment, there'd be a real problem to fix - they'd spend all their time mopping me up, no questions asked. So then I got out my wrists, and dashed them. Nothing. Not a pop up of blood, just white scratch marks, stinging and a feeling of defeatism. I tried again - kept cutting the same place again and again for a verse of Lene's voice. No blood. Not a drop. The thirst I had acquired was choking me so I used SG instead. This morning, I managed to make my skin softer using Baby johnson cream and sliced a bit of my thigh. Then I sterilised it and I've been wanting to cut all day. Should I post this? Lidded eyes and all, I feel so stupid. And unfocussed. My fingers are still freezing.

EDIT: 2nd December

I think I'm gonna have to go onto drugs if all I want to do is curl up and bleed to death. Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself (although my brain is getting used to the idea) but in my mind I'm just not living anymore and no one seems to care because people just aren't there when I call them, and I'm hardly eating and my eyes just focus and I just want to cry all the time. 'S not good.

Simile

I'm drunk. I'm such a lightweight. Two shots of baileys and two shots of whisky and I'm tumbling onto the keyboard. My limbs are wayy too heavy and I may fall..asleep any...mome..nt. Yah. Went out last night to cinema-The Incredibles. Funny funny film. I cannae complain. The TV's gone, like weird. Far out. I'm a little depressed. Sent Alice an email tellingher I'm seeing a doctor, and soon a psychiatrist and she hasn't emailed back yet. We don';t tend to talk about these things. Everyone at GYUK is so happy for us (I feel, like popular) but there's so many crappy things: she's in Stratford, which is hard enough as it is without me moving to Surrey, (next county down, s#not that far way), shes closeted and goes to an allgirld catholic school-'s'no good. True. Wassup?
I'm going to bed now and soon if I get a 25 hour day through lucj I'll write you a proper entry. Oh, and disgruntled moose is one of my best mates, got me through a hunk and half of depressive shit, and I'd write that drunk or soberry.
In all madness,
Betty xXX

Codswallop

= Such a stupid British word heehee =

Anyway, the coolest compliment has been paid to me: a fan (? A cool australian gal anyways) thought my blog were pages out of a book. That rules...either my life is that interesting or/and up to a point my writing is that good, and that is only a compliment, so cheers #Megan# - get a blog! Its free and your life sounds cool. So there.

Anyway, back to previous weird post...well, yeah I didn't eat till 9pm when I had a bowl of malted wheats and I felt so gross I just wanted to throw it all back up. It wasn't too hard really - I was out of the door and at Oxfam there's nothing to eat anyway, and you're so cold because the door's open and so you just drink loads of ribeana and everything is just fine. Then I ran out of the shop into Dad's car to go househunting with my aunties and we went round this mini Palace of Minos (lots of little rooms you can't do anything with, not particularly a maze) in Staines, and just looking round Surrey until we went to Feltham. Now, if you don't know this place, no worries - its famous for an infamous young offenders institution: therefore crime. But this is all from one council estate which is being knocked for a shopping centre.......