What Your Soul Sings: The 243rd Chapter of My Life (okay, blog)

At this moment, everything hurts. Some skin came off my ankle yesterday and it smarts when I touch it, which is all the time because feet get a lot of use, I'm tired because I'm not sleeping and I'm depressed but at least I'm rebelling by not taking that damn Prozac - none of it - it fucked me up more than most things that have actually happened to me.(I should mention I have this now too. The label list gets longer. My status declines.) Also, my throat is feels blocked and raw because I've made myself throw up for the last 6 days (Saturday could be excluded...this post will expose the truth later. OOH.) after most of my meals. Even Dad is starting to move past the inexplicable veil of Denial:

"Betty, why are you throwing up everyday? You never eat that much either."
"What do you mean Dad? I didn't throw up yesterday. Or the day before that - the only day I threw up last week was from the party, remember?"
"Oh yes...of course. How silly of me. I must be getting old."
"Well, you are 47."
"I'm 21 actually!" (We laugh. It's an old routine, whether we're talking about Syphilis, family deaths, films or eating disorders.)

This is how it works. We talk about something obvious, like me avoiding meals, or the sound of me retching, or stuff I forget to clean up etc. Dad asks what's going on and I point blank lie, I say there is no problem - I say that I am fine, "perfect", even. Dad takes it in, however slyly, or snarky as he wants to I don't care because then we have a joke and there's no tension and I don't have to talk about icky things like shoving sick down the sink and choking on bits of spaghetti and spewing out cold water and ice cream and talk about how much easier its getting and how much harder it is to keep things down and not have a panic attack about it, or how I have a new fear of blocking up the sink and the bath and the toilet and the shower and not just getting caught with a plunger but not being able to get rid of the food either. Things I don't want anyone to care about because they'll get hurt, if not grossed out.

At the moment I'm submerged in some other strange kind of sorrow. I feel a shivery kind of numb, then I feel so warm, all over except for some invisible place inside which stays so cold. My right ear is numb, hehe. And its miseries with pleasantries, on a trip to that bloody Motel where I end up every year. This year I see to be taking an exeedingly long amount of time. But I wouldn't mind staying in the real world for the next couple of months just so I can remember something properly in the month of June. One of those gorgeous snapshot memories - you remember the weather, the wet sand between your toes, smell the sea and the fruit and the cocktails. You remember the layout of the hotel you were staying in. And most of all you remember why you remember it so well - it was the last time you went swimming, were in Jamaica, you were happy. You remember who told you to remember it and your Aunty's life flashes past your eyes...

Isn't that how autobiographies are made, what each blog is - a skilled chapter of ones' life? For it is true that everyone has a novel inside of them, even if it is a 12 page dictation of their own life, as even if it is a dull life - and most are - and it turns out you didn't actually believe in anything at all contrary to popular belief and it was really just sanity, survival and sanctity (where you're told what to believe and you never really discover it for yourself) because autobiographies are so important. In the only memorable, palpable form of expression and recycled examples of life imitated onto art, our stories may be the only thing we have.

Where did this thought come from? Rich sent me a text asking how I was, and when I realised how grim things were, I almost didn't text him. Might be why I'm slow to be emailing Nik. I just want them to do justice to my friends and be happy...

I give up. I'm going to bed.

My Second Blog Birthday

Thankfully, my head has become a little clearer. I'm talking to people again. I'm making jokes again. I'm flirting again (I've found this total Indian Curvy Cutie - no idea if shes straight or taken though :S ) Things in my crazy life, are starting to become quite normal again. For this I'm glad.

Anyway, this is only a mini post. I'm just wishing a happy day for myself and any others in the same sticky, tough, molten spot as I am....And hoping for Blog-a-versary comments! Hint, Hint, Hint! Honestly, I can't be any more shameless if I spread my legs open or something...

Or second thoughts, lets burn that moment. Ok? Gone? Good! Now comment!!

I'm Not Dead

At the moment I'm going through a rough patch. I'm having trouble coping with this rough patch because I can't find anybody to really help me out apart from KT Tunstall who seems to interpret my feeling perfectly at this moment, for which I'm grateful. My feelings have been shoved into a jam jar and I don't feel, well, safe enough to let them all out. Hence, I feel as hollow as those giant great dead Redwood logs, making lots of noise as they go down, down down.

Anyway! Events:

• I'm now on Prozac. This gross liquid stuff thats full of sugar and is turning my life upside down. I'm stuck in this strange place between extreme hunger and extreme nausea and I can't seem to find a balance between the two so I've almost stopped eating altogether. This feels good, but it means I can't concentrate on my studies and my grades are beginning to slip. And then I slip altogether and eat like everything in sight. I'm going to become so fat, so gluttonous, so disgusting, so foul. I know it will happen, and the inevitability of it all makes me want to drive off a cliff.
• Part of the Prozac effects mean that I'm becoming quite an insomniac. I just don't feel like sleeping. I didn't sleep at all for one night, just staring at the computer screen, crying, thinking about hurting myself, crying, crying, crying. I slept for 2 hours and felt like shit for the rest of the week.
• I'm starting to give up relating to people. I'd rather just hide in my room, drink beer and whisky and read books all day. I would happily waste away like this.
• The thing is, I still want to succeed, but I'm doubting everything about me. Really, everything. If I will get a girlfriend, if I'm as clever as I used to be, if I can get through this, if I'm a good writer (I got snubbed at this years College Creative Writing Competition)

I'm not great, am I? I would love to just stay in bed and not get out, and I thought the Prozac was supposed to help with that. I got it 11 days ago. I feel like exploding. I feel like hurting myself, dying. I feel like I'm going mad. Understandably, I can't work. I have my first exam in like 4 weeks. Haven't revised, haven't devised any sort of plan. I can't coast this year. I'm on the borderline A grade for my two major subjects and I need to put the hours in. Its probably too late to try and get exam sympathy (I'm working on the nerve to talk to my cantankerous well-meaning tutor for the last time). Hmph. I feel like I'm falling.

Because I'm only on half strength of the Prozac I'll only be taking it every other day. I finish college this week. My 18th birthday is in exactly 2 weeks. My friends birthday party and my Granddad's 80th (my Grandparents Silver anniversary) are on this Saturday. I will never forget this week. I'm only able to write this all now because I was going quite crazy, and anxious, having near panic-attacks, scratching, seeing things - seeing voices, spiders, snakes, laughing bitches...

No, I'm not dead, but this isn't living either. I need help, and not the professional kind.

The Kinky Art of Convention

(Copyright of Betty B. Cite website address and name if you want to use my photos :)
"Vast vistas of dreams and possibility will seem as real as the chair you're sitting on."

This was my horoscope for today, my Dad's birthday. He doesn't know I'm writing a blog so there's no picture of him. He loved my present (Spanish learning pack), and we hugged and I was late for history again, but that doesn't matter so...

No, I was wondering about conventions, about what you're supposed and not supposed to do. Who told you that? Because it's almost always a "they", and who is "they"? The way I see it, sometimes I can't get up in the mornings or talk to people or enthuse myself into studying (or not). Yet I know I'm doing it all wrong. I just wouldn't mind understanding why. Where did these conventions come from? Who started it all? I can only wonder.

Today I returned from my gay youth club sabbatical to find old friends there. Woo-hoo. It made me burst with happiness that they just let me be. I needed that. Sometimes I swear I forget I'm a lesbian and I feel completely out of place all over again. I talk to some of my gay friends and they've done the whole rock n roll, sex, death and drugs thing, and are quite blase and jaded before they've reached 18. How am I supposed to be excited where all the excitement has all gone? Whenever I tell them I've been single like, forever they see it as a terrible, terrible thing. And yeah, it would nice to have somebody to kiss and sleep in with and covet, but right now I'm just not looking of that because I'm just not that bothered. Should I be because I'm a teenager?

And bloody uni. We're told to expect everything to be magical, and we know that we will be told to follow such abstracts objects such as our hearts and know what we want right now is what we may want for the rest of our life, despite such a very very difficult decision this is for us right. Oh! They know, all right. I mean, does everyone know what they're supposed to do? Do you know that when you say hi to someone you say hi back, or that you don't have hash brown and bacon sandwiches, or that if you dress different the other kids will always laugh at you (I've perfected my "fuck you" stare. Fuck 'em. I don't even look that different). When did I get told this? Why? I mean, I guess is what normal is and so nobody knows, really.

I mean I've made my university and I'm more scared than I've been for a while. Because when you leave your friends, even it is for a week, then you don't recognise them and they don't recognise you. And whats a born and bred London girl to do up North? (Manchester uni I've chosen, yep.) Even if I stalk my friends via MSN messenger, will they be completely different people when I come back? Can you ever really keep in touch with people you don't see for a while? It's happened to me before. I've had really good, budding friendships before I go on holiday for a week, and when I come back they've become friends with someone else and I never get a look-in ever afterwards. For the first time in years I've made some real friends who I want to know and share my life with for a good while, and I don't want to lose that because I need my best friend. So I'm equally scared and liberated, and truly, those are two most challenging states someone can encounter.

A Weekend of Domestic Pleasures

A photo from about a month ago in Aldwych. Doesn't London have such charming lampposts? I'm really getting into the photography thing. On Thursday I found a stray pair of number plates and I've been taking lots and lots of pictures with them. At the moment its part of the furniture and my family have been duly contacted and concerned. Dad thinks I'm pregnant. Never mind that I'm a lesbian, whenever I eat weird things like peanut butter and banana sandwiches its his natural reaction...

I've spent quite a bit of time with him this week, with my doctors' appointment and the last two days. On Friday I saw my wonderful friend Anna and made her my nut-nutella cake which got lapped up. I got a bit drunk and was home by midnight which I think is pretty sensible for someone about 6 weeks away from her 18th. (How scary is that? Me, a walking and talking real-life, responsible adult.) As my title said, it was dedicated to home life. I tidied my room, made stir fries, got my own freeview box (a sort of satellite-lite), two pairs of trainers. Dad got his plant pot and his freeview box and scart plugs and some more bulbs.

This weekend of domestic pleasures has given a lot to think about, not to mention my Dad. He's turning 47 on Wednesday (any ideas for a present?) and then off to America for a job he hates. He realises that frankly, he's hated all of his jobs since he was 16 and needed to help pay Grandma's mortgage. The weekend has always been too short, the rewards never substantial, the free time fragile and almost imaginary. Dad tells me that now this is the first time he has real free time, where he is not simply pressing for survival among other, smaller domestic pleasures. I mean, domestic pleasures make everything that little bit easier, and frankly its more manageble than any of that true love and friendship stuff. So I'm thinking up hobbies and drawing up a booklist to have him read for pleasure (this conflict had started with my late Aunt Jenny). Shall he read books or learn landscaping? Would languages or photography show him what he's been missing? Dad has no idea. He's at a new chapter, and I'm certainly watching that space.

For me, this weekend of domestic pleasures. Now that I can see it so clearly it feels foolish to descrie my time before its realisation, so foolish...

It's easy to say that time runs away from me. It is traumatised, terrified of me, wary of I, pitiful and confused. That must be why time moves so fast - why the afternoon only last a few given moments, how weeks meld into a few golden shite moments. And I panic because the faster it moves the less I can keep up. How can I compete with time and ill mental health? If you're fat, or a slow walker you'll understand how damning and isolating it is when you can't keep up with the pace of the people you're walking with at their pace. How you can't engage in real conversation because you're all breathless, and you can't take photographs of your walk and sometimes they don't even realise how fast they're walking. When you try to piece back moments they're all blended and you can't remember; theres nothing to take from it. And that is my life. A fat girl who can't keep up and ends up missing out on everything as life and golden moments and snapshots and events blunder by on a rolling stone. And there is nothing I can do with that gem, although I see more clearly than I've ever done before. It's time to accept this fat girl and take life at her own pace, methinks. I think this poem I wrote a couple of weeks ago helpa. You can skip this bit, but I can write.

I’m not myself and I don’t know how to be;
I’ve locked myself in, I don’t want to be free -
Please -
Let me live and love myself
Intermittently, randomly, unproductive yet vibrantly
I’m not entirely sure how I got this way
But I found myself lost in a sea of faces
In the blank tornado of time, and I’m on the brink
Precariously, constantly backtracking to the mess
Behind me
Wondering when my life is real or when it’s
Just a dream
As I recline back on a chair or whatever else,
Lazily philosophising on my own...
No, I’ve not grown at all.

There, that wasn't so bad was it? My life has been otherwise eventless. My thoughts otherwise blurred and ergo pointless, but the music has improved. I'm now listening to Led Zepplin, Lily Allen, The Kooks and Wolfmother along with the eternally delectable Regina Spektor. I've also bagged my birthday treat of Hyde Park Calling (Razorlight, Roger Waters, Texas, The Zutons - should be a good couple of days.)

And now, we have a new feature. Favourite All-Time Snaps of the Day (FATS). Just to show off my *erm* photography prowess. FATS 1 -

Gorgeous 16th century church and graveyard. Black and white digital filter. Good weather. What more can you ask for?

I really like this one because its blurred at the edges, which makes a little mystical and these gates look ancient. They're always open, waiting for someone to come in.

And finally, our Unassuming Bus Passenger. (Great subjects for a rookie like me. Unassuming, casual and fun.)

I'm a little annoyed it didn't focus properly but I think it has an emotional value to it. And here ends thy blog. I hope you liked the photos, poem, etc. Let me know - I am a comments whore!! Hahahaha

Back to Blogland Part 1

Miss me?

I doubt it. Maybe. Maybe you did miss me. Checked my page every other day hoping for new news, new developments in this busy old life of mine. Probably not.

Do you like this photo? It's me! Betty in action after a couple of Caprihinas (yum!) in Wembely - not my hometown in Northwest London, but a British bar in Southern Italy! Most of my hiatus has been spent in the Bay of Naples as part of my college's Classics and Italian class trip. Overall I've had a really good time even though I've lost my mobile (I've a temporary one, although the whole effect has been liberating and isolating as a whole) and had chocolate melt in my bag and needs to be washed. From Monday 3 April until Saturday the 8th was spent with good old Ric who fixed up my camera so I could take more pictures, looked after me (although I smoked - twice!) and carried my bags when I let him. The trip would have been unbearable without him. We went to Rome were we visited the forum and the Colesseum. Heres the first picture I took of the trip:

Thats how Italy looked for most of the time: pure blue and rustic, and very Italian. The Italians weren't very friendly, unfortunately. Most of the street people stared at my boobs, but it may have been because I was one of the 4 black people I saw on the trip, and the darkest of those. I don't think the Italians are racist (Rics opinions differ...) just pervy! Most of the time it was "Sex, no beach, ah?" whenever I ordered Sex on the Beach. Where did we go? Pompeii, Paestum, some other Vesuvius town (that still has original glass!!!) with Hercules in the title. Ric, being Wonder Boy was my lecturer for the trip, with his extensive knowledge on Etruscans and Roman architecture and what was real and what was not and periods...Took tons of pictures, but I'm setting up a flickr account for the pictures without my full face in it that all can revel in my skilllz. And, during the day I satisfied the inner classical student, at night me and Ric went out with the other students in our year (only 4 of us) and went out drinking, having a laugh, negotiating dangerous roads because the Italians really are crazy-ass drivers - they drive out of nowhere and it takes a special sort of pedestrian to sort it out.

I loved going on walks (well...my group were always faster than me) up the streets looking for supermarkets that were small and smelt of sweet fruit. It just seemed more natural that way. And we were by the sea so in the morning you could smell it and it was wonderful even though you could never find your way down there...Some more pictures:

When I got back home, I was physically and mentally exhausted. Physically because I climbed a mountain, although dying on the way it was one of the best things I've done. Mentally because I was cutting a lot and couldn't figure out why. And because I was with Ric a lot and wanted to get deeper with him I wrote him a letter, telling him how long I've been doing it and why. I'm never so good at letters and so writing him a letter about my cutting when I feeling more vulnerable than usual was very scary. But I gave it to him. At the airport when we reached the departures hall he stalked off and left the A2s and me, confused. After buying our chocolate (and briefly losing my passport. My bad luck had been rife during this trip!) When we found him he looked more tired and distressed than usual and he was rubbing his eyes and hair. When we got a quick private moment he told me he'd read the whole thing. Should I make the connection? I don't know. All I remember of the letter is the first line - This is not a happy letter...

People flooded onto the plane and we on the opposite ends so I couldn't say anything else which was driving me mad. I ended up spilling hot tea on myself and because I couldn't clean myself up as I was stuck at the end almost sent me into shock. (no major burns, though - don't worry!) Took more pictures on the plane... But when we finally flew into England, with all the small lights and the nighttime coast, flying over Clapham and Twickenham stadium, not only did I feel at home, but my head was about to burst because I had a cold and the pressure was bloody immense. Ric cheered me up with paper aeroplanes (which hit others hilariously) and on the bus to the terminal after the wind whipped my skirt up. He had no questions - had nothing else to say really but we were good. We were better than good. When I finally found a payphone and talked to Dad after a week I almost cried, but the waterworks really sprang up when me and Ric parted ways - he was taking the train, I had a Dad to pick me up. He didn't see me cry, thank God, but I was lost and tired I really did feel lost without him helping me out. What had he done to me, the miserable sod?! (His girl wasn't talking to him - for no reason, crazy bitch)

Sigh...I was home now. Dad was, and is quite ill with the flu. He didn't go to the doctors and now he got this racking 'smokers' cough for the next few months apparently. He was coughing up blood and everything, but refused to get help because the house was messy, which I believe reflects parents the world over, right? Aaargh! It was only because the woman of the house - me - was off ignoring Italian men all week. My brother proved himself worthy against rude bus drivers and eating Whoppers and powder mash fries in front of Match of the Day (it was snowing in April!!) I felt right at home, exceptionally tired. And my bed? Just right. Globetrotting is tough shit! :)

The Bee

So, part 2 of my bumper edition blog post today is about Saturday, April Fools 2006. I'm afraid everything I'm about to tell you is true because I don't have to time right now because I haven't long to plan everything before I jet off to Italy for next week. I mean some people celebrate the end of big assignments with a cool pint; some go clubbing for all hours and some just sleep it off, yet I decide to try and plan/salvage my life - again. I have at least one or two of these days each year since...11 and I wouldn't have it any other way because I'm a closet control freak.

So, my day started at 8 am which was quite painful on a Saturday morning. But I was up and forsook breakfast packing essentials for a long day out: cash and cashcard, books for the train and a notebook and pen for whatever would happen for the rest of the day.

There's this new 'project' my friend has set up to start our own history magazine - I can't give you the name or address because then my cover would be completely blown which is a shame because I'd love people to check it out. Me my friend and these two other guys I barely know (one I know as Supreme Regina Spektor Fan so we're friends for life, and the other guy I know now is as geeky as me and lives outside of Zone 3) and went into Starbucks and had our first meeting as the "team", I guess. It involved a lorra laughs and hot chocolate and history gossip about Roman emperors and Monarchy and Hobbes and we were all on the same wavelength which made our ideas much easier and I was very reluctant to leave in the end but along with this new project I had to plan my career. Lol. I know. I 'm 17 I shouldn't have to plan this stuff but society forces us to make all these wrong choices when we don't even know who we are or what we "plan" to eat next week.



So anyway - journalist internships, heading features, big-ass media conferences, editing, working with art galleries, public speaking - its all coming up over the summer! So, on the 341 bus patting myself on the back for doing everything I needed to do when I got a text from my faghag Max and we went to the cinema in Kingston (only 30 minutes from Waterloo) and saw Failure To Launch which wasn't as tragic as I thought it would be and it was funny, but I wanted a lot more from SJP's roommate who was toxic but cool. (If I ever produced a movie it would be dark, funny and evil. Though maybe not as dark as Requiem For A Dream which fucked me up for the night).

I arrived an hour before the film and we just talked and cackled but we were both exhausted. I felt for him - he cried at this bit in the film where the Mom was talking about her husband which I understood because his Mum died last year in November (he went to school the next day. I hadn't seen him cry before then, it's just the guy he is, and he's in the year below me). Anyway on the bus we had 40 minutes to rest before we got to his house and he slept for most of it - I have a habit of chattering away too much when I'm tired and it was nice to mother him and let him sleep on my shoulder because I was always at a loss for what I could do for him. We got to his house and it was very nice, very white with fake white petals in a bowl and doilies even though its just him, his brother, sister and the gay straight-acting male ballet dancer that lives with them now. All the time I spent with him a lot of it was him trying to get me to stay over - I just don't know how deep the friendship runs so I kept saying no...it was just be us the whole night and that can get boring. I felt bad leaving because he was all alone in the house and he had no one to see you could tell he felt unloved. But I left, and got home at 11pm after planning to get home at 3pm so I could do some shopping and all of my homework. Fat chance now, I have to do it tonight, gahness. So I have to go pronto and if I don't a chance to post I'll see y'all April 9th.

Comment and stay beautiful!