Stress

I’ve been stressing a lot lately, perhaps unnecessarily or perhaps because I’m too afraid. I won’t tell you I’m afraid, I’ll simply play with my hands, crack my knuckles, fidget in my chair and zone out because I don’t want to be deemed as weak and I don’t want you to see.

I don’t want you to see the pressing anxiety, or the panic attacks or the howling of my cries in the night as I press my head against my pillow or yell out the window. I don’t want you to see the dark, empty night reflecting in my eyes as the tears roll or the cold light of day as I close the door on a cupboard and hunch to the floor, quietly sobbing.

Because if you knew, you’d never look at me the same. You think you will, but I can’t prepare you enough for the words that with stick and slowly trickle from my mouth, with the back-stabbing feeling, with the disbelief. If you knew, you’d pretend we were fine and you wouldn’t tell other people so you’d bottle it up and later think to yourself “what has she become?” and not even in your thoughts would I be able to provide an explanation.

I’ve been stressing over exams, over failure, over disappointment, over being a drop-out, being a self-conscious person, being a worrier, being me. The exams determine the rest of my life- a single grade says whether I continue my education and whether I will go to university and therefore whether I’ll ultimately end up where I want to be.

And  I really thought that the distancing from social media and writing my blog could help, but apparently it doesn’t. When I don’t see all the bikini bodies on my news feed, I hear the mockery in the corridors and hold my head low. When I don’t see the notifications appear in the top right corner, I stare at my arms and I wonder why; why I let this begin and fall past me so quickly.

It clearly became obvious because now I’m being forced to see a counsellor once a week and it’s funny because they actually seem to think it might work. It might work to make me pry deep into myself and look for memories or a reason, but inevitably, it won’t because it won’t work to sit in that cold room for an hour, broken and falling apart. This woman thinks she can understand when she hears a solitary “yes” or “no” here or there, or the looks in my eyes because even when I tell her I’m empty, she pursues it anyway, showing hope she might magically unlock something, some feeling from somewhere in there, somewhere in the soul I’m doubting I have these days.

So my posts are gradually are becoming less and less frequent because I’m doing everything to keep myself as busy as I can, before I can start to think. I’m hoping it will work in my favour- that I’ll develop a more rounded outlook and a skinnier stomach. Maybe, just maybe I’ll make it happen.

But it’s slowly becoming more and more difficult to find the words for something so complex and dark.

What Keeps me Going

Too many times, I ask myself why I bother- really, what’s the point? And for too long, I couldn’t reply; I simply looked at myself, up and down in the mirror and put music on to drown out my howling, crying soul.

But for the first time, I’m starting to see why I gathered up the courage to go into that counsellors office, and although it offered me no respite, there were many reasons I carried on to return. There are reasons I cut, but there were reasons I never let the noose get too tight or the knife sink too deep, just like there are reasons I got out of bed, put on my long sleeve shirt and a half- hearted, weary smile.

Why? Because there’s there burning willingness or perhaps even desire in my heart to persevere somewhere inside a subconscious that seems to thrive while I sleep, as that’s when I’m at my happiest. There’s this hope that even when it was superlative, I was wrong. I was wrong to think I should be there not here, a hope that I would survive somehow, even when I hated life and its’ entirety and now there’s this hope that I will exceed, and I’m all too grateful that I stuck around.

I’m grateful to Sarah, because even though her scars were still burning and sore, she kept on giving. She kept on with her beautiful, courageous soul and somehow conjured up the time for someone so insecure and insufficient like me. I’d cry on the phone for hours and her voice would be trembling, as if she was on the edge too, but she’d bravely wipe her eyes and talk me down. She maintained a life of her own, full of unnecessary pain and hurt, and held mine up too; a life that needed constant nourishment and care.

I’m grateful to Olivia, because when she told me she loved me, she saved me that night. I had everything ready before me and had cut of all other conversations and those three little words came from someone who meant and still does mean everything to me and I couldn’t be so cruel. I couldn’t be cruel enough to leave my best friend to do this alone and I know I didn’t say it because I was selfish, but I love her so much, more than she knows. And I appreciate every thing, no matter how big or small, that she has done for me since day one.

And because of these people, I can now sit my AS level exams and proceed with my life. I can see where roads lead and search for my purpose. I can go for summer evening drives with my friends and have picnics by river and listen to the birds singing and the rush of the river between my toes. I can feel love and hope, rather than despair and fear.  I can take my life somewhere, knowing that I’ve been in the gutter but I have people that care about me enough to sacrifice everything.

And that, is what keeps me going.

Gone In The Morning

Every night before bed, I pray to God. I ask him to watch over my mother, and to send a guardian angel to guide her, as she’s gotten rather lost. She says things, she does things never used to and she doesn’t say the things or do the things that she used to. The only regularity in her life is waking at 5 am to walk the dog, feed him, sort the house and be gone around 7:30, as I do and in the evening, she returns around 6 pm by which time I’m either in the gym or at rowing and eats her dinner, studies and watches the television- we barely talk.

Most nights, I cry. I cry silently some nights, and others I scream out and howl, as if there’s a demon inside me being slowly freed, from the depths of my lungs, clearing my clouded conscience. I open the window in the dead of night and simply stare at the moon, allowing the moonlight to illuminate my pale face and make my red eyes sore and the cold to sink into my lungs, to tighten my chest and chill me thoroughly. My dog lays on the floor asleep and blissfully unaware on his pile of pillows and duvet; his legs move as if he’s running and he barks softly, under his breath. He looks so utterly peaceful and happy.

Then I draw the curtains shut and close the window in its’ hinge. In the darkness, I seek out the familiarity of my happy place; I don’t use my hands to feel and the moonlight has long since left my bedroom so I don’t use my eyes either. I know the room well enough to only need my fingers to gently pry open the drawer on my jewellery cabinet and to remove the razor from the third drawer down. My fingers gently trace the circular handle as I close it again, getting slower and my feet turn on the spot and I’m staring at my bedroom wall.

I reach out a hand to touch the wall which is braced with the cold of the night time breeze which hit it moments ago, and my fingers run between every photograph, every memory displayed before me and I apologise to every face I see, because I’m not the person they think I am; I’m not the person I wish I was, nor will I ever make them proud to have known me. So, I sit silently on my bed, as the springs creak to accommodate for my weight and I look my best friend in our favourite photo in the eye…

I tell her I love her, I tell her she gave me life like I never knew, I tell her she was the only thing keeping me alive. I apologise because I hurt her when I cut or burnt or scolded, I apologise because she gave more than I could ever give. I show her my arms and say to her:

“Look, honey. Look how clean they began to look. I started to look half normal. Remember the day when it was too hot and I forgot I was wearing a short sleeve t-shirt because it didn’t burn so much and I took off my jumper and you just looked at me? I felt your heart sink, as I let your fragile heart drop from my hands where I had kept it so safe for so long, as I sheltered you. I felt the despair welling in your heart and I felt it reach your eyes and I knew the pain of with holding the tears.

And after that, I stopped wearing short tops and you were the only one that noticed- I only saw you every six weeks or so, but you somehow knew I was different and when we hugged at Waterloo station, you’d rub my back like my mother did to soothe me when I was young, as if to tell me it’s alright, I’m safe once more.

But, tonight won’t be the night I stop cutting, and I’m sorry. You’ll think I’m not, but I am, I promise.

Because I don’t want to be here tomorrow… Can’t we run away? Anywhere except here, please.

But, that’s not going to happen. And  I’m sorry.

I wish I could show you Rome, or Greece, because it would have been perfect, and maybe I will. I just don’t know right now.

Sweet dreams.”

The tears bead and roll once more on my un-moisturised cheeks. I lift it to my skin, on my stomach or my legs, the tears subside and I let the blood run for a while, before squeezing a towel tight onto the cut.

I ask God if he’ll take me tonight, or maybe even tomorrow. If it’ll be quick and painless, or if I have to suffer to pay for giving up so soon. I ask if he’ll just let me think I fell asleep that night and never woke up, and whether he’ll allow my mother some peace. Whether he’ll keep her here a little longer to love my brother and see him into adulthood, and then let her drift away calmly when her time comes.

My head rests in my hands, as I rub my temples. A headache takes effect and I roll over to lay on my side, cuddling my teddy. I beg him that tonight was the last time and I read over the letter to my best friend and each one to every person I love and I sob gently as hopefully, tonight was the last time.

I fall asleep soon after.

It’s been a while

It’s been a while since I last wrote, months in fact.

If you have ever suffered with depression, you will understand the lack of feeling, or conversely, the numbing pain and sadness that manifests. And that manifestation is aloud to grow; whether it’s you drawing blood for the first time in days or weeks, or distancing yourself, or allowing yourself to consider life without you in the picture, it’s a brutal battle. Yet, an unpredictable one. One that can leave you with burns, scars or even nothing at all, except the suicidal thoughts among ‘small things’.

Over time, the small things grow, or accumulate like that of a cancerous tumour- it can be one that is allowed to cause mutations within one cell that was destined for doom, or it can be one that slowly overrides every cell cycle in every cell in the surrounding tissue. Eventually, that’s going to kill you if you don’t treat it, isn’t it? But that treatment will leave cannula scars, injection prints, scars from the whole procedure, and it’s all necessary to rid the problem, however there’s every likelihood it will return, and it chips away a little more each time.

The last few months have been the worst few yet, and I told my best friend how I’d been feeling over the past year. It was 8pm and I was having normal text message conversations with several friends, but I’d withdrawn my focus from our group chat. In turn, I said goodnight to each one, claiming I was too tired to see the screen any longer and naturally, they believed it.

At 9pm, there were two people I was talking to- Sam; a talented young man with spectacular eyes and a kind soul and Olivia; my best and only true friend. Sam and I were discussing a boy I had recently liked, and a few events that had occurred at a party a few nights before, and it was easy talking to him. Easy in the sort of way that I don’t type out my words to delete them and I don’t hesitate to tap the keys on my phone and easy in the sort of way that I knew that he really cared, but not so easy in the way that he couldn’t quite know, not tonight and not from me.

My conversation with Olivia was a little more complex, however. We had begun the night conversing over this boy and how I honestly wished I didn’t like him, how he had a tight grip on my throat and every time he got close to this girl, every time he looked as though he’d kiss her, he’d curl his fingers a little more and force his palm into my fragile neck. We talked for a while, but the burden of a million lies were wallowing in my head; lies that said “I’m fine” or “honestly, it’s fine” or “really, I don’t like him”.

The weight had now amassed to over 300 days of lies and hurt, over 600 days of suicidal thoughts, and around 400 days of suicidal tendencies, without any release or relief and without any truthful words.

That night, I was crumbling. And every day leading up to it, I was breaking the tiniest amount; it was barely visible unless you knew what to look for. And that night, I didn’t want to tell her, of course I didn’t, because no friend wants to hear that and she’s saved me so many times. She’s picked me up from step one more times than she should, and I shouldn’t be her problem.

Every day I tell myself “you’re not their bother, no one cares anymore”. And somehow it pushes me to the edge of the steepest cliff with crashing waves and a darkness beneath my feet, but at the same time, I’m somehow grounded with a new found strength.

But that night, I played the video that always sends me over the edge with my memory box open on my bed. In that box was, and still is, the knife, the old photographs, the brownie badges, the cards my Dad had sent me filled with money to compensate for his departure, the friendship bracelets and the memories I couldn’t quite put to bed. In my hand was my hand written note, pages long and a memoir to each friend I’d ever loved, and everyone that simply had no clue.

The tears were forming in my eyes as I told her “I just can’t, I don’t want to be here any more. It’s cruel keeping me here and I don’t care if it’s slow, if it takes hours, just as long as I won’t have to open my eyes after the pain passes”.

To which, she solely replied “But I love you.” And I couldn’t hold myself together any longer because I had let it come out, even when the words should have stuck deep in my throat, because I’d let down a girl that loved me.

I need not say that those words kept me alive, and for the coming hours they were all I could consider, for I, the needy, pathetic, ugly thing was loved by a girl with the most amazing soul, and beautiful eyes which captured an intelligence I can only dream of.

Over the last few months, I let myself fall into the trap of depression and anxiety, as well as emptiness. About the only time I am not empty is when I’m writing about my death wish, and that saddens me really, because I just can’t be happy. That need not dictate anyone elses happiness though, you this human reading this, you are beautiful and you can be happy.

And why? Because you are neither of those things. You are loved by someone who is blessed to have you, and you need to recognise that. You are not a burden or a waste- you are a character in your own right.

Depression is the worst state of mind because it doesn’t affect one part of your mind; it will take all of you down in one foul sweep. And it will feel like it’s endless and pointless, but that it’s kick- it wants you to give in, but you are not weak. You are most certainly not weak because you fell for a second, you are strong because you stand. You stand a living human, that has a wealth of gifts that you are denying this suffering world and it needs you.

WE need you, and you need us. But we, as a community will thrive and we will not settle for simple survival.

Dosing up

I haven’t been taking my meds lately, and maybe it’s why I’m starting to slowly go crazy again, back to who I used to be.

I haven’t been taking my meds because I want space, and I want freedom. I want to not be held down to some silly medication that’s barely helping anymore.

I look at girls leading happy lives, smiling all the time and being among a thousand friends. Then I wonder why. Just why. And why they’re doing this to themselves; why they’re trying to convince themselves their happy, rather than embracing who they are.

Then i realise, that like me, they create an alternative reality, inside their head to compensate for all the pain they endure in this world we’re doomed to live in. And ultimately, doomed to die in. The tell themselves that they can smile and if it’s convincing their friends, they’ll begin to be happy and feel the joy they’ve longer for; I tell myself to smile to rid my mind of my atelophobia and anhedonia.

Atelophobia is the fear of imperfection or not being enough- in my life I believe it stems from the low self esteem that originates in bullying and mockery. It’s got so bad I can’t look in the mirror and I can’t think about myself. Because in the mirror I see a girl with scars and horrid clothes and scraggly hair with an ugly face and in my mind I see her history.

Anhedonia is simply not finding joy in the things that once made you happy- a sad case but it happens to us all, and it hits some of us hard. For me it’s not finding joy in everyday that upsets me the most. I wish and I pray that I could, but I can’t. I can’t smile at birds singing or friends laughter or any form of wit. The only thing I seem to find any remote form of happiness is other people, and when you can change their lives for the better.

That is what spurs me on.

I guess I haven’t been taking my meds lately because I just want to be normal. I don’t want to be the girl popping pills in order to smile anymore. I don’t want to be the one who visits the nurse every lunch to dose up again.

But I guess I haven’t been taking my meds because I’m ready to give in. But somehow I’m not.

Somehow I’m falling in love. In love with this guy that makes me world complete and just holds me at night in his arms while his fingers wave through my hair and his hand rests on my stomach. In love with this guy when I look into his eyes, he returns the gazes and gives a cute little smile and tells me how beautiful I am.

All of this and somehow he doesn’t want a relationship. He’s never had one and he wants me to convince him. He’s scared of commitment, just like me but he just won’t do it. He’s scared of cheating but we’re so intimate.

Somehow it doesn’t make sense.

So i guess the real reason I’ve stopped taking my meds is because I want him to fall in love back, and this is the last resort.

How else do I make him fall in love with me too? I’m open to suggestion. Because I’m pretty sure I’m close, but not close enough.

And as to how to convince him this relationship will work and last? Please, I’m begging anyone out there to tell me.

Mental illness

The truth is, I’m ill. I’m very ill. I haven’t got a cold, or even the flu- I have a horrible illness called depression.

It cripples great minds and kicks them when they’re down. It catches you up when you’ve run for so long and you’re all out of breath. It sits on your back all day long while you’re at school or with friends, and if only they could see the size of the demon that haunts you, they might realise the strength you have to have just to smile.

Whether you’re alone or surrounded by inviting company, it’s your loyal companion but one you wish would just leave. It’s the friend you put all the effort into and all you get is shit and insults in return. But this is persistent- every day, several times you argue and you fight and you wish for some space. It’s not like there’s a switch that flicks on when someone says something horrible or mocks you- it’s there all the time and you can’t feel happy at all.

Thoughts consume you all day. Not just at night or when you’re starting to fall on the slippery slope, or when the lights are out; it’s in the blinding brightness of day, in the darkness of solitude and in everyone else’s happiness. It’s non- stop.

People say ‘it’s making me so depressed’ when someone doesn’t text back within the hour, but what if you’d constantly been messaging into a void, telling someone to stop all this abuse? That’s depression. It’s yelling with all the air in your lungs at this hole that has no bottom and says nothing in return. The void can’t hear you, it’s like a cut off line that you keep calling to just hear the recorded answer phone message and the voice of that person just one more time. You call and you call, hoping they might pick up and knowing that they won’t, but enjoying their sweet, giggly tones and imagining the smile on their face as they did so.

I imagine my depression as a backpack that’s strapped on so tight it’s hurting my stomach and straining my back to hold it up. It gets heavier by the day as memories fill it and the weight worsens. But you can’t take it off, not even when you’re sleeping and if you open it and try to peek inside, you stare into this emptiness, this black that is unforgiving and just dark. Each year, I might have to change my backpack to accommodate for the extra weight the coming months will bring, and this year it’s one of those army backpacks, with attachments for extras and a waterproof sheet because it can’t be washed away and soon it’s going to overflow. However, this means that next year I can’t buy a bigger bag; it can’t get any worse because if it does, I won’t be able to contain it anymore. This massive rucksack that I hide in my bed every night is already becoming noticeable and I’m afraid that my mothers going to find it soon and open it up to realise how screwed up I am.

Thing is, mental illnesses are laughed at and dismissed all too often. People thing they’re consolations for a sad child that needs something to blame or a worst case scenario and all of the negative stigma that surrounds it is just appalling and worsens it for people like me. Yes, I’m a nutjob, a mental case, a freak but who are you to judge when you don’t even understand? It’s such people that place judgements and prejudices unjustifiably and it’s really not appropriate.

You just don’t know me at all.

A Page For My Community

https://www.facebook.com/polaroidprocrastination

This is the link to my page that will hopefully bring the world together. One day, we will spark a revolution and this is the start.

Last year

2014, you’ve been shit. Utterly shit. You’ve given me hell by the bucketload all year long and you’ve plastered my skin with scars that I still trace lightly with my fingers at night.

You gave me the mark of two years of suffering- two years of marking my skin with my head over the basin. You put me in the darkness and stood on my back whilst I begged for you to let me see the light. But worst of all, you began to drag my friends into the ever growing hole and they’ll never see me in the same way again.

You made me ill- declared by doctors and locked away. The illness began as a small, rather minor one that was so easily overlooked and forgotten, but before my eyes, it manifested and grew until it became extortionate and overwhelming. Regularly, I began to pass out from fear and fatigue and even more regularly, I looked into my darkening soul. In every sunset and every sunrise, I couldn’t smile. I could only look back on the time I was flogged through the night until morning and it ruins my life still.

What hurt the most is when you made her ill too; Abby was so perfect and untouched, so why her? Why do this? It’s just not fair.

You constantly remind me that I lost my best friend the summer before- that pictures are still on the walls and I can’t hear him in his bedroom above. I can’t watch our favourite movies and eat our favourite food without breaking down and dying inside.

You took all I had and left me on the pavement to fend for myself, cold and lonely. People look in and assume my story- that I put myself here and I probably did, but it’s cruel beyond belief.

You opened the book of my life and left it in the worlds library for all to read, for all to be haunted by. For everyone to mock and to laugh about, as I stood speechless.

You left me vulnerable and pleading, crying and hurting and it’s like you didn’t even care. It’s like you wanted me to hurt and be hurt.

But you brought me to realisation. The realisation that I could lead a revolution, I could save the world, I could save so many people and maybe this is my calling. Maybe I’m being called to reach out to every teenager that cowers behind a brave face, every young boy or girl that cuts or burns, every soul that has been touched by pain and despair.

But you are giving me the blunt tools to create a people. A people that will fight for the right to be free, in voice and in being; a people that will bring peace and happiness to every being, to every creature on this earth.

Join with me.

And for this, I am thankful, for I have been salvaged from the wreckage and shall become better for it.

Darkness

The suns currently low over the sky of London, and as I look up, I’m illuminated by the pinks and blues that grace the sky. The clouds have drawn in and hang heavily as my eyelids droop under tiredness’s burden.

I stare my reflection down to see a girl with dark hair, dark eyeliner, dark clothes and dark eyes that ultimately lead to a darkening soul. The girl behind the saddened expression is falling apart so slowly yet so rapidly that no one around her knows. Not a single person that’s brushed her arm today or fallen over her feet. Not a single one.

The hours are long and overdrawn, each one growing longer and pulling me closer to the inevitable. Each minute the heartbeat is fading with each pulse of the hand upon my face- my clock face, a metaphor for time and age itself.

My rucksack beside me sits old and wearily, it’s seams begging to be pulled together and it’s pockets wishing to be empty. It’s full of the past and simply the bare essentials, enough to get by; enough to merely survive.

I beg each day to be healed, to be empty but somehow never gain relief. I long for the days that I can spend in euphoria and just forget. I long to no longer be so fragile, so hurt, so scarred and so full of despair.

But I must carry the weight and remain full and falling apart. I must contain all of the anger and the suffering and pray to be rewarded for my struggles eventually.

Eventually, someone will pull me into his arms so tight and never let go; he won’t hit me or abuse me or hurt me in any way. He’ll love me. Just love me.

Then, I’ll accept being full, but being full with joy and hope that was once courage that encouraged me to pull myself from the darkness that once had me in it’s palm. I fell too many times, but never again.

And falling into that darkness is the scary part- not being there or knowing you’re slipping. You know instantaneously that the halo that once shone above you has been dimmed and the pain you’ll feel when you’re darkened will shut everything out. The falling part is when you can no longer find happiness in the things which once made you joyful- a child laughing, a friendly joke, just being with that someone. The falling part is when you’re at risk, when you’re exposed and vulnerable. But it’s also the time to realise that you’re going to hit rock bottom, but if you do so quick enough, you will get back up and brush yourself off and be better for it. But the darkness is when your skin becomes acquainted with the blade or the barrel and it’s so close. Your friends could reach out a hand at any point, but they also might not. They might let you fall this time and they might laugh when you stand up with bruises and cuts on your face.

Never again will I be in that place.

Boxing Day

I was walking through town browsing Boxing Day sales, seeing families with bags in hands and on arms. I, however, was alone. I also don’t have the money to lavish myself with new clothes and gifts at this time of year.

I see all those happy ensembles and a child screaming with joy as their mother buys them ‘the shoes they always wanted’ but at that age, how do they know that? Agreeably, it hasn’t been long that they’ve been on the planet so it could be plausible, but I doubt so.

However, this Boxing Day, I didn’t see any homeless people on our streets, and that is where I find my joy in these festivities; churches and houses open their hearts to welcome them in, and they are fed. Sadly for only a few days a year. But for now, I can imagine that they are being graced with care and the greatest gift of all.

This year I didn’t ask for anything because I know my mother is struggling with her income. It’s not as bad as it used to be as she’s no longer working two jobs, but she’s putting on a smile so we might too. The suprises she managed for me this year were phenomenal though and to see the look on her face when I opened that envelope and my face lit up was my true Christmas gift.

If only we all could find joy in the simplest of things. If only…