The Truth

The truth is that I’ve told a lot of lies lately, too many to count on my fingers…

I lied to my therapist as to why I couldn’t make my last session. I lied to my mum as to where I was going that day. Simply, I had gotten to the point where I didn’t need her words telling me I smile when I’m nervous and I have issues because anyone that knows me well enough could’ve told me that. And I can’t tell mum I’m skipping my sessions because I know she knows I’m not better and she has to think I want to get better, or she’ll worry.

I lied to my best friend when I told him everything is fine. See he’s on holiday having a great two weeks away from me, except from the fact that he’s missing his girlfriend like crazy. She’s my other best friend. He ensured I’d cut things off with the boy who brought me pain and I wasn’t lying then, but I had to make out like I thought I was better off without him.

I lied to the boy I’m falling in love with when I told him I’m not scared or worried that he’s a psychopath. I love him all the same because nothing can change how far these feelings reach, but I’m scared of loving him, because of what he can be. Whether it’s the false charm, the manipulation or the lying, I will never know. I know I shouldn’t love him but I can’t help it. His dark hair and eyes on his tanned skin, his husky voice, his nicknames for me, his posh accent that slips a little when he uses slang, his arms wrapped tight around me, his lips on mine… These things all draw me closer. And he’s been away the last three weeks, but the longer he’s gone, the more helplessly I fall.

I lied to my friend when I told her I was happy to be alive again, that I was okay again. Maybe I’m okay but things aren’t all well or how they were before everything happens. I lied when I told her I was wearing all my bracelets because I felt summery and they didn’t rub on paper when I wrote. I lied when I told her they were only old scars and I wasn’t hiding any. But I didn’t lie when I smiled, because it was one of the best nights of my life and for once, I forgot about things for a little while.

The worst part is I lie to myself too much- I tell myself different stories in my head to cover up the appalling things I’ve done. The way I look up and down in the mirror, I pull at my arms and my stomach and tell myself I’m ugly but that evening I’ll tell myself I told myself I looked beautiful, to try and comfort the hardness of my heart. It’s probably compulsive and excessive, but now I can’t help it and I wonder if I too, am becoming a psychopath, just like him, and now we’re one of a kind.

I don’t know if that helps or makes it worse because people look down on people like him and I, but for once I can be at peace with myself because I am like him, and he likes me and he sees me as indifferent. And I don’t know how bad that’s going to get, or how scared I’ll be, or even how soon I’ll decline. But I know I won’t beg myself to stop or to be happy because that’s caused me way too much heartache for my liking.

Summer Break

So yesterday my summer break began…

School finished at 12:30 after the big assembly as usual and I’d even been nominated for one of my subject awards. Following “the big assembly”, I hung around for a few minutes, saw an old friend and then proceeded to leave for my friend’s house so we could begin to get ready for the evening.

I went to work with her for an hour, in which we cycled round the village hills delivering prescriptions for the pharmacy. Most of the hills were steep and large, but I told myself that this was simply another way which would contribute to my daily exercise; something that’s become very important lately in the way of changing my current body image. It was tiring and dragged out, and I wasn’t exactly wearing attire suited for the situation, but we made it, I had a shower and we left for the party.

Her mother remarked on the lack of clothing I was wearing, at which point she said “Did you forget to put on a skirt?”. I plastered on a fake smile, followed by a fake laugh, only to be followed by a judgemental look as I got into the car. Suddenly, my outfit wasn’t such a good idea such a good idea any more, and my heart was sinking fast towards my feet.

The night to follow was a good laugh, and I thoroughly enjoyed it, but something wasn’t right because my best friend wasn’t there. For the past week, myself alongside her boyfriend have had the task of telling everyone she’s too ill to be in, and it’s been tough- partly because I missed her and partly because I hated lying to my friends, but needs must.

However, now my summer can begin. The beginning of a peaceful, stress-free 6 weeks to be filled with partying, work and working out. I have to hope that everything will sorts itself out and come together in the coming weeks, or I don’t know how I’ll make it. I intend to make it the best it can be- going to festivals, going to parties, relaxing with friends…

But who knows whether that will happen. Everyone else can afford to go on holiday to beautiful places, leaving me here, only seeing them intermittently. So, this summer I’m going to have to find a way to make new friends so I’m not lonely

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.

My best friend

I’m sat in school, a table of friends around me. They laugh and smile each other as they gossip about mindless things and who likes who today while I complete my biology homework with my headphones on.
In my world, music plays and all people are silent. Frequently I check my phone as I’m talking to a friend who left school after we had double biology together this morning. And we discuss each other’s suicide, how we’d do it, why we’d do it and just how much we need each other.
He calls me his best friend and says if I go, he’s going too. It breaks my heart. I feel the tears welling in my eyes and my hands begin to shake, yet no one sees it. My heart feels like it’s shattered inside my chest. I hit the floor….
And when I come around some time later, I’m on the cold ground and faces are staring down at me. They’ve seen the scars on my arms and I know it’s too late. They ask questions, pry into my mind but get nothing in return. All I can do is let myself shiver in fear and stare into space as I dread his suicide, his last words. Things begin to blur, but this time they return to focus and pain plagues my mind. I imagine him with the knife, his choice of saviour, as it slices cleanly into his vein and blood begins to pour. Soon, the floor is covered in this ruby red liquid and he’s lying there cold, stone cold.
He reminds me of my lost brother in so many ways and it hurts so much to imagine him dead.
He is selfless and full of fear. A child dying inside, yet living for his dreams. He is someone I never hope to lose for he has pulled from deaths arms many a time, been the one who realises I’m suffering and puts down everything to be my saviour. He just listens and we talk like no one else is around, even in a room full of people, and with him, I’m fearless and happy.
He’ll never realise my gratitude for him, for his kind and understanding soul, or for his words, but nonetheless, I thank god for this blessing upon me- a lamp full of oil that burns bright in the shadow of the night. I thank god everyday that he sent a saviour so I might begin to live and to love again. I thank him for his time and devotion to a pathetic, little girl who is so drained of hope and beaten down that she doesn’t know what life is anymore.
So need I say it? I love him eternally.
But for him, I shall live. I shall live in pain, but I shall maximise my life, even at the highest of costs for friends are an invaluable treasure who cannot be replaced, and once lost, lost forever in a void.
And that, is a thought I dread to face.