This life is mine, and I am my own

I'm trying to be somebody. I'm not trying to be somebody else.

The pain I am feeling at the moment is indiscribable. I never, ever want to paint myself as vulnerable and insecure. I always want to be the girl who can hold her head up high and shake off all the troubles she has just like water.

You know that accidents happen.

I know that it's not my whole life. These brief bouts of pain that hit me when I'm not fully ready won't last for ever. This is just a rough patch, right? I'm paying psychologically for my mothers problems. I can't blame her for it all though, can I? It's not her fault that she's addicted to something that is slowly destroying her. It's not her fault.

I try and console myself with that. I try and say to myself that she is not in the right state of mind to think about who she is hurting. But this isn't true. Not even slightly. When she picks up that bottle of gin when she gets home from work, she is perfectly sober. She must know she is going to hurt us. She must know just how much she changes from my perfect, loving mother into a monster. How could she not see it?

I'm tired of fighting. I'm fucking tired. I'm tired of being her verbal punchbag. As much as I have wonderful friends no one really knows what it is like. No one has that. Their parents don't morph into unrecognisable people. When mum is drunk she is like a stranger.

Urgh. So this is me. If you stripped me away of my fronts you'd see how lost I was. How I don't know what to do most of the time. How I hurt myself to justify it all.

I hate it. Why can't it not affect me? I wish so much that I could just breeze by and not give two hoots whether she lives or dies. I am almost at peace with the fact that my mother will probably die young due to liver failure, or some other equally horrific disease. I know that she is falling apart, and all the times she goes to the doctors or moans about something to do with her health it is the alcohol that is doing it to her. It's knocking years off her life, but she can't see outside her green bottle.

I'm angry. Yes. I am angry at her for being such a selfish bitch. She doesn't want to see how we hurt. We've fucking begged her to change, to get help. But all she does is turn her back on us. I hate her for it. I hate her so much. Never have a felt so much hate. But then accompanying the anger and the hate is guilt, just as prominent.

I'm sick of feeling.

It's been a long time since I felt so sick

One day I will just implode. All of the thoughts and the feelings will pile on top of me and my mind won't be able to take it anymore. My mind will just collapse. Then all I will become is a dribbling, gibbering wreck. I would like to remain as coherent as possible.

I am trying to be a nice person. I am trying to be friends with this guy who seems to never get it that we can't be a couple. It seems to me that he can't see us as friends, only as a romantic pairing. I do not want this.

In other news, I have to get out of Wolverhampton soon. I was so close to buying a one way train ticket and waving the place goodbye. But then I thought that would never be fair on those close to me, so I may aswell wait until it is vaguely acceptable for me to leave when I go to university.

Meh,Meh,Meh!

You don't know a thing about my sins, how the misery begins...

This is really the only 'safe' place I have to rant and vent. I feel like a huge bag of shit lately, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. Whilst everything is placid at home (for once!), I seem to be losing my grip on myself. I feel like I am just falling and falling and I don't know where I'll land, or how I will find my way out.

For the last couple of days my buzzword seems to be sorry. I seem to be the living embodiment of sorry. I am sorry that I do not reach the standards morally that are set in certain companies. I am sorry that I drink. I am sorry that I smoke. I am sorry that I didn't wear a chastity belt until I was in a loving relationship. I am sorry that I am me.

But it's all I am and all I can be.

Right now my hand is on self destruct. I don't want to sit and ponder the world. Really, I don't. I want to go out and party and have a bunch of fun and drink loads. This is all I want to do. I am sick, fucking sick, of being told 'don't' when I make a decision that I want to make. If I want to buy a bottle of vodka, I will buy it. If I want to smoke a pack of cigarettes in a day, I will fucking smoke them. I can't be fucked to listen to petty criticism that I, quite frankly, do not care about. I don't need to be made to feel guilty, I carry enough around with me.

I just wish, for once, people would get off my back. Because I am fucking breaking and I'm not entirely sure if anyone can see that.

January 2009 seems to be the month my writing comes alive. I feel so much more motivated to write. It is as if I have more vision, which means I can put more imagery into a piece. Emotions aren't literal things. You can't touch an emotion. Show me someone who has stroked anger or moulded love. There has to be ways of putting an emotion into words but it's so difficult. There's never one word that sums up the way you feel.

I guess the emotion I am exploring in this piece is depression. It's something I have been feeling a lot lately. The only motivation I have, really, is to write. I won't over talk this. I'll just let you read.

I wish there were more words. I wish there was a huge thesaurus with a plethora of new words in it that could some up one feeling concisely.

At the moment, my life is like a broken pencil.

Just imagine that for a second. A plain HB pencil lay across a crisp sheet of freshly printed-paper. It would be such a beautiful sight if the lead weren’t separated from the tip, it would be amazing if the graphite hadn’t smudged the page that was so ready – so eager – to be written on.

This is how I see myself; the potential is there. The pencil is ready and waiting to fill it’s purpose and write or draw something amazing. But there is something holding it back, a profound flaw that blocks any kind of creative growth.

It seems such a simple solution, solving the problem. All that needs to be done is for someone to realise the pencil is broken and sharpen it again. When that happens it’s ready to fulfil its purpose, to create something beautiful.

It’s so easy when the problem is a broken pencil.

But what happens when the problem is a broken person? When it’s not the lead, but the core of someone, the essence of them that is broken? How do you fix that?

It’s not as simple as picking up a sharpener and peeling away layers of wood until a new and shiny point reveals itself. You can’t whittle a person down to something new. So, maybe my life isn’t a broken pencil after all. Maybe it’s something more complex. And the question is and always will remain:

How do I fix me?

Ciao
xx

Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy...

I wrote this a while back. It really was a silly little idea that I decided to embellish on.

Here goes:

What’s it like to be in love? To have the tunnel vision, where all that matters is that one person, whoever it may be. When words sound strange and foreign from anyone’s lips but theirs. What’s it like to love someone unconditionally and for him or her to love you back? I only ask these questions because I’ve only witnessed love from the outside. I’ve only heard people tell their tales behind a pane of glass, and I’m torn over whether love is worth what it brings. More often than not I see people who destroy themselves for love, lose their essence, get worn down by it. Some people spend years of their lives at the bottom of a sea being eroded by an unforgivable tide. Love hurts people and reduces them to their worst.

There is another side though.

Love can bring out the best in people. I’ve seen people walk in here smiling, laughing, almost glowing. That is the love, if any, I would wish to possess. The love that endures and makes you feel like you can fly.

I only rehash the old clichés of course because they are words from other people’s lips. Not mine. How would I know? How could I know? I’ve spent this life (would you call it that?) observing the human race from the outside. Listening to them, their confessions. I am not a priest. They aren’t looking for forgiveness. It is their duty to offload. Healthy minds are essential and if people didn’t come to me they wouldn’t have anyone else and then what? They would go crazy. I made the sacrifice to help everyone else.

I hear people’s confessions from behind a glass wall. The physical barrier stops me from feeling their emotion, from comforting them. You cannot get too close and you cannot talk back. Only listen. Sometimes, I feel like I might go crazy sitting here. Everyday I wake up in the same clinical room that I call home. The walls are so white that it’s almost blinding when I wake up, the sun shines on one solitary point and I just lie there and wonder what it is like to feel that golden mist envelop you. Of course, I know it’s warm, but there are questions. What is it like to lie in the sun for hours and get sun burnt? Can you get lost in the beauty of it all? I sometimes feel that if I were to escape from here I would get lost in the flurry of colours and the promise of freedom. I like to imagine the world outside. I like to imagine what it would be like to be friends with the people who come and see me and I like to fill in the blanks about them, the things that they don’t tell me. I make that part the happiest, because a lot of the time their lives aren’t as good as they should be. So today is like any other except that I am reflective. Since I am not allowed any direct human contact other than to listen I am often left with my own thoughts and feelings. I don’t have any problems of my own, only what everyone tells me. There is no way to have your own dilemmas and trivialities when you live within four walls day in and day out. Other people’s problems become my own. I worry about what they will do about their lovers and their friends.

Ciao.
xoxox

There's something that I can't quite explain.

Have you ever felt sad for no reason at all?
I'm kind of feeling like this at the moment. It's like someone has tied a weight to my ankle and asked me to wade through custard. I feel slow, almost to the point that I feel lost.

Shall I tell you about my day? Moreover, do you want to hear about it?

Well, if you do I will tell you.

I woke up at 7:38am. This is late for me. An hour later to be precise. My alarm was due to go off at 7:40am but I snoozed after it went off til 7:50am. I'm quite a precise person. I like to know when I'm getting up, roughly what time I will be out of the shower and what time I will be dressed and ready to leave the house. I hate being late for things; it makes me anxious.
I got to college about 9:30am. I couldn't get a computer until 10am, which sucked but I went to the JCR and bought some polos and a drink.

How dull is this? I'll just cut it short here.

Basically now I am back home watching Terry Wogan's Perfect Recall (which no-one ever wins) and wanting so much to go out and have a couple of drinks. My friend called me on the way to the gym and asked if I wanted to go out but I didn't get the message until a while later and I have tried calling her and got nothing back. Pah, who cares?

I've been thinking about the scary prospect of university. I am pretty much set on going to Hull University and having my second choice as Plymouth. I really want to get away from Wolverhampton. I want to leave nearer to the sea. I want to meet new people.

You know, I have rambled on for so long and not actually said anything. Something that went right today; I got my bus pass back, which means now I can get around for free instead of paying £3.30 for a day saver, which I think is horribly extortionate.

Anyhow, I shall be back.

Ciao.
xoxox

I am currently sitting in my room, freezing half to death. I'm convinced I caught a chill this afternoon. Nevertheless, it was a nice afternoon.

I should go to bed. It's half past eleven and I was grumpy all day today through tiredness. I guess I will never learn.

At this current moment I am feeling quite flattered. I like it when people express an interest in my work, it makes me feel that it's not all for nothing. Sometimes I get attacks of low self esteem - who doesn't? - I'm not going to be whiny about it. For a change though I feel positive for once.

I wrote a piece today out of my grumpyness. Enjoy. x

The feeling is like a wave, unstoppable and unrelenting. I close my eyes against it, in an attempt to subdue it, or at least soften the blow.

Where is God when you need him?

He’s probably drinking tea with the Mad Hatter; today is his unbirthday. In my head he wears a sparkly party hat. It squats on the top of his head at a jaunty angle. It reaches for the sky as they sing Happy Birthday, pointed.

I wish he would come home.

My stomach feels like it’s going to eradicate itself through twisting and heaving. The thought of eating makes my stomach do flips and threaten to crawl out of my throat; slimy, limp and purple pulling itself across the desk only to die mid-step.

I am in a bad mood. I know this. I can’t shake it off, it clings to me like the smell of cigarettes. I’ve run out of money to pay for my prayers, so now I’m just kneeling here, hands together, practically begging for forgiveness.

Smile. Flash. And relax.

They like to keep records of my shame for future reference. I don’t think it is standard procedure, but it keeps them smiling if they can grasp the glossy photographs in greasy fingers and believe I am there too, smiling with them.

The breathing is agitating me. Each breath is like being forced to the ground and held there. I’m suffocating
And yet I breathe just as easily as them all. The bastards. My itchy feet signal the need to run.

To burn would be a wonderful thing.

I wrote this on the fly in English, mostly out of boredom. It's not refined exactly, I just wrote it and then typed it up. I have edited bits out but nothing has really been put in.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

I am off to get some well earned rest!

Ciao.
xoxo