Friday, 13 January 2017

Traffic

Almost a month ago, I stood at work on a normal Monday morning looking out at the busy road, rather abnormally however I found myself wondering what would happen if I walked out the door and into the passing traffic.

" How bad will it be this time?..."

The soft ache in my belly that signals the beginnings of "that time of the month" has begun to fill me with more and more dread in the past few months.
I place my hands over my heart, wondering if there is anything I can do to stop it being so illogically afraid of things I cannot fathom. But it is not logical, and cannot be dealt with so.

I realised some time ago, that the body can withstand a great deal of physical pain. Even if at the time you may think you cannot take it.
I used to have crippling pain. I was sent home from work by taxi a few of times because of it.
I've been curled up in various inconvenient places unable to move, tears streaming down my cheeks. I thought that was as bad as it could get. But that was some time ago. And the pain softened to something I guess would be regarded as more "normal"
It is not the soft ache that I fear but the thoughts that began to accompany it.
The paranoia, the abject fear, the darkness. I'm not the most logical of humans...a little too much of a dreamer to calculate immediately the recurring theme to my fears that I was depressed. Almost every month, a couple of weeks before my period. I thought I was going insane.

"How bad will it be this time?"

Restless,sometimes I walk around at night or lay sleepless in bed. Wondering what I can do. I've spent a great deal of time and effort over the past 15 years or so sifting through my psyche to pinpoint all my weaknesses and heal them (...Erm, I have learnt that "Fix" is a dirty word...) After having depression, and using anti-depressants I never wanted to have to take them again. Never wanted to rely on a pill to make anything better for me mentally. I thought intelligence and hard work would save me.
But maybe this is beyond me. I'm terrified. Terrified that it is not in my control.

This feeling cannot be taken away with...paracetamol or ibuprofen...like the usual monthly pain.
And the idea that maybe I will need to take something else, something long term. Mind altering.
Fills me with fear and sorrow and a kind irrepressible shame that I just cannot seem to shake.
Like for all of my courage, all of my work.
I'm still a weak and damaged human being.

I feel like I've lost.

I always wanted to believe I had in me the power to become unbreakable.
That I was somehow working towards a kind of enlightenment.
I believed I had in my grasp all the answers to any ill that could befall my mind.
That the control was in my hands. My head.
But this is unpredictable.

I find myself wanting to believe that I have been this scared before.
That this is no worse than anything else I have been through.
Not depression, or violence, or grief.
It is only the fears very existence that makes it loom so...
And I tell myself how lucky I am. How much I have to be thankful for.
But it doesn't listen to logic.

I place my hands over my heart.

"How bad will it be this time?"

Friday, 12 August 2016

Don't Feed The Beast, It Wants Your Soul.

How long has it been since I wrote here ? Too long ?
I don't know that I had anything to say. Not anything that belonged here in this space.
Or perhaps I did, if my forgotten drafts are anything to go by.
Maybe I'm just too full of bullshit. "I'm fine" I really am...
Too scared. Too close to something I wasn't ready to tackle.
This has been my catharsis for so long now, the blank page a non- judgmental ear. (To my often over dramatic ridiculous ramblings...)
And the fuller the page became it seemed the lighter my mind. My heart. My darkness.
But my last post, it made me uneasy. I took it down. It felt too bare. Too honest.
I was being too honest with my own damned self...
And I was hurt, and I didn't want to admit it.
A few days ago, I re-read it. Re-posted it. How cruel I could be...
It never fails to astonish me.
It's safe now, I'm not the same girl. At least that's what I tell myself.
Perhaps it's time to stop laughing at wounds I allow to remain.
As though, if I make them a joke they are not as serious.
That they don't hold me to ransom.

Why do I believe so strongly that to suffer makes me good?
Fuck that shit.
How can I believe that to love every damn thing on this earth is the answer,
if I'm not extending that to my self. Take as much care of everyone else as you can,
but you, who the hell gives a shit?
How did I learn that to have that little self-worth was acceptable ?
But like I said, It's safe now.
I'm not the same girl.

So, I stopped drinking. even moderately. Coz, who the hell am I kidding ?
I wasn't made to be quite that type of fucked up. Too bloody self aware. Too sure that actually...
This can be fixed. Like a wonky table leg.
I don't know how. But I do know that it can be.
It has to be, because I've found something miraculous and I can't lose it.
I know that I'm not as broken as lonely dark nights can make me scared that I am.
Hell, it's been so long since I had one of those nights anyway.
Let it go.
I forget to breathe.

As I write things down they begin to seem ridiculous.
I'm not in this place anymore.
There's so much beauty in my life.
Yet I keep on stumbling.

What keeps me coming back to this place of insecurity? Why can I mend so much of myself,but this...this cruel voice in my head won't move out. No matter how high I build walls.
No matter how I begin to accept...that umm, yeah...I'm somewhat talented at certain things and all that jazz...
That I'm not the heinous monster I saw in the mirror at 15,16...17 and so on. It's like a haunting.
It holds me in its grasp like a lover, fearful of loss. I provide its nourishment.
It eats me alive.
Without me, the beast does not exist. So it lies and it cheats me out of reality.
Gifts me paranoia and these ugly ugly thoughts.
Wishes to box me up in tissue paper. Keep me safe from all harm but its own.

"No one else will ever hurt you"...

Fuck. I see it now...
Someone once said those words to me.
But I took the words wrong.
Felt safe when I shouldn't.
Didn't realise until too late, their sinister tone.
And now those words ring in my ears.
And they are not even his voice anymore.
So long ago...
(...you do it to yourself....you do...and that's what really hurts...)
I fucked up.
And I don't know how to fix it.
I don't trust myself with trust.
Because it seems so naive.
I'm scared of not being scared.
Of settling into happiness.
Love.
Only to have it ripped away when I least expect it.
Because of trust.
Trust is a delicate beautiful thing, and I ruined it.
By putting mine somewhere I knew it didn't belong.

And it makes me angry, the reverberation.
He has no place here.

I thought I should never hate him.
For hate is a poison.
But I'm poisoned all the same.
And it's seeped out of me into the people I love.

And that can't be.
Not this time.

His shadow should not fall
Upon this man.
This man is a gift.
From the Universe.
Or something I never entertained the idea of,
Until I met him.





Wednesday, 22 July 2015

The Superpowers / Fly or Disappear.

So.
I tried to drown myself.
I couldn't. Can't. Can't seem to stop myself from caring.
It always petrified me in a way that only something you've already been through should.
But it loomed.  "Alcoholism" 
(you were meant to read that in a movie trailer voice...for dramatic effect) 
For so long. I never drank.
I was too afraid of...
Going too far. Afraid of myself and what I would find.
And then I bought a bottle. Took it home. Scared myself.
It was pretty fucking stupid.
And I don't even know what it's for anymore.

  She is like a wounded bird.
You would build her a nest out of newspaper and cotton wool.
Keep her in a shoebox. No idea of how terrifying you are.
Because you can see her.
No. but she wont let you see her. Curled up on the floor.

...."...I would fly..."

"Wait...What?...But invisibility is so...fricking. Awesome. I mean...
...Miskulin?...Oi?..."

The bird glides gracefully far above them.
~ murmuring~
"it's just...so free..."

"Invisibility is sneaky. It's all about creeping around. Hiding. Spying...I don't give a shit.
I don't want to see you naked...or find out your secrets. Gossip? Invisibility is bullshit. It means nothing when you are alone. It relies on other people. Other people doing things you don't need to see. Or don't have the courage or right to ask about. You'd just end up learning that...Oh damn! - every other fucking person in the world is a fucking weirdo just like you when they are alone. What good would it do. We're all so full of shit....we'd just learn that - oh...yep...the world really is as fucked up as it seems. thank goodness we found out...
With a little honesty and "humanity"...well, fuck...couldn't we do all the things that being invisible would enable us to do?..."

..."Nehhhhhh,.....I guess..."

"I want to be self governed. You could go wherever you wanted?!...Soar above the Earth...
Escape...(grinning) I could be in the middle of a field, just like that!.."

"You're fucking weird..."

"And...your point is?"

"Hah...I love you. Even though you're batshit crazy."

"Flying wins right...you know it makes sense"...


How long have I been here?

Aahhhhhh.... I don't know.
The carpet. No matter how crappy it is, it's the only place to be when you're this low.
The only place that makes sense...Nothing makes any sense.
My face hurts. Feels like a damp crumpled rag. I feel the texture of said crappy carpet imprinted on my left cheek.
Whiny little...
It's here in the background. All the fucking time.
Reading your fear like a big mad dog waiting to tear you down.
It's hungry and your mind is a juicy steak to chew up.

Choose not to drown. Put all of that fucking wisdom on knowing when and why you're falling
into action...
But I've been falling for some time now.

I closed my eyes.
(Excuses, excuses...)

Falling...
Feels almost like flying sometimes.



Saturday, 4 July 2015

Crystalline.

I wish that you would disappear...

Well, that's a god damn lie.

I wish that I could crawl through a wormhole into another dimension,
where I could remove every trace of you from my mind like a magician pulling colourful scarfs out from my mouth. Every shimmering shade, a different piece of you to forget.

I wander across the earth, yet there you are. I could find you in the blankest room, the blackest hole.
You're in me. that's the reason I know.
The wind howls.
Rain falls that could almost shatter glass.
Everything seems so violent.
So shiveringly beautiful.
And there you are.
In the midst of it all.
And it can only make sense.
For I find nothing more beautiful than you.

 

Sunday, 31 May 2015

As The Sky Turns From Constable To Turner.

...The magic word. Vulnerability. But I don't want to dwell upon it.

Is this the dreamers disease? The sky cracks open and I climb inside.
Into the flames that spill from a setting sun.
As though...it were the first I'd ever seen.

Forgetting how the air feels without buildings rising up around our figures,
Protected.
We dash through, Cradled in this coach. Protected still...but I dream.
Dream of how it would feel.
As the sun glows red across the fields.
I watch the sky turn from Constable to Turner.

Suddenly needing desperately - dewy grass beneath my naked feet.
When was the last time?
When...When...When?...

I don't know.

I return, days later...from the trip, to myself.
Bare feet in grass (not dewy but sun warm)
Trying to wrench out possibility.
Hah...I mind map...(desperately) key words that jump into my head.
Attempting to help them wander into something that could...
Lead to (fucking anything to be quite honest...) creation.
Does that sound wanky (in my head it sounds wanky)

"stick to photos...it's okay...."...
..."perhaps you're trying too hard to be more than you are...meant for?"...

Evil little motherfucker that lives inside my nervous system.
Needs to shut the fuck up.

But I cannot deny my lack of inspiration.
my lack of urge, need...want
Everything I need to say. I say.
I used to only see myself in drawings.
Like I was unreachable from myself any other way.
Now here I am, with only words.
Feeling somewhat like a flame, some kind of magic
Has gone out.
I'm left stabbing at its stone cold remnants,
Embers,...none.
I'm afraid, because I feel no heat.
See nothing to spark against.
Trying to bleed something out of every gallery visit.
Every beautiful walk.

But I've got nothing.

Do I need to content myself with that for now?
Do I need to fight, when I'm just so...
Goddamn tired of fighting.
For something I'm not convinced I'm meant for.

// I feel like calling this something melodramatic like
"death of an artist" :) //

" What if I never draw again?!!"

What if...( I already know the answer to this one. surprise surprise )
...what if, I am the only thing standing in my way?

Of course I fucking am.
Thank fuck I have a sense of humour for how much of a dick my wanky psyche /sub-conscious or what ever the fuck...can be.

But anyway.
Sun in my hair, toes in the grass.
Perhaps I should enjoy how empty I am.
Rest my poor little artless fingers...
For surely this will pass.
And if this is the worst...
How lucky I am.

I haven't a gut left to wrench.
Perhaps that's a lie.

..Perhaps that's the problem.

But lets not get started on my abject denial of vulnerability.

It would ruin the good mood.
 

Saturday, 23 May 2015

Answers I do not have.

...Every now and then, I search.
I type in your name to google and see what I can find.
See if I can find you. Any traces of your existence.

And today, there you are.
There is your face that I haven't seen in years.
How old were you then...the last time I saw you...
Six...seven?

What can I say?
How do I begin?
Why should you want to know of me at all...
When you were probably too young to feel it as a loss of any kind.

My heart freezes.
I type no words, just in case they are the wrong ones.

I don't know what I can say

I don't know what I can say...


 

Thursday, 7 May 2015

Tender.

Shall I begin?

"...My heart is a barren wasteland
Where things go to die... "

(7th March... A day of drama clearly... )

I pick up where I left off, almost...Almost a month later. My feelings...evolved?
Perhaps more set than ever. All the more terrifyingly certain.
I feel myself growing comfortable with it. This endless alone.
Those moments where it pricks at my eyes. It scrapes against my tenderness.
I like the way I hurt.
Hurt has worth. Hurt is safe. Just like old times.

"...My skin itches, my belly aches and grumbles.
I lie in bed too long. As though restrained.
I wait. Wait for the wonder to pass from me.
Staring out of the window. Passing clouds.
Turning a longing for air, Into...
Fear?...Hopelessness...Resignation?
Too late in the afternoon to leave.
To live."

A month ago. More than that...
Here I am sat in Foyles old Jazz café...
Having wondered (yes...wondered...) my way half way across the city.
In dreams. Dreams without sleep.
The best of dreams. I breathe real air. And my lungs...
Fill with love for all this existence. All this.
As though I had woken up somehow
from wherever it was I had been lost.
 

A Million Little Things, None Of Them You

Stop looking for him.
He does not exist.
He's gone.
And this love is just a scar to run your fingers across
Savouring pain where no sweetness can be.
He does not miss your bones as you miss his.
He lies awake at night thinking of a million things
And none of them are you.

Monday, 4 May 2015

Never Really There.

I take the train to the other side of London...
Some people go out running to decipher things
Their brains are unwilling to give up easily to them.
I sit in silence, I walk. I watch other people -
With awe and love and...understanding.
Finally I stumble upon forgiveness.
That was held out of reach because of the tangle of pain
In the way. Enough love will mend
The most broken of things.
The most wounded of hearts.

Maybe he knew that he was leaving.
Perhaps he was always leaving, or...
Perhaps he was never really there.
He didn't want us to hold on to him,
So tight. Maybe now I understand it.
How it's possible for someone to leave you,
Even though they love you.
How being responsible for another tiny being
Can scare you utterly shitless. By showing you yourself.
Somehow you think that by the time you have children,
You will not be vulnerable anymore.
How doing the best thing, can be the worst
Depending on perspective.

Long ago I learnt,
To be alone.
Even when I wasn't.
It was the only way to stop people leaving.
The only way not to be the one who left.

Never exist anywhere deeply enough to root.
Leave when it begins to feel,
That leaving will rip out your heart.
As punishment.
For trying to escape your ingrained solitude.
It's a learning curve.
The further I get from the lesson,
The harder I spring back.
People will devour you if you let them...
You devour yourself instead.

But however strongly I long to stay hidden
I long more to feel safe being found.




 

Friday, 27 March 2015

Clinomania


I've been in bed all day not feeling like facing the outside world. which admittedly looked rather dashing through my half drawn curtains...But ahhhhh, the effort in going out there. In looking acceptable. in putting one exhausted foot in front of the other. In worrying that it won't be cold enough to keep my hat on, for I haven't bothered to wash my hair. But now, it's grown dusky.
And I, have grown tetchy. As always occurs. I never learn from these episodes of cabin fever.
But I am about to embark on a journey,...
A mission. Of great psychological importance.
I need chocolate. Or I may have a breakdown.
Thusly I must away...

The air is fresh, could be described as pleasant even if it weren't for all this awkward repressed sadness. Tesco is too bright by comparison to the night I walk in from. The scientific term for how I feel is "icky" . There are however many other strange people here on a Friday night...umm, Thank goodness?...
I feel ashamed with my unhealthy intended purchases as I look up to see a tall handsome man, who looks like he's just spent the last few hours doing something unbelievably athletic and wholesome.
He smiles at me, but here I am - imagining it to be the same smile he would give to an elderly person, or perhaps a poor little limp puppy.
I see all these sad faces. And wonder what all this is for.
I pass people on their way home, laden with heavy bags. Misery written upon their tired faces.
There must be another way. A way off the grid set out for us.
I feel this intense need to do something important - to make some kind of dent.
I get home. I swiftly eat through half a tub of Ben & Jerry's, and wish I had bought something more lasting.
I could have left the house today, I could have seen things, gone places...
Not let these four walls draw in upon me with their melancholy and accusation.
But for this tiredness that still creeps all over my skin.
I do not forgive myself the cold that pricks the back of my throat with every swallow,
"Compassion" I promised I would have compassion for myself.
But I have forgotten it already?
Tomorrow will be different.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow...
I'll forgive myself for all my weak humanity then.