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How do you imagine better than perfect? This is the
, you see. You find a double; itís a reflection in (seemingly) every way possible. Physically, itíd be laughable for someone to call them alike, but mentally you are twinned. Paired off; you think that youíre forever inseparable. You think nothing could ever come close to this.
But if thereís still something
not quite right
, what then? The day has become worthwhile, but everything else is still so unfathomably wrong. If the seemingly perfect wonít do it, nothing will.
Itís surprising, to say the least, when the unimaginable actually happens.
We love our reassuring words. We have to or thereíd be uncertainty and then weíd have to entertain the notion that the world, in fact, is not perfect. Itís a quick fix; the nagging
always remains, all the same fears hiding away and saving themselves for the next time.
Everyone does it, you just canít help yourself. If anything, itís for self-preservation than for the comfort of others.
donít want to have to accept it, because then
have to deal with it.
Sometimes, the words wonít come because theyíd be utterly ridiculous. You hope existing is enough.
Finding two mangled bodies on the grass outside your house canít be a great start to a day, in anyoneís books (Unless you have a mangled body fetish, which you probably do. Everybody has their perversions); especially not when the corpses are of some of your Ďbest friendsí. Guinea pigs might be lacking in human qualities such as conversation and genuine (
) emotion, but theyíre a comforting sanctuary of sanity in between days filled with bitchy schoolgirls.
Watching yet another die that day, you have to wonder if witnessing the death of a human being would affect you any more.
Flesh just begs you for it, really. It is its own worst enemy;
. A clear expanse of it will only exist to tempt you: just like how you have to draw those biro glasses on the famous people in magazines, and just like how you have to doodle all over exams papers, you
to mark unblemished skin. Thereís not even a fine line between mutilation and decoration with the body; itís really one and the same. Scars
pretty and inviting. Why else do you stare at them? Itís not repulsion, though you like to kid yourself.
Chasing the impossible keeps you going. You have to have faith in
. Whatís the point in being endlessly cynical? Itís more practical, itís a truer reflection of the world in your eyes, but reality will only serve to bore you and make you give up. Even when you canít see anything, you should hope that itís simply hiding from your sight (
deep down you believe that it doesnít actually exist
). At least if you chase something you canít catch, youíll keep running.
That was theory, at least. Itís like discovering that dragons and unicorns exist; the unbelievable made real.
How can you write with no topic in mind? Or, more to the point of the current dilemma, how do you write about the only thing always on your mind but which no words can adequately describe? Somehow, your ecstatic joy upon smelling stale coffee and being crammed amongst sweaty commuters doesnít quite do it justice. Itís a start, though.
How about the fact that you now have two perspectives from which to perceive the world? You donít know that the world was waiting to attack your sense with increased vividness of colour and sound. Everything became more alive, somehow.
People say not to wish time away; youíd probably be best to take that advice. All the older people that you know say it seems like only yesterday that they were your age, with their life ahead of them. You donít want to be old yet, you donít want your ration of time to run out.
Nonetheless, you will the days and the weeks away. They drag along; you can feel the agonising weight of every moment in your bones. It tires you out, and you wish you could simply sleep the spare days away. Your time passes too quickly.
Six flights of stairs in one go, two miles of aching calves, ten miles of cycling in the rain. Walking, running, biking; it all amounts to the same thing. Physical exhaustion makes you feel alive and productive and pure, somehow.
lack of energy isn't brought about physically; your body wants to collapse and your head is threatening to explode. The only thing that stops you from breaking into tears in the library is the presence of others; if you let yourself start now, you know you wonít stop for a long time. Nothing is
, you just crave energy.
ď...and what then?Ē
ď...and then everyone would think I was boring and weird.Ē
Exclaiming that the sign for infinity is a number eight on its side because ďyesterday was the infinity-on-itís-side of April!Ē doesnít exactly attract looks of admiration and interest. Unfortunately, experience has taught you this. Not even people in your maths class appreciate such remarks. If anything, they all seem a bit
inclined to think youíre a freak.
ď...and what then?Ē
ď...and then theyíd all leave me and Iíd be left alone.Ē
ď...and what then?Ē
ď...and then I would give up completely.Ē
Therapy can be somewhat repetitive.
ďDo your friends know?Ē
Itís not a simple conversational enquiry, though they like to disguise it that way. What they
want to know is, have you been even more of a disappointment by telling people about this? Youíre not supposed to tell people, is the underlying message beneath the question. Of course they donít want people to know. They continue to talk it code and euphemism, as if not actually saying the word means that itís not real.
You can understand that. The words they canít say out loud are different to yours, but the same reason is there.
Footsteps out on the landing make you freeze. A split second assessment decides theyíre most definitely heading towards your room.
. You leap off the bed, throw the covers over the tell-tale items, and pull your clothes back into place. You contort your face into a completely unnatural expression of angelic innocence and perch cross-legged at the end of the bed, waiting.
The shame and embarrassment if she knew would be unbearable. A mundane conversation (you barely remember it), followed by a sigh of relief when she leaves. Rolling back your sleeve, you marvel that the blood never soaked through.
The tiles donít expect to greet you this early. The walls hadnít anticipated an early rise and havenít quite finished applying their make-up yet. The crowd watch you with an expression of bemused interest as your energy defies the laws of nature.
Surely sheís not actually happy about being up at this hour?
Actually, yes, you defiantly answer the sceptical furniture. You intend to be up this early and any later physical retribution will only serve as a pleasant reminder. Perhaps in a slightly twisted way, but pleasant all the same. You wish that time would merge like the scenery.
If only everything werenít a matter of forgiveness and punishment.
Donít wish the time away
. But how? Youíd often quite like the time to speed along nicely, but please put on the breaks right now. You canít complain too much; this is simply timeís way of reminding you not to waste it. If only you knew who the judge was, maybe you could figure out how to please it. Aside from, you know, being a good person. Which you find difficult.
Still, at some point you must have done
right. That, or you fear a very cruel build up.
What is it about trashy cars that turn little boys into cackling, jeering, wankers? Or were they just already cackling, jeering, wankers? Thereís your answer, right there. The sweaty fat head complete with trendy buzz cut was the clue that gave it away. Perhaps thatís where their insecurity lies. Or maybe they really
just twats with the humour of nine-year olds, and maybe thereís no
in looking for hidden psychological fears to explain away their charming behaviour.
Seriously, we (insecure and over emotional teenage girls as a collective) just
getting abuse in the middle of the street.
Searching for excuses only increases your self-disgust. The fact of the matter is, the only explanation for your behaviour is that you lack any compassion or thought for anyone else, and you let your mouth come out with whatever vile words it wishes to kindly bestow upon the people who love and put up with you.
Of course, it wouldnít do to actually admit that. You can easily apologise; you can consider dashing off to cut your arms up (to show just how sorry you are), but nothing will stop you doing it again. Give it just a few days.
There are some things that you just have to find out for yourself. No one gives you a handy little instruction booklet upon your arrival;
Things Not To Do, And Why You Should Hide It If You Do
. Someone should write that to prevent further shame and embarrassment. The funny thing is, once youíve found it out for yourself, you try to warn others who seem to be heading for the same disaster. Do they listen? No they most certainly do not. Of course, they always seemed to be able to handle the reactions far better than you ever did.
Whilst acknowledging the unreasonableness of such a (hidden) reaction, itís impossible to
. Yes, you were trying to help. Yes, it was all over with once you helped.
, before you stuck your fucking oar in, there was considerable faffing about and general confusion.
. Hands are not appreciated. Verbal, we can deal with, to an extent. But you had to go and demonstrate your belief in our inadequacy. We just canít do it on our fucking own, can we? The silly, insane one who needs a mothering hand.
Unfortunately, itís very sweet that you
like to help
Using the toilet roll as a pillow; itís reassuring to know youíre not the only one. Hug the radiator, it hugs back. A chair at college was immensely comforting in being soft and bouncy; it felt like it was happy to be sat on. You know when you think you told the whole truth and nothing but the truth and then it turns out youíre wrong; you actually lied to one of the people you thought knew the most about you?
...Odd. Definitely odd. Still, a year and a half makes a lot of difference. It would be different now.
The first time, the tears are simply of confusion. A year of high school hasnít quite got what it takes to shake your infantile belief that
everything will be OK
. Friends of yours donít
. Such pathetic, clingy, faith is only confirmed by the eventual good news.
The second time, youíve gained the capacity to imagine death. You still donít quite believe
could happen, but you realise it
. It doesnít, though youíre still crying.
The third time, it dawns on you that something must be terribly wrong.
...It took you three suicide attempts to know that? How perceptive.
As of a few weeks ago, the heating is no longer on, because itís too expensive for us. We have to wear far too many layers of clothes, and buy millions of teabags. A nice cuppa only warms up your belly and hands; itís not quite enough to take away the worry that your boobs and nose are going to drop off sometime soon.
Still. It can always be far worse. At least we have the option of hot water and too many clothes and a few more blankets on the bed. Plus, the cold burns more calories than heat.
When youíve the face of a fifty states, thereís not much else to be done. A fictional character knows it; you should know it, too. Not from first hand, of course. Donít even risk the words. Curiosity wonders if thereís anything left to fear when everything has been taken away, but sanity (or your desire to keep it) sweeps away such thoughts. Donít think like that; donít risk it coming true because of
. Thought-blocking, again, as always; imagine if you let your guard down. And then the guilt of the knowledge that it required blocking in the first instance.
Suppose that you require extra confirmation of everything. Suppose that your mind wipes it all away, not even every day, but every hour, every minute; everything leaves. Everything has changed, youíre told. The sticky residue still remains, and if you can will it hard enough, memory can sometimes be enough.
Suppose that you find yourself continually stumbling amongst the evidence. Suppose that, no matter how small or how unintended, these extra moments reaffirm your reason. Tides and tides of it; bringing about such vastly unexpected reactions that they numb you a little. Stockpile them away; your very own cognitive battalion.
The hill took it away. You silly girl, with your streaming tears appearing from nowhere as the sun sets and the wind pushes them across your face. Never mind the make-up smeared across your face, forming a wriggling black river from eye to ear. The sky takes it away. It takes you back to daydreaming, like it was before. Like when nothing was ever going to happen. Theyíre not supposed to come
. The change still hasnít quite registered, itís getting there, but itís not settled amongst the debris of the previous owners. Odd to think of all the protest.
This isnít going to work. Thereís no real entry for today. If weíre totally honest, there hasnít been for a while, but this, of all days, is a complete, what you might call, non-entry. No words, no sentence structure, no meaning, no emotion. Itís impossible to do, an entry a day. What about when thereís no words? What about when thereís not even an idea? No idea, no words; thereís a winning combination for a piece of writing. Itís a stupid fucking idea in the first place, if you really want to know. Oh
, out the window you go.
Do you ever experience any intrusive thoughts, of a sexual or violent nature?
Oh no, Christ no. Lies are terribly easy to pull off if you really donít want someone to know the truth. Fear of what theyíll think of you makes you the best actor these four walls have ever seen. No matter how many times youíre told that nothing you say will shock or offend, you canít help feeling that theyíve never met any quite as disgusting and guilty as you. Itís not normal,
, to have to ruminate on and prepare yourself for the eventual worst.
The biological model attributes abnormality to four causes; genetics, damage to the brain, viral infection, and chemical imbalance. The Holland et al study concluded that MZ twins have a 56% risk of anorexia if one twin already has it, compared to a 1-4% risk in the rest of the population. Despite the obvious correlation, other factors than genetics must play a part in mental abnormality, or there would be a 100% concordance rate. Besides, the sample size was far too small, so we
cannot generalise the findings
. A sample of 15,000 twins would be required to establish cause and effect.
This study lack ecological validity and therefore the findings cannot be generalised to the entire population. The sample size used in this study is far too small for findings to be generalised. Milgramís study involved only white American male participants, and therefore, his findings cannot be generalised to females or males in other cultures. Aschís study has been criticised for its lack of internal validity; demand characteristics may have affected his findings. Mary Ainsworthís
is just that,
, and so it may have little relevance to everyday life (lacks ecological validity).
When in doubt, ramble on about validity.
ďThis could lead to a relapse for the patient, although it is intended that the individual would be able to combat this using the techniques learned in CBT.Ē
Note the use of Ďintendedí rather than Ďguaranteedí. Another piece of A02 (criticise and evaluate) is that CBT makes the assumption that abnormality arises from the way one perceives and interprets an event. This could lead to the client experiencing guilt; they might feel it is
fault that they have a mental illness. This differs from the biological and psychoanalytic models, both of which believe abnormality is beyond the individualsí control.
Though it was only in 1978 that the BPS and APA drew up ethical guidelines for psychological research, a decade
his study into obedience to authority, Stanly Milgram has nonetheless been hugely criticised for breaking the majority of these basic rules. Participants were unable to give their
as they were
about the true nature of the experiment. Milgram also failed to
protect the participants
from psychological harm; when they protested, it was made difficult for them to leave. Milgram argued this was essential, and that his study could have been carried out in no other way.
Crazy and psychotic works out sometimes apparently. You know, when the strange ramblings in your brain actually turn out to have potential, and then also actually have a whole heap of substance (whether this was intended previously or if it was just a lucky coincidence, you can never really be certain of), too. Itís bizarre enough to keep you on a permanent high. People talk about crying themselves to sleep, and this seems confirmed by the opposite; smiling yourself awake happens too. After all, if depression makes you sleepy, maybe happiness is like natural energy. And manic grinning prevents sleep.
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