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People seem to always be talking about how theyíd to be trapped with their own mind (or, about how they
in this particular state of affairs), but what about being trapped with your own body? The body misses out on a whole load of negative, and well-deserved, publicity of this nature, I feel. Sure, everyone moans about their physical attributes, but you less often hear about how suffocating it is to not be able to escape your own body. Covering yourself as quickly as you possibly can isnít much of a substitute for performing a little do-it-yourself plastic surgery.
Is it reasonable to suppose that a mirror cannot accurately reflect the world around you? When I was younger, I was fearful of looking in the mirror too long, afraid of what I might see in it. Now, I fear my concentration on a reflection for too long might distract me; Iím afraid of what I
see rather than what I will. What if you turned around one day and found that there really was someone there, someone whose image did not exist in the mirror, but only behind you? The possibility is always there and itís somewhat unnerving.
How many people truly believe they have a guardian angel watching over them? When I was younger, I thought there was always someone like that looking out for me. It was just one of lifeís necessities; everyone gets one angel and no one ever gets hurt. As far back as I can remember we used to pray every single night before I slept. Whether it was indicative of belief in God is irrelevant; I liked the routine of it. It made me feel secure, and on the occasional nights where our ritual was forgotten, Iíd spend the night crying incessantly.
Talking to people who have self-harmed, you tend to find a near-unanimous agreement concerning at what point it is OK to be careless about who sees your scars. Some people choose to keep it a complete secret, not only do they not tell a single soul but they go to every extreme possible to keep each and every scar hidden. Others are open about it; they feel they have nothing to be ashamed of. Regardless of which category you fall into though, itís almost unwritten that Ďfreshí scars should never be paraded about; itís not considered fair on other people.
Anyway. Unwritten law or not, I used to find it hilarious to wear shorts in PE. The risk of them riding up, uncovering a vast expanse of unmistakable red and white stripes (recently dried blood and all) was just too much fun for me to wear trackie bottoms instead. I liked being put on the spot and coming with as many different excuses for each classmate as possible; I wondered if they were bothered enough to notice that everyone got a different explanation. They probably didnít, Iím willing to bet they believed me, because thatís what people like to do.
My fingers are going to be chewed down to the bone at this rate. It would look rather odd but on a brighter note, Iíd end up with slimmer digits. Last night I awoke no fewer than six times, each time coming out of a nightmare where I was raped and tortured multiple times. I retold one of the particularly vivid dreams to a friend today; with the right tone of voice you can make anything sound absolutely comedic. When my alarm sounded at 6.30am, I felt like Iíd had a peaceful, refreshing sleep; an unusual feeling for
Obviously not a clever idea, balancing a cup of hot green tea on top of
by Neil Gaiman (which youíre rereading for the nth time, by the way, because itís negating the images of serial murder and cucumber rape) which is precariously strewn amongst all the other junk on your desk which just
to be at close proximity to you; I mean, what if there was some awful dilemma which required heaps of mail which you canít throw away and various CDs that youíve burned but will most likely never actually listen to as theyíre on your iPod?
After you realise that people canít read your mind and know exactly what to do at the right time, you tend to fall the other way. Apparently I now have to relate every single thought that enters my head to the nearest other being at hand. Hence why itís sometimes a little impossible for me shut the hell up or why I can, at times, seem completely anti-social. People who donít click that theyíve got a fraction of a second to realise what any slight change of expression on my face means and react accordingly will most likely be blanked.
Am really sick of physical afflictions. Am getting fed up of being like this every single day. Am pissed off that this has been going on for four years now and itís getting continually worse. Am unable to talk about it because itís ridiculous and embarrassing. Am eventually going to perform autopsy on self and everything will be fine and dandy. On the other hand, I feel great and am feeling just as happy as ever. PMT is ridiculous; I wish Iíd decide on one fucking emotion and stick to it. Perhaps I should throw things in frustration or something.
And sometimes you realise just
different your perspective is from everyone elseís. The other day, a friend told me that she had an extremely itchy scab, but that she was making every effort not to scratch it because ďI donít want tend up with arms that look like yours or like how your legs did summer before lastĒ. I didnít take offence; thatís not how she meant it. It just bothered me that no one else seems to see how much more interesting my arms look during summer. It doesnít happen on purpose, but I like them; it's colourful.
There was this woman, recently. All she gave was an introduction, but it seemed to me I was reading the saddest thread Iíd ever seen on a forum. I havenít been able to stop thinking about her since she posted. She never stated her age, but Iím guessing she must be at least forty, maybe fifty. I canít imagine what it must feel like to start cutting at that age. I think it must be harder to cope with somehow. She was really distressed and asking us, a bunch of teenagers who (for the most part) canít even help themselves.
Hate PMT with a passion. Have come to the conclusion that should not be allowed, possibly by law, to be let out around other people. Not just at this time of the month, but any other time too. Would cry and be emo if I actually had the energy to do so. Am going to rip out female reproduction organs in order to prevent such a ridiculous turn of events in the future. Plan would usually end with ďand grow a penisĒ but I donít see how that would help either. Worst part is knowing am being utterly (chemically) pathetic.
Iíve abandoned revising for my decision maths exam on Thursday. To be fair, I had a good go at it, and the half hour I spent on a practise paper was still far more than I did last year. Hopefully, if I do terribly on this module, I might be able to gain more marks on the core paper, as I have over a week of free time before that in which I will (probably not) revise. Plus, my psychology exam on Friday is far more important. Iím concentrating on that and philosophy; I donít mind failing the other two.
Iíve come to the conclusion that the likelihood of me having to retake tomorrowís exam is extremely high. Not that Iíd mind, itís a ridiculous module which I never wanted to take in the first place and itís only an hour and a half. And Iíll have more time to (not) revise and (not) panic if I retake it. Itís not like itís the end of the world. Plus, I got a B in the first module and the final module is in June; Iíll have a week and a half to prepare for that. Maybe I
Thereís a flower outside my bedroom window that looks like a person. It unnerves me every single time I catch it in the corner of my eye, despite being aware of its true identity; petals are so much more mundane and boring than the obsessively twitching stalker who sits outside your room all day and night. Sometimes it changes its position, and this only serves to further the fantasy that the lilac petals are the disguise of a conscious being. It just wouldnít do to take into account the constant breeze that makes the hedge move from side to side.
ďSee, Iíve known Rachel a long time. What
donít get is that when she talks about the pixies, she actually means it.Ē
Awesome. Itís nice to discover that someone knows you far better than you give anyone credit for. It makes sense of course; weíve been best friends since the beginning of high school, and we played together as little kids. Our mothers were friends in the same antenatal classes when they were carrying us, even. It was still a bit of a shock though, to realise that she knows me
well. It kind of made my day.
I woke this morning to find clothes scattered all over my bedroom floor, the strong smell of scented candles giving me a headache, and a plastic bottle between my feet. Not the remains of some sordid sexual ritual (as it might seem), but the evidence of a whole night spent without electricity. The usual plan in that particular situation is for the whole family to get utterly bladdered, but I chose to only have one small sip of wine and then go back to my sudoku whilst they drank themselves to sleep. Not before bitching about our relatives, of course.
Apparently Iím planning on putting all that weight back on. When in doubt, Rachel talks about food and weight. Or not, even if she starts off that way. Why bother with ridiculous skirting round the subject when you could simply say ĎIím feeling sad right nowí? Thatís probably just too emo and obvious isnít it? The things is, I donít want to take your problems and pretend theyíre my own but I also canít stand that this could all go wrong for you. Iím feeling lonely and lost and useless and if I could fix it all, I would try.
Iím having difficulty using the bathroom at the moment. A few weeks ago, this was all I wanted to post about, but I couldnít find the words somehow. Taking a shower, brushing my teeth, itís all getting a bit tiring. I needed to pee last night, and I could feel my breathing becoming more rapid and my heart rate increasing as I considered what I should do. I canít throw out all of my razors; Iím not going to rely on waxing and hair removal cream for the rest of my life. I just canít stand them being so near.
Everyone thinks I have OCD. Possibly because thatís what I tell them. Itís more a case of social -anxiety disorder manifesting with OCD-type symptoms; itís just a whole lot easier to say you have OCD. People know what OCD is, but you tell them that youíve got social anxiety disorder and they are more than likely to assume ďOh, sheís a bit shy thenĒ. Um, nuh uh. I can be perfectly loud and confident and outgoing if I so wish. It just happens to be that sometimes I would prefer to be dead than with people. Thatís harder to explain.
My face is going all spotty. I could care less; Iíve lost a stone and a half. Our scales are ever so slightly crap; they change their mind on a daily basis. Sometimes Iíve lost two stone since I was at my heaviest, but thatís only when the scales think I havenít eaten much for a few days. My face could erupt into a volcano of blood and pus right now, and I might not mind too much. Who needs a face when you no longer feel like a walrus walking down the street? Not an adult-sized walrus, at least.
Proof that you are, as your mother so kindly put it earlier tonight, ďbecoming a freak just like your fatherĒ: In high school, the mere mention of the bleep test was enough to have you throwing up in order to skip a few days of school. The whole class would groan and moan, and thereíd be far more absences than could be coincidental. Yet, today youíve downloaded the bleep test and put it on a CD. In the near future, you plan to mark out a length of 20 meters in the field in which to practise. Insanity? Most definitely.
Everyone should have somewhere they can be unashamedly emo; it seems only sane and healthy to have a special private place. You need to have somewhere you can say the ridiculous things that are so important at the time and that will drive you crazy if theyíre not let out in some way, but it also has to be somewhere you can trust that theyíll disappear, or as good as disappear. Words can be carried away with ease if thereís no one there to hear them. Flowers simply absorb them; itís not like theyíre going to pass on your secrets.
Women on trains should not stare whilst you scratch your hands; itís very off-putting. I felt like telling her this, but I was too busy concentrating on not having any form of panic attack already. At first, I just subconsciously started itching the backs of my hands, but after ten minutes or so I found that it was doing a great job of calming me down. I now have some very tiny and minor scabs on my left hand. To me, thatís not self harm; itís way of stopping yourself from diving out of the window of a moving train.
You can tell complete strangers
. Somehow theyíll always know what to say; how could a forum of other people who self harm and have mental disorders
know which words you need to hear? Thatís not really the reason though, is it? Other people, some people, certain people, they can do that too. They can do that better even, and not just because thatís what theyíd want to hear in the same situation. Itís just kind of hard to admit that you can so suddenly feel fixed and sane and normal, that everything can disappear. It seems fickle somehow.
And today I donít even mind the rain or the waiting or the lack of money which usually give me so much food (the type thatís been left in the fridge far too long and has a worryingly crunchy texture) for thought. And I even donít mind that such a turn of events messed up my playlist was on for and I donít really care that the numbers will become entirely out of order. It seems completely insane that I could care about any of those things right now or that they could, in any other situation, affect my mood.
Once again, that same old phrase: ďWhat now?Ē It never fails to make its all-encompassing appearance; it usually waits, though. It waits Ďtil youíre home and sitting in front of your computer wondering if thereís going to be
point in even moving, at least. To be honest, I doubt Iíll even go running when I get back, thought I have every intention to. Most likely, Iíll drink tea and watch garbage on the telly. Unfortunately, every distraction becomes tedious in excess. Perhaps Iíll switch to coffee and books at some point in the evening; anything for that much-needed distraction.
For some unknown reason you always remind yourself that this is simply where youíll be back to before you know it. And without fail, you always
back here before you know it, wishing that your tiny mind would, just for once, not do that, because somehow you jinxed it; things like that donít even exist, you know, but you still managed to jinx it and you managed to make time speed up faster so that it always whizzes back round to this same place, where you know you wonít stay too long, just long enough to drive you insane.
One hour turns into two or three, and then before you know it, youíre almost staying the night. I hate holidays and not seeing people for days on end, so despite feeling terribly ill I ended up staying at my friendís house most of the afternoon and night. I was only supposed to be going out for a quick half hour drive or so. Itís funny how you can forget about feeling ill in that kind of situation; I always used to think it was mind over matter, like youíd force yourself to feel OK but itís more like forgetting.
I feel weak and hot and shivering and sick and Iíd very much like to simply lie down and tell people that Iím dead, and no I wonít be attending the funeral l because I feel so awful. Ever since I woke up two hours ago Iíve felt like bursting into tears. Aside from my physical state, I feel fine, which is kind of annoying. And kind of odd. I want to go running but I think Iíll either collapse or throw up. I reckon Iíll go later despite that; I usually feel like this after running four miles anyway.
Sometimes the volume on the inside is turned up far too loud. Thatís what it feels like anyway; learn to externalise and not focus on the internal, thatís what youíre told. Thatís what youíll pass on because sometimes that feels like the only thing you can do. Force your insides to tumble out and take notice of the air around them so that you concentrate on something, anything, other than panicking and whirling into a complete state. Switch off all your thoughts if you can, because theyíre maladaptive. And if anyone suggests different, maybe they have too many screws loose.
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