I like watchin' the puddles gather rain...

There is always that brief interlude, between the end of something and the all-consuming darkness, wherein everything is brilliant, bright and happy. I'm amazed by everything, overjoyed by the fact I managed to achieve a goal or complete something, no time could be better and nothing could destroy that happiness. That interlude, retrospectively, is arguably the worst time. To experience all that joy and wonder, only to have it snatched from your grasp so quickly, I'd rather never have it at all. It is how I imagine those born blind would feel if one day they could see everything; to experience colour, to finally put names to objects and see the faces of their loved ones, only to go blind once more. It is intensely cruel and it is despairing.

Most days I do believe, wholeheartedly, that my tumultuous moods, my dark days, are the result of my own failings. My inability to steer clear of triggers for my depression, my inability to not be lured back down that path, when I’ve spent so long staggering back to the place where everyone else is, and mostly, my inability to contain my macabre thoughts and beliefs from my actions and every day life. All those failings have collaborated and left me bear when depression, anxiety and disordered thoughts, come knocking at my door. And I open it, because why shouldn’t I? They may not be the friendliest visitors, but I welcome them in because they are there and nothing or no one else is. Because I know them so well, because I’d rather welcome them in than spend the rest of my days staring at the four walls I’ve made my prison cell. There is only so much time a person can spend on their own, even for an introverted and socially awkward person such as myself, you readily welcome the distraction when it is there to be experienced and felt. 

I would like to think I’m a rational person, open to possibilities and not a ‘black and white’ sort of thinker. However, there are times when, in my own life, everything is black or it is white. 

‘Someone upset me, so the rest of my week is ruined’
‘My friend told me I looked ill, they all must hate me’
‘I’ve failed this and I’ve failed at everything, I’m worthless and shouldn’t be here’

Black or white thinking is dangerous. That sort of thinking is what happens to me when I’m no longer distracted and stressed from having to write yet another damn essay on something I couldn’t give a toss about, when I have no where to be and nothing to do. All I have is what is already here and in my own head, and nothing can distract me from those. How can you concentrate on a film or get lost in reading, when your own psyche is nagging you, reminding you constantly of what a failure and worthless human being you are? Day in and day out, it is constant and for someone who is awake for at least 21 hours every day, that’s a long time to be on the receiving end of such thoughts. That’s if I sleep at all.

It is unsurprising then that thoughts of suicide aren’t a stranger to me; I’ve contemplated it far more often than any person should. During my more rational and coherent days, I can’t make sense of that, the consequences of it, for my family and friends. But in the grips of darkness and tormenting thoughts that hurt so badly you can feel the pain physically and apathy, which is most dangerous, the idea offers relief. I’m hurting so much and nothing can take this away from me, why not? It could make some people sad, but that would pass, they’d realise how much of a burden I was to them once I’m no longer there to weight them down. Particularly the thought, ‘how could anyone ever love someone like me?’ pops into my head. Me, I’m permanently broken, constantly a burden to deal with, with nothing to offer anyone in this world. I have no talent, no calling, no notable intelligence to speak of and really, the only good thing I’ve ever done was to be loyal to my few close friends. Anyone can do that.

However, knowing others who have suffered from the same illness, I could never conceive that it is their fault, in any way, not like I believe my illness is my own fault. Those people have been some of the most brilliant, strongest and intelligent human beings I have known. None of them have deserved their despair and suffering, and none of them could be blamed for it. Me on the other hand, I can be blamed. Despite knowing, from previous experiences, what lies ahead of me if I let those thoughts sliver in, I let them in. If those thoughts were people, I’d argue I have wined and dined them extensively, made them comfortable, brandy in the drawing room and whatnot. Unlike those people, I have known who have been similar to myself; darker thoughts and feelings don’t appear to be out of place, they seem natural, intrinsic to my personality even. I could never be labeled as an optimistic or extroverted, lively sort of person. I’ve always been, as one of my dear friends remarked, ‘drawn to the more macabre aspect of life’. It’s the attention that I have given, and time I’ve spent extrapolating those abnormalities and morbid ideas, that have made it a chronic problem. At least, that’s what I believe today. Yesterday I didn’t believe in anything at all, even my own existence seemed to be questionable and suspicious. How do we know we’re alive? Apart from physically bleeding and feeling the life drain out of us, but even those experiences can be deceiving.

I’ve been told numerous times that people like myself should talk about these things. Question: how do you do that when you can’t pull yourself up, dress and go outside? How do you talk to anyone, when all you think when you look at him or her, is that they’re judging you? Should we be casual about this, slip it in towards the end of conservation? 

‘Oh, by the way, I know we don’t chat often, but I think I’d very much like to die today. Toodle-pip!’

Or is it a more formal and black tie event? 

‘Excuse me sir, my apologies for interrupting your daily musings, but having considered the possibilities of my own future and the pointlessness of my own existence, I regret to inform you I shall be dying in the very near future. Have a nice day'. *tips hat*

If there is a set format for discussing death and your own possible suicide, please let me know. 

(Aside: I’d also like to know what in the world ‘smart casual’ means. Methinks it’s a wankerish term, made up by fence-sitters who can’t be bothered to work out whether or not they want to be formal or casual, clothed or naked, whatever. Wankers. I’ll wear a cocktail dress with converse trainers, just to irritate you.)

I’ve only ever once mentioned the prospect of dying to my own father, a few years ago now. I told him I wished I were dead, because that’s how I felt; only numbness and nothingness, more of a corpse than a living person. His response was to tell me to stop being so ‘morbid’, that depression didn’t exist; we were all a ‘pack of attention-seeking, whingers’. Needless to say, I felt something then – anger and an even greater sadness at the absolute dismissal of, what I thought to be, something rather important. We’ve never discussed it since, but no matter. His ignorance is his own folly, not mine.

But what then do you do, when you’ve attempted to reach out and tell someone that you want to die, only to be dismissed as a silly, little girl? You tend to give up, completely. I’d rather keep the thoughts in my head, have them torment me daily, than to be repudiated and mocked. This is further consolidated by the few times I’ve mentioned it to friends and been told I was being foolish, ‘not thinking straight’. Perhaps that is true; I probably wasn’t being completely rational or capable of thinking of the consequences, so I don’t begrudge those friends. Future consequences aren’t the most important thing to someone who can’t conceive of a future within them in it. Afterwards though, I understood what those friends were saying. It’s rather like slapping someone in the throes of hysteria, pouring a bucket of ice over their head or helping a panicking person to breathe. It’s not motivated by cruelty, but by necessity. I understand that. During those ‘episodes’ however, it feels like rejection and it stings. You tell someone dear you want to die, that you already are, and they slap you in the face for it and make you feel guilty. How can they be so cruel, when all you’ve done is act, in what you believed to be, their best interests? 

‘I’m a burden, a drain on you, can’t you see that? Why can’t you understand that? You must see that!’

Even now I can rationalise my past actions and motivations, while also understanding other’s reactions, even if the two seem to oppose one another. They don’t though, not really. Both sets of actions are arguably born from good intentions, different intentions, but considered the same. From my perspective, I believed I was acting in the best interests of everyone; I could take away my own pain permanently and I could and still can, take away other’s, as a burden and source of annoyance. I can’t extrapolate other’s reactions because they weren’t my own. Knowing the people involved though, I assume they had good intentions at heart, even if their words were wrongly misconstrued as cruelty and rejection then. Being ‘guilt-tripped’ and having the possible pain, you may have caused your family and friends mentioned during these ‘episodes’ hurts, a lot. It particularly hurts when you’re a bit of a sucker for other people’s feelings and susceptible to feeling guilty (lapsed Catholic). Understandable though, bucket of ice and all that, but it should be mentioned that family and friends are always considered, as are consequences. Maybe not as clearly and definitely from different perspectives, but I find it hard to believe that anyone kills themselves with the intention of causing others pain, with bitterness and hatred in their heart.

I’d argue, and from my experiences, the last thing you think of before you attempt suicide, is the most important people to you. You feel despair at the prospect of parting, but love for them and assured in your belief that it will be better for them. That’s from love, not hatred. It’s also probably why people write letters, send those last texts or messages, look at photographs, because in your last moment of living, everyone would want to be heard and to have the chance to say goodbye, even without saying the word. For me, I wanted to memorise every feature of the people I loved, hear from them one more time, call up my Mum and tell her random facts and gibberish, until she told me she had to get on with her day and ‘I’ll talk to you later, baby’, just to hear her voice. You don’t do those things with the intention of hurting those people, you do them because you love them so much that you just have to connect with them, in any way, one last time. That’s from love, not from pain or with the intention of causing them pain. You’re shielding them from pain by not saying anything. 

I’ve contemplated and failed so many times now, I don’t need goodbyes or to establish those last minute connections. I’ve failed so often the doctor would probably think it was an unlucky accident, rather than intentional, because that never seems to work for me. I’m far too guilty, sensitive and always listening to other people. I listen to them and drag myself up, keep my eyes open so I don’t fall asleep and deal with it. I hate that part the most. I hate that part more than the feeling of life leaving me, which you can feel, and more than having to face people you know afterwards, or having to be around a family that would label you a despicable sinner. 

Really, I hate everything and nothing, at the same time. I hate being a miserable sod, an awkward person, an abnormality in every way, but I can’t hate everything about myself all the time, because it makes living a bit more painful, it makes breathing a bit harder, and it makes every waking minute seem like an eternity. When I can’t do it anymore, I try and sleep. If that fails, I research and come up with my own alternatives, like a new, stricter diet and a new method of coping. My current method is simply limiting human interaction and every activity, because why speak or see people when you know you’re bothering them? When you’re nothing but a burden to them? Or perhaps I’d rather deal with the separation sooner than later, cut ties before every person realises how disturbed and damaged I am. Personally, I’d rather leave permanently, than to hear the criticisms and rejection I know are inevitably coming. They always come. That’s not black or white thinking either, that’s infinitely gray. 

Like the ridiculous phrase usually heard in regards to sport (typical), ‘the best defense is a good offense’. Although, my best defense seems to be defensive, not offensive, so perhaps my best defense isn’t, in fact, my best defense, but rather a super defense, from a fairly defensive person. I’ve got a lot to be defensive about, as you can see. 

But having written all this gibberish, perhaps my torturous interlude wasn’t so bad after all. This was. Give me sight and I’ll see colours, at least for a while. It has to be better than never seeing colours at all. 

"You gotta roll with it. You gotta say what you say."

“There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.” 
― Laurie Halse Anderson

I spent the majority of my teenage years being a cold and abrasive person, because that's how I thought you should be. Somehow, being like that and completely indifferent towards others and everything around me, would make me the better person, the stronger person, when everyone else was obsessed with forming friendships and crying over their teenage romances. But I got tired go that, the skin I was wearing felt too unnatural to wear anymore, so I shed it. I was merely copying the facade used by my own mother with such expertise, but it was never me and after painful events, I realised it was never her either. 

Sensitivity, being called sensitive, has taken a long time for me to accept and warm up to. In my family, sensitivity is not a trait of the strong, it's a weakness to be exploited. Possessing a sensitive soul is a failing of character and the inability to cope, being ruled by emotions. But that is completely false, entirely ignorant. 

I don't believe I possess the kind of sensitivity some people are born with, that marks their character from the beginning. I know as I've gotten older, seen more things, made more mistakes, met more people and listened to them, that I have grown to be more sensitive, or empathetic. Empathy is what it truly is and that is most definitely not a failing. A human being without empathy could be considered an abomination, or a psychopath (it's one of the 20 criteria for diagnosis). Being sensitive I suppose, is one of the reasons I'm writing this. 

This is a method of coping for me. It's difficult to verbalise all my thoughts, but writing seems natural and usually easier for others to understand. I'm also aware it's a 'black dog' day. Any attempt at verbal conversation today won't go well. This is a form of coping. We all need some way we cope with the stress and strain of our daily lives, some are harmless.

A harmless method I've always used, is listening to music. I have said it many times before, but music is my constant companion. Music is constant, it remains exactly as it was when it was created. That's why most of us have a strong visceral connection to it, because no matter what else is going on in your life, in the lives of those you surround yourself with, music has that extraordinary ability to take you back to the same place you first heard the song, to remind you of someone you listened to it with, of a year, of an event - it does all those things. It's an escape and a harmless one.

But there are others methods that aren't harmless, that's aren't at all healthy and I hope, not used by anyone I've ever met. Despite being a blow to my pride, which I admit I possess a lot of, the majority of my methods aren't good. I can write about those, because I believe that if you have certain knowledge at your disposal, it's almost a moral obligation to pass it on to others, to educate them and I hope, to prevent them from taking the same path I have.

For contextual purposes and perspective, we'll start with basic questions. 
If I, George MB, wasn't writing this, what would I be doing right now? 

I'd be focused on the fact I've consumed 9.83 calories today, how many minutes of exercise I've done, how many more I have to do before I can stop, that I weighed a total 46.4kgs at 5am this morning, and hating myself all the more for it.

Why do this?
Because I can't help myself. Because it's a habit. Because it's addictive. Because it's something I can do and it takes away my pain, by giving me a new source created entirely in my head. Because it's me and I don't like me. I don't like what the mirror shows me, I don't like my personality, I don't like my idiosyncratic awkwardness and inability to ever be comfortable. Because it's a distraction from everything else. Mostly, because I just don't like me.

The greatest difficulty in life for me, is that it's uncontrollable. I can't control what people say, what they do, accidents or inevitabilities, but I can control myself. Other people can  crush my heart, they can warp my words and bleed me dry of all the happiness I possess, until I feel like the living dead, but there are parts of me that can never be stripped or touched by another person. I need something that is mine. I needed this more than anything, I thought.

But this was a mistake. To allow this kind of thinking to continue was a mistake. Now it's become my life. It's me. Like my depression, I can't separate myself from it and see who I am, all I see is a starving, depressed and worthless human being.

A lot of people do suffer, for many different reasons. I'm writing this because I know how much it hurts to be the child of parents who don't really see you, who don't know the first thing about you, as a person. I love them, but they possess an image of me that hasn't been accurate in years. I also know how much a careless word, a criticism and taunts can hurt, especially when they're said by someone you care for - that gives their words much more weight, much more authority to inflict pain. So I can completely understand the desperate need to have some method of coping, a form of escape, that separates a person from everything else going in their life that is uncontrollable, that they don't want to or don't know how, to deal with. 

But I wouldn't want anyone to ever be like me, to think the way I do, to do what I do. And if there is some small way I could persuade people against taking a similar path, it's worth writing this. Eating disorders, depression, anxiety, psychosis, all these things can destroy your life. I know many people who have suffered with such things and they have recovered or are recovering. That fills my heart with joy, because no one deserves the daily pain from suffering with any of these. 

I want people I know to always know, that I think the world of them, to me they're perfect - just as they are. If you need a way to cope with the sadness, the pain or just stress, find a harmless way to do so, but please don't ever choose to harm yourself, to cause yourself more pain as a distraction. You're worth so much more. If you can't think of anything good about yourself or feel down, just know, I think you're a marvellous wonder. I think you're beautiful and I'll say or write that, as many times as I have to for friends to understand, because I don't want them to be like me and be incapable of believing any compliment or anything good said about themselves without doubting it. Because they're worth every minute of my time and so much more. Mostly because I love them - imperfections and all. 

No one's perfect and really, we'd all hate the person that was. 

The most certain fact of life is that people break promises, as I am sort of doing now. I try not to, I don't like false hope or false promises, but I needed to gather thoughts, express something and try to make something of the little energy I've been gifted with today.

I have eaten today (hence the energy), after a week and a half, purely to be awake long enough to communicate in a somewhat coherent manner - always the rambler though. I don't spend much time awake these days (insomnia mostly cured). This is mostly, to be honest, more of a written conversation to myself. I probably needed to do this a while ago, because mental conversations get a bit bothersome and ineffective after such a long time. Although, it is rather amusing in many ways (the only perk of being defective), to have different conversations with yourself. Not aloud, just mentally. It's like having many different people arguing for and against everything you do and say, having completely different ideas about every little thing. I'm not entirely sure which one is me, although they're all me in a way, but it's probably the one who seems exasperated by the situations I find myself in, bored even. Flailing hands, loud sighs and eye rolling - sounds like the old, typical me. That one is usually drowned out though.

I had a rather shocking day yesterday. There I was, waking up (for no real reason), getting out of bed (again, no reason), when I became truly upset and frantic. Why? My reflection in the mirror, which I did not think was me at first glance.

I could show you what it looks like when your rib cage, hip bones and collarbones all jut out and threaten to break through your delicate skin, but I won't (not an exhibitionist). But I can't show you or properly express the shock and disbelief when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and don't recognise any part of you. I swear even fundamental things, like eye colour, seem different - darker somehow. Everything screamed misery to me.

And that voice, the one that seems to be constantly fed up, irritated and mentally slapping me, was really fucking sad and filled with rage. 'Look! Look at what you've done! You've fucking destroyed us!' I can't say I disagreed then. That momentary glimpse in the mirror completely ruined my day and definitely annihilated the cruel thoughts I'm used to. It's devastating to know that, although you despised so many aspects of yourself physically and mentally, you managed to destroy the very few things that you accepted, or liked, even. But you see, that was yesterday.

Now I just consider it a pity. An acceptable side effect, that's okay. There's just another reason to avoid mirrors and if I have a knack for anything, it's avoidance. If only I had a faulty memory though, that would be welcomed.

I've gotten on the acceptance train now. It's why it's much easier for me today, why I'm quite calm and filled with nothing. I don't believe I'm depressed anymore. I'm simply too drained to express sadness. Mostly though, I've figured out that instead of constantly resisting the black dog, or dark, macabre thoughts, it's far easier to accept those thoughts and that mood as a part of yourself. It keeps me calm some of the time, and every other time is to be ignored. Like yesterday. Why be so angry with yourself, when you can just accept what's done is done and be tranquil? Why bother separating an illness that affects mood and every aspect of your life, when you can just absorb it, make it be you? Maybe that sounds mad to some, but this is easier, trust me. Perhaps it's been too long for me, I wouldn't know what was 'me' and what was 'it'. We're just one entity now - I'm okay with that. Like I said, calmness is born from a lack of resistance.

However, I'm not going to recommend any of my methods to any person I know with a mental illness - definitely not. Each to their own. My own 'it' doesn't respond well to medication, therapy etc., that's why they call it, 'treatment-resistant'. I just call it 'life', that's what it is.

The bonus is, I'm even more likely to be self-deprecating to cheer friends up - always works. Who can feel bad when you have someone singing Wuthering Heights, out of tune, time and without any idea of pitch? No one can. It is a tad saddening at times to know that people perk up when they compare their problems to mine, but it's still better to know you made someone feel better - even if it is at your own expense. Besides, I'm certain people only befriend, remain friends with or speak to me, out of pity or because they're extremely kind-hearted and mostly patient people. I appreciate it. I'm a burdensome person to know. It's probably a good thing then to be mostly exhausted all the time, it's difficult to respond to anything or anyone. I believe that eases the burden that is knowing me. Reduces upsets and people's constant anger and impatience with me. Because sometimes kids, honesty really isn't the best policy. It hasn't done wonders for me or any communication I've had with other people. Acceptance, avoidance and thinking or feeling nothing - it's the way to go.

End of ramblings and nonsense I suppose. I hope that made some sense - it's as coherent as I can be.

Last Post: The Wasting Game

“Madness is not what it seems. Time stops. All my life I've been obsessed with time, its motion and velocity, the way it works you over, the way it rushes you onward, a pebble turning in a brook. I've always been obsessed with where I'd go, and what I'd do, and how I would live. I've always harbored a desperate hope that I would make something of myself. Not then. Time stopped seeming so much like the thing that would transform me into something worthwhile and began to be inseparable from death. I spent my time merely waiting.”

― Marya Hornbacher

This is my last blog post, at least that is my intention anyway. Who really knows though? Something may change, highly doubtful, but it may. People tell me it will.

There are a few reasons for this, but the prominent reason is - I don't really have anything left to say. It's that simple really. I've said/written everything, you have read it all and now I don't have anything left to give you. That carries a far greater meaning than just in regards to my blogging, but that's another story not worth telling or wasting your time with.

I've come to a few conclusions you see, after hours, days and months filled with constant thinking. I do believe I may actually have about a hundred different thoughts for every breath I take, which makes it increasingly difficult to get anything done, including typing this. But these conclusions I've reached have taken a very long time, apologies for that, thoughts are distracting and sometimes hard to connect, but I got there. I hope.

Firstly, I think it's for the best if I stop blogging, posting, tweeting, updating my status, because these things are just a reflection of my own problems - I don't need the reminders anymore. I also think it's very unkind of me to project onto other people, who have done absolutely nothing to deserve putting up with a mad person. I apologise for all those things, but needless to say you won't be bothered again. Which leads to the second conclusion.

I don't see any reason to share anymore. I have nothing to give, or to say that hasn't been said and done before - no one likes repeats. This is for myself, but mostly for other people once again. For me, sharing or putting myself out there, has put me in the vulnerable position - open for criticism, mocking and being completely misunderstood (like relationships/attachments really). I don't want to be in that position. I don't need the criticism, or the 'tough love' words, or even the emotional blackmail. But I also don't want friends to be in the position where they feel the need to repeat themselves (like I said, people hate repetition) or to worry. That's unkind of me and believe me, I feel guilty for making people do that or feel that way. It shouldn't be like that, so it won't be.

The last conclusion is an odd one, because I'm not sure of it myself. It's more of a musing or incomplete thought, but I'll try and get it across to you as best as I can. I've spent a lot of time thinking about what it is that's made me manic, erratic, 'ill' (as my family prefer), but I've also spent a lot of time thinking about the people I know. To be more precise, I've tried hard to make connections, to see how all my thoughts, words, actions and the people I know are connected - how they affect me. 

I can only conclude that some people I know have indirectly or directly offended, hurt and blamed me in certain ways and not particularly cared. I don't like saying that, I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but that's undeniable. They have, quite often actually. I also think that perhaps I subconsciously allow people's bad days to ruin my day, through trying to empathise with them or by trying to solve their problems and failing to do so. That tends to make me feel like shit, worthless really. Again, that won't be a problem if I keep to myself and avoid such external factors.

Another idea I had was that people lie. I really loathe lying, liars tends to make me angry, they're inconsistent. Now some people lie directly to your face, some people do it because they just don't want to reveal a truth (for whatever reason) or worse, some people lie in an attempt to 'protect' you, because you apparently cannot handle the truth. The combination of these three has struck me - I don't like any of the reasons, just don't lie to me. Another reason to avoid interactions, no one can lie to you then. But there's also a different type of liar, the less intentional. Those who tell you something that they believe to be true, but the thought is actually false. 

It's hard to determine truth from fiction at times, I completely understand that, but it's messing with me. What should I believe? Who can I believe? Why are all these things I'm hearing conflicting with each other? The worst question though is 'Who is more likely to be telling me the truth?' That's hard. I feel like I'm placing someone's opinion or value above someone else's, as if they mean more to me. I don't like it, it makes me uncomfortable. But by believing everyone is equally truthful, I've only been caused pain and have become quite mistrustful/fearful of every single person. I've had to acknowledge the fact that some people's opinions are distorted (I know mine are), for various reasons, and that there a few people who I should never doubt for a second. Why? I have no reason to. Everyone else? Plenty of reasons.

Even these conclusions don't really bring me much joy. Thoughts don't really stop, but they lessen if I have limited interactions with others. I'm terrified of being asked questions I don't have the answer to. I don't want a friend having to say the same thing over again and not being able to understand them, because my mind is too jumbled and exhausted - I wouldn't be able to concentrate. But also, if someone has to constantly reassure you you're fine, you know you're a failure. It means I've failed to progress, to change anything despite efforts to do so and it seems as though I'm the deadweight. I know, I feel guilty for that too. I'm sorry.

The last physical conversation I had with a person was this weekend. It wasn't under pleasant circumstances and is another reason for me to avoid these interactions - I'm not cut out for them.

The conversation went something along these lines:

Q. "Do you think your depression has gotten worse?"

A. "No."

Q. "Why not?"

A. "Can't get any worse and I'm too tired to be depressed."

Q. "Do you think you have an eating disorder?"

A. "No."

Q. "Why not?"

A. "I'm too tired to have one."

Q. "Do you still want to die?"

A. "I'm too tired, I'll wait."

I could only think of one question to ask him, "will it always be like this?" I didn't wait for the response, I tuned out after "Yes, if…" - that wasn't the answer I was hoping for. Perhaps I should have rephrased the question to get the answer I actually needed to know - "Was I always like this?" or "What did I do to be like this?" That's what I should have asked, but given the circumstances of our meeting, I doubt he would have known. He couldn't have, he only knew the parts of me I gave to him (like I'm giving to you), nothing more, nothing less. Impossible questions really. I know me and I don't know the answers. I'm out of answers these days, it's just endless questions I have.

But to clarify, he was wrong, or rather - he asked the wrong questions. Maybe I should have been more lenient and forgiving, but unless it's direct, I'll play dumb. The eating disorder - no. It was never about eating, it was never the idea that thinness made me more attractive, it was for the exact same reason I ask questions actually. Control and avoidance. Not eating, weight - that's self-control. That's completely mine, it's not something I have to share or that can be meddled with by anyone else, despite their efforts. It's mine to manipulate and to completely control. Like questions and conversations in general. I long ago approached conversations this way - it's giving and taking. If you don't want to give yourself away, the best thing to do is to talk. Talk a lot. If you talk a lot, you're controlling what's being said, more importantly, what's not being said and you can almost predict the direction of the conversation. The more you talk, the less you say - that's it. 

I've been mistaken as being talkative for utilising this tactic, but that's wrong. I'm shy and also a person who avoids everything. Unless I'm comfortable with a person, I'm sorry, but I'll do the talking. Anything to avoid being asked tricky questions, to freeze up and be focused upon. Conversations should always be about the other person. I don't like me, let's not talk about me. Just ask questions and then wait. Which is what I do best.

It's exactly like Hornbacher wrote, I spend my time waiting now. It's all I do actually. I'm not waiting for Godot (thank God), I'm not waiting for some miraculous positive force to engulf me or for anything to change, I'm just waiting around to waste time. I call it the wasting game, that is exactly what it is. Mentally wasting, physically wasting, time wasting, wasting my life - wasting, wasting, wasting. And then it's over with. Time isn't endless, it runs out eventually. It tends to drag on when you're alone or constantly looking at the clock to see how much time you've spent waiting, but it's what I can do. It's all I can do.

I don't think apathetic or tired are the right adjectives for me anymore. Defeated is more fitting. I'm guessing anyway, I've never described myself as such before. That's changed. So have a lot of things, like these blog posts and my ridiculous complaints. I'm sorry, this is the last of them.