Girl, Interrupted.

“Our life is what our thoughts make it.”

-     - Marcus Aurelius

I was watching some daft "news" programme the other day. It was very dull, but a certain segment caught my attention; it was about the 'entitled' attitude people now possess. Apparently we are living in a time where manners are considered a thing of the past. We're permanently stressed, rushed and want things NOW, NOW, NOW! We want to lose weight instantly, we want to be served in a cafe instantly, and we obviously have no time to wait. Who can be bothered with 'old-fashioned' pleasantries anymore?

While I did find myself blinking lazily at what passes for journalism nowadays, I did agree with this ‘report’ to a certain extent. However, I also believe it is a tad unfair to claim the majority of us are no longer courteous or polite. Based on my own behaviour and what I've seen from my friend's interactions with other life forms, we do still have manners and are willing to chat (not with creepy taxi drivers, for good reason) with others, but this particular social commentary caused my thoughts to stray a bit (as television usually does) to something I had been pondering for a while now.

Entitlement. What we expect from people, from life in general and what we believe we deserve. I have been very unhappy recently, for numerous reasons, some old and some new. This idea of entitlement though has given me a new perspective; it has interrupted my self-pity and loathing, and twisted those thoughts into something new.

When I am at my worst, when bad things happen (within and outside of my control), I tend to fall back on that childish question ‘why do bad things happen to good people?’ Not that I would be so arrogant as to call myself a good person, but in some cases where I cannot find a reason for the circumstances or the treatment I have received, I can be the ‘good’ person in the equation.

When bad things happen, that I do not understand, I give up on trying for some time. Trying to fit in, trying to be social (I’m an introvert, it’s a struggle), trying to be happy or to make others happy. The cynical side comes forth to protect me and asks, ‘why bother with everything and everyone, when all you get in return is pain and suffering?’ I have used that as an excuse, so many times during my life, to not interact with people and the rest of the world. During those times I believe I am merely protecting myself from everything outside. I cannot control what goes on out there, but I can certainly control my emotions and myself if there are no external forces acting upon my person.

There is of course, a great flaw in this plan of mine. Those sorts of questions and that attitude completely close you off from everything and everyone around you. Yes, you may limit pain and suffering through self-imposed isolation, but you are also blocking out all sources of happiness too. It's like closing your curtains or blinds during the nighttime to rest and not opening them in the morning, not experiencing the sunlight of a new day.

I would never simply say depression is an attitude problem (like so many do), that’s misinformed, condescending and hurtful for those who struggle with such an illness. I can say though, from my own experience, that it is very easy to be self-pitying, hating the world for causing you pain or for being unfair, but it's much harder and more rewarding, to look past that and focus on what makes you happy. The world has never truly been unkind to you; it's a neutral party in the politics of living. It is people who are unfair or unkind. It’s people, you and those you choose to surround yourself with, that are the greatest sources of unhappiness.

We all feel entitled to an extent, to receive kindness and love unconditionally, not taking into account that at times, we may not deserve such treatment. When you feel that way, that people owe you something, that life owes you something better than what you have, you can never be truly happy. Why should life reward you when you have not tried or when you have not made the effort to be happy? Don’t expect nothing though, have standards and boundaries (those are good things), but you cannot expect happiness to be given to you on a silver platter.

Happiness in my opinion, is not something that is ready-made, it’s something that is created; it’s born from many things. For me, it’s mostly my friendships with others that make me happy. Learning one of my best friends Vicky got a new job made me happy, seeing my eldest sister and hearing about her dreams for the future made me happy and talking to my friend Tim always makes me happy. All of that joy that I have received from those interactions, wasn’t because I was ‘entitled’ to it, but because I participated in life, and with people who make me truly happy.

I have no doubt that I will probably lose this perspective at some point and wallow in unhappiness again for a while, but it is my hope in writing this (while the thoughts are still fresh), that maybe, just maybe, I’ll look back on this and remember that my cure is to be alongside the people who mean the world to me. We’re not entitled to anything, we have to be living, to be a participant, to receive and experience the true beauty of life.

It’s like the Professor Jagger once said, ‘you can’t always get what you want, but if you try some times, you get what you need’.

P.S Thank you to Channel 7 for being so lousy. I had to go out into the world and be happy to escape the sheer amount of stupidity being broadcasted.

“Life is only a dream"

“My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing,
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.” 
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

I have been giving my life a lot of thought recently, in between watching old episodes of Doctor Who and tweeting Q & A. I already knew that I was deeply unhappy - hence the diagnosis of depression, but certain things; social interactions and the foundation of my relationships, disturbed me. Thinking about the behaviours of my friends and family, in regards to me, uncovered a lot of problems. Most of which are entirely my own fault.

One major problem for myself and perhaps other people like me, is that the people I know always assume they have to SAY something. No, false. They don't need to say anything, they only need to be there, that's enough. I know you're there, I know how you feel about me sitting by myself, unresponsive - don't vocalise it. I know. I'm aware. I feel the same way, just stay with me.

Another problem is my dislike of being touched. I have an aversion to being touched by strangers. I can't stand being shoved in a queue or being sweated on in a mosh pit. It drives me crazy. Everyone who knows me, knows this. Unfortunately, this aversion was taken by family and friends to the extreme. Most of them believe that I don't like to be touched, at all, ever. I've even been introduced to friends of theirs with the line, 'this is Georgia, she doesn't like to be touched.' This was a joke of course, but I didn't find it amusing, I found it embarrassing. What kind of human being detests physical contact? We are tactile creatures, we like to touch and to feel things, including other people. Which is why, in the darker and most recent moments of my life, a hand to hold or another person to touch - to know I could be felt too, would have been a joy, a blessing even. It wasn't to be though, and probably never will be. 'The myth of the untouchable', it's ironic, because people touch me deeply with their words and actions. It's not me who is untouchable, it's everyone else I know, that I can't reach or feel anymore. I don't know when someone last held my hand or let me hold theirs.

If you can't physically reach out to someone, if you can't express with words how you feel, you're doomed to be alone. I mostly find myself alone, which as an introverted person, isn't all too bad. However, there is a fine line between being alone and being lonely. If you spend all day, every day, by yourself, just thinking, nothing good can come of it. Believe me. You try and find ways to entertain yourself, to fill the chasm of silence and the distinct lack of other people. Sometimes it's harmless, other times - much less so. No matter what I do, whatever distraction I try, like Twitter for example, I always end up alone with my thoughts. They're not happy ones. 

Recently, I've damned the person who said 'time heals all wounds.' That's rubbish. Maybe for those who allow a wound to scab over and then to heal, but not for those who continuously pick at it, so it eventually scars. I pick. I pick at everything until thoughts are indiscernable tiny pieces, which don't make any rational sense. Whenever I try and express those jumbled thoughts, that's when people tend to leave me. Friends have absolutely no obligation to understand my craziness, or to talk me out of a depressed state. They don't have to be there holding me hand or drying me tears, they have a life too. 

When I used to have a lot more friends than I do now, I couldn't bear to see them leave me or to be unresponsive when I thought I was telling them something important. They thought, and rightly so, that it was the ramblings of a mad woman, that I just needed to 'think more positively'. I used to think, 'it'll be okay, I'll be happier, just please God don't leave me, not now. Please not now. I can't do anything, I'm empty, I'm sad, but I still love you - just don't leave me. Please - stay with me. Just STAY with me.' I didn't understand, it used to make me cry more after they had left. To know someone knew you were beyond despair and to see them still leave - it was heartbreaking. I've never felt so unloved and insignificant in my whole life. It wasn't until a friend later told me that she couldn't bear to see me in tears and so ill, that I realised I was being selfish, that I was making her suffer too. She understood, but she couldn't take that pain away.

I stopped silently pleading for people to stay with me. I stopped trying to connect with people. For other friends who are depressed, for anyone who suffers generally, I would say that's the worst thing to do - to be isolated is death. It's maddening even. I just can't rationalise asking someone to stay, if it only causes them unnecessary pain. I'd rather bear it alone.

From past experiences, from this year alone, I know that probably means a shorter life expectancy for me. I've had so many close calls. In some cases, on the brink of life and death, I did think 'this was a mistake, let me live please and I'll try harder. I'll be better, I'll be perfect, I'll be anything people want me to be, just let me live.' Most cases weren't like that though, usually I was happy to end such a sad affair, the thought that I couldn't hurt anyone or disappoint my friends and family, eased me of all my pain and distress. Coming to again, I realised I had done the very thing I thought I was sparing people from. I caused others anguish, when I never wanted to make them unhappy. I just didn't see it as being selfish, what's one less burden in the world? One less person for them to have to deal with? But having friends like mine, who never spare me from their opinions and tirades (which I love) was a bit of a reality check, for a while.

In those moments of limbo, I thought of family and one specific friend mostly, who never leaves me. That caused my heart to swell with love and gratitude, but also with shame. I didn't have to be in such a position. I didn't have to harm and punish myself, because I'm just too sensitive to bear the pain of other's disappointment in me. I didn't have to do this - but I couldn't stand to keep on breathing without living, without love and acceptance. There's only a single person in the world who has ever said that they didn't want me to change and when they did, I cried. Probably not the typical response from others, but it was because that one statement was both touching and damning. As one of my favourite poets Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, “What should I be, but just what I am?” This is what I am. How can anyone possibly love or even, like this?

Unfortunately for me, depression seems to have become such an intrinsic part of my personality - I can't divorce myself from it. It's as if we temporarily separate, but eventually work out our differences and make up again. We're a bitter couple. Depression is the most seductive and hurtful mistress any person could have, a selfish lover, who is entirely possessive of your mind. No matter how hard I try and stay positive, I'm always dragged back into darkness. I'm an adult now, it's not like when I was a child, running over to my Dad because I hurt myself falling over. He's not going to sweep me off my feet, kiss it better and say 'Georgia, you don't need a band-aid, you just need to air it, it won't hurt soon.' There's not really anything anyone could do, even if they wanted to. I'm not sure what I'm even supposed to be doing. This just doesn't feel like living, I don't feel alive. It's like Bill Hicks said, "we are the imagination of ourselves" and my imagination is telling me that I'm close to drowning, simply treading water - until I physically can't anymore. 

Me & Rex.

"I wanted to kill the me underneath. That fact haunted my days and nights. When you realise you hate yourself so much, when you realise that you cannot stand who you are, and this deep spite has been the motivation behind your behaviour for many years, your brain can’t quite deal with it. It will try very hard to avoid that realisation; it will try, in a last-ditch effort to keep your remaining parts alive, to remake the rest of you. This is, I believe, different from the suicidal wish of those who are in so much pain that death feels like relief, different from the suicide I would later attempt, trying to escape that pain. This is a wish to murder yourself; the connotation of kill is too mild. This is a belief that you deserve slow torture, violent death." 
— Marya Hornbacher

A rather sad opening to another depressing post. We're going to talk about my "friend" Rex.

Now Rex and I first joined forces when I was fifteen years old. It was the right time to meet Rex, I was deeply in love with a boy who, in return, told me I was too "chunky" and "not his type." His type was, and still is, women with a catwalk figure, with the beauty and appeal of a Kate Moss. I, being a chunky, awkward teenager, was definitely not ever apart of that group, nor will I ever be.

I was devastated following that rejection. I went home and cried, promising myself that I would change my diet, exercise more and generally be more healthy, then he would want me. So I did, for months. I had the best diet of anyone I knew, I ran every morning and was complimented for all of this. I felt so ecstatic that I was closer to my goal, but still, none of it mattered if I wasn't his "type."

I got down to a very healthy 60 kilograms, all from a combination of willpower and effort, but then I met Rex. Rex, who promised me that I could be his type, who promised me beauty and perfection, all the things I lacked. I believed Rex. I became a Vegan under his guidance, I amped up my exercise to over two hours everyday, regardless of school and homework, this was more important, THIS WAS MY LIFE! School, friends, family, my social life, all of that came second to Rex and our goals together.

The problem was, no matter how much effort I put in, no matter how little I ate, Rex was never pleased with me. I had depression before I met him, but it was lacking motivation and a genuine cause, now I had the fuel to feed my illness. My disappointment and despair made it grow, it made Rex grow, until I felt like he was the only thing I ever knew and felt.

Striving for perfection, like Rex wanted.

The side-effects of meeting someone like Rex are well-documented. Apart from the obvious physical changes, he is all-consuming of the mind and causes people like me to do things which normally, they would never do. Even in my darkest moments before I met Rex, I never considered suicide as an option. I was raised Catholic and while I did not think it was a sin, that people who committed suicide chose the easy way out, I could never bring myself to consider it. I usually just wished I could be invisible at home and definitely at school. Then people would leave me alone, instead of reminding me what a waste of space I was.

The first time I ever considered dying was because I had a bowl of cereal. I locked my door, sunk to the floor and couldn't stop crying. Suddenly dying seemed to be the only option I could think of. But then a  close friend of mine, Dom, called me and said I had to come meet her that night and that I wasn't allowed to say no. So I couldn't then, I had to go meet my friend, I wasn't allowed to wallow in my despair.  When I saw her all I could think was, "you saved me, you saved me and you don't even know it." It is a fact that people generally underestimate the impact they have on people's lives, usually for the better. I didn't die that day or even think about dying for many days after.


The second time came around though, and this was followed through, it was the first suicide attempt. Rex not only told me what to eat, how much to eat, how much exercise I had to do, he also told me how worthless I was, how my family and friends hated me, how my existence was a joke to everyone around me. I believed him of course, why wouldn't I? I thought everyone was laughing at me behind my back and Rex provided many examples that proved the theory to be accurate. With that in mind I realised that even though I had an important trial exam that morning, school had to be ignored for the greater good. What was the point in trying to attempt it anyway? I was only going to fail again. No, I had  to die and not fail. So I took a cocktail of drugs and went to school anyway. I ended up in hospital and met Doctors and nurses who only reminded me that if I ate a "piece of cake" (as one nurse said), then I wouldn't be in that position. I didn't tell them I had actually taken pills, I just let them assume because that is what human beings are good at, assuming things with no evidence. I realised I was playing Russian Roulette with my life by staying quiet, but Rex and I were angry. Angry at the fact that these people who are supposed to care, didn't even bother to look beyond the physical. That is why, to this very day, I despise doctors and their assumptions.

                                                            I thought this was almost perfect. 

The second suicide attempt was actually much like the first attempt and the first thought of dying, before an exam and after eating a cupcake. By this point, Rex was my best friend and my worst nightmare. He wouldn't leave me alone, quite like my friend Sarah at this very instant. Same method, same result, a sure sign of insanity. At least this time I had a lovely male nurse named Dean to look after me, even if he did force me to eat buttered toast. Rex hated him on sight. My Dad did too, but for different, more parental reasons.

At school and thinner still.

The point of all this, of me describing to you the darkest moments of my life, is to draw attention to the present day. The fact is, Rex NEVER goes away, not completely. He's been laying dormant for years and all it takes is one small thing, one offhand remark and BOOM, Rex is back with a vengeance. These past years, I was always aware of him lingering in the back of my mind, but now the downward spiral into depression has opened the gates for him. It's too hard for the mind to try and fend off two different sources of pain. Unfortunately for me, this means I have to deal with the the self-pity and self-hatred, combined with thoughts that my physical imperfections are the cause of all my problems.

It's not helped by friends telling me how much weight they have lost, how their new diet is working so well for them, how being thinner has made their relationships that much better. It certainly isn't helped by a friend I'll call Hannah, shoving pictures and evidence in your face of your own imperfections, reinforcing every little doubt you had about yourself. To me, you see, appearance is very important, but not in a vain way. I could care less about what people thought of the way I dress (most don't like it) and I really couldn't give a flying fuck about what people think of my ever-changing hair, but I will ALWAYS care about comments regarding my weight. People don't realise, those jokes and jibes, they're never forgotten. I am blessed and cursed with an exceptional memory for conversations and though I may forgive someone for calling me chunky, I will NEVER forget those jokes or slights against me. NEVER. That extends to more than just my appearance though, I generally don't ever forget a single criticism. I guess this "talent" of mine is as much to blame for my current predicament as my friend Hannah is.

I'm writing this in the hope that you will just UNDERSTAND. I don't want judgement, I don't want to be told I'm wrong, because I KNOW, people like me KNOW what we're doing, what we're feeling is wrong, but we can't help it. Unless you have personally met Rex, you don't understand how much of a charlatan he is. He can be your best friend and your archenemy simultaneously. He can be your greatest source of comfort when you look in the mirror and all you see are collarbones, hipbones, when you can feel the dips between your ribs and your legs no longer touch. He becomes your worst tormenter after you have eaten, whenever you step on that scale and the numbers are not low enough for you, when you're so hungry and all you want to do is die, he amplifies all those thoughts and feelings of self-loathing. He will never leave you alone.

It has been years and today, all Rex wants from me is to be perfect. All my depression wants from me is to die. Together they both think I should either be this incredible perfect woman, with bones jutting, a high IQ, successful, or I have to die. I'm stuck in the middle and there seems to be no way I can emerge unscathed from within my own mind. My body is a war zone, with every scar a reminder of a mental battle I've had, and I've had quite a few. Together and with Hannah, they've told me no one will ever want such a scarred (mentally and physically) person and I agree. That doesn't bother me anymore. I gave up looking for my soul mate when one of my closest friends scoffed at the thought of me finding him. Why bother?

The things my friends don't usually understand:
1. Why do I, a person living with Rex, care so much when they diet or they don't eat?
That's simple, because I love them. I love them so much that I don't want them to suffer like I do every day of my life. I don't want them to feel hunger or to strive for "perfection," they're all beautiful and brilliant people.
2. Why can't I just accept that I'm "beautiful"?
That's harder to answer. I have thought about that a lot. The most honest answer I can give is that, if I left myself believe that and found out that it was all just a lie, that it was a joke on me, there would be no coming back from that for me. I'd die out of shame and humiliation, from the fact I was so gullible that for a second I was acceptable, just as I am. It's a defensive mechanism for me. Even when my closest friends compliment me in the back of my head I'm always wondering, why are they saying that? What do they want from me? What's the motive there? That may sound cyclical, but in my life I have learnt that most people are not nice, they're only nice when they want something from you. Once they have it, you're history.

Today:

Below are recent creations by me, designed to inspire my quest for perfection.

This is the cover of my "thought book," what I allow to inspire me everyday.

The mantra of Rex, the motto of people like me. 

This is one of the side-effects of letting Rex be your mind's roommate. This is what happens if I fail. 

I don't know at the moment what I'm supposed to do. There's no solution to my problem. Everything is just different shades of grey and I can't grasp an answer. I would give anything to divorce Rex, to leave depression lying in some dark alleyway, but they're like my friend Hannah, they're NEVER, EVER, going to go away. Not unless I go with them.

I've been through all of this before, my life is completely circular. Funny though, I can't actually remember how I did it then, just when I need to remember how the most.

So what do I do now?


"You never come back, not all the way. Always there is an odd distance between you and the people you love and the people you meet, a barrier thin as the glass of a mirror, you never come all the way out of the mirror; you stand, for the rest of your life, with one foot in this world and one in another, where everything is upside down and backward and sad." 
— Marya Hornbacher

That which has quelled me, lives with me, but I'm still happy.

“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I'm one of them.” 
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

I woke up this morning and felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was devoid of sadness, happiness, hunger, thirst, I wasn't even content or worried about feeling nothing. When I was a kid and this happened, I would stay in bed and try to concentrate very hard, staring at the ceiling, until something came to me. I don't do that anymore, I just get out of bed and get on with living.

You make breakfast, shower, ask yourself "do I feel anything yet?...Nope, not yet, just keep going."

By the time I was out and about I did feel something though, it amazed me. It was like waking up and opening your eyes to everything around you. Most people go through their routines everyday, most of us never stop and look around because we've seen it, we appreciated it once upon a time, why bother doing that everyday? But I did this morning, I did stop with my coffee and soak up the feeling of the sunshine on my back, the breeze ruining my hair and the comings and goings of other people in the coffee shop and I realised I was actually alive.

That sounds ridiculous, how can anyone forget they're alive right? I don't mean it like that, I know I'm breathing, but being alive and actually living are two separate things. I mean I realised I was in fact living my life, just like all those other people around me. I wanted to pull out my notebook and write things down that I noticed, until I remembered I gave up the habit of carrying my notebook when I gave up the goal of becoming a writer. Still, the memory is a like a digital camera, if a bit faulty at times.

I'm rambling slightly, but what I am trying to get at is the fact that yes, I am alive and living today. I just needed to stop and look around. People like myself spend so much time with their heads in the past, avoiding the present and never daring to look into the future, that's no-man's land, that we let life pass us by most of the time.

It came as a shock to me to realise today, that when I felt the sunshine, tasted my coffee, listened to other people grumbling with morning grogginess, that I was happy to be there. Doing something so completely normal that we don't stop and think about it for a second, but it made me happy. For the first time in months, I felt every part of me was functioning. Not like days of staying in bed and thinking your heart is beating too slowly or not at all, or being so anxious your heart beat can be heard in your ears or threatens to explode out of your chest, this was the normal thump-thump of every day living.

Despite what a lot of people think about me, I am capable of happiness. Lots of things bring me joy like walking into a store and hearing an old song I used to play over and over and then I forgot about it, learning new random facts and passing them on, running into someone I haven't seen in a long time or simply talking about ridiculous things with friends into the early hours of the morning. All of those things make me joyful. I just forgot about them or simply wasn't paying attention.

This is as much a reminder to myself as it is to people who know me. Today I am happy, I am living and I am fully aware of everything around me. It's a great endorphin rush. I've spent months wondering what it was that I had lost, what it was that I had done to lose my grip on my own happiness. It's not from a lack of trying to be happy or trying to think "positive thoughts." A lot of people think others who are depressed or appear to be sulking are apparently not thinking enough about their lives or their problems. People couldn't be more wrong. It's the exact opposite, I spend too much time thinking and then over thinking every single little thing, until thinking begins to drive me crazy. We're not lazy thinkers, but we focus on the wrong sorts of things.

I think today I realised something important. I didn't lose my happiness or the ability to feel (which I thought many times), I buried it, along with the notions of living, too caught up in everything going wrong, in other people's disasters and too focused on pain. I also have a terrible habit of letting unkind words or other people's actions ruin my days. I remember once a friend asked me what I thought my worst trait was and I didn't hesitate, obsessiveness. When obsessiveness is one of your most dominating personality traits, conditions like depression, eating disorders and anxiety are even worse because you become so focused on them that you forget everything else, usually the good things.

I still have my problems, but I can sort them out. I still worry about the future, but that is going to always happen regardless of how much I stress and sulk.  I'm still an insanely obsessive person and that's never going to change, I'm always going to fuss over my weight, but at least it gives me focus. I do get depressed very easily, but at least I know I also have times of great happiness. There's a quote by someone I can't remember the name of and I'm too lazy to google it, but to paraphrase it said that you can't know happiness until you know sorrow and I believe that wholeheartedly.  If I am sad tomorrow, at least I can assure myself that I was happy today. Maybe I just have to stop every so often and remind myself that I am doing the best that I can, that I'm being and just enjoy the day for what it is, not what it could be.

You have to remember that life is sort of like running a marathon, if all you do is focus on the physical effort, on the distance left to cover, everything seems much harder and longer and you have a lesser chance of ever making the finish line.

“What should I be
but just what I am?” 
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

“A lot of you cared, just not enough.”

"I've always been after the trappings of great luxury. But all I've got hold of are trappings of great poverty. I've got hold of the wrong load of trappings, and a rotten load they are too, ones I could have very well done without." Peter Cook.  There is this peculiar feeling I've been carrying around the past few days (months more likely), it's not despair and it's not quite apathy. Apathy is a lack of interest or concern and I am still concerned about certain things and people, but it seems to me that it's more out of habit than the actual feeling of worry or concern. It's like getting up in the morning and making breakfast, you're not actually physically hungry but it's what you usually do when you wake up. What else is there to do at 5a.m. apart from putting coffee and a slice of toast on? That's not to say the people I do actively choose to talk to (a select and dwindling few) and check up on aren't important to me, of course they are, if anything it shows how important and dear they are to me. I care about them, what they have to say, their "critiques" of my actions, thoughts and life. I listen and respond to all of that. All of that is important, but it's without the recent tendency to be overly emotional, to express all my greatest fears and my heart's desires. I've ended all that, if people don't understand after only a few months of it, how can they possibly understand years of wanting something so badly?  I spent the greater part of my teenage years wandering around, feeling completely isolated, "I was swallowing my pain" as John Lennon put it. I always felt darker than everybody else, too frightened to express my thoughts because I didn't want people to think I was completely crazy. It's just this inner monologue I have everyday with my own conscience, "Should I just say what I think? Oh no, no, don't do that! It's not acceptable! Trouble, trouble, trouble!" Story of my life. I think recently, since December, I got sick of having to constantly censor my thoughts and actions to "fit in" or to spare people from the brunt of them. I have been told by psychiatrists that it's better not to repress these things, that it is healthier to express things before they overwhelm you. I disagree. Maybe some people think it's healthier to express thoughts and feelings, but in my world and the people in it, my thoughts and feelings just seem to hurt people, especially years of pent up emotion.  An example of this was a dear friend of mine getting very cross with me a couple of weeks ago, not only for things I had done, but for things I chose not to do. That hurt a lot. It's extremely hard to keep so many people happy. I remember I was upset and turned to music (as always) to provide some form of comfort. I was on my floor and Jealous Guy by John Lennon started playing and that was bitter sweet. It always seems to play when I'm at my lowest, or I only notice it during those times, either way the lyrics resonated with me, especially that one line "I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm sorry that I made you cry." I thought on one hand, I've tried to spare people and that drove me crazy and on the other hand, I've just caused people pain by trying to release it. They may say that I haven't caused any damage to them, but they're quite wrong.  Things change when you're completely honest with a person, when you spill everything and leave yourself completely at their mercy, unprotected from their opinions. As someone who doesn't deal well with criticism, it took a lot for me to do that and I'm not sure it was worth it. Now every time I talk to those people I'm always wondering what they think of me compared to how I was before. The worst part of it is that I know most people would prefer the former version of myself, it may have been mostly a facade with genuine happiness at times, but I was a better model of a person. The present me isn't very likeable, isn't very loveable and doesn't even have the energy to pretend anymore. Conversations I have now with people I still talk to have shifted. There is this delicacy that wasn't there before and I can't help but wish it that it wasn't like that now. My fault, I changed everything, it's really no wonder I've ended up alone. The one greatest fear I had, the one thing that always kept me from being honest with people, was the fear that I would end up shunned and unloved. I knew I wasn't normal and the fact that my fear has come to pass only proves to me that I should have kept my mouth shut.  The only way to explain this present state of coldness and regret is to look backwards I think, with some help from a particular novel. There is a book I read last year, entitled "Thirteen Reasons Why" by Jay Asher. If I could quote the whole book to you reader, I would, but to do so would infringe copyright laws and I can't afford a lawsuit at the moment (or ever). The novel is basically about a girl named Hannah, who commits suicide and tells thirteen people why she took her life (hence the title). All of these people were involved in her death to some degree, even though they all thought they made absolutely no impact at all, that they were completely insignificant in this girl's life. This isn't supposed to depress you, I know suicide has that label attached to it, but the reason that I'm mentioning this particular novel is because I think it seems so similar to my own actions, obviously with a different ending. I didn't record tapes or a chain letter for thirteen different people, but I did want to touch certain people just once more before I tried. Now those people may have thought they were generally insignificant, but they weren't. I didn't leave a letter to my family, I didn't know what to say, but to my dearest friends....how could I not want to remind them how much I loved them? That was selfish of me, that upset quite a few people and I regret that hurt, but I don't regret my actions. If it was the last time I got to ever "speak" to these people, I wanted it to count and I wanted to be felt. Saying something aloud to someone can only be captured and stored by a "faulty camera in our minds," (Death Cab For Cutie) but written words can last a lifetime. I suppose, in retrospect, I want something to last.  There are two great lines from this novel that I loved and I read over and over again. One of them is more of a paragraph than a "line," but you understand me. The first is what happened before.  "I sat. And I thought. And the more I thought, connecting the events of my life, the more my heart collapsed." The second is how you try to explain yourself.  "If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don't want to cry anymore, you don't listen to that song anymore. But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head." In the novel, Hannah dies, she doesn't have to answer any questions. Life is a bit more complicated than the plot of a best-seller. When you wake up unexpectedly you have to face reality, answer questions people have and try to ease the pain you have caused by wanting to be selfish, by wanting to just write things that you couldn't say in person. There isn't a good response to someone telling you "I'm glad you're not dead, because I would have missed you everyday of my life and wondered why I couldn't help you." What could I have possibly said to that? How do you reassure someone that there was nothing they could have ever done, that they were always there and it just wasn't enough anymore? I know firsthand, as much as you want people to forget about it, there is nothing you can do or say to take that memory away from them or that time of fear. People will be angry, people will be upset and some people won't know how to feel. I can understand that. I regret that, but I can understand it. My life has just reached a point where people aren't enough to take away my pain and I'm not good enough to overcome it. So is it any wonder that I can't summon up the energy or emotion to be passionate about life? That I go through the motions of living day in and day out, without any actual feeling? That I'm a borderline apathetic/depressive person? That I can't even be bothered to fix my physical health? I don't think so. Even if people doubt me, or want me to be happier, I think the least they could do for me would be to understand me. Not all of me, that's a bit of an ask, but be as accepting of me as I am of them. That's all I want right now. In return, I'll spare them any further pain and keep it to myself.

We will call this one "Untitled."

This is not going to be depressing, this is going to be frank. Lately I haven't really been myself, I've been playing some sort of imitation of myself, a rather poor imitation at the best of times.

I can't even explain it to you.

I have been toying with the idea of what it would be like to be someone else for a few days, I'm sure we have all done that. It's not a new thought, it's why I've always loved reading autobiographies of people I admire, to share a feeling or experience with someone, to live their lives from a page, to escape into their experiences.  Stephen Fry also seemed to have this fascination when he was younger, it's probably a common habit.

It is not about escaping though, I know I have no where to run. You can't run away from yourself, your thoughts, your feelings, I can't even detach myself for very long from those and I have tried persistently for weeks. I even tried ignoring people, leaving them alone without me because I still don't think it would make much of a difference to them. Funny thing though, when I just want to be alone, not to wallow, but to think, people always seem to need me for something. When I want to be with people though, I never seem to be able to find anyone. Probably for the best anyway, I'm not great company even when I'm "normal."

For the past few weeks I have preferred to listen to music than to mosey out and see people, preferably something with soul, passion and music which would probably be labelled "sad." Although most of my friends seem to think listening to "sad" music when you're depressed could only make things worse, they're dead wrong. Seeing people going about their days, happy as can be, hearing their optimism and enthusiasm about their lives and listening to chipper songs makes things worse, it's like being pierced right through the heart. Why can't I be like that? Why did this happen to me? That's what I think when I'm surrounded by all those bright things. "Sad" music doesn't make me worse, it makes me feel comforted, it fools me into believing that I'm not alone, even when I am.

I'm a bit like a cancer at the moment, or a pathogen. Every time I open up to someone and try to make them understand, they become infected with my rather morbid and twisted perspective on life. I have to feel guilty for that, I can't not feel responsible for bringing people down, not quite to my level, but further down than they were before. Another good reason to stay away from the general population, I need to contain myself. I don't mean to do that to anyone, but it seems maybe subconsciously I wanted everyone to feel like I do, just so they would understand. No one understand though and the more time I have to think about it, the more I don't want them to understand, the more I don't want them to feel what I feel.

Every day my moods go up and down for no reason. Every day I flip from wanting to be with people, to wanting to be alone. I talk to people when I'm feeling particularly lonely most of the time, but I'm putting a stop to that, I don't want to rely on people for too long. Every day is like a continuous journey that I can only go on by myself and the destination just seems completely out of my reach. I don't think I'll ever get to where I want to go, because I don't know where I'm going.

To directly confront my life critics, all I can say is that I am trying. I know it must seem to some that sitting by myself, listening to music or just walking around for hours isn't a way to help myself, but it is. It's my way. I may not see a psychiatrist and I may not talk it out with other people, but that isn't a justification for saying that I'm not trying. Isn't every person different?

Maybe my ways don't work entirely, but I can't do everything everyone wants me to do, I just can't. I probably won't get better to be brutally honest, maybe because I can't see any future for me or because I don't care anymore. I can't spend everyday having to deal with my inner monologue while other people get to go around carefree. It's not fair, life isn't. I know that. At the moment I'm just being and trying, but I'm still contagious. I'm not going to infect people anymore.

I'm sorry for being so down and messed up and I'm sorry for not being able to try harder and get better like loads of other people do. I am truly sorry for pretty much everything people think I am doing wrong, but to me it seems completely rational and for a purpose. I know I'm not like most people, I know sometimes the things I do are ridiculous, reckless and dangerous and that's not usually me, but I'm not me at the moment and I can't be damned with consequences. What else could possibly go wrong for me? Why should I even bother caring? If my reason for caring is only for the impact on other people all of the time and not for myself, that's a waste of my life isn't it? At the moment I'm pretty sure it's the only reason I'm still alive, that and bad luck.

I think people should just let me be and end up where I want to be, wherever that is and stop misdirecting me. I love talking to my close friends, but at the moment their brutal honesty just hurts me and brings me to tears. I just want people to see what I see, but they can't or just won't indulge me, not even for a few seconds. Knowing that breaks my heart a bit more. I would rather not know a lot of things at the moment.