Twenty-One Revelations: The Makings of a 'Proper' Adult.

“Pictures all around, of how good a life should be, a model for the rest, that bred insecurity.” 
― Ian Curtis

Harking back to my post last year on the eve of my twenty-first birthday for a moment, I wrote a blog post entitled 'New age: Same old shit'. It was bitter, as you can surmise from the title, but also questioning of what adulthood was, what 21 (the age of majority) actually meant or changed. 

I reflected on Stephen Fry's autobiography Moab Is My Washpot, the way he described his teenage belief that adulthood meant the dismissal of certain ideas - with ageing comes a banality of sorts, where the mundane aspects of every day life take hold - there is no room for that 'youthful', idealistic spirit.

I was not in the least bit excited to turn twenty-one, nor am I in a rush to age another year, but it'll happen regardless - as most things you don't want to occur, do.

I turned twenty-one thinking that I'd be thrust into the world and suddenly regarded as an adult, a 'proper' adult. When you become eighteen people still pity you a bit, they're more forgiving of your mistakes, you're learning what the real world is all about. By twenty-one, that's gone to some extent. However, I found once I began my Masters degree, people still called me a 'baby' in comparison to themselves, they still allowed for my mistakes and awkwardness when having to speak publicly.

Maybe last year I was so worried because I assumed people expected everything to fall into line for me. I'd have to finish my degree, choose a career path, get a job, find a partner, have a social life and still contribute time to social events, family and friends. Some of that was expected of me, to an extent, but most of it I expected for myself. I placed so much emphasise on age and how I imagined it, I just assumed that was what everyone else thought as well. Twenty-one hasn't really been great, but it wasn't the expectations that come with age that made the year so rubbish, it was myself and my own expectations.

I have finished my (first) degree, that made my Mum and Dad so proud. It was one of the best days of 2013, despite having to wear a ridiculous cape, fur shrug-thing and winking at the Vice-Chancellor out of nervousness. I have some sort of a social life and I've always made time for family and friends, who are my family. Perhaps I don't give them as much time as I would like to, but I've always thought it's far better for them to miss me, than to deal with me while I'm being hounded by the Black Dog.

The Black Dog, that will be the icon of my twenty-first year. I've been depressed for a life time it seems, but this year it was almost constant. Every. Single. Day. I'd wake up, be happy and then I'd be so down by nightfall. All it took was a harsh word, a criticism, any sort of failure and I'd plummet. It's very hard to pick yourself up again when you're so down, particularly if you have filled your life with mostly lovely people - they were always concerned. It always concerns me when my mood concerns them.

But I also lost a friend this year. Well no, I lost many friends who couldn't cope with me suddenly staying in bed for days or weeks at a time. A person who suddenly wasn't there, mentally or physically. I understand that, it hurt for a long time, it still does - but I understand. It's forgivable. However, I lost a friend for life, she died.

My friend Sarah hounded me for weeks on end, constantly bombarded me with the worst sorts of words and encouraged suicidal thoughts and tendencies - she arguably wasn't a great friend. But she was there. She was alive and real. Despite causing me so much pain, physically and mentally, she was there when I was alone, until suddenly she wasn't.

The one night I didn't respond to her, the one night I separated myself from her mania, she died. I woke up and she was gone. Gone in a way that was particularly painful for me, because it was my method, not hers. My lasting impact on her life, noted by the way she died. I'll never forget feeling as though my heart had exploded, being engulfed by guilt, the horror and feeling responsible for her death. Sarah was special. Sarah will always be special to me and for that reason, I won't wander down this path any longer. It's still raw, I still miss her. When a person passes, it should be realised and remembered, no one should just cease to exist without leaving a trace. I can't say her name yet without being crushed my sorrow, but I will again - with time.

Whenever I think of Sarah now, it's during times when I feel as though my darkness and sadness is a pathogen. That I'm a sick person and look, look at what I did to someone indirectly! What if I do that to everyone? Why don't I stop this now? I'll never be at ease or completely reassured that I'm not bringing people 'down', that I'm not going to drive someone insane with my darkened presence. It will always be a reason to disengage from everybody else.

Having a storm cloud hanging over your head isn't the mark of turning twenty-one, it's the sign of an illness, regardless of age. I think what I have learnt from becoming a 'proper' adult is that there is no such thing as a 'proper' adult. Most people do the best they can, while behaving childishly at times. That's it. Any expectation you have or had for becoming an adult is almost entirely your own. Sure, society says 'get a job you punk kid'. Whether or not you actually become employed is still entirely your own decision. Even if you do, I'm not sure that qualifies you for adulthood.

The only thing I believe marks adulthood is responsibility, or rather, taking responsibility for yourself and your actions. That qualifies you for the role. It's not a question of age, it's a question of behaviour really. Some fit the bill, some don't.

Everything I do, everything I plan to do, I know is entirely my own choice and the consequences of those choices are my own doing. There's no getting around that at 21 (about to be 22). I accept that. If I cause happiness, that's fantastic. If I cause pain or suffering to another human being, that's my own fault. I have to accept that too. Despite having a Government and Prime Minister who are apparently all adults, (even though they don't adhere to my definition of adulthood) and can't even muster up an apology - responsibility is key. Don't let Abbott fool you. He's just a child in a man's suit.

I do hope, turning 22, the rest of these 'proper' adults will allow me to join their club. I'm far too jaded to be a teenager and I'd rather not deal with horrible skin again thanks.

…Twenty-two though! I mean really!

“Oh sorry, I was taking life seriously.” 
― Bill Hicks

“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. 

"Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget."

It has been a while since I last blogged, and for many reasons.  Two and a half months is a long time to cover though, I shall keep this short and topical.

There has been such a lead up to my first day back at University, but this time as a Masters student! That fact did not make me anymore confident or willing to attend my first day however, but I still went, dragging my feet at times. I always tend to opt for stomping or dragging my feet, while pondering the possibilities of going and not going. 

Funky, hip Professors greeted me with Doctor Who references (that only I understood), a "token" singular male in my classes who was shopping for a boyfriend (disappointed boy) and a shared enthusiasm for museums as wondrous entities. I was pleasantly surprised the first two days went smoothly, apart from travelling and late finishes and my epic battles with the traffic on Parramatta Road.  I was quite happy.

However, I decided to take a chance this semester and study units which were challenging, which made me uncomfortable. The first two, like I said, went smoothly. The last one though, was a bloody nightmare. It could have been the fact I got a bit too comfortable with University life; I wore a hat, bright lipstick, my techno-colour dream coat, boots and perhaps tried a little too hard to talk to my peers. Well, whatever it was, they were having none of it. In fact, I left that class with quite a heavy heart and zapped of any comfort or sense of belonging to that group of individuals. I was mocked for my age (something I can't really help), questioned about my "accent" and where I was from and worst of all, blatantly ignored after numerous attempts at trying to connect. There was also a sense of what I call "intellectual snobbery," people who believe age, qualifications or how many facts they have memorised have more weighting than curiosity and determination. Like I said, it was a nightmare. No one likes feeling like the odd one out, when everybody else seems to be having all the fun.

But apart from the tragedy that is my academic life, life in the "real world," has not been so great either. I won't go into detail, because I've realised I don't like sharing the intimate details of my life for your scrutiny anymore, but I have reached some conclusions I will share.

Friends - They won't always be there for you. 

Now friendship is extremely important to me, I don't take it lightly. If I call you a friend it has more than likely taken me a while to do so. I've had to talk with you extensively, find out your musical tastes (must appreciate The Beatles), what you watch, suss out what kind of a person you truly are and most importantly, become comfortable in your presence. If I'm shy, if I can't have a conversation with you, you couldn't possibly be a friend of mine. So yes, you have had to meet the criteria I have in my head and if you pass, I consider you a close confidante, a friend for life. I was never one of those idiotic girls in school who formed groups with labels. There is no point making a short-term friend in my books. 

I must sound a bit demanding, but not really. These four things apply to anyone who has friends:

1. When you say we are going to meet somewhere, at a certain time or place, you show up. That's fair isn't it? If you can't make it, you call or text (because it's 2013). You DON'T leave me sitting there for two hours (because I am an idiot) waiting for you and not responding to my attempts to reach you. That's a really low thing to do to someone. But to some, it's acceptable, because I'll always forgive you...or will I? Passive-aggression is my forte. 

2. You DON'T call me just because no one else will go out with you or because you suddenly realised your boyfriend is a bit of a moron and now you're free, I must be free too. No one likes to be the last resort. That also makes people feel really quite miserable and leaves them questioning their own self-worth. 

3. If you have a problem with me (or a friend in general), you tell me, you don't go around telling mutual friends and not expect it to get back to me, because people love to gossip. You certainly DON'T spread lies to get back at someone, e.g sleeping with your ex-boyfriend and a trollop. That is milacious and selfish and does actually hurt people, not that the person spreading lies actually gives a damn. Is that friendship?

4. You DON'T ignore people for days, weeks, months and then suddenly expect a happy reunion. How can you call yourself a friend when you miss great chunks of time in a person's life? People change, so do friendships, obviously.

Maybe that is me having high expectations. Yes, I expect we will meet when you say we will. Yes, I expect to not be the last resort friend. Yes, I expect some loyalty and yes, I expect you to actually want to talk to me.  Aren't we friends? I don't expect or want someone who can't do any of those things to believe I will always be there, as a back up, when they realise that they "miss me," as it's so often put. 

I'm honestly a selfish person when it comes to friendships. I don't make friends easy, but when I do, I consider it like a spot being permanently filled. 

I will:

1. Give you my constant loyalty (I already have if I call you a friend)

2. Always love you (even if left unsaid)

3. Cry with you or for you in times of sadness

4. Try my very best to make you smile or laugh when you're feeling sad

5. Send you ridiculously optimistic and bubbly messages throughout the week, just on a whim

6. Check in on you if I'm worried and constantly worry for you like a mother-hen

7. Believe in you, always

8. Trust you

9. Always remember your birthday and send you messages as close to 12am on that day as I can

10. Give you everything I have and everything I am, just to be your friend

As I said, I take friendships very seriously, probably because I consider my friends a part of my family. Although, I did tell my sister she was on the waiting list before she is marked as a "friend." Right now she's in the "annoying sibling," "I love you, but I hate you," limbo phase. She'll make it, eventually.

I've realised life changes, people change and sometimes, friendships don't work out. I'm resisting that though, for as long as I can. I read somewhere that women take the loss of a long friendship harder than a divorce. Well, I've never wed any person (legally, Kindergarten marriages don't count) and I think that is true. It is saddening to know something you have invested so much time, so much of yourself and love into, is over. It's a period of your life that's over really. 

I've just had a shocking week, re-evaluating my education, life, dreams, but most of all my friendships. A lot of people I know don't actually fit into my criteria any longer, they don't actually fit anywhere into the chaos that is my life. I'd like for them to fit somewhere, but friendship is a give and take union. I can't always be the one to give, to adapt, so the other person feels better and doesn't have to give so much, they only have to take. Where does that leave me? In bed, miserable, with nothing but resentment, twitter and despair to keep me company. 

I'd love to tell people to shape up or ship out, but I'm not good at letting things go, especially not people. It's always on the tip of my tongue, to just tell someone to bugger off and what an arse they are, but no, not polite. Maybe I'll just have to settle for not being as hopeful or as expecting as I have been, at least then I won't be as depressed or disappointed in people as I have been. Or maybe I just missed something? Maybe I should have watched closer, instead of constantly waiting. Maybe I've been an exceptionally bad and uncommitted friend these last few months? If that's the case, which it probably is, I'm sorry. 

But regardless of all the possibilities surrounding the "why?" of my story, life isn't a mathematical equation, you can't solve everything. I can't know everything that happens, even with my seemingly infinite curiosity. I don't think there is a solution to this problem anyway, so I'm going to go with the non-confrontational and easier approach this time. 

Note: I was always the worst Maths student in my classes. 

"Just remember...no matter how careful you are, there's going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn't experience it all. There's that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should've been paying attention...none of this matters."

Chuck Palahniuk 

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.

I know I felt like this before, but now I'm feeling it even more.

"Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation."
Graham Greene

Writing for me has always been more of an exercise to unscramble my thoughts, to create something composed yet raw and realistic. I have absolutely no time to read things which are unmoving or so lost in fantasy that characters or people (as they should be) are only caricatures of human beings. There's a reason I'm drawn to autobiographies or writers who tend to use biographical details for their plots and characters, it's simply because it's easier to connect with something or someone which is possible and sound. As many of my philosophy lecturers told me in my first year of University, our minds cannot fully comprehend the impossible or the infinite, so literature/blogs/text in general has to be realistic enough for me to form some kind of connection with it. Good on all those people who love the imagined worlds and people of Sci-fi novels (I've read a few) or abstract works, they're not for me. I was never very good at creative writing, probably because of my preferences, so you will never see a blog post from me which is very far from the truth of the human condition. This is extremely autobiographical, especially this post.

The reason I'm telling you all of this (whoever you are), is because I'm going to do some soul sharing with you. It's a lot easier for me to share things anonymously this way, rather than express my thoughts or feelings vocally or visually, although I haven't tried the latter. I'm sure it would go incredibly wrong, I'm not very creative. 

I have so much to share and get off my chest, but I'm not going to overindulge and send you poor people crazy with my maddening thoughts. There is one aspect of myself I will share though, only because I don't have a choice anymore, it's hounding me daily and clawing at the inner parts of my soul. I'm not quite sure how to express any of this and I have tried so many times to tell different people, but I choke and nothing rational ever passes from my lips. I'll give it a go here though and if this doesn't work, or doesn't reflect any form of rational thought, than I will just have to carry it with me and hope it doesn't drive me completely insane.

I have failed. I've said that before I believe, but this is quite different. This isn't me failing to diet and be like those girls from the magazines, it's not me failing an exam and not being as intelligent as I had hoped to be, it's me fundamentally failing myself and the people I love more than I can express here. I'm sure we all can understand the love you feel for a parent or a sibling, that familial love is what I'm talking about. The people I failed, apart from myself, are my mother and father. That's hard to admit, but this is easier than saying it aloud. Saying anything aloud or face to face with another person makes thoughts or feelings much more concrete and real, perhaps that's why I never could say any of this. 

The one goal I set for myself, that never changed with my hairstyles, moods, age or "fashion sense," was to "fix" my parents. That sounds quite harsh, they're not terrible people that need to be cured of anything, but they're broken. It's not because they separated when I was young, they're far too alike to be committed to one another and are actually far better off apart. That insight did become more apparent as I got older though. My parents are full of problems, which I won't divulge here because that's their life and not mine to discuss, but their problems naturally affect those who love them. I love them, despite any issues they have, so it has always been my goal or the job I set for myself to fix them. The only thing I ever aimed to do was to make them happy. I've done that in some small ways I think. I did okay at school, I didn't rebel like my older sister, I didn't cause any problems for them, I even went to University, all of those things made them happy. That's not the sort of happiness I aimed for though, I wanted to make them genuinely happy not just with me, but with life in general. I wanted to take their problems away and cure them of any unhappiness, but obviously I couldn't do that. I couldn't make them physically better, I couldn't make them mentally better because I can't change the past they're both so unhappy with and being an adult, I have to deal with my own life and can't face all their problems for them. I wish I could though, every part of me wishes I could make them so much happier than they are. Instead, I'm reminded of this failure every time one of them feels down and likes to express how much of a fuck up their life is, how much better things would be had they done this or that, had they not had children or met each other. That's hard to cope with, especially after 15 years of it. Listening to your mother or father, when they're at their lowest, express just how unhappy they are and how much they regret, that's hard to ignore or forget about. Surely any child who loved their parents as much as I do would want to take that sort of regret and pain away? It's hard from me to accept I can't do anything about that now, that I can only comfort them in the present, even if that doesn't seem to help at all. 

To realise that you have failed at something you made your lifelong goal is heart-breaking, crushing and has without a doubt brought me the worst despair I have ever felt in my life. Perhaps even worse is knowing (I wish I didn't) that I truly can't change a thing for either of them, that the goal I set myself is impossible and I was always bound to fail. That's probably due to my stubbornness, I always felt obliged to prove people wrong, to aim for impossible things. Unfortunately that sort of attitude has only ever brought me pain and wasn't worth the effort. Not many things are worth much effort these days.

I just needed to get that one problem out of my head, to ease the pain a tad. I know I probably won't find any answers to my problems, I've set myself up to fail at so many things. I'm sorry this has been yet another post of me rambling my way through illogical depressing thoughts and feelings. I couldn't think of any other way though and I definitely couldn't actually say any of this aloud. It was hard enough typing this, to form thoughts and feelings into written words I can see on my screen, it of course brought me to tears (not a hard feat). 

We'll settle for this being a "secret," confined to this bizarre blog world, which is only a reflection of our digital personas, not quite reality yet. Reality bites.