Monday, March 1, 2010

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Fight or Flight

I've been putting off this reunion in the hope that something wonderful would have happened since the last time I was here. But it hasn't. A million-and-one, wonderful things have happened - to other people in other lives - but not in my head and not today. I'm six feet under and still digging. I'm lost and scared of my own shadow. I'm bored of my own head and hearing the same old crap come out of it and roll around in it. It still says the same thing that it said in 2005: "I can't".

How do I change things; when I've given up where does the fight come from?

Friday, January 30, 2009

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Earnest Hemingway Said:

"There is no friend as loyal as a book"


All my friends are more loyal than any paltry, dog-eared book. Unless of course, you bring He's Just Not That Into You into the mix and then perhaps we could talk. It's Called a Break Up Because It's Broken is a little harder to open up to. If you can open it at all. They all tell me the same things, "His tough shit", "His loss".

When I think about it now I wonder how on earth I believed him. But when people look you in the eye, and tell you things directly to your ear - how could you not?

"What am I doing?" Floundering, that's what; from one tawdry book to another.

And he is "raw"? I absolutely don't get it.

Time for breakfast.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Friday, December 19, 2008

Fat Boys, Sleeping Pills and (Nearly) all But a Ream of Paper

So, some twenty-four hours ago now, I sat uncomfortably on the edge of my Fatboy, in a freezing cold lounge, with water running down one of the internal walls and, cried. Just a bit. Then I shoved a cork in it and started moving everything I didn't like, out of the lounge, and into the box room. I remember taking the skulls and taxidermy butterflies and scary looking cats and teapots - putting them in the cupboard saying: "I don't want to be the scary person with dead things anymore". Stuff, stuff, stuff, no pun intended. Or the person that collects things. Jesus. What have I become? "Someone that apologises to a stuffed crow, that's who" "SHUT UP"

I managed to formulate a plan/deal with the boxes that are already in there - still unopened from my initial flit from below the Scottish Belt - I agreed that they could stay until after Christmas, and then... I think I motioned neck-chopping with my hand (at them). I'm totally hard. Oh ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-h... no, I'm so not. Friday told me on Monday, just as I was leaving and in a barely audible voice - "You are stronger than you think you are". One moment, in all of this dark and twisty nightmare of mine. I did hear that.

Kings of Leon. Can't stop listening to them. (Are they even 'cool'? Why do I even care? Didn't Mr O use them? Huh. Must be OK) Have I mentioned my lounge is now S-P-A-R-T-A-N? It is. Naked even. Me Ma asked me if it [the flat] still looked like someone lived there when I told her what I did, over the phone today. She always hates it when I move things. She thinks its a signal that I'm getting itchy.

"I am whacked out of my skull on sleeping tablets" Woo hoo! "Just in case you hadn't noticed - yes you! You with the authoritarian, wagging finger" I haven't even been in my bedroom today, never mind in bed. Never mind sleeping. I've been awake and had people in my house fixing leaking pipes. Everything is leaking at the moment. Isn't that a *sign* for something? Other than the fact that it's perishing outside and my pipes are screwed - but not as tightly as they should be, for they drip. "Ha-ha-aha-ah-haaa"

"Drip, drip, drop"

Night night.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Inside is a Hopeful Sanitarium

The world is a horrible, horrible place.

Three weeks on, post crack-style-withdrawal and I want to crawl back into the drugged up haze of my medicinal buffer. Everything and everyone is loud and jagged and shoutey, including me, and I am entirely alien, to and in my surroundings.

My home doesn't feel like mine, my clothes look like someone else's - 'my' stuff, rather 'the' stuff, (none of which seems familiar or part of me anymore; in fact, I am mystified as to how a lot of it got here) - I just want it all gone. All I want is a small table and a chair; and a ream of paper and a pencil. And maybe a small alarm clock. Sanitary - there's a word that springs to mind. Sanitarium is another.

I don't have (the space for) any of those items, so I crawl into bed, pull the duvet over my head and sleep. I am in hiding. In silent hiding, with fingers in my ears and hands gripping a pounding head. Whitewashed and blanketed walls with straightjackets, have never felt so safe or welcoming.