MLIG

Honestly, why haven't I been around?

Firstly, let me say that I've missed it, this whole blogging thing. The feel of community amongst those who have never met face to face or never would have if not for the blogosphere, that real friendship and all the laughs, all the stories. From those my age to those in their fifties and beyond, blogging has been an adventure. Now if it sounds as this is a retirement post, relax Max, it's nothing close.

I first began my blog almost eleven months ago. My blog and its audience and my blogging friends have changed drastically since those first days and weeks when I sobbed out my heart in HTML and custom font. Still a little too used to LiveJournal, perhaps. And with a heart in severe need of mending.

I hadn't realise I could hurt like that, feel so broken, so shattered. Not for so long. But then, I'd never thought those friendships could dissolve, and so rapidly, without any logical reason or explanation, in my eyes. A lot has changed and I think that those of you have been reading all this time could agree that I am a much stronger and resilient, even happier, person. Although I ceased my self harm in early July, it is this year that I have come to value myself even more highly, and learnt even more about acceptance, of myself and in every way of life.

I slip, a lot. Mood swings have been rampant these past weeks. Possibly a by-product of sleep deprivation. But, you see, le Boyfriend's parents have been away in Europe since August the 4th. And what would two teenagers not quite in love and carrying on a relationship without their would-be-disapproving parents' knowledge, do with this opportunity of an unsupervised house? No, not that... They would obviously spend as much as time as possible together at said unsupervised house... with clothes...

Cue a lot of lies - "Oh, mum I'm sleeping over at Jeorjette's/Shani's/Catherine's house tonight", a lot of close calls, far too much missed school than is sane whilst in one's final year of school, and considering the fact that it is Toivoa and Chip we're talking about here, a lot of crap and painful things including near break ups that has only resulted in us being even closer than before. We're talking car break downs, almost being caught sneaking out, accidental destruction of gifts, serious health problems, really bad jokes, some lengthy visits from that self destructive, heartless, psycho bitch side of me; and trust me, her showing up reminded me just how much I have not missed her.

The remainder of the time, I've been stressing about school and English teachers, not doing nearly enough work and discovering amusing sites such as MLIA, amazing sites such as MLIG and in particular, Gives Me Hope, which really does give me and a lot of other people hope. I've gotten my ears pierced, finally, been to a friend's formal, had le Boyfriend come to church with me, been drunk with le Boyfriend, and crossed a lot more items off on our make out list... I'll post it some time. I've banned myself from Facebook for a week, twice, and exploded Carbonara sauce in the microwave a couple more times than I'd like to admit. I've had the most dreadful arguments with the 'rents and missed friends like Raspberry Hatter and Elizabeth; wondered about Michael Rivera, hankered after reading a bit of Lilu, to name a few.

I've been missing people and been experiencing nostalgia for a past that I've never known, and my increasing "emotional chameleon" state is of likewise increasing intrigue to me. I've been out winning awards (well, only one, really) and buying books with the subsequent book voucher prizes, which I have then been too busy to read, or have misplaced somewhere in the house. I've been destroying phones and breaking stuff and getting down but somehow, never out. It's been bumpy, disheartening, but good. I am happy.

So why haven't I been blogging/reading/commenting? I'd like to say that I've been saving up blogging material for you all, but that would, unfortunately, be a lie. I've been lacking time and topics and the ability to write, as well as questioning whether I am truly cut out to create and sustain an entertaining blog, but I am going to say, with some trepidation, that I am back, and looing forward to this, you sexy sexy bloggers, you. And my posts shall NOT be as terrible as my previous few, I promise that.

But one more thing. I have another blog, which is pretty much exactly the same as this, but uncensored and without, well, at the moment, without anyone reading it, but without people-I-know reading it, therefore, a few extra posts you will never see here. I'd challenge you to find it but I'd love for it to have an audience asap, so drop me an email, yes, an email, and, I know, who the fuck uses email these days? Anyway, send me an email, and I'll let you know the password (or URL) to my cave of hidden wonders... /any sexual innuendo derived from that is totally a result of your own warped mind...

Oh and P.S.? (I know I said one more thing, and this makes two, but shush...)


I'm not in love, no, but I love Chip more than I can say (and trust me, you're going to be hearing rather a sickening lot about that in posts to come), and I can truly say that right now, he is the only one I want.



P.P.S. Just realised that I began this post with the line "Why haven't I been around?" Geez. Not to sound desperate to be slutty or anything, Toivoa. Besides, as I was telling Chip the other day, I'm too fucking good to be slutty, or a hooker, or a stripper. Problem? You be the judge.

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One Year Today. :)

I must be strong; I've come so far, you know. Although at times it seems a good thing, I understand the destructiveness behind your deception. Your incredible power is so seductive, but then, you're well aware. You're enticing, addictive. And I've always had trouble saying no...

You work so cunningly, so slyly. Attacking with loneliness and the fear it brings me - a little low, don't you think? Not that I ever mistook you for being honourable. You'd use every weapon in your arsenal and more tricks beside to have me at your feet once more, in helpless, fawning, obeisance.
We've walked that road so many times.

I love the way that you toy with us, at times gentle, cloaking yourself in the guise of innocence. At other times tempting, playing on guilt, forceful. "Oh, it's not that bad. Not such a big deal." "You know you want to." "You can't keep away. You couldn't before." "You'll never be free of me." Then the blunt shot, wordless. The cravings.

So many methods to employ and so admirably determined. I particularly enjoy the way you leave and come back with a punch; unexpected desire so hard to ignore. Or when you return after enough time has elapsed that its difficult to remember your dark side, even if one recalls it with their mind. Such tactics.

But see, the things is, even though you are so powerful, this power is not all-encompassing. I can turn my back on you, I can look away. I can remain vigilant and fight you with everything I've got. And what have I learned? That you are not indestructible. This is a war I'll be fighting for a long time; perhaps the rest of my life, but I am taking this stance and I am not giving in. I will not fall to you no matter how you plead or scream. This is me saying "never again".

A year ago I was in darkness, slave to a blade and the desperate need to flee from myself, from reality. Blood and pain flowing freely in a darkened room, heart more lost and broken than alive. Today I am fighting and more sure of one thing than ever before, that "hope is not a myth".

It was never going to be easy. I've caved enough times before to know. And sometimes fighting takes more effort than I've got, causes more pain than I know how to bear. I try try try and sometimes that doesn't seem like enough. Sometimes it isn't enough. But today, its been a year since I last cut, last hurt myself on purpose, and I am so proud of how far I've come. I never thought that I could do this, so many times when all I could see was pain and hurt; inescapable cycle; and yet, I have reached the other side of this dark tunnel.

Hope is real.

I'm not going to lie; I will find myself in the dark with the want to escape many more times. And this time, each time, to you, addiction, monster that would have me trapped in your grip, I will say no. I do not belong to you. This is over.

I am free.


(I originally wrote this last night, right after the previous post, but it is fitting for today, no?)

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Depths of Loneliness

Alone in the dark, once again. Less alone or more alone? Think back one year exactly, fast forward twenty-four hours. Different room. Same house. And all I had for company blood, pain and a glint of silver in the black of the room. Less alone or more alone?

Think back, think back, when all I had for company was the pain and the blade and the blood. The fierce anger to go deeper, deeper, to unleash that torrent of red. Less alone or more alone?

Is it nights like these that bring it back, suppressed desires for blood? For the anger and bitterness and the loss of reason, loss of reality, loss of pain? More pain to lose that which was already there. Deeper, deeper. Wounds to match both inside and out, maskinglosingovertaking. Less alone or more alone?

Desperate need to lose myself forget myself, drag deeper. Flesh torn roughjaggedraw, the deeper to lose myself. Without escape now does that make me

less alone or more alone?

I think it's the silence and the dark and the way

That I could be alone in the world.
Still alive still around? Talk to me, I need to see that you're still around. Emptiness pressing and no way to forget; where am I left now, less alone or more alone?

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listen to me.

i was not trying to die.

It was so long ago.

But it is still there. Accept it. But then don't keep bringing it up.

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/keyyboard mash.

The sickly sweet taste of cheep alcohol drunk for social ease is lingering and I want it gone. Every single time I have ever been tipsy - drunk, something bad has happened. Why do I persist in this?

The first time I was drunk I cut myself. And it was crazy, those gashes and that spurting of blood, and my reaction was one of both exhiliration and fear. Then there was the time I upset my best friends. I cried for a week over that till I finally got off my ass and tried to talk to them. Did I learn from that? Hell no. Then there was how I lost my virginity. And all the stupid shit those other times. I saw him the other day... I went to smile at him, but then I saw the awkward look he gave me, and remembered and ended up with a wry smile of acknowledgement. Ridiculous. I'd still have wanted to be friends.

This time I pissed off Jimit. Just a little, and he's so forgiving. I keep realising that there is far more depth to him than I initially thought, and I love that. But ohmygod, I can barely keep myself away from /off him, even when I'm sober and trying. It wasn't that which made him angry, there was more to it. But ugh. He was already let down by one of his best friends not coming to his 18th, and then I, one of his good friends, went and got drunk at a no alcohol party due to his parents' strictness. I don't understand how I have such good and forgiving and caring and understanding friends, when time and time again I have shown I don't deserve that and don't do enough to change anything.

I am talking to him now in our customary nightly manner...

How can I ever tell him that I like him again? A lot?

You know the stupidest thing I ever did? It was this text message I sent once, to my best friends, telling them how many scars I had from self harming. To this day, I wonder why the fuck I did that. Why??? There are so many things I did wrong. Why can't we have the benfit of hindsight at the very time??? Why do I follow through with my stupid ideas?

I'm so tired.

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Untitled.

Sometimes it's more than I can take. To wonder what you're thinking. Do you ever think about me? When you do, what do you think? Do you think 'OMG what an overly emotional/fucked up bitch?' Or anything likewise negative? Do you remember the good memories, and even the bad memories? Do you wonder what things would have been like now? Do you wonder what might happen now instead? Do you miss me? Do you pretend like you were never friends with me? Do you talk about me to other people in passing, like I always accidentally do, remembering a memory and being like oh. Do you talk to each other about me? Does he talk to either of you? Do you talk to him? About me.

Do you ever, just briefly wish we were still friends?

I don't know that I really want to know the answer to any of those questions.

My mum mentioned one of you today. I desperately trying to avoid saying your name. She doesn't realise that it was you too, she thinks it was just the exbestfriend and the other one. I don't know how, since it was always our group of three. She liked you, because you wore skirts sometimes, and that makes me laugh, because she told me so many times, why can't you wear skirts more often like your friend? But she always forgot your name, she barely ever knew any of my friends' names. I don't know why, of all days, she thought to mention you today.

I'm trying to write something for tomorrow. Again, I don't know if I can.

[If you are reading, I really more than anything don't want you to read this.]
Those of you who have read my blog, from the start, will remember that I talked about how it actually physically hurts. And it's like, shit, my whole chest is so tight and hurts so much I can't even describe it. And you know, that hasn't been happening so much lately. So maybe I'm finally getting over it. But I don't want to. All those times I said "I would die without you", and, then, after all, I didn't. And I don't know, it, to me, felt like a betrayal. On my side. I didn't want that. So I wanted it to hurt, even more than it already did. But was I trying to make it hurt more or was I just trying to remember everything?

I didn't want to die, even without them. And I wanted to want that, but I just didn't. Not really. Even with the hospital, and the police, and the file, ohmygod, I just didn't want to think for a while. I was never going to DO anything. Yes, I don't think any of you know this, but when I came back to school, and they made me leave, and I didn't want to, and then I left but then I went for a walk and then the police came to find me and take me home... I was so scared and angry and alone. I know I said I didn't want to be alive, but I didn't want to die. I couldn't believe you thought that, I couldn't believe you would do what you did, and how everyone thought the same thing. It seemed absurd to me, although I knew, I knew how it would seem from your place. I wasn't mad about the hospital thing, I understood. I was angry because you thought I might kill myself.

And I would never.

But how were you to know?

All I knew then was that I was alone, more alone than I had ever been and that I had no one, no one who I could go to, no one who I could cry in front of, no one to even just give me a hug and listen. Of course my family, but how could I explain these things to them? I couldn't, and I wanted to protect my sister. Kathleen and Michelle, my best friends from primary school, knew the basics, but barely. I couldn't just weep to them over the phone, I didn't even understand what happened. They did what they could but they never knew how fucked I was. I just wanted someone. Nothing made sense at that point and I cried over everything. I stopped sleeping in my room, listening to my favourite song, eating chips from the local deli. I've recently listened to that song again, twice, and I've eaten chips there once, last week, but I still don't sleep in my room. Everything, everywhere was painful because it was a reminder of them and of the fact that I was alive. I felt acutely just how alive I was and it was so painful, I didn't want to feel that.

I'd felt like that before, over something. It was terrible. But then, I had David, at least. Although then I didn't even know if I had family.

Again, it was the feeling of the world being turned on its head. My world. And when I overdosed on painkillers and broke my promise to you, specifically to you, it made things worse. I failed all my classes at school that term. Like I said, nothing made sense. I thought that I had tried all I could and that there was nothing more I could do.

I hoped you weren't hurt over it but I had no idea what was going on and I assumed you were fine, because, you seemed fine. I don't know how I seemed but I felt all too vacant one moment, all too alive the next. I didn't think I was enough to hurt people. I still don't know. I never wanted you to know about the hospital incident. I half didn't want you to hear and be upset over it and half didn't want you to know and not care, and I was scared it was the second one that would be true. And it was...

Things aren't like that anymore. I don't actually struggle to breathe over that, except rarely. I don't get flashbacks of memories that make me lose all focus completely. I don't die inwardly every time I hear your name, I have developed a mechanism to distance the past from the future, mostly. I keep the present out of it and continue on conversation relatively normally, although a piece of my mind tells me something is wrong. It doesn't hurt as much, as often.

I don't know that I want that! I don't want to forget you, or what you mean to me, I still don't want to give up although that's ridiculous, isn't it? It's been too long, and the reality of that is only recently sinking in.

I don't know.

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Letters to People IV

Dear J,

This is for you.

What did you think about what I said? I know what you said your response was, but of course it was more turbulent than you can express... I didn't do it to taunt you, or just for the sake of continuing it on. There is an essence of truth to that statement, even now. How could I forget all that passed between us? Even with all that has happened since, you know that, I've spoken of that connection we still hold. I still feel it and in some ways I still care. In some ways I don't, because when I chose to cut ties, well, I found with you that I'm pretty good at it. But it's never been entirely without regrets.

And the argument "what goes around comes around" could be put to good use here, hey? That was the last thing I expected.

Don't think I never miss/ed you. There are still times when I remember little things. It will never ever be the same, even if you could forego your perfectly justified wariness, and even though sometimes I have wanted to. I won't let myself entertain such thoughts, to be honest, because things have changed. That friendship was one that I feel should be left in the past, just because it was a good thing, and I don't want the memory of that damaged. There is more to it, that is true. I'm not quite sure what those things are, though. I'm not sure I want to.

But that song, it brought you to mind for me, and sometimes it still does. It wasn't that long ago but we were so, so painfully innocent that it feels like another lifetime. I don't know that I can connect to who I was then, I can only look back as through a misted glass, but I somehow brought with me that connection between us up until now, and probably a while yet. And you know what?

It's not utterly, completely, wholly true now, and yet, in some ways, it still is.

Until the day I die.

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I Think I'm Getting Dumber.

And you may think I'm secretly blonde once I have told you the story of why. My friend told me that I was dumber than Paris Hilton - I'm so ashamed. (There'll be a poll at the end, don't worry.)

And btw, my Google Reader is fucked at the moment, what with my following 207 blogs and all (yes, two hundred and freaking seven) so I'm desperately trying to catch up on everything and if I don't comment on some kick ass post, yeah sorry. I know you'll miss me. -_-

So today, I'm kind of disheartened because it seems like I'm turning into one of those people who break everything they touch to the point where it's just plain embarrassing rather than funny, and you kinda wonder whatthefuck their point on earth could possible be other than to make you feel like a person of more worth. Take, for instance, the character Frank of old BBC comedy "Some Mothers Do 'Ave Em", which my parents are currently watching on DVD.

Case in Point 1.

This morning, I was about to leave for school, when, with one last look in the mirror, I noticed a dark stain on my jumper. At first, I, somewhat confusedly, thought it was blood, possibly because at the same time I accidentally stabbed my finger on one of the open safety pins that were supposed to be holding the strap of my bag in place, although they do that barely. That broke again today, irrepairably. Or, you know, I came to that conclusion because I am quite simply, morbid as fuck. It was also a strange reversal of an incident that occurred many years ago when I was a child, when I cut my hand opening a tube of tennis balls (pulling off the foil covering under the lid) in the car in the dark and was bleeding all over the tennis balls but somehow thought it was ink or oil...

I soon realised it couldn't be, and was attempting to wash it off when I realised it was ink that must have leaked from a pen in the pocket of my jumper. In washing it out I left a huge wet mark on my jumper. I was already wearing my school bag and didn't want to waste time, so... I proceeded to try to iron the wet patch on my jumper... while still wearing it.

I always knew it was a stupid idea, although I guess I never really worked out why... I thought, it's my jumper, it's wet, so the heat won't penetrate to my skin. I AM INSANE.

Less than 5 seconds later, I yelped in pain. OHMYGOD. It was so hot.

Duh.

So I ended up ironing my jumper on the ironboard after removing it, leaving faint ink stains on the ironboard cover in the process.

As a friend pointed out to me, why the FUCK didn't I use the hairdryer on it?

It never even crossed my mind.

I fucking suck.

Case in Point 2.

Why is my school bag broken? Well, it all began when walking through the library doors, where they have the same sort of things on the side as at shops, to make sure no one just steals books. I caught my bag in one of these without realising, kept walking, and tore the strap off the bag at the bottom. I have been attempting to hold it together with a whole bunch of safety pins since the bag is plastic and I know that if I tried to sew it back, things would only worsen.

Safety pins really aren't doing it anymore.

Case in Point 3.

We had a Biology practical today which involved cutting up Agar into cubes. Agar is jelly-like, but firmer, and I amused myself by drawing on the leftovers with my pen that is not a ball-point and I can't work out what type it is. Said pen no longer works. At all.

It was new.

Case in Point 3.

Today we had Maths, since we don't have every lesson every weekday. I forgot my Maths workbook, textbook, and calculator. I'd say the only thing I had that was able to be used in that subject was my pen, but I had already destroyed that earlier, in Biology, and happened to have on hand a pen I have borrowed from somebody else, forgotten to return, and now cannot recall who owns it, and no one else seems to know.


I could go on for hours but it's becoming a little too depressing and I'm going out soon so time is not on my side, although thank God, in this situation.

I'm angry at myself, because in our Biology practical, we used razor blades to cut the cubes, and everyone laughed over the brand of these blades being "Happiness". The irony here is obvious, but the thing is, I contributed by saying something about Emos, etc. It's not hard to work out the gist of any of those comments. But the thing is, I have been there, I know certain other people in the same area have cut themselves and I was completely insensitive and cruel about it. Talk about contributing to the stereotype. Because it isn't funny, and even though some people do it for attention, a lot of the time that is because they need help but can't express it in a normal way. I've thought that since before I ever did it, but as to why I did, there are so many different reasons. And I could never have stopped without one particular person.

The first person I told besides the ex ex best friend, and who stuck around for my relapse and getting through trying to quit again. I can't remember if I ever told her how grateful I was and am to her, specifically, although there were many general thank-you's to all of my friends who helped in some way, and I hope so much that I did, because I don't think I could ever have stopped without her. And she was right there in the room and I wondered if the conversation reminded her of me - what a terrible thing to connect with me. I see her more often than the others, and its excruciating because I think of how this time would be spent if things hadn't gone the way they had. And even when sometimes I think, fuck it, I'm going to leave my arms and stomach in shreds and pouring with blood, it's for her I don't, although I don't even know if it matters to her anymore, and I half hope it does and half that it doesn't, because, really, which is worse? I don't know anymore. Better for her, better for me; is anything best for the both of us??

And why I am I speaking about her now when I have tried so hard and so long to block her out? That sounds terrible, but if I didn't I don't know what I would do. In some ways, that's the hardest to deal with, because we were the ones who talked. I'd tell them all the same stuff but just, it was different, with her. We talked in depth about freaking everything. And it's talking about the really serious shit and just typical teen matters that I miss. Just, the way that we talked. Kathleen is great, but. It's not the same.

Nothing with other people could ever be the same.

And finally, for the answer to my question, I actually let myself read her blog [and the other's] tonight and then, well, then I obviously couldn't block it anymore. Now I'm more confused than ever. And there's only four days to go and I don't want it to get here, because one was bad enough. And even though the day before I'd done the stupidest thing I could have, that was barely on my mind.

[And, well, I guess that maybe you're reading this [?] and I wonder what you'll be thinking, but I have nowhere left to go, and I decided a long time ago that this was where I would write what I was thinking. I don't fucking know, I hide in every other way, I don't want to leave here too.

So maybe I won't write that letter. Because half the time I'm writing to all of you on here anyway.

You know, this post began and I was determined not to think about you, to make it to you or about you, all of you, for once. But what you said is running through my head and I'm trying to make sure I understand.

I hope you'll never think he was more important. He was just the one who was around the most, and from all that time together, to nothing. Fuck. I still don't know, I still don't think it was that way. But I wonder. "What's it like to kiss someone with a beard?" I remembered her asking that the other day, when I'd told both of you about hooking up with the exbestfriend, and how you both laughed as we walked our separate ways to different classes. That made me laugh.

But you know what? I realised, months ago, that I can deal with not being his friend. I always knew we wouldn't be "best friends forever". But I truly thought that about you two, and I guess, I guess that we all thought that but, I dunno. Semester One exam week, last year, sitting at the shops; do you remember the old lady who had the hair like the scary woman from Spirited Away? And how after we laughed at her, we talked about how we had to still be friends when we were old and had grey hair?

It's things like that I wish I could forget.]


In other news, guys, I may be getting back with Jimit. We were talking about it, and I dunno. I do like him but a friend says it would be a bad idea for me to get into a relationship with anyone at the moment, and I know that's probably true, but I just disagree. I can't really think of a reason why not to, so enlighten me, as I'm sure I'm just too fucking blonde to realise.

Anyway, after the longest-ass and most rambly post I have written in fifty years, here is your poll. What is your opinion on my level of blondeness? Dumber than Paris Hilton, secretly blonde, dropped on my head as a child, my mother drank while pregnant with me, or what? All conclusions welcome ;)

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Regret, or something like it.

Referring back to this incident, even at the time, in my inebriated state, I knew I was going to regret it. As I have already said. But there is more to it.

I've always wanted to make other people happy. I've always wanted everyone to like me. Even if I didn't like them. I hatehatehate being disliked or looked down on by anyone, and this is often conflicting for me. I'll still often do things I don't want to do and aren't necessarily good for me either, simply because it's what the other person wants. But if you make me feel needed, loved, pretty, wanted, or anything positive, you're almost definitely going to get whatever it is you want. Conversely, I feel guilty very easily so you can play that card too. I know, I should stand up for myself, but I have this slight neediness when it comes to other people... Working on it, kinda.

That night, I remember MF saying that he had hoped this would happen. My mental reaction was to raise my eyebrows, but god only knows what expression was plastered across my face. I remember him saying that he found me really hot and he had wanted to get with me but hadn't expected that he could... I remember thinking that he was just saying this because he really just wanted to get laid but at that moment I would just pretend he meant it and accept it even though I didn't believe it. I remember thinking that I was pathetic to be so desperately needy for compliments and to feel desirable that I would compromise my values and my self-worth just so I could pretend I was wanted for a while.

I remember how gentle he acted and how he looked worried and kept saying he didn't want to hurt me, and yet it was really too late anyway, because it hurt so much, but at the time I didn't care, and I knew that was ridiculous. I remember him saying that he felt bad for me because I kept calling the ExBestFriend and only getting through to his voicemail, and my thinking that he probably actually couldn't care less.

I remember rambling about how I was so very drunk and that I got drunk so fast, thinking that being such a lightweight was embarrassing, and him saying that he wasn't that drunk. I remember hating the idea of that because it was unfair, and he knew what he was doing and that showed his lack of respect for me even though I agreed to it, and because he would be able to better remember it afterwards, when I knew I would want to forget it utterly.

And throughout it all I was trying, and failing, to berate myself for this, wondering why I didn't care at the moment, even though I knew I would later, and trying to make myself so that I would stop; wondering what was wrong with me and how much I would hate myself for this later. But at the time I just didn't care.

And that is what has me so perplexed that I still cannot get my head around it...

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Letters to People I

Dear EBF,

Last night that thing you said you'd protect me from, along with David, almost happened again. I was so scared, but this time I was angry too, which is never good because I'm far more likely to do something stupid. I was trembling afterwards, but the sobbing was more for you than anything else.

Before, I wouldn't have been so alone. Even in the incident I told you about, I was terrified out of my fucking mind, but I had someone, even if they were separated from me by the sea and god knows how many miles. The second time, you knew, as well, and the only thing that made it better was talking to you. You know how I suck at keeping my own secrets, but this is one only you and David knew, and not very much even then.

I was scared, last night. I thought surely it would end in something that would no longer be possible to hide. Broken bones type of something.
"don't come nearer or I'll kill you".
Ohmygod. It's bringing it back now, although it's fine, now.

But the worst part was not being able to go to you for comfort, to make me feel safe again, even as we shivered in the freezing cold of this weather, out at the park, or maybe the cubby house in the playground at your primary school. Even though I probably wouldn't fill you in on all the details, you'd still care. I'd hate how cold you'd get, but as worried as I would get, it wouldn't be so bad because you'd actually want to be there, and I'd know I wasn't just making you stay. (I don't "know" anything anymore, I second guess everything these days.) Instead I lay in the darkness, trying to pretend.

I'm not so great at pretending.

And when fear receded, I waited for the tension to slowly seep away too.

This was no replacement for one of your hugs.

I love you. I miss you. I hate calling you EBF and wish I could just write your name. [Jake.]

xoxox

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Me, a Perfectionist? I Think Not. (And Yet...)

or, Why I Care About My Writing So Much
or, My Half-Assed Attitude Toward School and How I'm Determined to Finally Change It
or even, A Prime Example of Why I Should Sit Down to Write a Piece in One Go and Not Come Back to Finish it With a Complete Emotional Change...
OR PERHAPS, The Post Where I Really Should Realise That Only One Title is Necessary, Not Three, or Four (but I will realise no such thing ;D)

In the feedback I received last night from a teacher over an essay draft, he made this comment - "you write well". Now, I assume a normal person would be pleased with such a remark. I, however, take offence. Well? Well???

I don't want to just write "well". I want to write amazingly, brilliantly, magnificently. I'm not even kidding. I would, it's true, be disinclined to believe someone who would tell me such things, and yet, that is what I desire. I want to write fabulously. I want to write a novel that will one day be a classic, that other Year Twelve English students will do their major individual study on. I have lofty aspirations, and yet, when it comes to putting in the hard work now, a lot of the time, I just don't do it. The necessity of it doesn't quite strike me. I am doing better this year at school than last year, in some subjects at least, but still, far too often I allow myself to be distracted when I should be studying or doing homework, and procrastinate until it's too late. I am making changes to correct this, slowly.
[I'm trying to write about you here less.]
I used to be a highly conscientious student. At some time early in my high school career, I negligently let that slide. As a result, my grades for quite some time have been abysmal, appalling. Every time I try to make it right, I grow slack and let other things take priority, little things, like a favourite TV show. If there is nothing I can use to procrastinate, I will search long and hard in order to find... something. It is rarely anything useful, either. On occasion, my procrastination will take the form of household chores, but that is far more the exception than ever the rule.
[That doesn't mean I don't think of you.]
The most disappointing result of this has been my low grades. I love my parents being proud of me. I crave acceptance by others, all others, a little more than can be healthy. However, it is not only that. I disappoint myself because I know I can do better, I know I can do really well, if I were better organised, if I put in more effort. It is through no lack of ability that my report card has too often had "C"s and even "D"s printed on it. I could achieve the "A"s and "B"s, but I let myself down.
[How could I not?]
This time, though, I am determined. It is Year Twelve, and I only have one shot. I will not repeat and do Year Thirteen. I do not need to waste another year of my life. I will not be shown up by my younger sister. I will get myself organised and do as well as humanly possible for the rest of this school year. I'll be so organised I will even have extra time to revise and study, and will actually do so. I will actually get a decent amount of sleep, keep in regular touch with my friends, practice my flute, and start going for runs. At least, that's the plan.
[Sometimes I almost wish I could forget you.]
I have terrible will power. Shockingly terrible. Somehow, with the support of my wonderful friends / other randoms, I will get there. You have permission to beat me if I slack off. ;)
[It would be so. much. easier.]
So, let's recap. I suck at school. Now, when you think about it, I suck at a lot of stuff. I'm not good at anything. Sport - horrendous. Music - average, would be better if I practiced more, but still shocking at theory and aural. Can't sing. Dance - completely uncoordinated, hopeless. Cooking - terrible. Friendships - Oh, I'm great with those [/sarcasm]. Basically, in most aspects of life, I'm average to shocking.
[And yet, I could never give up the memories of the good times.]
Writing is the one thing I could do well. And there are so many people who are better at it than me, which makes me sad. I don't just want to be good at it, I want to be very good. I want to shine with raw talent, to amaze people who read my writing. Because I am not good at anything else and I want to at least be good at one thing. And if I'm only good at one thing, I don't want to simply be good. I want to be amazing. I want to stand out for something good, rather than standing out as the last one to always be picked for a team, as the worst who just cannot be taught and so even the nicest of P.E. teachers give up, I don't want to be left alone, worse than unnecessary but actually having a negative impact.
[I will forever cherish them.]
And... right now I'm just flat and tired and I feel thwarted, defeated.

I'm not even going to explain why. I can't, I can't keep putting these things to words. Just, something that I was looking forward to has been taken away. You may not see it here but I am so often fighting to see the positive in a situation, and I just, don't want to anymore. I hate how much this taints everything. Every single thing. I hate how its poison has infected me so deeply that I would run like this. I want to move on, move past it. I want to keep what I have.
[And forever regret losing the chance to make more]
But how can I, when its tentacles manage to creep into everything, wrapping around and choking it, cloaking it in this inky blackness? I can't fight it, it is inescapable. And this monster is mine, I created it, unwillingly though it was.

I know I'm over dramatic but all I can feel is like I am the character in a play of tragedy, with every good thing snatched away at the last. Everything tainted, everything warped.

It is a tiny thing, but it was important to me. Sometimes I just want to scream "fuck the world" with all the self absorbed, dramatised teenage angst I can conjure, rebelling, but not against a stereotype, no, rebelling as the stereotype, angry, defiant, but simply because I'm lost.

I'm hurting so bad that I don't want to have to take it, I want to be selfish and see just how much I can hurt you too, with every word I say, but even if I let myself, would you take it? Because I can't stand anything more leaving, I'd get down on my knees and beg if it would convince you to stay; I want to make you smile, not cry, I need you to need me for whatever reason you can find. I don't know who I am, where I'm going, what the fuck i'm doing but i'm sure that if you go, my heart could not bear it



I'm terrified of being alone, stranded in a pool of merciless light, surrounded by the darkness. Even now I feel the shadows stretch closer, dancing on the edges of this unprotected space. I'm too fearful to move, but if I did it would be to drop - fall - into a bundle, curled up so tightly on the ground you'd mistake me for a heap of rags... Trying to pretend, as children while parents fight, as soldiers while bombs fall, breathing "it's okay" though I know it's a lie. Whispering it in my head instead, trying to drown out the noise - or is it the silence? - of being so alone. Creeping closer, tendrils caressing. Not long now.
It's the agony of waiting. Knowing already the inevitable end.
Fit to burst, the panic tightens the chest, rising, rising.
Ever rising. When will it begin? can'ttakeitcan'ttakeit
it'sokayit'sokay
the shuddering, violent gasp, the shock of a harsh night air suddenly in the lungs,
it'sokayit'sokay
skin so tight, pulled taut by expanding ribs,
pressure moving outward, upward; threatening to snap
bones like twigs, Crack. Crack.
Heart beating? no,
rather a pulsing of the blood, from temple to fingertip, fingertip to toe.
Frozen, conscious,
Pressure rising...

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Just Waiting for Proof that there’s Sunsets and Silhouette Dreams

I know that this blog was supposed to be positive, and even though I’m incredibly confused and scared and practically running around in circles during the few minutes when my head isn’t stuck five feet under the ground in order to avoid reality, well, I still think I’m in a much better place than, well, where I was when I wrote a certain post on my LiveJournal which I have only just re-read. Let me tell you, I do not ever want to be back there again. (Not LiveJournal, but in how I was thinking and feeling during that post ;P)

The post is dated the 30th of September, 2008, and I’m pretty much incoherent. I can’t even formulate sentences. As for what I’m detailing with the words I’m getting out, that’s pretty scary too. I wanted to die, and I say that, several times over.

Here are some excerpts. “I don't want to be dead. But I don't want to be alive… I'm dying inside. No I feel already dead. So then why am I still crying constantly. Why do I still feel so sick all the time, I can't even walk, can't talk, I collapsed the other day at home, i couldn't stand up anymore, i practically fell to sit on the floor… I think I fucking lost my heart when I read those words. I don't want to keep going. But there's nothing else to do. I'm not so stupid as to kill myself... I can't even breathe properly. i didn't know i could cry this much. i want to die. i really just do. I can't even explain what i'm thinking. please just let me die. i can't do this. i want to cut myself into a million shreds, to reflect the pieces of my heart. I am struggling for words. I don't know what i'm doing or saying, i can't focus or concentrate... I want to die.”

It actually terrifies me to remember feeling that. My mind just would not work, and I would come home after school and cry and cry and could not physically speak, I couldn’t sleep and when I did, I’d have dream after dream that I could not handle. I didn’t do any school work, and I have no idea how I held myself together at school at all. It was like I was in the most terrible nightmare, and I kept pleading with my mind to let me wake up, but what was the worst was that I knew it was real, and I wouldn’t wake up. I’m overdramatic, I know. But that’s what it felt like. This is before the hospital incident, which occurred two days before our school’s final music night for the year, and which I have yet to write about properly.

Even looking back to the early posts of this blog, there are some moments when I’m pretty emo, or whatever you want to call it. I wouldn’t say “depressed” because I’m not comfortable with using that word in relation to myself; I don’t think I’ve ever had depression but many people and tests beg to differ. And come to think of it, I’d never use the term “emo” to describe someone else feeling like that, except if it was a joke. That, however, is neither here nor there.

We all expected there’d be setbacks, anyway. No one is happy all the time. So here’s some evidence of how much better I am – 2nd of July 2008 was the last time I hurt myself. Even with how I was feeling above, I could not, would not give in. I knew that would have made it even worse. My friends, yes, those ones, were the reason I stopped in the first place, and that, in a way, made me want to, because I didn’t have them anymore; but I knew I had to, or it would only make things worse. It’s hard to explain…

It hurts rather a lot that they were the reason I stopped and now, well, it doesn’t matter to them either way; at least, that is what I’m guessing. But it’s my fault myfault. That is what hurts most I guess. Actually, I can’t pinpoint it to one thing about it that is the worst, it’s all of it together. But that is not what this post is about.

You might not believe that I’m getting better. Sometimes I don’t believe it myself. Sometimes I feel like I’m desperately trying to keep myself together even as I am falling irreparably apart, and that even when I think I’m doing okay, I’m not really. And sure, these moments have been occurring more than usual lately, since this incident. But when I manage to work up the courage to actually get said incident sorted out and dealt with, I think I’m going to keep becoming a more positive person, or whatever the hell it is. With being happy with myself, and thus being able to be a better friend. And all that jazz.

Anyway I’m off to watch some TV, and it’s not even NCIS for a change. ;)

Love to all my blogging friends

xx

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The ex ex best friend

I thought I'd tell the story of my first close best friend. Be warned, its long. Our closeness lasted a year, while we were in grade eight to nine, or perhaps nine to ten. I forget. We were friends for a while before that, but after my birthday in June one year, we started sharing everything with each other. It was strange and somewhat terrible on both our parts to lose such a friendship, particularly for her, and it did not end well. I think I grew out of my need for her, or something. Either way, I didn't want to accept my irritation at her and thus, it grew until I was incredibly angry at her, and we had a series of fights that were incredibly vicious (on my side) and cruel (also on my side). I was ashamed of myself when I thought about it, even at the time, and yet I closed off those emotions in order to be sadistic in a way I didn't know I was capable of. I am reminded of a passage in the text we are currently studying in English, but I shan't go into that.

She and I were vastly different from each other. She was logical, reasoning; did everything based on my emotions. She didn't really care how she looked, I definitely did (although you wouldn't have been able to tell from that ridiculous fringe I had for far too long sometime during that period of my life). She liked Maths, what the hell??? She didn't own a pair of jeans, I practically lived in them. She wasn't keen on hugs, I adored them. She wasn't comfortable talking about a lot of topics that come up in typical girl conversations, and was my polar opposite in nearly every way. (Sorry if my view of this is any different to yours)

It was odd that we were friends, if you think about it. But friendship has never been dictated by what two, or more, have in common. It's somewhat inexplicable. A lot of types of love are... Take that, logic! Anyway, in real life, our conversations without others were stilted and awkward; both struggling to come up with anything to speak of. However, we used to talk via text messaging all the time, we said so much in texts that we began to use abbreviation techniques that no one else could understand, so shortened were they. If we had not, we would each have run out of credit even faster than we did, and we used our credit incredibly rapidly.

We stayed up till 4 in the morning at times, talking about all kinds of things in texts, and then began to make phone calls at the same time, using the free minutes we received with our credit recharging plan. Then, we'd talk so much. We told us each other nearly everything, we could read each other's actions and notice hidden meanings in our words at school. We had a crazily special connection, I could try for years and not be able to define it exactly. We still had the really awkward conversations in real life, and even during the day our phone calls could go minutes without either of us having anything to say, broken by an occasional "so..." Like I said, odd friendship.

She was the first to find out about my hurting myself, when it did begin, months into our friendship, although she found out later. When I did tell her, she used all her logic to try to convince me not to. I've tried to stop for various reasons before, as I've mentioned. One reason was her. My other friends, the other friends, were a huge part of how I did eventually stop. July the 2nd, 2008. Last time ever. Almost nine months, I think. Haha, that's almost long enough to have a baby. ugh.

I learned random interesting facts from her, as she discovered them. I don't understand how our friendship fit together, but it did. I loved her, she loved me. We were there for each other even when we would fight. Like I said, I can't explain what was between us. Anyway, we were very good friends.

And then I got mad and was the hugest bitch ever to her. But that link we had, it's still there. We still sometimes occasionally have text conversations and late night phone calls. Well, we did, when I had my phone. It's different, of course. Certain things are no longer said, are not able to be said. But we still have that openness, to an extent, she still gives me advice. I really respect her advice still. And value her opinion, with some things. It is something weird that exists between us now, but now that all the anger has gone, and the pain and hurt has eased a little, it is something weird, but kinda good. Odd, like our friendship has always been. But not in a bad way.

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Marks of Madness,

Or perhaps, Signs of a Journey.

I've been considering my scars, again. The main ones run the length of my arm, on the pale flesh of my forearm, on the right side. In certain lights, at certain angles, the thinnest, thread-like scars, barely visible, further to the left than any of the others, can be seen.

I have burn scars on my shin, on both of my hands, and scars from cuts from my hips up over my stomach up to where my bra ends, as well as on my leg, but it is these scars on my arm that best represent, to me, the time of my self-harm.

I hate that term; "self-harm". It speaks nothing of the emotional intensity of the action, the convoluted depths of such a thing, but simplifies it to a point of such insignificance that I feel utterly ridiculous in saying that I once engaged in it. There's so much more.

I have approximately fifty-seven scars due to self-inflicted wounds. In those times, I'd been told that I would regret this later, this thing I was doing, if only for the scars that would be left. But even then, I knew this could not be so. They were a part of me, they were a sign of something. They symbolised something for me, a time, an emotion, a reflection of who I was at those moments. They told a sort of story, screamed something important and in need of remembrance, like any good tattoo. Scars have always fascinated me, on any person. They testify to something, and like as not, there are interesting stories attached; of childhood misadventure and impulsive attempts, of tragedy. These scars of mine are my sign of my self value and a time of darkness I went through, my "marks of madness", faded now, but still present, lingering. A madness that rears its head every so often, raging against its imprisonment, its abandonment in change for better things, a better way; beguiling and tempting, alluring. Desperate for a comeback.

My scars still itch and hurt occasionally, just a little. I take comfort from this, for this means that they are still healing; they will fade yet more in time, just as I am healing. It is a slow process, but I am learning my own value and it is an amazing, astounding thing. How do I explain just how I revel in this ongoing discovery that I am worth so much and have so much to give? It brings me to silence at times. I am loved and, more than that, I am loved for a reason. This love from others no longer bewilders me quite so much. There is a reason for my life; I am not just some sort of mistake on God's part, some mishap that defies my view of God's perfection, which struggles with my belief of every single person’s value. My friends are amazing and not somehow deluded, somehow believing a massive lie that I am actually worthy of their love. Are any of us worthy of love? Let’s face it; we’re all pretty fucked up, in some way. The wonder of it all is that in spite of this, we are loved. It is in being loved that we become worthy of it. On our own, I do not think that many of us are deserving of being loved. Really. But we are loved. And that makes us worthy of it, for it is so. What a confusing concept, but I believe it, and I love what it means.

I began to ramble, didn’t I? It was bound to happen.

I love how my scars signify the self hatred that was once there. For, in that they are scars, that they are not fresh injuries, not growing in number, they are a sign of my growing beyond that, to embracing something brighter, something, as I said, that is better. Far better. They are a sign that what was once all too present, overshadowing, is now in the past. It doesn’t attempt to hide what has been, but shows forth the reality that this thing, this time did exist. It acknowledges that, but points to something else. A new chapter.

It is worth remembering, where I was in contrast to where I have reached, and I can look back to that past self and tell her that she was right, that this was merely a storm which would pass, that she would get through it and emerge stronger for it, that that faint spark in the darkness was really a light shining, sunlight that she would reach.

My scars tell a story, that what I felt was real and true and it shouldn’t be played down; it was big and it mattered and it is something that will remain a part of me, but in a good way, for I’ve learned from it all. And I love that.

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Pretty as a Picture

As a little girl (hey I'm a teenager now kay?? i'm like, all grown up and don't need anyone to tell me what to do, i know all ;P I swear, we're not like that all the time!!! It's a largely untrue stereotype, honest to God! lol), I never really cared what I looked like. I wasn't into dressing up, make up and handbags, high heels and pretending to be a princess. I'd dress up my Barbie dolls, but then I'd make some boys (my parents wouldn't buy my sister and I boy dolls haha) so I could act out my stories that I made up for them. I wasn't quite able to ignore the fact that they were still so obviously female, even when I cut their hair short and dressed them in t-shirts and shorts I made out of tissues and sticky tape, or even, haphazardly sewed, or stapled, spare pieces of material (I was creative!). But I wasn't big on caring about looks.

My mum did my hair for me until I was eleven. My parents chose my clothes until I was in year 6, although I was given choices. But it didn't really matter to me.

I don't know when looks became so important to me. In year seven I emerged out of my shyness to make some friends at school, just before leaving to go to high school. What I do remember is how much I hated myself.

We had a year seven reunion today, about three quarters of our year seven class turned up. We were looking at a Powerpoint where, in year seven, we had each made two pages with pictures of ourselves and written a little bit about us and our primary school memories. What struck me about mine was that under "Dislikes", I had written "Me". I was a little bemused by that, seeing how open I had been about it then. I remember telling my friends on a regular basis how I didn't feel they should be friends with me, how I was a "loser", and whatever other words were derogatory at the time. I'd talk about it all the time, I felt I wasn't worth them. I didn't deserve to be cared about. I was twelve.

I think that because I had been so shy and without many friends all these years, that I felt, subconsciously, when I did make friends, that I couldn't deserve them. If I hadn't before, why would I now? I was just a little more visible. And realising that I was desperate to be noticed, accepted.

It was in about year seven that I began considering my weight. I've never really been one to read magazines. Our family didn't even own a TV for the first eight years of my life, because they thought it had too many bad influences, which I'm inclined to agree with, to a point. Sure, with my new found friends, I would look through their glossy new "Girlfriend"s every month, but it seemed pretty stupid, even then. I don't really find pictures of models and celebrities to be something I desire to look like. I am aware of the falsity of those images, the pressure and extreme measures taken to be that thin, etc.

No, where I began to care about my weight came from somewhere much closer than that. My mum. I remember, in year six or seven, one of her comments as I walked into the room where she was sitting, "You look pregnant!" My mum has never been one for tact.

I haven't forgotten this yet, obviously, because no matter how much I tried to ignore this, it attacked me somewhere deep inside. How easily we remember past wounds! I know I remember hurtful words clearly, while forgetting kind mentions. This in part is due to how I would seize upon any negativity from others and twist it, digging the arrow in deeper. My worst enemy has been myself, but with others lending weight to the negative thoughts about myself, I was trying to protect myself by making sure their messages stuck, that I would remember. How is that protection? So that I would not embarrass myself, that I would not delude myself into thinking I was pretty, an acceptable body shape, and possibly even reveal that I thought so, when it wasn't true. I was driving home these "truths" so that this embarrassment could not occur, for if I thought I was better than I was and others saw that, would they not just deride and scorn me? And although I thought I was not deserving of these friends of mine, that did not mean I didn't want them. I did, oh I did! To feel loved, it was wonderful. How selfish of me, to want friends who I would only bring down through our friendship. Yet another thing I must hide deep within, another shameful secret to bury. I didn't want to be selfish.

I don't know about you, but one thing I learned from my peers was that belittling yourself was a good thing. If someone complimented you, you would disagree. "You're so pretty." "No, I'm not,", before listing imperfections which proved why the girl in question could not be pretty. Being smart was something I learned to hide early, no one wants to be a "nerd", not even me, who would read at recess and lunch, while walking home, and through the holidays until she was ten or eleven. Even accepting a compliment, in my mind, has come to seem conceited. Even if what is stated is true. It's ridiculous, I know. But from my subconscious observations of others, this is what I put together.

And also, putting yourself down got you assurances. For, even if you thought badly of yourself, if you were wrong others would tell you so. So, even, as I told myself that these reassurances were just what my friends were saying to be nice (After all, they were nice enough to be friends with me, and who on earth could be so nice that they would befriend someone like me?); a small part of me hoped, and wanted to believe that they meant what they said in all honesty, that they were right.

My mum has told me time and time again how I am putting on weight, how if I keep eating the way I do and not exercising, I will end up unable to walk from how fat I am by the age of 20, how fat I am getting, how much I am "expanding", etc. She is always bugging me to exercise.

Why won't I?

For a start, I have never really been good at sports. This makes for being extremely embarrassing for such a shy girl. The public humiliation of always being picked last for a team, of letting down the team, was something I hated. Standing there unwanted, because I wasn't good enough, isn't that enough to make anyone cringe? People tend to either act like they don't care, and play even worse on purpose, or, like me, avoid being placed in such a situation as much as possible. I knew the only way to get better was through practice, but through practice I'd have to play, and I couldn't do that. I have engaged in sports over my primary school life, swimming, tennis, and soccer. But it was worse because my dad was really good at sport, in particular soccer. I wanted to make him proud of me by being like him, good at soccer. I love watching soccer, and playing it. However, for a long time, I didn't want him to see that I was bad at it, as I knew I would be, and so I wouldn't play soccer with him. In year seven I actually did play soccer for the under 13's or 14's girls for school, and it turned out I was a decent defender. It was fun, our team was good, and we won the majority of our games. Come high school and we didn't really have any teams, and I knew I wasn't good enough to play for a club. I was scared to try out since I was scared to be rejected. However, I did organise for my friends and their parents and my dad and people from my church to play soccer most Saturdays for approximately the next two years. It wasn't as skilled, teams were unevenly numbered and sometimes there were barely any people, but it was fun. That eventually petered out.

Reason Two: My mother and I have had a fairly turbulent relationship for most of my adolescent life, just to break the stereotype haha. We argue about a lot of things, but to me, if I exercised, it would mean that she had won. She would know that she had gotten to me, with everything she said. I would have lost. That would never do. So I would lose weight in my own way, and I would be happy and so would she. But I would not let her win. Her telling me about my weight was not going to get to me. It did. But she would only win if she knew how that affected me. I could not allow that.

Why? Why did it matter if she wanted me to exercise? I could have. It shouldn't have mattered who suggested it, when it was the healthy way to go.

I'm still not sure what the reasoning is behind this "not letting her win" thing that I have.

I know she only means well. She wants me to be healthy, and fit, and not overridden with diseases and weak before my old age. She wants me to have the best in life. But, she is blunt in typical Indian manner, and my easily hurt self has been wounded deeply. I am trying to gain self-worth. I am trying to believe that beauty is from within, and that outer beauty doesn't really matter, that it fades anyway. That true beauty comes from the heart and overflows to the outside. A beautiful soul is the most important thing. I know this. But I still can't abandon my foolish fears.

I want to look nice because I want other people to like me. I'm scared that if I don't look nice no one will want to be around me. I know people aren't that shallow, but I need to be accepted so much. It's somewhat irrational.

The End, for now.

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Once upon a time...

You used to love me. I wonder, do you remember that? At all?

Okay, so I've kept the topic away from this for a while now. But it's hitting me, again, so forgive me for my blogging about it, again.

I hate how you've gone. And I hate how I had just barely accepted we weren't going to be friends anymore and then you start talking to me again. I want all or nothing. This is like David all over again. But so much worse. Because we weren't best friends and it never hurt like this. We were close, yes. I thought about him a lot, yes. But it was not the same.

This just brings the pain back so much worse.

It feels like someone threw a brick at my stomach, like I was punched in the guts. Not the pain of being stabbed, the clean, sharp pain focused on one point; but a blunt pain that hits everywhere.

I am still left gasping for breath at unexpected moments. I still get the dreams. I still feel faint with the pain of how much I miss you, and I still hate how much I want you back. I want our friendship back, just as it was. And I'm scared that's not possible. I thought I had quenched that want to a sustainable level, I'd accepted it wasn't going to happen.

But those few words we exchanged are making me hope again; for a day it was pure, heady hope burning through my veins, I knew it was reckless, dangerous, but I couldn't stop it and I didn't want to.

And I'm dying all over again.

I miss you, so much.

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