Can I please at least have this?

Okay, I've been having mad crazy mood swings again lately, a lot. As bad as before I was diagnosed with Vitamin D (and that other thing I don't know) deficiency. But my pills have been bought once more (I ran out), so hopefully that will fix that, and the constant tiredness resulting in lack of schoolwork being done (VERY BAD for year 12), and limit long naps and general sleeping time; not to mention falling asleep in class (only in English, I swear I fall asleep easier there than at home in bed at night).

That said, my continuous caffeine dosage daily (I think I've said this before, but damn I love the Mocha's from the local cafe) is, I think, also wreaking havoc with my system. Yes, that system overloaded with unhealthy food, unhealthy amounts of food, and severely lacking in exercise. I suppose those are a few things that are worth a mention. My mother certainly thinks they're worth several mentions, several times an evening...

But, today, I went for a jog with my sister. When the parentals left to go buy my tablets (my mother insisted on buying in bulk from some far away place in order to save a few dollars in price), I seized the moment to ask her to come with me. I would have done so ages before, because personally, I like running, and I know I'm way unfit yada yada, so I figure, may as well. And since my sister is way too obsessed with her figure and wanting to be thin (don't even get me started :( ), she's all into jogging and exercise of nearly every kind. I go out of my way to avoid anything that could be considered exercise. Largely because of my mum, but more on that another time.

Anyway, the jog was fun. Not necessarily fun, but invigorating. Not long, but still. A start, no? My mum would be pleased, which is why she will never know. Like I said, more on that another time. Although, come to think of it, her response would more likely be along the lines of, "It's good to see you showing some interest. Now do it more often." Grrr.

But, to the point of this post.

I really like Chris. He likes me. Is that not enough?

I've been fucked over more than I realised until this last week, and even that last post, by the friends thing. I've weakened my other friendships at school in response because, honestly, I was hurt, and I didn't want friendships that weren't with them; I didn't want any replacement; and the reason my friendship with Lynley has flourished is because she wasn't connected to any of that, although she was friends with the ex best friend. She was a grade below and as such, that separated her. My other friends, although they aren't close friends with my best friends, can still talk to them and laugh with them and spend time with them and, really, honestly, I'm jealous. Because I can't even do that, and that hurts, a lot.

Other friendships I've made since then have also been good, refreshing, with no connection. And I strengthened ties with my friends from primary school; one in particular, because they had always been there and I needed someone who was distanced from the situation, physically as well.

I still feel like I could break apart sometimes, at just one word, one movement. And apart from Lynley and my friend from primary school, I haven't let myself become close to anyone. Plus, I find it very hard to trust guys when it gets into any situation of more than friends.

I'm trying to mend myself, and let myself mend. School isn't helping. Seeing them everyday is really not helping. There are a lot of things that aren't helping, I suppose. Take my mum, take the fact that I am far too sensitive to most things.

Can you please for the love of god let me have this one thing??? Untainted??? I can barely take your comments and your opinions on my being with Chris, and does it really matter? He is nice. Really nice. I don't like the majority of his friends, but fuck it, I don't like him for his friends. I like him for him. And whatever your own opinion of him, whatever reason you may disapprove, he is making me happy. He is helping, when so much else isn't.

And I'm over caring what everyone else thinks about it.

Please, please don't ruin this for me. I don't think I can bear one more thing going wrong.

EDIT: [9.48PM] I think I'm definitely going to kill myself. But not. Wow. I can't even explain how scared I am right now. Because.

You know what, I'm not even going to explain.

Because I don't even think I can.

But. My blog may shortly return to private.

kthnxfuckyouall

but not really.

fuckfuckshitfuck

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I am so freaked out right now. I was looking at followers and was checking out the blog of one of my newest followers. Remember the best friends I used to write about a lot? (And trust me I still think about them so much) Well from reading her blog and seeing her followers in turn, this girl is the best friend of one of those; they'd been friends since primary school. I don't know if she found my blog through following those others of us from my school, or if its because we have some similar favourite movies and the like, or how, but I'm majorly freaked out at the moment, because my friend is following her blog, and if she finds mine...
Let's just say I don't really want that.

I would give anything to reconcile this shit. Hell, if I knew if there was anything I could do to fix this, I would. But I don't have any fucking idea and do you know how fucking long it has been now??? Almost seven months. Seven months in which I have thought of them every day, and known I couldn't talk to them. No, I talked to each of them in person once, just a few lines of exchange, on the last day of school last year.

But, I don't know what to do. I don't know if anything can fix it. I don't think they care, or miss me at all. Do you know how much that hurts???

I've been refraining about writing about this on here because its what makes up most of the content of the first three months of this blog, but everyday when I see them at school, when I think of the time I could be spending with them in the lessons and frees we have together, do you know what that does to me???

I think, I'm okay. Like I said, I'm getting better. But not so much that it doesn't hurt. I don't know why I'm freaking out so badly about this. But things are building up again. Someone I love more than anything is struggling with her urges to force herself to throw up, again. She was past that. Like I'm past cutting, right? She tried the other day though, but couldn't. She was "out of practice". Why the hell should anyone even be in practice for something like that??? It's breaking my heart, because I want to help her so much, but I have to stand by and try to convince her not to, but knowing that whatever I or anyone else says, it may not be enough. I can only hope that she gets past this, but I cannot do anything.

I'm sick of not being able to do anything, or knowing what to do, to make things okay.

And I'd go back in time if I could, to that last day we spent together, although the ex best friend (who, by the way, has gone back to not talking to me at all; I don't fucking understand him) wasn't there and that in itself made me cry, just a little. It was a good day. And I still don't understand how I fucked the best thing in my life up so badly.

If I understood it, maybe that would make it better. Maybe not. But I don't know. I don't get it at all.

I didn't realise how good a job I'd done of suppressing this till now. Which is obviously how I've been able to keep going.

I need to go.

EDIT: [10.06PM] I'm slightly less agitated, watched my favourite TV show, and with that distraction and the passing of time, I may be able to sleep before 1AM. Fingers crossed. Although I need to do homework so actually, forget that. Let's go with 3AM and a truckload of coffee tomorrow in the morning. Damn I love the coffees at our local cafe. I swear, they get me through life.

In other news, I have this huge hickey on my neck that is kinda too far over to properly cover with my hair. I need to be really careful for the next week or so, especially around home. Chris came over this morning before our excursion and we just hung out (and made out) and I accidentally leaned on the part of the computer desk that slides out, on which the keyboard sits, while we were watching music videos on YouTube, and broke it. Said desk is only about two months old. The line on which it runs is mangled and I can't fix it. My dad, when he finds out, will kill me, because it doesn't move properly anymore. Needless to say though, it was quite funny. And typical of my accidental destruction of everything. You love it. And me too, of course. (And I still hope that won't change because I need you a lot more than you'll ever realise.)

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I don't know how and I don't know why

but I think I like it anyway.

I really like Chris. He needs a blog name, no?

Right now I'm not going to think about how he has to go away sometime this year for his marine technician training or whatever the fuck, I don't understand the specifics. I'll ask him about it shortly. It may be soon, or it may not, but for now I am going to be happy that he is here and we are together and he likes me, and be content with every moment I do get to spend with him. And I won't be selfish and cry when he does leave, I'll keep missing him to myself and, you know, all the complaining to friends I am sure to do, since actually keeping anything entirely to myself is something it seems I am utterly incapable of doing...

And, I know most people these days despise smoking. But, I love fire. Almost as much as I love the sea. And it's not hard for me to go from loving smoke from an ordinary fire to that of a cigarette. Yes. I know. I'm insane.

He smokes, which I only found out on Friday night. Only occasionally, so I'm definitely not complaining.

P.S. I'm fucking weird when I'm drunk. But I really don't care. It's a lot better than when I go into "crying drunk" mode. I spent a whole night completely inebriated without even remotely wanting to call the ex best friend. That worries me, but makes me happy. I don't want to stop wanting him back.

P.P.S. I listened to "Rise Above This" by Seether for the first time today since the ex best friend became just that. It was my absolute all time favourite song, it encouraged me like nothing else, especially the music video for it. I love it. It was connected to him far too much for me to listen to it, and I didn't want to want to be better, so I've avoided it like the plague. But today, I was finally ready to listen to it again. I started crying, but it was good. The music video has always made me cry. Again, though, I don't want to need him less. Hmmm.

To homework.

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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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"The reason is you"

Postscript for my earlier ramblings today.

Quite simply, my sister is my reason as to why I won't cut. I will not allow myself to. If not for my sake, for hers.
She is my only, younger sister; and while she does not self-harm, she struggles with other things. How can I plead with her to refrain when I put forth such a bad example, whether she knows it or not?
When I long for her to not do this terrible thing, knowing that others feel the same way about me, how can that be justified, how can I expect her to listen? And even if she does, how I can I live with such double standards?
No. I am stronger than this. And I am definitely stronger for her. I cannot be selfish about this. I will not.
Life is worth more than this. My life is worth more than this. I'm going to bend, but I am not going to break.
This IS war.
And I'll be damned if I let you win.

"I will not let it in, I will not succumb to your sweetness. I will not be betrayed by the kiss of a blade by the liquid that gives to take and I, I will not swallow those lies that sit on my plate. Brake. Shatter. Collide and fall."

Thank you for bearing through my time of weakness. But there is hope. It's here and it's real, and this is worth it. Life isn't easy. But we are stronger than we think, and we have each other. We have hope. And "hope is not a myth".

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"But, you see, I'd kick the bucket

sixty times before I'd kick the habit."

I was all set. I had my blog post planned out, title and everything. "Back in the game". And the body would simply be a picture. The cleaned up post-shot, not the one taken as blood streamed, unchecked. Startlingly, vibrantly red, forming lines that merged into one another and flowed, something unspeakably, inexplicably beautiful and peaceful in its deliberate, premeditated violence.

I had the area in mind. It would be simple and clean, just one. Or option two; a crazy release, but carefully controlled. But preferably the first option, just one cut, down the back of my leg. Inconspicuous. Excuse - Scraped against a tree.

I don't know what triggered it today. It was worse for that, and to be honest, it holds me in its grip as I write.

The other day, in Biology, I got cravings. But that was understandable, you know? We were doing a practical that involved slicing up liver of some animal. I was the one cutting it up. The scalpel blade and leftover headache from the morning, as well as feelings of dizziness, lead to my high susceptibility to cravings. Holding that blade, imagining it all clearly. I had to leave for a few minutes to clear my head.

Here, there was nothing. No trigger. Today is my mum's birthday and all that caused me to determine is to make dead sure she didn't find out. That wasn't enough to stop me. Haven't I caused her enough pain?

It was a wild tumble of emotions; missing my best friends, fond remembrances of times with them, upset at how much other people's opinions influenced my actions, at how my "brother (who isn't by blood but we count each other as siblings" obviously disapproves of my being with Chris; terrified that Chris will decide to join the army full time within a few weeks, and not next year, and if full time, would be gone for 18 months; and missing everyone I hadn't spent much time with lately. Tired and unable to stand against the turbulence of all this, I just wanted to do it. I half tried to believe "just once", just one more; because the last time wasn't much of a send off, although the depth of the scar would beg to differ. It would be nice to do it properly, end that part of my life well.

It was a lie, I knew that. If I did it "this once", it would be my chance to return to it. And I had been nine months and two days (longer than "pregnant time"). At the time though, it didn't matter much.

The faster we're falling,
We're stopping and stalling.
We're running in circles again...
Cause I'm in too deep, and I'm trying to keep,
Up above in my head, instead of going under."

I'm okay and I can make this, but only if I want. And sometimes I just want to cut.

And,

sometimes it wouldn't feel like giving in. It would feel like satisfaction. Like what I want.

"And you might say it's self-indulgent
And you might say it's self-destructive
But, you see, it's more productive
Than if i were to be happy"

It's a lie, I know. It's the need and the addiction clothed in something else, disguised as something better. Not done to stop the other pain, to release. But underneath the reasons are still there, still the same.

I'm clinging to this;

"I am not a pretty picture.
I am not a project or something for you to fix. I am a beautiful mistake, I am a mess, I am tragedy I am fairytales. I am a story, as are you, and with every line across my wrist I was screaming and with every tear that I shed I am praying for me and you and "them" and us. We are not alone we are in this together and I am on my face tonight. And darkness screams behind the door, it is begging, fighting to get in.
THIS IS WAR.
And I will not let it in, I will not sucuumb to your sweetness. I will not be betrayed by the kiss of a blade by the liquid that gives to take and I, I will not swallow those lies that sit on my plate. Brake. Shatter. Collide and fall. Pretty poison. I used to think I should come with a warning lable, I thought I destroyed everything that I touched and now, now I see, now I know it was not me it was the Hole it was the monster that came in and wrecked everything I know...and love...and love and hope would not let me go. And love and hope grew arms to reach me when I was running and wrap me snug in a hug that my heart had longed for oh so long. And love and hope in stars and hearts on my back on my arms and in my heart as mine, for me to give to you and that is what the pain was for. And that was worth it all, and more."

but I'm inclined to let go and jump back into the abyss. And do so gladly. Not falling, screaming, hating myself for this weak lapse. But with delight, like meeting an old friend again after a long time apart.

Bring me to my senses.

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What the crap?

What is up with noodles these days? Yes, I did a noodle post not all that long ago, but come on people! The issues that noodles bring are endless. Let's consider my current problem.

I am, as I type, in the process of trying to enjoy eating two minute cup noodles, in a "super big" and "mega" size. 100 grams, in fact. These super-sized noodle cups can be a great source of messy delight, but when in a flavour called "Smokin' ribs"? Even before opening it, smelling it, let alone eating these noodles; that flavour does not bode well for your tastebuds. It was sitting on the kitchen bench top as I arrived home, and I was invited by my mum to eat it, which I gladly went to do. Until I saw the flavour.

Smokin' ribs??

Just for a start, the apostrophe replacing the simple "g" implies a "tryhard-ness". Is it really that hard to say "Smoking"? Really? I know, Australians are lazy with grammar, spelling, and the like. But, even we are not necessarily that slack. So what are they trying to compensate for..?

And for the love of god, what has happened to the simple flavours we grew up with, beef, chicken, oriental; and those more daring, like chicken and mushroom? I know I've missed something major, forgive me.

Thankfully, we have not lost these classics yet (touch wood), but the influx of new, fancy flavours on the market, and not just among noodles, is something that disturbs and irritates me. We have enough choices to make in life already. Why make it harder for us who only want easy, quick foods? Is not my generation indecisive enough already??? I dread the thought of what today's toddlers will grow up to be like...

And as for McDonald's... Happy Meals used to be simple. You decided between chicken nuggets and a cheeseburger, the flavour of soft drink, and possibly the toy. And now. SO MANY CHOICES. There's the orange juice, soft drink, apple juice, and whatever other options there are for a drink; and then there are choices of apple pieces and God only knows what. It saddens my heart, my wonderful mega fast food chains who destroy people's livelihoods and nature and most things to bring us those lovely greasy fries, so well symbolised by your hallowed golden arches. Please consider slightly more. We do not come to you for healthy options. That we go to Subway for. And while Hungry Jacks and KFC also have their hold on us, nothing compares to Macca's with your beef patties that are best eaten without being seen.

I think it is now time for me to quote some lines from one of my favourite (and possibly one of the most random) books ever,

"I am Ronald,
of Mordor,
the Mage, the
Destroyer.

Taste the scorched fruit
inside my pies.

Chew the bitter towelette
of truth.

Die, you seedy little elves
who refuse to accept any
new menu items added
after 1975.

I scorch your loins with
coffee that sears like a
molten steel patty
flipper.

I smash your bones on
rocks of ice churned by
spews of cola.

I till your soil, steal your
potatoes, circumcise
their skins, cook
them in tallow
and tell you
they're vegan.

I shall castrate your
bulls, rendering them more
juicy and docile,
and I shall salt them with
hormones, making them
girly-cows.

You shall wander the
wastelands in search of fishwiches fallen from
the sky, frozen and plump
with weevils and sauce
of fiercest tartar.

My face is stripped of
pancake makeup,
staring at the sun,
burning, awaiting
balloons and a helium
canister that will never
arrive.

You ears shall hear only
the sound of a french-fry
computer that beeps
eternally.

You shall remain forever
parched with a
bottomless Styrofoam
drinking cup.

You, my imprisoned
sprite servants, I shall
deprive of both minimum
wage and nutrients.
My cooker writhes
with yellow frybabies
your lips shall
never taste.

I shall pierce your being
with shakes made of
ground bones, nay,
chalk.

You shall beg for death,
but instead shall receive
only laughter and
choking hazards
disguised as plastic toys.

In my costume of yellow
bib and coarse
enormous red feet, I will
smite you with burgers
laced with thorns.

Inside your bird nuggets
you will find razor
blades, rats and tumours.

The only real clown is a dead clown.

I ONLY MAKE YOU FAT SO THAT YOU'LL SIZZLE WHEN YOU BURN"

As you can see, it's incredibly strange. The book, "JPod" by Douglas Coupland, is obviously not everyone's cup of tea, but it is something I find highly amusing.

Anyway, apart from my divergance onto my inexplicable love for McDonald's, something that seems to afflict many teenagers; my original point is that weird flavours are a no-no for me.

My noodles taste terrible. Sigh.

And society complicates far too much.

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Note to self, all those who would be poets

I'm no, uh, Edgar Allan Poe [insert any great poets name in here because I'm having a mind blank], nor any type of poet at all, but I feel that I need to put this out there.

Using long complicated words and intricate writing patterns to speak in the most abstract way possible does not necessarily make your piece of writing poetry. Or at least, good poetry.

Writing poetry is not my forte, it is not something I can do well. I accept this. But perhaps others also need to comes to this realisation about themselves.

Wow, that was bitchy.

To spread some love, why don't you check out Car Crash Hearts, whose poetry I do actually enjoy. (:


P.S. I know I've barely posted lately, and I do have my meeting Jamie of To Write Love On Her Arms [link at bottom of this page] to blog about; as well as numerous other things, but I have not been able to string words together, neither for school nor here. Wish me luck with that. (:

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