I confess

The drugs just aren’t doing it for me,
chemical sleep has lost its appeal
and I confess, I considered tonight
that it might be easier just not to feel.

To slip away, to take a bow,
Admit defeat and fall from my grace
and would you miss me, would you notice;
how long would it take to forget my face?

You forgot me once, you can do it again,
after all, this is only a release
breaking free from the prison we built together
in the hope, of maybe, one night of peace.

I confess, this is serious,
and if I had the strength I would leave tonight
I wish I was brave, that I wouldn’t miss you
that this time I could really give up the fight.

An empty bottle in front of me,
and pills I know I’ll never take
just further proof of my personal failings
evidence of the depression I could never shake.

Another scar to my collection,
a canvas I paint to remind me of you
to prove this reality was never a nightmare
but a waking hell, which I’m still going through.

I confess, it would be so easy,
Just a slip of the hand, just one step too far
but I’m not brave, I feel too afraid
to let myself go, to reopen these scars.

Yet I fantasise of how easy it would be,
for you to live your life without me there
I confess I think of setting you free
sometimes it’s the only way that ever seems fair.

If I left today, would you notice?
Would you realise, I did this for you?
If I slipped away past an exit sign,
would you see it as failure, or something I needed to do?

I try to remember every word you ever said,
the times you loved me, the times you were sweet
I confess, I want to forget
to make this easier for me to leave.

But how can I go when you hold me like that;
when you whisper so quietly only I can hear?
I confess, you keep me from dying,
from collapsing under the weight of my fears.

(c)

“Suicide” is a word I don’t like typing. It’s such a final solution, and the word itself makes me feel uncomfortable about the actions I’ve taken in the past. I may occasionally mention my flirts with causing my own death, but I try not to go into much detail because, in truth, I’m ashamed.

I’m ashamed to know I even tried, mostly over such trivial things. New colleges and threats of break-ups. Arguments with my mother. They seem such petty reasons but back then I couldn’t judge whether an incident was serious or minor, and everything felt like a horrific attack on everything I am. The panic and psychosis (for there was psychosis; hallucinations and imagined conversations) drove me into a ball of fear and confusion and, somehow, I decided that suicide was the only logical answer to a world of horror. 

Last week, a man lay down on the train tracks between my house and Z’s, and killed himself. I heard the sirens and saw sketchy details appear on Facebook, but I still can’t let myself accept that somebody was in so much torment that they felt the only way to solve it was to climb over the barriers as traffic waited at the crossing, and wait for the train to hit; somebody just a couple of roads away from where I was sitting was going through something most people never – thankfully – have to experience.

I find myself wondering what he was like; why he felt he had to take that step, and do something so damn final. I wish I’d had the chance to know him, somehow.

Liverpool and the imagined bomb scare

The history of Liverpool can be traced back to 1190 when the place was known as ‘Liuerpul’, possibly meaning a pool or creek with muddy water. Other origins of the name have been suggested, including ‘elverpool’, a reference to the large number of eels in the Mersey, but the definitive origin is open to debate and is probably lost to history. A likely derivation is connected with the Welsh word “Llif” meaning a flood, often used as the proper name for the Atlantic Ocean, whilst “pool” is in general in place names in England derived from the late British or Welsh “Pwll” meaning variously, a pool, an inlet or a pit.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Liverpool

I love Liverpool. Say the name of the city, and most people outside of the area will instantly think of The Beatles. This frustrates me, because it’s about so much more than that – I’ve always thought The Beatles were a bit overrated anyway – and the history is rich and fascinating; covering the slave trade, ship building, and so much more. Liverpool gets a lot of stick in the town I live in, for being a violent place full of chavvy (does anyone still say ‘chav’ anymore?) kids and druggies, but it really doesn’t deserve that reputation. Really, I think my small town by the sea is jealous of the big city by the Mersey, and I don’t blame it.

My love for Liverpool is the second reason why I agreed to a day out with Z on Thursday. The first reason was simply because I craved friendship and socialising; a good sign, I think. I’m now not only seeking out company, but wanting it.

Didn’t sleep well the night before, but still managed to stumble out of bed at 8am, wash my hair and drink half a coffee. I confess; I wore the same jeans I’ve been wearing for bloody ages. Like, two weeks. I never do that, but in my defense they’re the only pair which fit and I don’t want to wash them and have to wear a small pair which make me feel like an elephant.

It was a good day. I got a taxi to the station and had a minor coffee disaster (the machine ran out of milk; it had to be my coffee, didn’t it?) but apart from crap coffee, I think it went well. Z was behaving herself (that sounds awful; it’s just the easiest way to describe it) and there were no freak-outs or sudden changes of plan. I went to the city and survived; not only that, but I was disappointed to be going home. Talking of going home, when Z and I went to find a chip shop, we discovered that Central Station and the surrounding roads were closed off with police tape. Our first thoughts were of 7/7 – Liverpool could easily be a target – so we asked a policewoman what was going on. She replied that there was a gas leak and they’d had to shut the station down.

Walking around the shops, Z and I speculated whether it was actually a gas leak, or something more sinister. I decided it was a bomb threat, an abandoned bag. Everyone else probably just accepted the gas story, but two crazy, paranoid people together… it was a huge terrorist threat by the time we’d finished, and although the station was still closed when we finally managed to get a series of trains back home, we still had to pass through the empty station. Z refused to look, convinced something would blow up. I just stared out of the window into the flourescent-lit, brown and cream space, feeling like we’d never come out the other side.

Even Z’s little problem with spending money didn’t frustrate me today. I don’t know why my BPD and her Bipolar seem to clash so much; I always thought they were quite similar in certain ways (although I don’t get highs) but my need for control and her recklessness does create friction, even if she doesn’t realise it. Shopping and eating together, I realised that I need to lay off her a bit, because she can’t help it. If she could, it wouldn’t be such an issue between her and her fiance.

I’m not seeing S this weekend. I started typing this on Thursday night, and only just got ’round to finishing it now because I’m feeling a bit low; I always see S on a Friday, unless I’m much too ill. I miss him. We spoke earlier on the phone, and we’ve arranged to meet in the pub on Wednesday when he gets paid. Money’s the problem; we’re both utterly skint. Considering I’ve been getting so narked with Z, I’ve been having my own issues with spending too much recently. I think the culmination of doctor’s appointments, weight gain and general worry have made me crave some sort of comfort, and what better way to feel better than to buy jewellery and make-up? Oh, and clothes. Books, too. Tobacco. Salon shampoo. Haircuts. It all adds up, and this month I’ve totally run away with myself. I try to never borrow money, but I’ve had to ask my mother to bail me out a few times. I feel guilty; she’s been complaining how little money we have right now.

Today, I did very little except a bit of knitting and waste time online. I cut my mother’s hair; I completely ballsed it up last time, and she’s been dropping hints about me fixing it. Quite why she trusts me after I gave her an accidental asymmetric bob, I don’t know. She says she’s noticed I’m seeming more positive in myself, and expressed surprise at the hours I’m somehow managing to keep, and I’m glad she’s noticed. I feel as though I’m balancing on a very thin ledge right now, caught between being relatively okay and sliding back in to not giving a shit about anything, and I need her approval.

I know I rely on it too much.

It doesn’t feel right without S beside me tonight. He said he misses my face… I reckon it’s not half as much as I miss his.

A busker played ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ as Z and I walked down the main street from Liverpool station. I smiled; I don’t think S will ever know how much I love him.