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.


“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.

Very Inspiring Blogger Award

I’m not immune to writer’s block. Usually when I don’t write as often, it’s because something’s going wrong; I’m in a depressive episode or incredibly stressed. I’m too tired or sore to sit with the laptop on my legs. Rarely do I avoid it because I can’t think what to write, because since puberty I’ve wanted to tell stories and finally having a way to express all those trapped words is wonderful.

Still. I just haven’t had the inspiration lately. So for Shermeekaflies from The Possible World to nominate me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award amused me; I haven’t felt at all inspiring or inspired for a week or so. It also touched me, because despite my reservations on awards being little more than chain-mail, I always appreciate being nominated. I never thought this blog would be read, let alone have almost 100,000 views and more than 2,000 subscribers. Seriously, if I think about it too long, my mind retreats into a nice, safe place where I never put myself out for the public to judge. So huge thankyous, Shermeekaflies!

As usual, the rules are pretty simple;

  1. Thank the blogger who nominated you.
  2. Share seven things about yourself
  3. Nominate other bloggers you think deserve the award, and post on their blog to let them know they’ve been nominated. Actually, I changed the rules a little; originally it asks for 12-15 nominations, but I always think that’s unfair on those who don’t have many blogs they follow or who are just starting out. So nominate anybody. If you can’t think of a blog, nominate a site you believe is inspiring.

1.  I met my first boyfriend in high school, and initially didn’t find him at all attractive or interesting. We had a shared love of The X-Files and my best friend’s older brother was his best friend, but because he was a couple of years above me, we only really saw each other in the library and at parties and I certainly never saw him as relationship material. I still wonder why I agreed to go out with him; I did really like him but can’t help thinking that I was just reaching out for some sort of affection. Anorexia was still lurking, and I was at the height of bulimia and self-harm when he first kissed me on a bed at a house party when I was fourteen. The kiss was memorable, but only because it was far from the romantic experience I imagined; his tongue seemed to fill my whole mouth and neither of us really knew what we were doing. I couldn’t stop shaking; each time he touched me I’d break out into noticeable spasms, my arms and legs shuddering like crazy until he let go.

After three months of talking on the bridge in the park, sitting on swings and eating chicken and sweetcorn pizza together, he left me. He came to my house, and I freaked out; I can’t even remember what caused it. I was paranoid and edgy, backing him into a corner and screaming uncontrollably in his face. I’d been jealous of his friend Carol. I invented scenarios where he was sleeping with her. Each time he went to her house to study for his GCSE’s, I’d break out into a cold sweat and convince myself he was leaving me.

I threw a chair at his head and left a hole in my bedroom wall. We didn’t speak again for over a decade. He’s married now. His wife shares my first name.

2. Songs almost guaranteed to make me cry include Vincent by Don McLean, Out To Get You by James, Why Not Smile by R.E.M, Exit Music (For A Film) by Radiohead, The Pills Won’t Help You Now by The Chemical Brothers, Johnny Cash’s cover of Hurt, Bulimic Beats by Catatonia, and Asleep by The Smiths.

3. Since taking antidepressants, I’ve rarely cried; not even at the songs above. I’ve always been a very outwardly emotional person and in the past it’s been hard to control the waterworks. I cried at everything. Now it’s difficult to squeeze the tears out even if I want to. It’s not a listed side-effect but I can only pin the change down to the chemicals in the pills filtering the urge out of my brain. Take it from me; the ability to cry whenever you need to is a blessing, not a curse. I miss the outlet.

4. The idea of reaching the age of twenty seven never used to occur to me. By puberty I’d decided I wasn’t going to live to eighteen. I didn’t really have a reason for it other than morbid hormonal obsession with my own death and mortality, and once the eating disorders and suicidal behaviour kicked in, I accepted that I’d never become an adult.

Now, I’ve been an adult for nine years, despite all the hospitalizations and suicide attempts, and I’m still unwilling to let my childhood go. I was never supposed to make it this far. I wasn’t prepared for it.

5. My favourite poem is I Am, by John Clare:

6. I don’t know how many people I’ve slept with. It’s in double figures, but I can’t begin to guess.

7. One of my favourite artists is Paul Kidby. I’m a huge Discworld fan:


I’ve chosen the above bloggers simply because, as the title suggests, I find them inspiring. Either through their honesty or ability to tell their stories in a beautiful, powerful way.

30 Days Of Truth: Day 6 – the thing you never want to do.

Something you hope you never have to do.

Would it be a total wimpout if I admitted that I don’t know the answer to this question? I’ve thought about it a lot, and I still don’t know what to type. There are a lot of things I never want to do again, but that’s not the question.

So I will tell you about something which happened at the weekend.

Last Friday, two women were discovered in a house, dead. At first, there was very little information, just a few pages online about a suspected murder. Usually, these sorts of news stories don’t interest me because I find them too personal, too much like peeking into somebody’s life – or death – and then throwing away the paper. It just seems wrong, somehow.

However, this incident interested me because it happened three minutes away from my house.

I live in a middle-sized seaside town. It’s not quite as pretty as it sounds; the beach is covered in grass and the tide rarely come in. Tacky shops selling candyfloss, ice cream and sun hats line the road to the pier. Our Christmas tree near the town hall is wonky. Still for all its faults, it’s a quiet place to live. We get plenty of crime, but rarely something which reaches national newspapers. Certainly not a murder.

A mother and her daughter were asphyxiated in their home. I have walked past their house hundreds of times, and been served in the local supermarket by the daughter.

I hope I never have to find somebody I love in that situation.

Day 01  Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02  Something you love about yourself.
Day 03  Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04  Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05  Something you hope to do in your life.

Bad dreams, sex, and an empty stomach

I finally stopped vomiting around 9am, and managed to fall asleep. Woke up around 3pm in a state because of a bad dream; I’m still a little wobbly over it, a couple of hours later. Sometimes, I dream that B is still alive. I always know deep down that I’m dreaming though, so it doesn’t hit me so hard when I wake up. This dream was too realistic for my liking; we went on walks together, I spoke to him, he was alive. Still brain-damaged and still with cancer, but alive. I had to face his death all over again when I woke; am I ever going to get over this? Sometimes the grief takes me by surprise and slaps me in the face.

I also woke to a text from O.

“Hey! How’s tricks? What you upta today? Bored and cold. Grr x”

I forgot to mention that we spoke via text message a week or so ago, after months of no contact at all. The usual stuff; I asked him how the kids are, he asked how my mum is. The polite exchanges which can only come from a failed engagement and years of pain. I do still want him in my life; he was a good friend to me, even if he did rip me apart emotionally. I just don’t know if I can trust his motives. Any trust I had died long ago when it comes to O, and I haven’t replied to this morning’s message. I don’t know how to. I feel like I should point out that S and I are very close, and that I love him madly… but I’m aware that I could just be being paranoid that O is after something I’m no longer willing to give him, and that by pushing the bare facts of my love life onto him, I might break that small connection we still have. I do care about O; we were young and stupid and reckless, and something had to break eventually. I can’t be with someone for over four years and not care about them. The love though… that died long ago. S has taught me what real love is about. Being with him has taught me that it’s not about jealousy or denial, as it was with O. It’s not about tearful phone calls and paranoia. It just… is. I’m happy now.

So far today I’ve done nothing except read other blogs and run to the toilet every 10 minutes. Just because the vomiting has stopped, doesn’t mean everything else isn’t going well and truly to pot. I don’t know if I dare take my Metformin since it makes me feel sick anyway, but I can’t really mess around with the dose. I need to get settled on it properly if it’s going to work. It’s already showing signs of improving the PCOS; my waist size has reduced dramatically in the past month, and my skin has cleared up, along with less hair growth on my face.

Since I didn’t sleep last night, I spent a lot of time looking around other blogs on depression, BPD, eating disorders, anxiety and fibromyalgia. I wish I’d discovered the blogsphere earlier; the information out there from people experiencing these things is far, far better than any textbook or doctor. I’ve subscribed to anything which I want to keep up with; I get confused and forgetful easily, and having everything in one place makes it easier. I just wish I had the balls to comment more often on other blogs, I don’t want to seem ignorant but my confidence is still pretty shaky when it comes to expressing myself elsewhere.

Yet again, I’m going to use the phrase “the weekend was brilliant”. On Friday evening, I met S at the hospital where he works, and we walked to the pub together. Got a little tipsy on Kronenbourg and had a giggly trip to Tesco to pick up some red wine and snacks. We got the takeaway and I dealt with it pretty well; I had tofu in hoisin sauce, satay tofu skewers and vegeterian duck. Ate half of it and felt quite comfortable. I didn’t even take any diet pills afterwards, and I resisted the urge to binge later on. I haven’t told S that I’ve been struggling with the combination of needing to lose weight and having an eating disorder; I think he’s probably guessed though.

We spent most of the weekend in bed, doing what we do best. After nine months together, S and I still have a lot of sex, averaging seven times a weekend. It’s got to the point where I’m permanently bruised down there, yet I simply I can’t resist him. I’ve always had a high sex drive, and I suspect I’ve had a lot of sex compared to some people my age… but this is something new. It’s pure passion, and not driven by insecurity or neediness like it has been in the past. Put simply, I’m never happier than when we’re lying together, our legs tangled and smiling like idiots, indulging in silly pillow talk. There’s always a sexual undercurrent running when we’re together, and I’m still slightly baffled by it. After one particularly gorgeous session on Saturday which started while we were watching a documentary on Pearl Jam and which was fuelled by red wine and much flirting, we spent time just lying together, staring at each other. He held me as he lay on me, and stroked my face and kissed my forehead a hundred times. We must have lay there for half an hour, occasionally whispering to each other, smiling, laughing. He told me he loves me, over and over, until I thought I would burst.

I finally said it.

“How do you say to someone… that you’ve found the person you’d like to marry one day… without scaring them?”

Straight away, I hid myself in his armpit and refused to come out. When he finally managed to untangle my beetroot-red face, he smiled at me and said “well, you’ll just have to wait and see”.

Only Pretending

Death was not the enemy,
but a continuation of a life less lived,
the final chapter in a faithless story,
the only power I could ever give,
the end was never about an ending,
but taking control over worthless skin,
destroying the negative thoughts and feelings,
breaking free of the demons within,
only the power never came to surface,
the story, it reached beyond the ending,
forgive me for believing the outcome was right,
forgive me for living, and for only pretending.

(c) 2008


Good and bad

Today was a mixture of good and bad. Bad; being woken up by my mother after another almost sleepless night. Good; finding a necklace I’ve been eyeing up for a while had been reduced to half price. Bad; forgetting to pick my antidepressant prescription up. Good; S called me, just to say hello. Bad; stuffing my face with cake. Good; the Metformin I’ve been on for three days (to counteract the PCOS symptoms) has given me an upset stomach, so I’m still going to lose a small amount of weight. Bad; listening to my mother arguing with my sister (W) on the ‘phone about my stepfather’s ashes.

He died over a year ago, and the family is still torn apart over it. Why can’t they understand that he’s not contained in those ashes; that wherever he is, won’t be where it’s decided to put them? We’ve lost enough over the years, why do we need to fall out over something like this?