Monday, 31 December 2012

Insomnia Cafe



Insomnia is rearing its ugly head again; it’s 6.00 a.m. and there is no sign of sleep. I don’t think there is ever a more lonely time than when the rest of the world is asleep and you’re not. It’s only made worse by your head telling you that you should be with them in the land of slumber which isolates you more.
Why me, why am I the one left out?

Insomnia is cruel.
My insomnia isn’t traditional insomnia; I get all sleepy after my antidepressant at 11.30 p.m. and think I am going to bed at a reasonable hour. Then…
12.30 a.m. I’m sleepy but I don’t seem to be drifting off…think about something nice…
1.30 a.m. I feel like I could sleep if I could only drift off. My eyes are heavy and I’m pretty comfortable…why aren’t I asleep?
3.30 a.m. Maybe I should get up, get a drink or check Facebook. I know! I’ll read, reading always makes me sleepy.
4.00 a.m. Yep I think I can sleep now…
4.30 a.m. Why aren’t I drifting off!

6 hours after coming to bed, I give in and try to do something productive (like write this) but I know as soon as 7.30/8 a.m. rolls around, I will be fast asleep. I don’t so much have insomnia as I do sleep; I just become nocturnal for some reason. This has happened for as long as I can remember and I have no idea if it’s anything to do with my mental health or my M.E. but I am far too tired to research it now.

This is an awkward time, the boyfriend is happily snoozing away next to me and the best friend is in a happy slumber in the other room. I don’t want to disturb either of them although they are both very gracious and assure me it’s more than fine to wake them if I can’t sleep and I’m feeling a little lonely.  It just seems so selfish to me, waking somebody up because my body is tormenting me. 

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

I Am Not Going To Kill Myself, But


Awoken by PTL to tell me she cannot see me until the New Year.

That is at least 45 days from now.

A month and a half. It doesn’t sound that long if I tell myself it is only a month and a half.
I freaked out.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t over the festive period which is the hardest time of year for me. Maybe because I expect too much from myself and unknowingly make it harder.

She said she wanted to see me for at least a year, maybe two which is the maximum they can see you for.

My therapist is a flake.

She forgets to book transport, she has missed numerous amounts of sessions. I should request a new one but I am getting comfortable with her, opening up. A new one would put me right back to square one which we both agreed wouldn’t be the best thing. She is also quite intelligent, she seems to know what she is talking about and when she doesn’t have her micro-naps in our session, she can be exceptionally perceptive.

I’m scared I won’t be able to cope, seeing her has broken down walls, defences and although I managed to cope for all this time before seeing anyone, now it is different. They don’t understand that it is different, I’m different.

Give a girl a therapy session; she can survive for the rest of the week. Give a girl the tools to cope and she can survive for the rest of her days.

I don’t have those tools yet. I no longer have the fortress of a defence system that I used to. How am I supposed to make it to the end of each week?

My way of thinking had changed; I no longer lusted for suicide. I no longer created wounds to release my feelings and I didn’t feel the need to purge when life got out of control.

Now what?

What of tomorrow?

Monday, 22 October 2012

Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Lissie



I have no trouble finding love but I have a lot of trouble staying in it. I can never seem to find the right person at the right time; in fact they all seem to enter my life at the exact wrong time.
The good loves, the ones that are safe. The adult ones that make you happy but may not necessarily be wildly passionate; they have been and gone through my extremely unstable years, through the years I was searching for who I am and why I am.
I have had the dangerous loves too. The ones that you never really know, the ones who can make you bipolar: they makes me happier than I’ve ever been…they makes me want to die. To someone who is already battling a mental health disorder, people like that can be more than dangerous.
Maybe I attract people that mirror my inner turmoil but then get scared when I see it played out.
Maybe they are all good ones and it is me who is wrong.
I’m not sure whether I believe that every relationship can be good as long as it is handled correctly or whether every relationship is automatically doomed because people are generally selfish.

I know that my obsessive-compulsive tendencies stem from not feeling in control of my own life. I know that I will always need some form of drama in my life to feel sane or I will start creating it for myself.  I know that I explain, as clearly as I can in any new relationship, that I am insane.
I know that they usually say they can handle it.
I know only 1% of them can.
The problem is, I expect other people to think the way I do. I expect more. I hold them too high.

The person I need has to be tolerant. They don’t need to understand mental illness; they just needs to understand my personal brand of crazy. They needs to understand that everything IS the end of the world to me. They should get sucked in to my world and want to create a new one with me. I live in a movie in my head (I am aware of how crazy this sounds but this isn’t the blog of a sane girl) and this movie is ready for the protagonist to enter.

This, selfishly, is my world and if they want to be part of it then they need to be able to adapt, as I will. This sounds incredibly strange, especially to me as I have very little self-confidence (as evident from my previous choice of lovers) but this is how I have always felt. The problem is, I am gullible. Someone comes along and promises me the world; they promise me they can handle me, they can deal with anything I throw at them. I believe all of their lies. 
I have the courage to dictate what I want but I lack the conviction to make sure I get it.

I know what I should do but doubt always changes my mind. I am immeasurably indecisive. This is often my downfall. 

Sunday, 26 August 2012

Circa Mid 2009


Today I am feeling the world, not on top of it or part of it but I can feel it. The agony, the beauty, the riddles and the sacrifice. I seem better on the outside but I'm numb and apathetic on the inside. I can’t care how they want me to, not now. I can’t care how I want to or how I used to; I’m drinking more. Seems to have little effect, as do so many other distractions I've tried. Maybe drugs are next?
I can make people believe what I want them to believe and that’s not the best trait at the moment. How is it that I want someone to see right though me but when it happens I know I will regret it? I am a contradiction to myself. The past is so pretty. The future is full of charred hate. The sky hangs heavy tonight, full of secrets and lies and the moon sparkles as if knowing something we have not yet discovered. The untouched wasteland of the vast, like my mind…

Sometimes I feel that the world around me gets bigger and bigger, making me smaller and even more insignificant. I held a flame to myself yesterday; to feel. I felt. I can’t say it was worth it, no miracle cure, no fireworks or 'praise the lord, I can feel'. Just pain, different to my internal pain, no better, no worse, just more pain.

I can't stand being torn in every different direction by my peers.
I don’t want to be who they say.
I don’t want to do what they order.
I don’t want to feel how they prescribe.
I am not a leaflet.
I am not a medicine bottle; my resolve is not taking 2 a day with food.
I am procrastinating again, now with my ‘illness’. I am looking after someone else because it’s easier to push away my pain, the pain of having to strive to get better. 

Strive…that should be what I am remembered for, always striving for the life I will never achieve, the peace I will never find. I always have and it seems, I always will. Can’t wait.
 "Can you look up on a stormy night and still see the sunshine of tomorrow? Or do you stand outside on the brightest day and still feel the mystery of the night?" - I remember you. You are with me, always.

Saturday, 4 August 2012

She Will Do Great Things


Why is love blind?

Why is it, when you fall in love all other things become less important?
Money,
Friends,
Issues,
Food,
Breathing.

All these things that are day-to-day staples become secondary to the all-consuming addiction to each other when you fall in love.

Is this still the childish way of taking risks by dealing with the seemingly secondary things later or does this make a relationship?

Why do we ignore all the issues, quirks we know will annoy us in later life at the beginning and why do they become so vivid later on?

No relationship is certain or in my opinion, forever. Is it really worth the risk? I used to live for love. Until I was broken. Now I see nothing but future hurt and too much risk.

I know from experience it can be worth it and if you find the love you never thought you would experience, the love you dream of, then take the risk?

Love; perfectly imperfect love. Kind, gentle, dominant, generous, uncertain, strange, thoughtful, romantic, twisted, reassuring love.

Love is blind but beautifully so.

I am all in. All in.

Wednesday, 6 June 2012

How To Break The Broken


There is no reason or rhyme to it, not this time. I am simply just crazy. Now, more than ever. I have stopped being able to control it as well as I once did. It is boiling over on to my skin; the scars beneath are etching their way though my epidermis and showing the world that I am weak. Never before has there been so many physical symptoms of stress wrecking my body but this year has been unlike others. This year has been the toughest year so far…or maybe it hasn’t, maybe I am just getting weaker and therefore am less able to cope with the world. I hate the fact that they can all see my illness; they can practically smell the crazy on me.

Pathetic.

Weak.

It is moving out of the ‘quirky’ realm and in to the ‘plain crazy’ one.

What if I can no longer control it?
What will become of me?

This is already killing me; I have no handle on my moods, on my anger. Tiny, pathetic snarks are eliciting an over reaction of massive proportions from me. See, I know this is happening, I can feel the molten anger rise up, the white hot pain in my cheeks as I grit my teeth, the bitter taste as I try to choke my rage back down…but there is no stopping it anymore. It is becoming simply impossible to ‘let it go’.
I can’t forget.
I can’t let it be.
It consumes me.

Hate is spreading though my bones, my cells, like a disease…all brought on by him. He infected me and everything since has just added to the deadly poison snaking its way though my brain…through my blood. It spills over, they feel my tongue, they feel my hate and they hate me for the venom I spew.

Why is it so hard for me to control it as I once did?
Why can't I be her again?
Why can't I be her?
I want her back.

Venting no longer eases the pain, not like it did; nothing works as it did. Everything is a whirlwind and I am so caught up in it that I can no longer focus on something stationary and gain perspective. The inner diplomacy, the inner rationality is being drowned out by her, by the shouting and the crazy. She is winning…the balance has tipped, she is reigning free…this means trouble.

They hate me.

I am breaking them.
I am losing them.
I am hurting them and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I have tried talking and explaining but you can see it in their eyes…hurt, disgust, and confusion.

Why is she saying this?
Why is she hurting me so much?

I wish I could take a holiday from my head but all the things that would aid me in doing that will harm me more in the long run.

I can’t cope.
I can’t do this any more.
I am lost.   

Sunday, 27 May 2012

On The Fifth Day Of Christmas, My True Love Gave To Me... Suicidal Tendencies

Saturday, 17 December 2011


Well, that time of year is drawing closer and I am no less terrified of going postal and taking half the world with me. We (my friend, her mum and I) went to Huddersfield today and picked out some rather beautiful clothes for my friend but I couldn’t help feel a little awkward. I saw all the mothers, lovers and loved ones rushing around gathering treats for the ones that are dear to them and I felt a pang of hatred. 

This year, this tragic year, holds so little for me. I have lost so much. I try very hard to have a somewhat positive outlook but I can’t help coming back home to the resentment waiting at the door saying "I told you so". 
I have no lover, my family is splitting at the seams and this will be a Christmas of unfortunate firsts. My father came here instead of us all making the pilgrimage to his in my sister's car. It was always freezing as the heater never worked but we made it so much fun. It was somewhat of a tradition I had grown to enjoy, alas, that will be no more. This is the first Christmas of the foreseeable future that we will not be in my childhood home as that is now occupied by the shell of my sister and the beast she married. I knew growing up would be tough but I always thought that family meant home, no matter where it was. As I currently feel like don’t have family, so to speak, in turn I have no home.

I had a free cup of punch today in Huddersfield, I practically ran away from my friend's mum so she couldn't see me welling up with frustration. Somehow the delicious zing of the punch (and maybe the fact it was free) seemed to choke down the rage. The feeling that there was some good in the world should have enraged me more but at that moment, for the shortest of seconds, I felt special. I was glad when the day ended so I could return to my cocooned bungalow, hidden from the world so I no longer had to suffer my empathetic ailment. Here, I do not have to be good, just or smiley. Here I can wallow, I can be pathetic, I can spiral without fear and judgement.

My pills are fighting with me again today, some days they do not want me to take them, they want me to be ill and feel it all. I win, I always win for I am big and they are small (and inanimate). I don’t know why they don’t like me.

Now comes the big rest. Merriment will be had by all, even if we have to drink the merriment. I feel nothing. I want to but I don’t. I have been hurt this year far too much by far too many people and for far too few reasons.

Friday, 20 April 2012

All I Need Is Pain



One of the many reasons why I will never be happy is because I will never be one of the numerous women I envy. I have to work extra hard to look effortlessly cool, even if it’s for the shortest while. I crave the kind of love reserved for great novels but know I could not handle it or be worthy of it. I want a great many things but cannot put the work in to get them.

I have this ideal in my head; the woman I am supposed to be. A woman who is as far from my birthright as possible.  Do not mistake me, I am not ashamed of my birthright, it just doesn’t seem to be me. I don’t fit in anywhere, even in the places I should. I am not comfortable with myself. I can however look in the mirror for over ten minutes but that is mainly due to my underlining narcissism.

This woman is surface perfect, she is strong and mature. She has impeccable manners and is incredibly intelligent, she is graceful and elegant. Underneath she has fire; she is cunning and a master manipulator when called upon. Her appearance is flawless and she rarely makes mistakes but when she does, she handles them with effortless charm. This is the woman I aspire to be. I am none of these things.

If I could just get out of my own head, I might have a shot at being her. If I could just stop being depressed, I might be worthy of a life. I want to live inside a movie and have everything work out perfectly, not just because there will be a strong yet insightful protagonist ready to catch me when I fall and tell me everything will be alright, but because I want, no, need to feel that complete faith in someone. I wish I could trust like they do in the movies, no matter how badly they have been hurt before they can still fall in to a K-hole of love. The last time I was blinded by love was almost ten years ago. I want it back. I want the all-consuming, all in, nothing else exists, dangerous love. Dizzy, sickening, fluttering, swooning, enveloping love.

I want to be someone you would be proud to know. I want to be someone you envy. I want to be someone you want to be friends with; I want to be able to be a friend. I don’t want peace as I know now that I can’t survive without turmoil. I don’t want to be a superstar. I am not asking for the world. I just want to be me, the me I should be…but I don’t deserve her yet and maybe I never will.

Monday, 9 April 2012

Excruciating Rapture


See me now;
Here I am, in all my naked glory.
How did this happen? How could I let myself get this grotesque?
Is it another form of torment and abuse for my sins, not mine specifically but those brought against me and made to believe they were mine?

See me now;
Here I am, in all my torment.
Why would this happen? Was I that despondent in those few months when I thought everything was painless and the only guilt that riddled me was that of manipulating the mind of a far too kind and generous man?

See me now;
Is this me, is this what I have become?
And if so, if this horrible reality is not just some fiction in my mind, then what to do? Go back to my old ways and bring up all the arguments? After all, it is the reason a dear one departed from me. Is this fair?
All but to gain vanity.

Hear me now;
In all my retribution.
Dare I do this? I dare not. Dare I speak of this? I dare not. This is not me, is this me? This is not right...but then... 

This is not the life I intended.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

A Tale Of Two Ciggies



The story of Garette.

He was carelessly traded by his smoker to another, on a whim. His new smoker nestled him in her green cage containing others that had not yet fulfilled their purpose. They all seemed to get on well, although these new ‘friends’ had a peculiar smell, he was just happy of the company. They laughed and joked about the Great Fire and placed bets on who would be next expended. It wasn’t long before the smoker selected the next candidate. As the cage opened, they saw for the first time how different they were to each other. Garette gasped at the uniformed rows of tall soldiers, much taller than he. They all wore white helmets adorned with a mint green slogan. He wore a brown helmet with a red slogan. Before he could think further than this, he realised they had seen how different he was too. They began mocking and heckling him. Even as their numbers dwindled, he still bore the brunt of their abuse and made a pact to himself.

'I swear to the Great Fire, when I am selected, I will not perform my duty to the best of my ability but instead I shall spark and spit and burn you all to the ground. None shall fulfil his expectancy. I shall show you all.'

He had fully expected to be picked last as he was sure the smoker was as prejudiced as the caged soldiers. To his surprise, there were at least four cadets eagerly awaiting their fate when he was elected. True to his word, he spat and sparked so much that he witnessed the birth of a small rutilant flicker that grew and grew; consuming the smoker and eventually engulfing the green cage where he had been vilified so much. Moments before his cessation , he looked around him with gratification. He had done all he’d said. He had proudly murdered them all.

Saturday, 3 March 2012

The Realness Of Idealness


Today would have usually been hell for me.

I had to set my alarm and unnaturally wake up which always fills me with a sense of dread and despair (probably from my monotonous working days), to go to the hairdressers. Although, I will admit, waking up to a loud noise isn’t so bad if it’s for a treat. I walked the five minutes to the hairdressers (which killed me as I haven’t been out of the house in over a week) and waited to be seen.

Once my name was called, I was enlivened to feel ‘new’ again as throughout my life, whenever I have felt like sacking it all in, I take a leaf out of Madonna’s book and reinvent myself. This never lasts long as the old, pessimistic me comes back to haunt me like an ugly ghost, tethered to my psyche. None the less, it has been keeping me alive this long.  So to say I was excited, is now too obvious.

I sat in the smooth black chair and explained exactly what I wanted. I showed the hairdresser a picture I had made on one of those makeover sites (where you put different hairstyles on); it was an edgy bob in the same colour as my hair to avoid (so I thought) any confusion.

Here is how it went:

“I want an edgy bob, just like this one, with layers because I like a lot of volume. Can you do that?” I asked.
“Do you want it black? Because your hair is already black” she replied.
“Umm, yes, I am aware of that (you half wit), I just want the bob please” I reiterated.
“Yes, OK then. Shall we book you in?” she chirped.

I had assumed I was already booked in as I had asked for a consultation and then a haircut if she could do the style I wanted (because who would wait?). Apparently this wasn’t the case. How nice. So after the five minute walk, the five minute wait and the fifty second conversation with the most perceptive and charming woman in the world, I left feeling angry and deflated.

For ‘normal’ people, this would have been annoying or a little set back, for me…this made me regret waking up at all. I was seething all the way home, cursing being alive, cursing ever leaving the house and vowing never to do it again. You may think I am a drama queen, but having severe depression, a ‘set back’ like this can have me reeling for days and maybe longer.

In the hopes of reinventing, a couple of days ago I went on a mini spree (online of course) and bought some new makeup and nail varnishes. The makeup came this morning, just before I set off to the hairdressers. I was excited to try it out and wear some for that day (for the extra confidence boost) but when I opened it, it was all wrong. The colours were completely different and it just wasn’t what I was expecting so that had already set my morning off badly.

However…
Despite all of this happening (and the many other little things that went wrong today) I am not reeling. I am over it. This could be attributed to many factors, my medication being increased a couple of weeks ago, the support of my friend, finally starting to recover or it could be a mix of all three. Whatever the reason is, I am grateful as for once, I am not a raging ball of pent up aggression and disappointment. For tonight, I am peaceful, I simply do not care. Needless to say, when I do finally leave the house again to get my haircut, I shall not be going back there.

Thursday, 23 February 2012

The Insane Vs The Mental Health Team


I am appalled by the state of the mental health system in Yorkshire, specifically Kirklees. I am disgusted with the apathetic doctors and the inappropriate demeanour of the mental health nurses of the mental health team.

My dear friend suffers with Asperger’s syndrome. For those of you who don’t know what that is, basically it is a high functioning form of autism. She also suffers from severe depression and anxiety. She needs her routines, she has poor to no eye contact and talking to people she doesn’t know is almost impossible.

Lately she needed to have her antidepressants changed. Anyone suffering with severe depression and on medication will know that this needs to happen when the pills you are taking aren’t working, you get used to them or the side effects outweigh the benefits. It can be a very stressful time to someone who is suffering as there is almost always a noticeable change in your mood and/or thought process while the other pills are coming out of your system and the new ones are taking effect.

She went to see a doctor we do not usually go to as he is generally unsympathetic and rather rude. She was desperate. She explained to him that she was overly suicidal, irrationally angry and at a greater risk of harming herself on these pills. He reluctantly changed them after lecturing her about getting better quicker. This is not what outraged me, unfortunately in both of our experiences, this is the norm. It seems to be the understanding doctors that are few and far between these days.
It was what followed me that outraged me. A few days later, she returned to the doctor's for her top up of pain killers (for various ailments) and after being lectured about taking them and being told to drink water instead as it will cure everything including her depression (!) she looked at the notes the previous doctor had put. They were as follows:

“She displays no signs of suicide, has good eye contact and generally has good rapport”

Now, I was not there but I know she (having Asperger’s) cannot lie. He was not only out rightly lying about her suicidal thoughts but in the mood she was in as well as not liking him, I know for a fact her eye contact would have been worse than poor.
I wish I could say this was the only way she has been failed by seemingly trained professionals, not only in her life but just this week.

She had recently been contacted by The Mental Health Team for her second time; the nurse who spoke to her was pressuring her to go in for another assessment. She couldn’t get there by herself and so asked for a home visit. I was in the room when this conversation took place. He told her to get her priorities in order and basically threatened her to go in otherwise she wouldn’t be seen. She was so upset by the time she got off the phone, she couldn’t speak.

Outraged, I called him and demanded to know exactly what he had said to upset her. I was met with an appalling attitude coupled with “I don’t think that’s any of your business” and “I am not prepared to answer any more questions”. I was not asking for any personal details or any information that could have even sounded confidential. He simply refused to talk to me and said he would not apologise for his manner.
The matter was passed on to my friend's mother, as I was not being taken seriously. She informed me that he apologised to her and said he was simply in a bad mood. He then arranged a home visit.

Being Miss Manners and not wanting to hold a grudge, I welcomed him in to my home so he could assess my friend. She was understandably upset and therefore displayed very guarded body language (looking at the floor, folded arms and shaking legs) but I prompted her to answer as many questions as she could and I filled in the gaps.

I thought it was going as well as it could possibly go until he said “I don’t know if there is anything I can do as she clearly doesn’t want me here” in the most vindictive way, like a child who had been cast out. I was astounded. I politely informed him that she is like this with any new person due to the concoction of ‘issues’ she has and that he should not take it personally. He childishly interrupted me with “I’m not!” Yes, it sounds like it.

I am simply shocked that any of this behaviour was allowed to happen. He is in a position where he is supposed to display empathy and rational behaviour at all times…am I incorrect in thinking this? I know they are human too and have ‘bad’ days but surely in this crucial position, you need to display a level head and an understanding nature?

Both she and I are being failed on every conceivable level in regards to out mental health. This is the sole reason I have the knowledge and insight in to my own condition as if I relied solely on the ‘professionals’, I have no doubt, whatsoever, that I would have committed suicide by now.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Simplistic Lies



I remember being around nine when I had my first definitive suicidal thought, though it started much earlier than that. A diary entry from my prepubescent mind aged around ten depicts a story of a lonely, sombre child. Alone in the playground with only her thoughts for company. Thoughts of horror, thoughts of death. Deep and fascinating thoughts no child should subject themselves to. These thoughts started with the most innocent of lies a mother tells.

I have habits, habits pigeonholed as bad. I stress bite my lip; just the lower. Chew until I draw blood. The lie I remember imparted about this particular habit was as follows:

“The bits of lip-flesh you tear off and accidentally swallow will find their way in to your arteries, clog up your heart and you will die.”

This provoked a deep inner monologue, a story of the rogue lip-flesh somehow finding its way through the lining of my stomach and rattling around in my body until it finds an artery to invade and kill me. A story with images, narrative and motive. An imaginative child.

This lie. This lie to scare and prevent, to postpone and deter.
Did it?
No. I am still a stress biter. This habit did not begin so young, I was around twelve when this apparently deadly habit took control of my mouth, and my mind.

A possibly more serious and unpleasant habit took hold of me from an earlier age. This habit, this vagrancy came out of the blue. No one knew why, not even myself. It held me like a drug, I would tweak for my next hit if we had been kept apart. It was my delight; it was my addiction. It was vinegar. Straight from the source, sucking as a baby would from a bottle of milk. My mother hid it, I found it. I sought it. She put it out of reach; I would perform acrobatics to get it. What was my mother to do? She concocted another lie, possibly the first ridiculous lie my mother told me.

This lie. This lie so bold, so ridiculous, I believed. I believed this lie, this brazen distortion of the truth because my mother was my vessel of information. She had no reason to lie…so I thought. This lie was as follows:

“If you carry on drinking vinegar, it will dry up your blood!”

This liquid, this deadly, sharp tasting acid, this masquerade of toxins to be enjoyed over chips…will kill me? Not just kill me but indeed enable the blood in my veins to evaporate leaving hollow tunnels under my skin leading to my death?

This absurd lie, that I believed, this first catalytic lie to scare and prevent, to postpone and deter.
Did it?
No. I drank as my stomach allowed. I drank until every bud on my tongue was raw. I drank in secret.

A few weeks passed and to my shock, no sign of death emerged. No sign of my liquid life mysteriously disappearing from my veins. I was pensive. Was what my mother informed me of, a lie? The conclusion I had reached saddened me. Not because my mother had lied about my fluid bottle of heaven but because her omen was in fact untrue. I was not dying. It occurred to me, rather strangely that I was melancholy about this. I was actually upset that I was not slipping away; I was not going to die. I fear that this is where it all began.

This Razor Blade Tastes Like Cupcakes


This is my karma.
I am a bad person.
I am selfish;
I am expectant,
I am bossy.
I am corrupt;
I am pathetic,
I am weak.
I am naive,
I am not hopeful,
I am death.

Death of friendships.
Death of relationships.
Death of morals.
Death of consequences.
Death of freedom.
Death of innocence.

It is all on me;
It is my entire fault.
It is what I deserve,
It is what I have created,
It is what has killed me.

It has killed me.
There is no going back;
I am death.
I am the end.
I choose nothing.
I am sorry.

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

42 Just Isn't Enough



We are told so much in our lives; school, parents, friends, they all have their evaluation on life. Although, living someone else’s evaluations seems to do no good to anyone. 

I don’t understand what the point actually is, are we all here simply as a race surviving with economy and politics all being inventions of the mind? 

Is there a truly higher conscious?
Are we just evolved animals making our way, evolving a better race until we're wiped out again? 

Do we have purpose?
Is the world nurturing us into what we should be, knowing we need to be something better, more important?

But what is important?
What society tells us or doctors, scientists and musicians? Is it the mothers of the world giving new life, the farmers replanting life to sustain us?

Could we possibly just aspire to be happy?
What actually is true happiness? Is it a god we will never see/experience? Do people have it? Do they know they have it and what does it feel like? I wonder if it has a colour...

Why are the most tortured people the most creative? 

If we are a part of a higher consciousness then why are we tormented with the feeling that we should be fulfilling something more and yet not being helped to achieve it? 

All the questions of the universe are frequently asked but rarely answered. But if they were, would we accept them?

Tuesday, 24 January 2012

Let’s Begin On A Lighter Note


Today I would like to talk about eyebrows.


I have a slight obsession with them. They can make or break a face, frame or fracture it. It may seem insignificant to you but without even realising it, eyebrows can instantly make you distrust someone.



Anyway, I have been striving for the perfect brow for quite some time (at the moment I would just be happy if they were the same shape!) and maybe I will achieve it in my thirties (as my twenties aren’t looking hopeful). In this era, eyebrows are slated if not perfectly groomed and I am almost positive this is the reason my interest grew in to an insane obsession.

Dita Von Teese
Gwen Stefani
But, I have been flicking through some pictures of yesteryear starlets and although at first glance, they look polished to perfection, upon closer inspection their eyebrows are not the same shape (as each other) either!
Marilyn Monroe 
Rita Hayworth
Although this made me feel slightly better about my misshapen eye fur, my obsession will not die so easily.

I do loathe myself for judging people on their eyebrows (as I hate to be judged by mine) but I can’t help myself making a snap judgement. I expect I should include a picture of my own for scrutiny...



New Beginnings



Okay, so initially I had no idea what this blog would be. I think it started out as a place to air my written ramblings but then it somewhat spiralled into promoting my online store.

A few things you should know about me:

- I am an 'ideas girl'. I have (what I think are) fine ideas coupled with honourable intentions yet I'm rather egregious with the follow through.

- My memory is less functional than a cock-flavoured lollipop.  Even if I intend this blog to be anything more than it already is, it possibly won’t be.

So, all this being said, I fully intend to retrograde this blog in to what most have started out as, a self-indulgent page of word vomit. Now, if I can happily delude myself in to believing someone will actually read this thing then we are away...