It feels like somebody finally shot that goddamn elephant and hauled its sorry arse off my shoulders.
This is awesome.
Annie.
<3
This is awesome.
Annie.
<3
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Left Luggage...
I shall tell you from the offset, this post has been written over the course of the day in gaps between academic engagements (where I sat in empty rooms and would usually have been twiddling my thumbs) or during the lectures themselves - sometime last night I decided to develop a fairly nasty chest and throat infection so I'm remaining silenced and thus entirely useless.
It is also set to be one of my longer entries.
Having slept fitfully, the first thing I did when I awoke was to make myself a cup of tea and read over what I only vaguely remember writing in the early hours of this morning.
My reaction was as follows; 'I really should delete this, it makes absolutely no sense, wait, I can't because that would go against everything I started this project for. Bollocks. OK, I may as well try to wade through my pseudo-philosophical rambling and attempt to justify or (if I'm absolutely scraping the barrel for ideas) at least clarify it if only for myself'.
As such, I've chewed it over for a number of hours and a few too many aspirin to reach a conclusion...
I believe what I was attempting to illustrate, through my rather misjudged ultimatum was an imaginative culmination of the past few day's worth of blogging and discussion with various people.
I have previously admitted that I revel in deception but only, it seems, of myself - it has become increasingly clear that this has brought about nothing positive, and over the course of a few weeks I have almost imperceptibly outgrown my longest trusted defence mechanism simply because it outlived its effectiveness.
I am ready to cut ties with play acting my way from one day to the next and equally so with those that have encouraged me to do so.
I laid down my demands, few that they are, and yet Edwin Black (for I will name and pin this devil) you failed to step up to the mark. I'm done with waiting for plans made in the heat of passion, a lifetime ago for us both, to come to fruition.
Holding my breath was getting uncomfortable anyway.
This ship has now sailed and it is headed for fairer shores than yours, though where they rest (or if they are as of yet even in sight) I don't know. Yet, I have no doubt I will love again as passionately and give my heart as freely a hundred times over.
You see, thanks to science we're able to live four, five times longer than our Great Great Grandparents who partnered, married and had children (generally) with a single person. Not because their love was any better, or their monogamous moral fibre more sturdy but because they died.
Although it is my belief you never fall out of love with a person, you simply stop liking them, to claim you are only able to love once - one single, insignificant bit of carbon out of billions - is to do yourself an emotional injustice.
You can love a partner yet you would never claim an inability to love your children as ferociously...or your grandparents, parents, siblings, friends?
We are built to interact - to seek out contact, exchange, understanding, happiness...this ability is not lost because your first boyfriend fucked you over or your marriage ended.
It's about time I started taking my own advice:
I will devote myself with heart and mind to those that earn it and make fair exchange.
I will understand that to not be in a relationship is not to be alone.
I will not live by a series of plans: mourning their loss should they fail or only allowing myself to feel elation if they are carried through.
I will understand life is flux, we alter moment to moment and to try and contain a universe of possibility in a house, a car or a dog is just silly.
I will forget each one of these the second his eyes meet mine across a crowded bar.
Annie.
<3
Having slept fitfully, the first thing I did when I awoke was to make myself a cup of tea and read over what I only vaguely remember writing in the early hours of this morning.
My reaction was as follows; 'I really should delete this, it makes absolutely no sense, wait, I can't because that would go against everything I started this project for. Bollocks. OK, I may as well try to wade through my pseudo-philosophical rambling and attempt to justify or (if I'm absolutely scraping the barrel for ideas) at least clarify it if only for myself'.
As such, I've chewed it over for a number of hours and a few too many aspirin to reach a conclusion...
I believe what I was attempting to illustrate, through my rather misjudged ultimatum was an imaginative culmination of the past few day's worth of blogging and discussion with various people.
I have previously admitted that I revel in deception but only, it seems, of myself - it has become increasingly clear that this has brought about nothing positive, and over the course of a few weeks I have almost imperceptibly outgrown my longest trusted defence mechanism simply because it outlived its effectiveness.
I am ready to cut ties with play acting my way from one day to the next and equally so with those that have encouraged me to do so.
I laid down my demands, few that they are, and yet Edwin Black (for I will name and pin this devil) you failed to step up to the mark. I'm done with waiting for plans made in the heat of passion, a lifetime ago for us both, to come to fruition.
Holding my breath was getting uncomfortable anyway.
This ship has now sailed and it is headed for fairer shores than yours, though where they rest (or if they are as of yet even in sight) I don't know. Yet, I have no doubt I will love again as passionately and give my heart as freely a hundred times over.
You see, thanks to science we're able to live four, five times longer than our Great Great Grandparents who partnered, married and had children (generally) with a single person. Not because their love was any better, or their monogamous moral fibre more sturdy but because they died.
Although it is my belief you never fall out of love with a person, you simply stop liking them, to claim you are only able to love once - one single, insignificant bit of carbon out of billions - is to do yourself an emotional injustice.
You can love a partner yet you would never claim an inability to love your children as ferociously...or your grandparents, parents, siblings, friends?
We are built to interact - to seek out contact, exchange, understanding, happiness...this ability is not lost because your first boyfriend fucked you over or your marriage ended.
It's about time I started taking my own advice:
I will devote myself with heart and mind to those that earn it and make fair exchange.
I will understand that to not be in a relationship is not to be alone.
I will not live by a series of plans: mourning their loss should they fail or only allowing myself to feel elation if they are carried through.
I will understand life is flux, we alter moment to moment and to try and contain a universe of possibility in a house, a car or a dog is just silly.
I will forget each one of these the second his eyes meet mine across a crowded bar.
Annie.
<3
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Happy 1000 Views...
I know I promised something cheerful and in a mildly backhanded and drunken way, this is.
My name is Elise Hadgraft and I've just forcibly thrown up five pints of beer because I don't want a hangover tomorrow.
My name is Elise Hadgraft and I've just forcibly thrown up five pints of beer because I don't want a hangover tomorrow.
All that I have done and all that I will be rests on tonight and the response I receive to this entry.
My hands are burning from the cold, my head aches and I'm wishing desperately that Pixel wasn't getting utterly fucked up in Derby so that I had somebody to talk to - although I send him my absolute best, if anybody deserves a break from my antics it's him.
My hands are burning from the cold, my head aches and I'm wishing desperately that Pixel wasn't getting utterly fucked up in Derby so that I had somebody to talk to - although I send him my absolute best, if anybody deserves a break from my antics it's him.
I know that certain people positively hang on my every written word - from those that used to know me, want to further understand me or desire to use my own candid confession against me...to you I have a message: I'm a liar.
A fucking good one from all the practice I've had.
If you genuinely wish to explore the depths of my psyche, talk to me.A fucking good one from all the practice I've had.
I'm unable to spout my fictitious bullshit in the context of face to face interaction.
Everything I admit, when looking you in the eyes, is a fundamental truth - this also applies to when I'm drunk and/or on drugs.
It's the curse of my family to give themselves away when discretion is actually called for and I often wonder if I'm really as opposed to carrying on that line as I claim.
That's why I'm making a pact with myself.
I'm not going to fall into the trap of blagging my way out of or simply denying myself happiness because I haven't got the balls to stand up and stake my claim - my past is nothing more than the baby steps that got me to where I am now.
All is forgiven. Nothing is forgotten.
I have loved, I have lied and I will do only one of these again.
Make your choice.
Annie.
<3
It's the curse of my family to give themselves away when discretion is actually called for and I often wonder if I'm really as opposed to carrying on that line as I claim.
That's why I'm making a pact with myself.
I'm not going to fall into the trap of blagging my way out of or simply denying myself happiness because I haven't got the balls to stand up and stake my claim - my past is nothing more than the baby steps that got me to where I am now.
All is forgiven. Nothing is forgotten.
I have loved, I have lied and I will do only one of these again.
Make your choice.
Annie.
<3
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
You're So Vain...
The advent of social networking sites has, in my opinion, a lot more to answer for than it's usual charges of Internet grooming, virtual bullying and complete knob-waggling in the face of every personal privacy law we have left.
What it has spawned, more dangerous than anything else, is the cult of the 'Status Update Interpreter'.
[It is something I'm guilty of as much as any of you currently reading this thanks to whatever witty or persuasive tag line I've linked it under.]
Whether you direct your efforts as Facebook amateur empath towards a particular person (religiously updating their page every five minutes) or, less commonly, simply scan the Newsfeed for anything that you may be able to attribute to yourself is irrelevant - the motive and result for both are one and the same.
You end up quietly seething, completely deluded or in it's most base form - just wrong.
There have been several incidents over the past few days wherein certain people have decided to read into rather benign, or so-vague-as-to-be-utterly-inane updates on my page as a direct attack on their person.
None of them the actual target.
Unable to hamper their rage, public and private posting has been made that I think everybody involved probably regrets and friendships of many years were tested...the catalyst for this? Misreading a single word; 'train' as 'plane'.
You see, I say we have become 'Status Update Interpreters' - I never claimed that we were particularly attentive or adept at what we seek to do.
It manifests itself in a number of other ways, not all of them as 'balls out' aggressive.
I'll put my hand up and admit that often, when I have read between the lines (include in this also 'wishfully') but am unsure of my conclusions I'll update with something that, if I had read the other parties message correctly, would signal them to my understanding...for example an in-joke or the use of a similar word.
Obviously, if a reply is not made in partner form I can assume I was wrong and evade feeling like a dick.
More often than not, this is what happens.
Complications occur however when you're actively seeking a cause for argument or in the odd instances that a third party is involved, when interpretations must vie for dominance it is increasingly likely that intellectual sparks will fly.
A third incarnation of this growing trend is found merely in our readiness to reply to a status as though our poorly worded opinion may make the person stop in their tracks, re-evaluate their entire life and buy us a yacht to say 'Thank you, before this I was blind to my own emotional and social standpoint!'
I can positively see the smattering of raised eyebrows; "But Annie, fair point and all but why is any of this a problem...especially a larger one than kiddie fiddling?"
There are two conclusions this argument can reach:
1) It illustrates the absolute breakdown in inter-personal communication - conversations that could be conducted or conflicts resolved in a matter of minutes over coffee or on the phone are drawn out over days of hiding behind YouTube clips, obscure remarks or jauntily angled profile pictures. We're slowly becoming a generation of non-entities, these persona's are spilling into real life and relationships (subsequently emotional and mental health) are suffering because of it.
2) We are opinionated, yes and this is something I actively campaign for but rather than getting gobby about the actual injustices in the world we're pouring pages of prose into judging 'X' because she fucked 'Y's' boyfriend at some shitty student party on Saturday night.
Stop wasting your energy, scribble up one of your witticisms on a placard and go and make a meaningful difference in an arena that needs you.
Annie.
<3
What it has spawned, more dangerous than anything else, is the cult of the 'Status Update Interpreter'.
[It is something I'm guilty of as much as any of you currently reading this thanks to whatever witty or persuasive tag line I've linked it under.]
Whether you direct your efforts as Facebook amateur empath towards a particular person (religiously updating their page every five minutes) or, less commonly, simply scan the Newsfeed for anything that you may be able to attribute to yourself is irrelevant - the motive and result for both are one and the same.
You end up quietly seething, completely deluded or in it's most base form - just wrong.
There have been several incidents over the past few days wherein certain people have decided to read into rather benign, or so-vague-as-to-be-utterly-inane updates on my page as a direct attack on their person.
None of them the actual target.
Unable to hamper their rage, public and private posting has been made that I think everybody involved probably regrets and friendships of many years were tested...the catalyst for this? Misreading a single word; 'train' as 'plane'.
You see, I say we have become 'Status Update Interpreters' - I never claimed that we were particularly attentive or adept at what we seek to do.
It manifests itself in a number of other ways, not all of them as 'balls out' aggressive.
I'll put my hand up and admit that often, when I have read between the lines (include in this also 'wishfully') but am unsure of my conclusions I'll update with something that, if I had read the other parties message correctly, would signal them to my understanding...for example an in-joke or the use of a similar word.
Obviously, if a reply is not made in partner form I can assume I was wrong and evade feeling like a dick.
More often than not, this is what happens.
Complications occur however when you're actively seeking a cause for argument or in the odd instances that a third party is involved, when interpretations must vie for dominance it is increasingly likely that intellectual sparks will fly.
A third incarnation of this growing trend is found merely in our readiness to reply to a status as though our poorly worded opinion may make the person stop in their tracks, re-evaluate their entire life and buy us a yacht to say 'Thank you, before this I was blind to my own emotional and social standpoint!'
I can positively see the smattering of raised eyebrows; "But Annie, fair point and all but why is any of this a problem...especially a larger one than kiddie fiddling?"
There are two conclusions this argument can reach:
1) It illustrates the absolute breakdown in inter-personal communication - conversations that could be conducted or conflicts resolved in a matter of minutes over coffee or on the phone are drawn out over days of hiding behind YouTube clips, obscure remarks or jauntily angled profile pictures. We're slowly becoming a generation of non-entities, these persona's are spilling into real life and relationships (subsequently emotional and mental health) are suffering because of it.
2) We are opinionated, yes and this is something I actively campaign for but rather than getting gobby about the actual injustices in the world we're pouring pages of prose into judging 'X' because she fucked 'Y's' boyfriend at some shitty student party on Saturday night.
Stop wasting your energy, scribble up one of your witticisms on a placard and go and make a meaningful difference in an arena that needs you.
Annie.
<3
Monday, 25 October 2010
In My Head, I'm Dancing Naked...
I really should start blogging slightly earlier in the day - it might be because I'm getting on a bit, but by this time at night I'm ready for my drastically ugly dressing gown, a brew and a no-brainer Black Lace novel.
I'm still in said dressing gown but, rather than the above (and vastly more preferable option), I'm sipping cheap 'n' nasty energy drink and endeavouring to dress my recently acquired hat.
Honestly, if somebody had come up to my 12 year old, would-be-Wednesday-Addams self and said; "Honey, eight years down the line you'll be stressing over what shade of suede court shoes is going to match your 1940's, hand-veiled, vintage cloche" - first I'd likely have looked utterly confused then I'd have cried and ran away.
I'm still in said dressing gown but, rather than the above (and vastly more preferable option), I'm sipping cheap 'n' nasty energy drink and endeavouring to dress my recently acquired hat.
Honestly, if somebody had come up to my 12 year old, would-be-Wednesday-Addams self and said; "Honey, eight years down the line you'll be stressing over what shade of suede court shoes is going to match your 1940's, hand-veiled, vintage cloche" - first I'd likely have looked utterly confused then I'd have cried and ran away.
In many respects I've really not turned out how I pictured I would but I'm fairly happy with both my emotional and physical developments, especially over the past few months.
Speaking of physicality (and getting to the actual point), the incredibly recent changes became strikingly apparent in the shower this morning - for the first time I took a good long look at my body and suddenly realised 'Shit, I'm woman shaped'.
[I'll clarify for the men who read this - you may not notice the difference between a 'child with breasts' and an actual woman but we do.]
Everybody begins absolutely shapeless, one line top to bottom...the magic of puberty happens and you see the arrival of tits and hips in the early developers (or whatever other politically correct way you want to dress up the children built like playboy models).
Yet, despite these archetypal feminine signifiers (the sort that allow you to blag your way into bars when you're 14) there's a certain sense of disproportion about the whole thing - it has become increasingly easy to spot with the rise in over-sexualisation of under 16's...you can dress them up in whatever adult fashions you want, slap on some fake bake and hair extensions and still something just looks a bit 'off'.
As a bottom heavy girl it always bothered me, I've striven to return to my ambiguous androgynous shape for years purely to kick myself into the even proportions I've always equated with adulthood...
Except, whilst I was distracted, nature happily evened me out and I've eventually achieved (without dieting or sweating like a paedophile at a playschool) a body I'm proud of, almost over night.
[I would like to take this moment to thank the 'Nork Fairy', I never believed but eventually you came through for me, cheers.]
Suddenly I don't feel like a twat for buying my underwear from Pandora's Choice as opposed to Primark, or owning a dress that comes down to my calves, wearing barely-there heeled shoes or a cute hat - I don't need to cinch, pad or flash my way to womanhood...you can just tell.
I feel more naturally beautiful than I have in a long time, but a little decoration never goes amiss. I'm a blank canvas now and I have the paints at the ready.
Annie.
<3
[I'll clarify for the men who read this - you may not notice the difference between a 'child with breasts' and an actual woman but we do.]
Everybody begins absolutely shapeless, one line top to bottom...the magic of puberty happens and you see the arrival of tits and hips in the early developers (or whatever other politically correct way you want to dress up the children built like playboy models).
Yet, despite these archetypal feminine signifiers (the sort that allow you to blag your way into bars when you're 14) there's a certain sense of disproportion about the whole thing - it has become increasingly easy to spot with the rise in over-sexualisation of under 16's...you can dress them up in whatever adult fashions you want, slap on some fake bake and hair extensions and still something just looks a bit 'off'.
As a bottom heavy girl it always bothered me, I've striven to return to my ambiguous androgynous shape for years purely to kick myself into the even proportions I've always equated with adulthood...
Except, whilst I was distracted, nature happily evened me out and I've eventually achieved (without dieting or sweating like a paedophile at a playschool) a body I'm proud of, almost over night.
[I would like to take this moment to thank the 'Nork Fairy', I never believed but eventually you came through for me, cheers.]
Suddenly I don't feel like a twat for buying my underwear from Pandora's Choice as opposed to Primark, or owning a dress that comes down to my calves, wearing barely-there heeled shoes or a cute hat - I don't need to cinch, pad or flash my way to womanhood...you can just tell.
I feel more naturally beautiful than I have in a long time, but a little decoration never goes amiss. I'm a blank canvas now and I have the paints at the ready.
Annie.
<3
Sunday, 24 October 2010
A Collaboration (Of Sorts)...
I have a migraine.
It's of such a vicious nature that I'm sat in the dark wearing 80's hacker style shades to deflect some of the glare emanating from my (unplugged) laptop.
A sorry picture of lonely studentdom if ever there was one...except for a single factor, Pixel is sat next to me, practically in my lap no less, talking about his cock, your cock, the collective cocks of the entire world simply because he knows it annoys the hell out of me.
He's also acting as my over-shoulder, backseat beta reader.
[Editors comment: YOU'RE A DICK...(specially requested in capitals)]
I think I finally understand why the Late Great's locked themselves away from their wives and children for the entire time it takes to write anything of merit.
[Editors comment: BECAUSE THEY'RE FAPPING ALONE, IN THE DARK...]
If there was a word which fully sums up 'sitting in silence, rubbing my brow and hoping to God that my flatmate is one of the several percent per year to suffer an unexpected brain aneurysm'...
[Editors comment: REPLACE 'BROW' WITH 'CLUNGE'...LOLOLOLOL!]
...You know what, I've completely forgotten what I was supposed to be writing about today - let us simply assume it was something highly profound and be done with it.
[Editors comment: MAH DICK'S PROFOUND.]
Yeah, that about summarises it.
[Editors comment: LATERZ NIGGAS...WAIT, CAN WE PUT THE 'N WORD' IN HERE?...CO0O0OL.]
Annie.
<3
[Editors comment: AND PIXEL DOT.]
It's of such a vicious nature that I'm sat in the dark wearing 80's hacker style shades to deflect some of the glare emanating from my (unplugged) laptop.
A sorry picture of lonely studentdom if ever there was one...except for a single factor, Pixel is sat next to me, practically in my lap no less, talking about his cock, your cock, the collective cocks of the entire world simply because he knows it annoys the hell out of me.
He's also acting as my over-shoulder, backseat beta reader.
[Editors comment: YOU'RE A DICK...(specially requested in capitals)]
I think I finally understand why the Late Great's locked themselves away from their wives and children for the entire time it takes to write anything of merit.
[Editors comment: BECAUSE THEY'RE FAPPING ALONE, IN THE DARK...]
If there was a word which fully sums up 'sitting in silence, rubbing my brow and hoping to God that my flatmate is one of the several percent per year to suffer an unexpected brain aneurysm'...
[Editors comment: REPLACE 'BROW' WITH 'CLUNGE'...LOLOLOLOL!]
...You know what, I've completely forgotten what I was supposed to be writing about today - let us simply assume it was something highly profound and be done with it.
[Editors comment: MAH DICK'S PROFOUND.]
Yeah, that about summarises it.
[Editors comment: LATERZ NIGGAS...WAIT, CAN WE PUT THE 'N WORD' IN HERE?...CO0O0OL.]
Annie.
<3
[Editors comment: AND PIXEL DOT.]
Saturday, 23 October 2010
She's Got The Montezuma Voodoo...
After a two day hiatus, thanks to the intervention of an actual life, I'm back into the 'Blog-Sphere' with new found creativity and cause for discussion...at great length.
I just watched 'Shutter Island' and, as Pixel rightfully pointed out, am having a rather spectacular fit of absolute paranoia.
For anybody who's not seen it (spoiler alert) - chap arrives on psychiatric penitentiary island in the butt-fuck middle of nowhere to investigate a patient disappearance, some crazy hallucinating/archetypal conspiracy shit goes down, eventually it's revealed the whole shindig has been one massive role playing session to get him to admit that he's insane - breakthrough, relapse, lobotomy.
OK, so it's not going to win an Oscar for originality but it got me to thinking.
I've flirted with mental illness for a good many years - done my usual stints in school councillors offices, psychotherapy sessions, self-referral to the P-Wards, forced referral to the P-Wards, self-help groups, A&E (post life threatening stunts) and being medicated up to high hell.
I've never seen anything through to the end - skipped sessions, dropped my dosage, turned back when we got to the hospital, bullshitted and excused every delusional or violent episode away as PMT, hangovers...misunderstandings. You get the idea.
I'm not crazy. I'm just eccentric.
More often than not, letting loose for a while is simply fun - my flatmates enjoy my mania, even my Mooma finds it hilarious and my creativity receives limitless benefits from it...the depression, that's just the price you pay for the good times.
But sometimes, sometimes after I see (even in fiction) the terrible things that untreated psychological problems can bring about or when I remember, not what has been done to me - which I do - every day, but what I've done to myself, to my family or friends...then I start to worry.
The moment the most important people in your life turn round to you and say you've gone too far and despite putting everything, every semblance of control you have left into it, you can't stop - that's when you elevate from 'quirky' into 'dangerous'.
The last few weeks have been preoccupied with looking to the future, whether that be in respect of employment or family, and right now all those plans seem laid on some incredibly shaky foundations: how well will she hold it together, for how long this time?
The last thing I want to do, sat here as I am now being of sane mind and body, is hurt people but I am aware of how quickly that changes; the muscle spasms, the shakes, the burning in the blood, sweating and swearing and sticking that knife a little further in each time I scream into the face of the people I love.
The worst of it; that's not where I want it to stop.
It's never enough to see them cry. To verbally take people apart piece by piece purely because I can. Fucking with the minds of both old friend and stranger alike, till somebody breaks, comes down to my level...there's a part of me that isn't satisfied with this, wants to take it to the next stage, and that's the one I don't want anywhere near my future children.
I'm contemplating going back on my medication, seeing this through and once and for all putting my demons to sleep - unfortunately these things don't come with a guarantee nor do drugs have any concept of what to leave out of their mental purging.
They can't differentiate the good from the bad, the healthy from the abnormal - it's like using nukes on a basket of kittens and if it doesn't work? One day, years down the line, I'm declared sane and come off Sertraline or whatever cocktail they have me on by then - everything is peachy and then 'boom!'.
Sirens, headlines, fucking...Crimewatch, life in prison - just another wanker let down by the rapidly failing system - nothing gained at the expense of all capability to imagine, love, be a functional human being for the few years I had.
Reversely, I don't go on my meds - I act a bit weird now and then and it's fine.
Or I act a little too weird and I simply don't get the chance to meet anybody with whom I could have my theoretical family to (hypothetically) murder in their sleep.
If I do this, when I do this, I'm doing it for those close to me, and not for myself - I'm sick of being a burden.
Annie.
<3
I just watched 'Shutter Island' and, as Pixel rightfully pointed out, am having a rather spectacular fit of absolute paranoia.
For anybody who's not seen it (spoiler alert) - chap arrives on psychiatric penitentiary island in the butt-fuck middle of nowhere to investigate a patient disappearance, some crazy hallucinating/archetypal conspiracy shit goes down, eventually it's revealed the whole shindig has been one massive role playing session to get him to admit that he's insane - breakthrough, relapse, lobotomy.
OK, so it's not going to win an Oscar for originality but it got me to thinking.
I've flirted with mental illness for a good many years - done my usual stints in school councillors offices, psychotherapy sessions, self-referral to the P-Wards, forced referral to the P-Wards, self-help groups, A&E (post life threatening stunts) and being medicated up to high hell.
I've never seen anything through to the end - skipped sessions, dropped my dosage, turned back when we got to the hospital, bullshitted and excused every delusional or violent episode away as PMT, hangovers...misunderstandings. You get the idea.
I'm not crazy. I'm just eccentric.
More often than not, letting loose for a while is simply fun - my flatmates enjoy my mania, even my Mooma finds it hilarious and my creativity receives limitless benefits from it...the depression, that's just the price you pay for the good times.
But sometimes, sometimes after I see (even in fiction) the terrible things that untreated psychological problems can bring about or when I remember, not what has been done to me - which I do - every day, but what I've done to myself, to my family or friends...then I start to worry.
The moment the most important people in your life turn round to you and say you've gone too far and despite putting everything, every semblance of control you have left into it, you can't stop - that's when you elevate from 'quirky' into 'dangerous'.
The last few weeks have been preoccupied with looking to the future, whether that be in respect of employment or family, and right now all those plans seem laid on some incredibly shaky foundations: how well will she hold it together, for how long this time?
The last thing I want to do, sat here as I am now being of sane mind and body, is hurt people but I am aware of how quickly that changes; the muscle spasms, the shakes, the burning in the blood, sweating and swearing and sticking that knife a little further in each time I scream into the face of the people I love.
The worst of it; that's not where I want it to stop.
It's never enough to see them cry. To verbally take people apart piece by piece purely because I can. Fucking with the minds of both old friend and stranger alike, till somebody breaks, comes down to my level...there's a part of me that isn't satisfied with this, wants to take it to the next stage, and that's the one I don't want anywhere near my future children.
I'm contemplating going back on my medication, seeing this through and once and for all putting my demons to sleep - unfortunately these things don't come with a guarantee nor do drugs have any concept of what to leave out of their mental purging.
They can't differentiate the good from the bad, the healthy from the abnormal - it's like using nukes on a basket of kittens and if it doesn't work? One day, years down the line, I'm declared sane and come off Sertraline or whatever cocktail they have me on by then - everything is peachy and then 'boom!'.
Sirens, headlines, fucking...Crimewatch, life in prison - just another wanker let down by the rapidly failing system - nothing gained at the expense of all capability to imagine, love, be a functional human being for the few years I had.
Reversely, I don't go on my meds - I act a bit weird now and then and it's fine.
Or I act a little too weird and I simply don't get the chance to meet anybody with whom I could have my theoretical family to (hypothetically) murder in their sleep.
If I do this, when I do this, I'm doing it for those close to me, and not for myself - I'm sick of being a burden.
Annie.
<3
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