everytime i get sick, i get scared that im dying. please, not again. please.

take me as i am.
or throw me aside
in your brown paper dreams.

i am not an iron railing,
you cannot lean on me.
i am not the wind,
i will not let you see me sigh.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIbepKZC7Po

it's calm in the eye of the tornado.

is it worth feeling like nothing. in order to be your something.

my faithful poison

It felt so good. It made me feel light, free. ... I suppose I should feel ashamed, or disappointed in myself. It’s like a relapse into old, familiar, self-destructive blackness. I had been doing so well, and now I’m back to where I started from. But wrist-slashing is a kind of anchor for me, a sense of safety and security, even though I know it means I’m not well. It’s like a person returning to a mental institution that she spent a considerable amount of time in. It’s good to be out, she knows it’s the right thing. But it’s terrifying when people deem you mentally healthy, because that’s how you appear, when you know you’re not. And returning to the asylum means returning to safety and familiarity. It’s a sense of liberation, for it enables you to return to what you’ve always been, rather than being imprisoned in the social constructs of the outside world, where you must build a new (and sometimes false) life for yourself. Wrist-slashing is me. It is the reaffirmation that something is wrong with me, when other people and I start mistakenly believing that I’m okay. It’s a significant part of my identity. Apart from making me feel good in a “hooray, I’m back!” sort of way, it also enabled me to bleed the hurt and anger I feel towards [him] out of my system. It enabled me to simultaneously become purer than him (for he has been dirtied in my eyes) and tainted like him.

bring me to life with a kiss.

you could have it all
my empire of dirt
i will let you down
i will make you hurt

NIN- Hurt

nothing profound, but still a revolution

its funny, maybe there is a cure to depression. and maybe it's one that's been staring me in the face the whole time. it involves going out into the world and attacking it each day head on. giving every bit of yourself to your job, your friends, your family. educating yourself in culture, literature, music. becoming the best version of you that you can be.

maybe it's wishful thinking. or maybe, just maybe, this is the start of my life turning around..

..probably manic optimism.. even when im optimistic i'm a pessimist! natural order restored..

Love hurts. I say that because I know. Love is... or was amazing. It's an incredible feeling to know what he's going to say. It's more incredible the way he has me on the edge of my seat because he's so completely random, I never know what's coming next. It's hard to explain, but he filled some void in me, and now, without him, I'm missing something again. I wonder if it will ever truly, whole heartedly be filled again. I just don't want to know what it's like to hurt any more...

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.

It is impossible to think that I shall never sit with you again and hear your laugh. That every day for the rest of my life you will be away.

letter from dave to me

B,

I feel certain that I am going mad again: I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems to best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight it any longer, I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is that I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that –everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been..

D x

The logic of suicide is different. It is like the unanswerable logic of a nightmare, or like the science-fiction fantasy of being projected suddenly into another dimension: everything makes sense and follows its own strict rules; yet, at the same time, everything is also different, perverted, upside down. Once a man decides to take his own life he enters a shut-off, impregnable but wholly convincing world where every detail fits and each incident reinforces his decision.

The world of the suicide is superstitious, full of omens. Freud saw suicide as a great passion, like being in love: “In the two opposed situations of being most intensely in love and of suicide, the ego is overwhelmed by the object, though in totally different ways.” As in love, things which seem trivial to the outsider, tiresome or amusing, assume enormous importance to those in the grip of the monster, while the sanest arguments against it seem to them simply absurd. 

You never lied to me. You said your love wouldn't last forever, and that you were too pure for this world. At the time I thought it only words, a wasp in the night that would freeze with the first autumn frost. But your wasp never died. You kept it locked away in a jar inside yourself, and as the days dragged to months and to years you let it eat away at you.

Me and you. We weren't just lovers. We were two people trying to lick away the dirt.

who are you to think that you know me?
who are you to throw your stupid beige life into the path of mine and expect me to step around you, rather than walk straight through.

i am not charitable.
i am not kind.
i do not suffer fools gladly, and when i walk over you i will not apologise for it. no-one apologised to me.

if you step too close i will burn you, so unless you want to be set on fire by my negativity i suggest, sir, that you get out of the ring.

unless of course, i'm worth burning with.

Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk everything, you risk even more.

"Do you like me as I am now?" The bluish whites of Dave's eyes were like a question mark on his pale face. he seemed to have stored up a wave of courage in preperation for this chat. "Naturally, you needn't lie".

"How long have we known each other? It's almost 4 years, but it seems much longer, and we'll last a century, ten thousand years because I love you. But if you don't hurry up and get well...I can't think" I reply.

He looked at me with steel before saying "If one day I die - no don't interrupt me, I mean when I die, at that instant when I close my eyes never to open them again, what kind of a person will you think I've been?"

I didn't want to eat any more. My tongue had lost all feeling and my stomach was numb too. Separated by the plates, glasses and forks, we held each others eyes for a long time. The whites of his eyes turned bluer until, as the playwrite Joan Hawkes put it, 'they oozed a misty liquid'.

"I will H-A-T-E you", I enunciated clearly.

"Death is the expression of exhaustion, a solution arrived at rationally once one has known the deepest depths of tiredness. I've thought about it for a long time, perhaps all my life, and having thought it through, i'm not ashamed of dying. A person like me can't go on constantly polluting himself, annihilating his soul". he jabbed the left side of his chest with his finger, but it would have looked more natural if he'd used a dagger.

"It's an impulse in the dark of the soul. psychologists always say impulses are dangerous and discourage them, but an impulse comes uninvited". His voice was crystal clear and cool, his lips pale and unemotional. despite the impersonal pronoun he was talking about himself.

My despair turned to anger. "I'm not going to bullshit you. In one work, you're degenerate".

"Perhaps. the dying never have the chance to explain themselves to the living. Actually, a lot of people are even more degenerate". I clutched his hand. cold as ice.

"What are we talking about for god's sake? Don't go on. Why do we have to talk about something so horrible here and now? Don't tell me about life and death, love and hate, the ego and the id. We're alive together, aren't we? If there's something you don't like abou our life: get specific: I talk in my sleep, my novel isn't profound enough - it's utter rubbish -whatever. OK! I can change; I can try and do things perfectly. But for heaven's sake, don't say such horrible things..I'm always dreaming of finding wings and soaring inbto the sky with you, but you're always thinking of abandoning me and leaping into hell. Why?"

A lot of people were looking our way. I raised my head and saw myself in the mirror: frantic tear filled eyes, and a fierce expression. I felt really idiotic. We so obviously loved one another.

"Bev". Dave's face remained absolutely sombre. "right from the start we were too different sorts of people, I said so at the time. But that hasn't stopped us loving each other.; you so full of energy and ambition and me devoid of desire, drifting with the tide. philosophers say "everything originates in nothingness" and nothingness accentuates everything"

I interrupt. "whoever the hell said that can drop dead! Don't read those books any more. You need to be amongst living, breathing human beings. You need to do my physical work. My Dad often says "Work makes a person healthy". You needsunlight and grass , and dreams and happiness and all the joy that goes with them. For starters tomorrow you should go to that damn detox centre" I said crying, the mirrors on the wall were a blur.

He hugged me then. "You're crazy". he took out a tissue and gave it me to dry my eyes. I looked at him through my fog of tears. "i am crazy, because you are too".

That night we barely closed our eyes. We kissed through the night, and the bitterness of our saliva filled the room. Our bed drifted in the boundless sea like a lonely island in imminent danger. We took refuge in each others love.

What a time. What a long lonely time. I never knew the days could stretch out so endlessly. Stretch so far I think they’ll break, but they only heave and sag. The weight of them bears down on me mercilessly. I wake … into another day of dread. Dread with no name or face. Nothing to fight with my body or wits. Just a gnawing gripping fear. So hard and heavy. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow.
       
The emptiness of my depression turns to grief, then to numbness and back again. My world is filled with underwater voices, people, lists of things to do. They gurgle and dart in and out of my vision and reach. But they are so fast and slippery that I can never keep up. Every inch of me aches. I can’t believe that a person can hurt this bad and still breathe. All escapes are illusory—distractions, sleep, drugs, doctors, answers, hope…

The sky
Is a suspended blue ocean.
The stars are the fish
That swim.

The planets are the white whales
I sometimes hitch a ride on,

And the sun and all light
Have forever fused themselves

Into my heart and upon
My skin.