Shelter

It's difficult to self-express in the light of this dizzying oblivion. I do not know what's real anymore. I'm not sure who I am; what I've done. I don't know if any of the past week happened, or whether it was a dream, or even if I'm still locked in such a curious succession of images and events, of rippling sensations that may or may not be reality. Though the intense feelings of disorientation are subsiding with tentative lethargy I am not yet grounded. Still it seems difficult to determine where I am, if I 'am' at all.

I promised myself that my entry to follow my Parisian adventures would be entirely devoid of misery; that my bons sentiments would sustain themselves after my return to England. Tragically it's past the point of refusing to acknowledge the fact that I've crashed since coming home, for I have plummeted deeper than ever. Relaying the positivity I felt throughout my time in France will remain the priority of this post, but I cannot deny the fact that I don't know quite where I stand with myself.

It was a beautiful vacation - truly and utterly perfect. During our journey to London my manic excitement was thriving to such an degree that I could not imagine that it was reality, in a thrillingly delirious sense, not the dull confusion I know now. Pessimism forewarned me that something was going to go wrong. We would miss our coach from Victoria to Bercy, it was inevitable. Or maybe there would be a confusion at check-in, we'd forgotten the relevant documents or something. Perhaps even a horrific accident - to collapse and die before we'd even reached our destination would be so fitting with the scheme of the melodrama that is my life. To my surprise, everything went relatively smoothly. The 11-hour coach journey was anxiety-inducing to say the very least and it wasn't only me who found it a challenge - Lucy too was weary after a night's discomfort and lack of sleep - but after that rough patch we had arrived in Paris and everything was wonderful.

We stayed in the centre of Montmatre, minutes away from the stunning Basilique de Sacre-Coeur. I could not remember the last time I had been so blissfully happy - never without pale sorrow staining the outskirts of my ecstasy of course, but, comparatively content. It wasn't only everything that we did over the brief vacation which was so incredible, but to be so at ease with another person, to feel happy with them - it was the most valuable aspect of the whole experience. There was not one moment that I felt anything other than wonderfully comfortable with Lucy; whether we were laughing non-stop or walking leisurely around the canal in silence. It is almost too good to be true to have someone you love so much.

Meeting my beautiful sister Jane after so long was more lovely than I can describe. The picturesque settings of Le Jardin de la Vie Romantique, home to George Sand and Chopin were beautiful - it could not be more perfect for Jane and her partner Niz to impart their good news of my sister's pregnancy. We then travelled to Le Louvre art gallery where fate had it that we should meet my friend from youtube Clara (even though we hadn't expected to be lucky enough to find her amongst the rippling hoards of tourists!) The art of course was breathtaking but meeting Clara too was incredible. For the first time in a long time, I felt inspired to be alive. The meloncholy beauty of the Père Lachaise Cemetery, the majesty of Le Tour Eiffel, the bustling busy of the inner city juxtaposed with the ethereal peace of the Sacre-Coeur - suddenly existing was farther from the torturous end of the spectrum and nearer to exquisite. 

Physically, it was a struggle. Walking for miles round the beautiful city each day was a joy, albeit one that took its toll; particularly when I was existing purely on a little soya milk in my tea in the mornings, administered by my friend. Nevertheless that was a milestone for me to accomplish, given that I've never consumed calories under the supervision of figures of greater authority than Lucy, be that my parents or a medical professional. It was very, very difficult, but I did it, I got by. I trusted her when she told me it was alright, and that I needed it, and after the first sip of tea I managed to convince myself that I wasn't doing it, or simply numb the anxieties away, cigarette in hand. At that point I could feel a little glimmer of pride, or at least thanks to my dear friend for supporting me, with the knowledge that if she hadn't then I wouldn't have had any energy at all to achieve everything that we did. I could not have been more thankful to her for encouraging me to drink half a hot chocolate when I was near to collapse on our last night, for it allowed for more dancing at Le Paris Social Club - another fantastic experience.

Perhaps the disorientation of returning to England didn't help matters, but tragically, since coming home  I have suffered my most severe crash. It seems so unjust that other people can lead such temperate lives, with things either being - consistently for the most part - reasonably good or reasonably bad. I have the misfortune of clinging to a pendulum oscillating between states entirely diametrically opposed: either things are on a surreal high, or a low so intense that I am desperate for death. Subsequent to the thrill of Paris, it shames me to say that my mood has plummeted to the latter condition. I made a vow to myself on the way home that I would ensure that my positive memories of our adventures would sustain my sentiments. However, inevitably what goes up must come down - it seems this may well be the story of my life of which I have no control. 

It hurts to feel so utterly bereft; that nowhere provides any peaceful sanctuary for you, a homeless wreck. After coming back to Sussex it is almost as though it has confirmed to me that the pain will not end. Every time that things seem to be good, they are destroyed before I have had the chance to fully embrace them. Everything I love turns to shit.

Seeing the Rolling Stones should have been the best night of my entire life. Instead I spent the morning having the worst panic attack I have ever suffered after a period of intense dissociation and loss of control the previous night to the extent that my Mum nearly called an ambulance out of fear that I was having a heart attack. Nothing can describe the crippling pain of despair, which physically grips every nerve, each vital organ being crushed as though in the claws of some demonic force with a lust for blood. Neither of us thought I'd make it to Hyde Park, but after escorting me on the train my dedicated mother managed to hand me over to my Dad, and eventually I came to be glad that I had gone after all. 
I cannot even express how incredible the Stones were. I was crying again, but with awe, and perhaps the residues of the morning's torment. Jagger's boundless energy, the screams of the hundreds of thousands of fans and the fireworks filling the London skies following the last bursts of their encore... I can only wish that I had been in a better place to make the absolute best of the moment, as oppose to shrivelling to a shell of a person as soon as the ecstasy of the evening had left me.

Things have to change, and they have to change for good. I simply cannot go on like this any longer. I need to find shelter somewhere. I want to be able to say that I'm doing better, and that I'm happy to be living. Misery seems to hit at the worst moments and I've never wished to be someone else more in all my life, especially with more important events approaching including my sixth form prom. It seems as though I can't escape myself - neither the excruciating volatility of my mind, nor the grotesqueness of the body in which I'm trapped. I want everything to be okay again. For this neverending war to be over.

All I can do is battle on.