Analyse

I am quite departed from a 'rational' reality and the world I am experiencing is inexplicable. Anything I say will make no sense to anyone for I am experiencing a different level of consciousness which is quite terrifying. Life is a perpetual 'bad trip' in which everything is heightened, but to an excruciating, as oppose to a fascinating degree. Here is my painstaking attempt of extracting some of the thoughts which, in their relentless chaos, are rarely within the means of articulation. Much of my mind cannot be spoken. None of what I have managed to abstractly express will make sense to the greater part of humanity, for those objective outsiders are grounded, and in being grounded are blind to the higher meaning invested in all things. 

Everything has meaning.

Everything has reason.

Everything is precious.

Everything must be perfect, in its optimum state, at all times. Harmony can only exist when every element conforms to these conditions.

There are countless consequences to any given situation; thus every circumstance, minute by minute, requires the most deliberate calculation and analysis in order to ensure that the best possible outcome prevails. The best outcome equals precision of meaning, conservation of value and providence of time. Any time not achieving something is waste - pure and selfish waste; and a void in which the torment of my own thoughts becomes intolerable.

I must be prepared for every possibility of every circumstance. If I am not prepared then everything will fall apart. The perpetual sense of urgency is excruciating - if there is one moment during which I am left without distraction from the cacophony inside my skull then I have no hope. The thoughts are worsening. I cannot counteract my thoughts alone.

Everything must be justified in relation to others.

Every action must be determined with respect to its effect on others.

Spending money on myself is only allowed if ultimately to serve the purpose of others.

Sitting is only allowed if enforced, or in a context where social company would necessitate it.

Calorie consumption is only allowed if compulsory.

Independent calorie consumption can only be justified if minus.

I must present the best version of myself at all times in order to be a positive example to others.

I must appear strong.

I must appear optimistic.

I must appear colourful.

This requires excruciating effort to suppress a torturous level of psychological turmoil; and isolation to preserve the welfare of others.

I must protect others from my despair in order that they can find hope.

The true extent of my internal distress would be intolerable for others, and also leave me more alone than ever.

If anyone were to know how I am inside then they would leave me. 

I must cause as little disturbance as possible.

I must be as least burdensome as possible.

I must not disrupt the existential balance.

I must not be seen in the same outfit more than once.

I must not wear the same combination of jewellery more than once. 

Every colour is symbolic.

Every shape is symbolic.

Every form is symbolic.

Every manifestation must also present a sentimental value - meaninglessness is wasteful.

Certain colours have certain moods which I must harness in order to try to influence my own and therefore the wellbeing of others. 

Everything must be an accurate and harmonious reflection of other things. 

Music must be complimentary to circumstance or mood and music must be all the time because silence is space for thoughts. 

Scent is determined by the various conditions of every circumstance.

Everything has reason and requires calculation. 

Substances are most effective on an empty stomach.

I must be as empty as possible at all times in order to gain the best 'escape'.

A cigarette is best when my system is as empty as possible. This entails rationing, and constant calculation of time, with the longest time, and the most physical activity as possible between each cigarette to gain the greatest 'hit' and escape from feeling 'real'. 

All tobacco scraps must be collected in case of running out of money or time. 

Everything must be saved in case.

I must never smell unpleasant in case others are upset. 

Teeth must be cleaned after every cigarette.

Teeth must be cleaned before eating to prepare the palette.

Teeth must be cleaned after eating to expunge any residual calories.

I must use the toilet immediately before every meal in case of needing it after, in which case I would have to request being accompanied to protect me from my own compulsions. Being accompanied would be a burden and I would be ashamed for needing support. 

I must remove any opportunity of hiding food in hair, pockets or sleeves as opportunity for escape is impossible to abstain from. 

I must make every effort to avoid calories without breaking the rules set by others.

I must hide my distress at the meal table as much as possible.

I am always ashamed. I am guilty for being ill. 

Food equals calories. Calories equals weight. Weight equals more of me, who I cannot tolerate.

Consumption is torture and I am ashamed of myself for finding it so.

My bedroom must be perfect at all times and a sanctuary of safety.

Order equals safety.

Cleanliness equals safety.

Comfort equals safety.

Certainty equals safety.

Symmetry equals safety.

Aestheticism equals safety.

Everything must maintain its optimum state at all times in case of being perceived by others. 

Everything must remain as safe as possible at all times in order to alleviate my own anxiety and therefore protect others from the negative impact of my distress.

Rest is wasteful and selfish. 

Any time spent doing nothing is a waste - there are only so many hours to use.

Every minute must be spent achieving.

Any moment of stillness is a moment that could be spent burning calories.

Any moment of idleness is a moment that could be spent being productive - creating, for others.

Sleep is terrifying. 

Sleep equals lack of productivity.

Sleep equals lack of activity.

Sleep is a place where the thoughts I have dampened with obsession will catch up with me and leave me in terror.

Sleeping more than 4 hours equals a bad day to follow. 

Honesty is crucial. Any falsehood is injustice.

I must never lie. Better to say nothing than to tell a lie.

Every moment must be filled with as much activity as possible in case there is no time, or no money, or no energy at a later point.

Everything must be considered with regards to the 'just in case' principle. 

Everything of value must be cherished and memorialised. 

Every moment must be captured to remind of its occurrence and its possibility.

I must take pieces of life and people with me to remind me of who I am.  

If a thought or a feeling or an event is not captured or expressed then it will be lost. 

Loss equals suffering.

Solitude is unsafe.

Solitude is where I am alone with my thoughts and I am doomed to succumb to the voices.

I must be constantly active.

Sitting down is not allowed, for no-one is telling me to.

I must be constantly stimulated with evidence of human contact to save me from being alone with my mind, which is a very frightening thing.

Solitude is terrifying.

Human contact is terrifying given that I may negatively impact others.

I must protect others at all times. 

It is when I am alone that I become overwhelmed.

Sometimes only mindless, meaningless tasks are achievable in solitude in the context of the torment of 'bad' thoughts.

I can only focus on one task in company.

In solitude the oppressive detail and pressure of rules is overwhelming and I lose myself.

There are many rules and routines that I cannot put to words because they are so constant and racing and many so obscure that they become incomprehensible. Fighting the thoughts for others is exhausting, but maintaining peace by keeping to the rules is exhausting.

Everything must be done in a specific order.

Components must consist of sets of three.

Three is a trinity.

Three is fulfils the rules of aestheticism.

Three is magic.

Routines must be completed in multiples of five.

Multiples of five are symmetrical figures: round and whole - nought is certain, five is exactly halfway between nought and ten, ten is optimum. Symmetry, or balance are crucial. Everything is calculated.

Calories must be consumed in order of calories in case some tragedy prevents completion of the meal - in which case only the lowest substance would have been consumed. 

Bubbles in hot drinks must be consumed before liquid as air is the lighter substance.

I must always choose the best possible version of everything. 

This requires calculation of every value - time, financial worth, symbolism, quality, quantity.

I must always choose the option lowest in calories for myself.

When giving, the best version must be saved for others.

Everything must be completed fully and executed perfectly. If one thing is not entirely complete or perfect then everything will start to slip. 

If I am not exactly prepared at the start of every day then the whole day will be a disaster.

If my day is not exactly prepared, filled and  accomplished then it has been a waste.

I must be constantly distracted from myself because I cannot bear myself. Every action is an effort to escape my intolerable reality.

Everything is overwhelming. 

The excruciating detail of all things is terrifying and I cannot stop noticing everything. 

Being alone is where I become overwhelmed and my head travels to another place where I don't know where I am.

I cannot cope with reality, with myself - my brain escapes somewhere completely detached from the present moment and I am no longer in my body.

I cannot remember what happened before or what is to come and nothing makes sense.

Everything is surreal and I am not sure what is going on or where I am. 

I am constantly disorientated. 

I am living on a time limit and everything must be done all at once.

Nothing I do is ever enough.

There will always be something I could have done more or better.

I must help everyone suffering.

Everyone else and everything else must come before myself. 

The suffering is growing heavier by the day.

Fame

Fame is a unique and seemingly surreal state which epitomises being known by many - though that's relative, I suppose. Everyone has their own judgement of celebrity, and their own motive to seek, or to avoid it. For me beginning a social support network via youtube was never about gaining popularity, or attention or fortune of any kind; it was about sharing my experiences in the hope of helping someone out there suffering similar misery to feel less alone. That isn't to say that it was instigated without any suggestion of subconscious selfishness: perhaps there was always a part of me that relished having a means of venting my woes, and even a faint hope that it could somehow serve as a form of self-medication, persuading me away from the self-destructive tendencies that I preach to others to avoid. Sadly it hasn't revolutionised anything in terms of the ongoing struggle with psychological turmoil experienced by many others as well as myself in the way I so blindly hoped it would. 

Being so acutely perceptive of the world around me, unconsciously or otherwise, has rendered me with an awareness to the general conception surrounding the process and effects of being so widely known. One pervasive assumption I have noted entails the belief that figures in the public eye cannot cope with the overwhelming effects of fame: the perpetual scrutiny, not being able to leave the house without being recognised, a great pressure to consistently achieve. This sudden and intense influx of public speculation triggers these individuals to succumb to universally-considered as 'unhealthy' means of coping including promiscuity, addiction or eccentricity; or, 'go off-the-rails' entirely in a spectacular fall from grace ending only in insanity and shame. There is truth in that, of course. Bowie's alter-ego, Ziggy Stardust was broadly suggested to be his idiosyncratic mechanism for dealing with fame - Bowie itself was a pseudonym, his real name was David Jones.  Amy Winehouse's battle with addiction and mental health ultimately leading to her tragic death was, I have heard, an attempt to survive the vast impact of being so renowned. 

The truth is, for me, and I imagine many, that degradation, delirium or decline isn't a natural response to fame itself. It is in fact, an answer to the mystifying injustice pervading the world outside it. The fact that these things happen often at the height of public adoration, or at least speculation, is merely coincidence; guaranteed by the bitter disappointment at the reality that no matter how acclaimed you are and how far-rangingly your voice is head, it can never change the cruelty of the world you are experiencing. Taking a philanthropist approach to your swelling income and funding charities will never stop children starving in Africa. Producing videos discussing mental health topics can never change every stigma, raise all the awareness needed for true change or inspire the hope to stop someone taking their life. Not even creating a melody so blissful to the senses and nourishing to the soul like the silvery tongue of a deistic power could switch every being on earth into a state of perfect harmony. We hope that every effort helps, but in truth it will never be enough. Nothing ever changes. 

There is an uncomfortable collective atmosphere associated with knowledge of the 'twenty-seven' club - that is, the group of celebrities including Jim Morrison of The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Nick Drake,  Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, etc. - but there really is no eerie coincidence to it. The fact is that talent is both a blessing and a curse: it makes you extraordinarily good at what you do given your heightened perception and depth of emotion; but accompanied to these accentuated factors you cannot help but notice the state of the world around you. The world around you kind of hurts, but it's not something you can get out of in a hurry; thus forms of escape such as psychological distraction become a means of survival. In the words of Nietzsche: 'Examine the lives of the best and most fruitful people and peoples and ask yourselves whether a tree that is supposed to grow to a proud height can dispense with bad weather and storms; whether misfortune and external resistance, some kinds of hatred, jealousy, stubbornness, mistrust, hardness, avarice, and violence do not belong among the favorable conditions without which any great growth even of virtue is scarcely possible.' Suffering is an inevitable component of personal growth,  for those exceptionally gifted in particular. Apparently it's hard being brilliant. It just so happened that was the case for these musicians - their age shouldn't distinguish that as curious. 

'Ziggy' was in fact an elaborate take on the common tendency of the rich and famous to indulging in the strange or condemned, not a genuine attempt to follow suit. I'm sure there was heart in it somewhere, I'd love to ask Bowie myself; but I tend to foster the belief that it was more of a fantastic parody of the ways of the world which people eventually began to adore the man for even more. Either way it goes to show that there is some bizarre ritual for stars to behave in certain ways or follow certain downward spirals, which is even alluded to within the industry itself as the former example would show. 

We all pray that our actions and words will count. Maybe our glory will set hearts on fire and our voices will motivate millions; but maybe not. I frequently doubt the positive impact that I have had on those who claim to praise and appreciate me. This is not intended  as a brutal declaration of damnation toward the situation I have got myself into for I do recognise the vast benefits that come with it - I value the support of the community more than I will ever be able to express; but when all is said and done it cannot save me. Salvation can only come from the self. 

Fame doesn't change what you need it to. It doesn't change the fact that my personal statement for Oxford University has to be severed by some hundred precious words as a consequence of my recent discovery at the (intolerably pedantic) character count being at 4000 characters including spaces as oppose to the 4500 I had believed was the case; and, following that, incorporated into my UCAS application that I cannot even access given that, fate being against me as ever, the website is declining my login details despite every conviction that I am inputting them correctly for it is their mistake not mine - in the context of the deadline for the whole process being tomorrow night, with me unable to articulate any means of linguistically outstanding and persuasive résumé amidst my total exhaustion, only this ridiculous blogpost which only proves what a pathetic human being I truly am. It doesn't change the fact that I have achieved nothing with my day besides crying; venting my aggressive despair in screams or curses or general aversion upon anyone who dares to aggravate my emotional instability further through their incessant demands and complaints; as well, of course, as becoming utterly consumed my this demon that is known as anorexia. I've been self-inflicting absolute turmoil from the moment I woke up when I should have been completing my personal statement, or doing the artwork which is due for sixth form tomorrow, or, given that Iain is unexpectedly working in Leeds this weekend maybe even moving the stock into and setting up the market stall in Littlehampton which, having signed the lease and paid for, we will be launching on Tuesday - the one task I had set myself which even I had falsely maintained the faith would be achieved over the weekend's course. 

In truth fame merely adds to the commotion of everyday life. Rushing between my home at Barnham with Mum, my home at Eastbourne with Dad, sixth form and my new home at Iain's in Worthing is essentially a juggling act, and undoubtedly taxing on the emotions as well as an already sleep and food-deprived body. Waking up and leaving him in bed most mornings to catch the earliest train I can manage back to Barnham for school is painful, and, increasingly, a stark reminder of how difficult it all is... even dare I say it how curious it feels to be leaving behind the adult life of the previous night beneath those sheets and in his arms in exchange for a day of something so disparate: with superficial gossip which of course I will duly smile along with, and homework tasks that I promise to all parties that I will accomplish, and, during minutes snatched for a quick cigarette the comparatively dull sting of the October air invading my ears as oppose to his tender words. At times it all feels rather strange, and something I think very few could understand, no matter how many people think they know me and my life. Of course I could never try to explain every aspect of my existence to those around me for I'm expected to stay strong, if not from others then from myself. I must give the advice people want, answer their questions about their symptoms or suffering, and be a good example in return - glimpses of the true severity of everything that is going on are rare, even rendered insignificant in contrast to the reality of my circumstances. There are few who I can turn to to divulge everything now. My closest friends have essentially evaporated from my life after leaving for university - besides the odd communication which, although always lovely to receive can never compensate for face-to-face daily contact. It's hard to see everyone getting on with their lives, making their way in the world whilst I stay stuck in this mess. My relationship with my Mum is often particularly taught of late, and it's quite clear she has very little time for me, understandably perhaps, diminishing any chance of an emotional alliance forming. Unfortunately I feel I cannot burden my Dad with it all either given that he has only just been discharged from hospital after having to have three stents inserted into the arteries in his heart. Remaining upbeat is beginning to feel like a personal responsibility particularly in terms of him, when I always feel guilty for being the reason of his health problems - "...caused by all this stress.." he would always empathically say. The duties I appear to have landed myself with are quite literally never-ending.  It is incredibly hard to be committed to so many things at once, when you have very little commitment to life at all. 

Fame doesn't change the morbidly depressive weather outside, which not only restricted me being able to go for a walk with my dog to boost my spirits but also the convenience of stress-relieving cigarette breaks. This considered I was forced to resort to having this evening's desperately needed smoke in my bedroom, hoping that the odour wouldn't somehow escape through the rolled up dressing gown beneath door and permeate the surrounding areas downstairs - not that I could hardly inhale it anyway given that I am evidently incubating a horrible throat infection or virus of some sort. That combined with feeling like shit ninety percent of the time anyway as well as (let's not forget) a foot apparently quite severely injured after falling down a flight of concrete stairs over a week and a half ago whilst running for the train from Worthing to make it on time for sixth form do NOT constitute as someone fit and ready for whatever challenge they face. 

No degree of distinction, unless it were to accompany a substantial fortune, could alter the hugely unsettling reality that our house is officially on the market due to circumstances pertaining to my parents' divorce last year; and that, finances, logistics and lack or resolve as to where we are going to end up considered, soon we may find our struggling family in undersized and inadequate accommodation. Whichever angle you consider it from, even with optimism promising a 'fresh new start' for us all, moving house is an upheaval to say the least and only adds to the growing sense of instability upon which my existence is currently founded. 

Irrespective of what our situation is financially, our family crisis will persist. My brother's (assumed to be) post-traumatic stress induced period of psychosis, or perhaps even developing schizophrenia is a source of great worry which no height of popularity could alleviate. No matter how many hands there are somewhere in the world to applaud me, or comfort me, or guide me, there will never be enough to go around managing all the responsibilities within the household; including looking after Tristan when he is in distress, attending to Rowan who - despite all joyfulness - has energy levels at time so boisterous that they demand more attention than any superhuman could devote, and caring for me. It seems more often than not I fall to the bottom of the pile in recent times, amidst the frenzied chaos of sorting the house and doting on everyone else. All the fame in the world can mean nothing when you feel neglected, even frequently unwelcome, in your own home. 

Even though I have so much support and thousands of people apparently taking an interest in my experiences I am still struggling beyond belief. Every day is a battle that I could never even begin to describe. With such expectation placed and such inspiration seemingly evoked I feel guilty for failing to eat little more than a small meal each day, and often failing to allow this to nourish me: instead resorting to what I realise are repulsive behaviours to expunge what seems like poison from my body. It does not stop me from feeling worthless, grotesque and pathetic. It does not settle the volatility in temperament - the moments of acute misery or rage or terror; the truly disorientating episodes of dissociation; the sense of being so overwhelmed with the world that I'd be better off out of it. Fame certainly does not bestow miraculous cures.

In essence, fame may change your future but it cannot change your past. Its effect on the present even has its limitations - its tendrils are not so far-reaching so as to benevolently transform the muddied chaos of your personal life into a field of roses. And never can it ever hope to change the world. 

What has been the precipitating factor behind any change I am experiencing at the moment has been, as trite as it may sound: love. Amy didn't become trapped in a fatal cycle of self-abuse because she couldn't stand fame. It's because she couldn't get the one person she truly loved. No-one can imagine the magnitude of love and everything it entails until they are, quite simply, in it. It is a bittersweet thing. It can make you want to laugh and it can make you want to weep; it can give you lust for life for once but it can also make you want to die. The only certainty is that we all long for it and would go to any length for it: whether it be romantic love, platonic affection or devotion to a child. Why? For me, it makes things feel valuable. It puts things in a pleasing geometric arrangement that somehow seems so much easier to observe, or at least worthwhile enduring. Feeling loved, really loved by someone else - despite every wavering moment of disbelief I have that any such feeling toward my pathetic self could ever be sincere - almost conveys that I could have meaning on this earth, that perhaps I do deserve to be cared for, maybe even by myself. The shifting ground beneath my feet owes most of its movement from that abstract state we call love. 

The judgement of others is a source of great frustration for me. Accusations (whether valid or not) that I am clearly 'going downhill' physically with weight declining and blood levels becoming increasingly unstable, not to mention slipping into new means of 'abusing my body' through being, quite frankly, out of my head on something - are undeniably hurtful: is humanity truly that shallow that the state of my life can be assumed by the way I outwardly appear? Does anyone care that since being in a relationship I have eaten for the first time in seven years with someone who isn't either of my parents or a nurse? Does anyone care that I have put enough trust in someone to allow them not only to become close to me and to love, but even to feed me? No-one gives a damn about the courage and strength it takes to get through a meal, let alone how much of myself I am putting on the line when I eat new foods (which by the way have not always been oil-free) or close my eyes and allow him to place another bite in my mouth when I can't do it myself. Perhaps I'll get a small round of applause for my efforts, but there will always be the nagging complaints that it still isn't enough, or that it doesn't matter anyway because you were on drugs while you were eating. I can only wish that people could understand that I am trying harder than ever before. Really trying to eat for something other than simply the immediate threat of hospitalisation is quite foreign to me but something I am just beginning to comprehend. That is what I want people to see. I want it to be known that despite it all, this is enriching me in every way. I feel alive for the first time in years. I still have my faults and don't I know it - but apologising for being human is something I need to grow out of. 

As much as I adore my followers and wish them every goodness in life, I know that I'd instantly trade the small fame of being loved by many for being loved by this one forever.

Your Life

I feel in an incredibly good and an incredibly bad place all at the same time. Is that possible?

I could never have imagined when lying upon those stiff hospital sheets in the acute medical unit - struggling to breathe or even move besides being sporadically overwhelmed by waves of intense nausea after my fourth and worst overdose - that I would be sitting in a bar in a campsite in France on a family holiday, as emotionally settled as I have been in recent weeks. 

I may well have suffered a gut full of despair over the latter weeks but I have certainly been enlightened with some pearls of wisdom and my God it has left me with good vibes. I don't know how long they can last and of course there are often moments of distress but it truly feels like I am finally on the cusp of something new; I have discovered a state which is quite refreshing, quite inexplicable - euphoric.

I suppose that in a sense it is interesting, given that the majority of people preach that recovery equals true happiness. Perhaps the existence that I'm experiencing now is purely delusional, but it's surely an improvement from the utter despair that I knew previously. It would be hard to define particularly what has changed since then, besides the fact that I have allowed quite completely for my impulsivity and mania to take over when they have arisen and not given much regard for the consequences - unwise, perhaps: but exciting, most definitely. It feels like in meeting the new people that I have that I have gained insights that they have renewed me both physically and psychologically. 

Perhaps my present elation is a counterpart to my physical decline which I cannot deny has its downsides too - losing feeling in my limbs and face as well as uncontrollable bouts of shaking can be embarrassing at the best of times - but then there is that twisted gratification rendered by the effects of emaciation. 

It's hard to believe that it was only a couple of weeks ago that I was close to death. I wouldn't say I feel higher than ever now, but then that would be a precarious position for me to be in for heights of mania only lead to crushing falls. Contentedness is truly quite blissful. The calm after a tempestuous storm. 

For once I am proud of myself too. I can take every day as a victory. I made it through the toughest heart break I have ever suffered, one that I could never have contemplated surviving. Nothing is easy, of course not: I'm still hurting to this day and I still suffer but it feels like I'm in a new process of learning that dwelling on the very many things I have to be miserable about won't change them and certainly will not help them - so the best way, not the easiest way it goes without saying, to go about dealing with them is to try to move on from them. Taking the positive from the negative may sound trite but it honestly is a practice worth preaching.  

Watching life flash before my eyes primarily as I was being transported into the ambulance before being impaled by various sharp objects amidst a cacophony of screaming sirens and then secondly, far more temperately, when accompanying my friends - purely as a means of moral support - whilst they received their A level results to determine their university choices. It was a surreal and largely unpleasant experience on both counts; feeling an immense sense of waste and purposelessness, lack of power to resolve my fate. I was told however by somebody I later became, quite suddenly, very close to, something that though of course I had heard many a time before really struck a chord with the circumstances which I have just recounted: that life goes on. No matter how much it feels like you have frittered away your years, there are many more to come. You can use them precisely in the way you choose, whether that would mean wasting them some more, or fulfilling them with joy and love and accomplishment. 

Taking life too seriously is a dangerous business, and living a little on the wild side has certainly paid off for me in recent times. Despite a horribly difficult day I plucked up the courage to join my friends to Brighton on the 15th August, and I didn't regret a minute of it. From dancing our hearts out in the grimey clubs on the seafront in defiance of the fact that half the time low potassium dictated that I couldn't feel my hands or feet, to meeting strangers, to getting high on the beach, and finally meeting a lovely guy and ending up staying the night at his, which happened to be something that I will remember for the rest of my life. He was a psychologist, much older than me, but seemed greatly intrigued by me -   to which I cautiously asked whether I was a case study but of course the answer was a definite no - and we talked in depth I've rarely ventured with any soul on this earth for most of the night. Not only was it the best therapy I can say I've ever received but to feel loved for once was a wholeheartedly nourishing experience. In my frenzy however I left my camera at his flat which was stupid meaning I had to take a spontaneous trip back to Brighton the next day in the hope that I would somehow be able to find this obscure little flat, get inside and that he wouldn't be lecturing at university at that point in time. As it happened he wasn't there, but luck, or fate, or God knows what had it that when I somehow managed to find it that another resident popped outside and asked to borrow my lighter and kindly let me in after I explained the situation. After knocking on a few doors I eventually acquired the guy's number, though after it failed to save on my phone for a second time I managed to google how to transfer hidden numbers from the sim to the phone and voila, a message was sent and received. I proceeded, at a certain loss as of what next to do exactly to head to the Lanes where I knew I would feel safe, had a delicious black Earl Grey with three calorie-free sweeteners of course accompanied by an American Spirit rollie outside Costa and begun to feel quite alone. I'd been watching someone opposite who I had assumed to be homeless, bearing a hand-written sign reading: CHANGE IS INEVITABLE for quite some time and decided to follow my impulsive trait which had brought me such joy over the past twenty-four hours and go and talk to him. We did for perhaps an hour, which was lovely - he was a squatter who had travelled all over the world; he wasn't looking for money, only to spread some positivity as it were. It was truly inspiring. He said he hoped that I would get better. I said that I hoped that I would too.

Thankfully everything resolved itself. Shortly afterwards I was reunited by my somewhat worse-for-wear (on my part) camera and headed home. Now after days of attempting to write and complete this overly elaborate tale I can finally say that I am concluding it on a brighter note than tradition would allow. There have been many ups and downs over the course of this holiday so far and the one thing you can rely on family dynamics for is to be taught: but I know that there is no point ruminating on misery, or absorbing others' suffering. It manifests itself in me, I'm quite aware of that, but if a lesson can be learnt from any of this, it should be to give yourself a fucking break once in a while. 

I Was a Stranger

It's a quiet maelstrom into which I'm slipping. Glassy whirls of cosmic haze have caught me adrift and I  can do nothing but watch myself from afar as my uninhabited form spins in dizzying descent.

I only wish there was a soul on this earth who had lived as much as I have in my short years. Everyone is through with me so prematurely, through with dealing before I've ever had my share; I am thus left a stranger on this lonely road still burdened with the ghosts of my past - bereft and abandoned, that dark, sharp-taloned Raven known as sorrow the sole companion for my journey. No-body knows the suffering from which I am desperate to be relieved. 

This curious new path was largely unknown to me before, or at least to this extent. It feels as though life is spiralling into a state of unprecedented chaos and I do not know how to halt the progression, or even if I would if I could. Everything is taking over me and in my frailness I merely succumb to the tide. I'm tired, so very tired and the task of sustaining my defences during such an unholy war is becoming too much. It has been three nights since I slept at all and some time without food. Now a rather more fresh addiction - if the term is valid - is spinning the world beyond mere delirium and into further disarray.

My altered state is albeit a highly disorientating one in which the vision before me is a rippling vision of flickering scenes in progressive time zones; meaning that I have no idea which scene - which world - is reality and which was simply a transient precursor of the scene to follow, only to vanish like a dream. I am rapidly waking and re-waking into yet another dream after dream. The world is not true. Reality cannot be. Though I am not afraid: there have been times where I have fallen into this experience accompanied by feelings of intense terror and desperation to be secure and finally grasp what is real again. Now, however, I can let it wash over me, and treat the voice as a friend. 

Yet why do these behaviours cause my conscience a small sense of discomfort when they remain my only means of surviving a life that I cannot cope with? It seems cruel that the door to my shelter is also the one to my prison cell. 

In all honesty I don't give the highest regard for my own existence, but I have this great fear for the sake of others that something has set in motion that I will not be able to turn back from. There is already so much to contend with but my reality is becoming so deranged and distorted that I am uncertain what to do. I want all of this to be gone and to never have been at all.

I can't close my shelter.

Waking Up

So. I went for this walk.

It was raining an awful lot even though earlier it had been a good day except only weather-wise because I was having a bad day. So I thought, I’m going to go on a really long walk from Shinewater through Langney past Pevensey up to Sovereign Harbour and round to Princes Park and burn the zero calories I’ve consumed today and chill the fuck out. Mojo was asleep so I thought I’d go it alone, with my phone, like a gnome. Then I thought, whilst on this walk, fuck, this is taking me a long time. And I’m alone. I don’t like being alone. And I’m fucking tired. It’s raining, which is, without a shadow of a doubt, an absolute pathetic fallacy for my mood and life in general. But at least that means I can wear my Dad’s massive Barbour which makes my legs look slightly less fat. I’m going to have to employ coping mechanisms. What coping mechanism can I use in this situation? Probably the two I prepared earlier. I find being at my Dad’s really difficult and and I don’t care what you say for every means there is a just cause or something.

So I was walking along and by this point I was getting really tired. I passed two young lovers and a sleeping ice cream van and it made me think some more thoughts for a while. I was coming up to the Langney roundabout which seemed longer than it was but I’m really very very sorry that this story is getting too long. Holy moly. I wasn’t really thinking particularly hard as I was crossing a road but I was wise enough to know that when a red fiesta is approaching from the left it’s fair to cross as long as it’s in the distance so I did and the prick didn’t even have to slow down but he beeped because I had to maybe run a tiny bit but mainly because he was a prick which scared the shit out of me and when I landed on the other side of the road my heart was doing a funny dance and not a pretty one at that. By this point I figured that I might not quite make it all the way to Princes Park tonight. So I sat down at the nearest bus stop and said ‘Fuck’ out loud, like a don, because my bag was so heavy. I sat there for either ten minutes or ten hours and watched the rain, watched a bus pass, nearly stop with the bus driver glancing back and forth at me as he approached deliberating whether or not I was worth picking up, but then carry on; then I decided to stand up. As I was doing up my bag I realised that it had suddenly caught up on me and that everything was rippling tremendously and my self-dialogue was getting really really loud and I was beginning to have vivid conversations with myself in my head but with happy thoughts as oppose to sad ones and I thought I’m fucked this is good. 

I figured that I wasn’t going to make it home and I was beginning to worry as I didn’t fancy sleeping on the side of the road and I didn’t have the heart to phone my Dad and trouble him to jump in his car and collect me. So I turned around and started walking back and tried to phone Mum to tell her that I was having a lovely walk and it was turning my day around even though I was super tired and secretly worried about getting home and Dad making me have something to eat but she didn’t answer her phone. So I carried on and thought, let’s burn some more and shake things up a bit more. Let’s make this interesting. The cemetery would make an interesting route but then I remembered that that’s what horror movie directors would call creepy so maybe not. So instead of going all the way back to Milfoil Drive I took a left at Friday Tree, which made me a tiny bit pleased because I noticed that it was actually supposed to say Friday Street. I walked and walked and walked - it seemed to take forever and ever and ever. I like that symmetry. symmetry that like I .I reckoned that I would have to turn left at some point to basically do a circle on myself and end up back at Milfoil which I also thought was pretty damn clever but the only turning ahead said something Drive, but no it said Grove… Drive, Grove, Drive, Grove, which one could it be? What will this strange location be like? Drive suggests a closed end.. whereas Grove suggests a road with trees…. Which one? Am I squinting as much as I think I am? Suddenly. The obscurity evaporated: DROVE! I have no idea what that means. Still, I walked on and decided to take the next left because by the time I had finished thinking I had passed Something Drove anyhow. By this time I was on my second spliff.

After a while I saw a white camper van ahead which reminded me of pleasant memories of happy families and holidays to the Isle of Wight in Dad’s converted ambulance. Then fuck, my roach fell out. I think I might have told my Mum if I was still on voicemail, or imagined telling my Mum, or told myself or someone else that it was a filter and then following the phrase with copious giggles. I tried to put it back in but with little success as the roll was pretty goddamn wet with all the rain and all so I thought I’d go without, like the master that I am. I thought also, this is going to get me fucked. Like drinking from the bottle. Without the filter. Or maybe not. I don’t know. It’s getting to the point that I wish this psychological diarrhoea would give it a fucking rest to be frank. Anyway. Enough of that. I reached the camper van and realised it was parked in a pub carpark. I thought, maybe I could be an absolute daredevil like my Dad and sneak through the carpark and over the trees at the back and hope there’s not a brick wall on the other side or any parents putting their children back into the family car or police vans called to a local brawl. So I strolled through as nonchalantly as I possibly could wet spliff in hand and sometimes mouth and did a runner through the trees but as I write this my phone is sporadically vibrating because it keeps thinking it’s on charge but there is no wire plugged in and even my brother agrees I’m not making this up I swear to God it’s freaking me out IT’S MESSING WITH MY MIND. And I keep getting distracted by my Rowan’s incessant babbling that he pulled his tooth out and that he hid it under the sofa for me yesterday followed by the exultant phrase ‘Yeah Mimi eat i’ in a bowwl.’ But anyway. Thankfully there was no brick wall.

Then I had no idea where the hell I was. Sorrel Drive No.1-2 I thought, better not walk up there or you’ll be sorrel. So I went left again and thought I don’t recognise that construction site but then I thought just ignore it best ignore things you don’t recognise. I passed an elderly lady walking her dog as I trudged on and I really was beginning to wonder if I was going to make it home at all and I was so bloody thirsty but I smiled real horrorshow. Then I thought I saw a part of the bus route home I recognised but then I thought just ignore it best ignore things you recognise. Eventually I came to the top of the hill and I turned one of two directions and it was going okay again.

I carried on walking, I definitely saw a real-life squirrel. Then I turned out exactly where I wanted to be - homeward-bound that is - so kind of not so much where I wanted to be. I’m not sure now. Things seem good. I thought I know what I’ll do I’ll surprise the boys by coming in the back way and running in to the glass doors splat all soggy and shout hello but then I thought that would be rather undignified so I searched for my front door keys in my bag. I felt what I thought was the antique miniature bottle of eau de parfum attached to my keychain that I bought for a few euros in an amazing vintage warehouse in Treguier not Trebuchet in France last summer when everything was lovely but it was in fact my sugar-free fresh mint breath spray and all I kept thinking was I must brush my teeth when I get home I must brush my teeth when I get home I must brush my teeth when I get home and several more visionary scenarios branched off from that.

This isn’t how I normally write I’m in quite an altered state of mind.

On the way back I think I might have overheard/seen some domestic abuse. I still feel bad about that. I carried on walking. A police car drove past and I thought that was lucky/nearly unlucky had they passed earlier or had I been a slightly faster walker which for once makes me thankful I was tired and then I imagined a whole scenario had any of the above alternatives arisen involving policemen searches which I won’t go into.

Then I got home and I was very wet. On my hair. On my head. Then I sat down and wrote this story, even though it took a little while because I got distracted by family banter which was nice, watching Gulliver’s Travels intersected by sexual innuendos, my macbook being out of battery, taking ‘I wonder how tired I look ‘photos on Photo Booth after I plugged it in, then my Dad bringing me his reading glasses which he has used as he has got older and his eyes weaker basically suggesting that my eyes are shit which made me laugh and cry a little bit but the glasses were super funky so then taking more photos of that. I’m sorry that wasn’t a list of three, I’m really sorry about that.

So there you go. There’s your bedtime story for the night kids (except probably not for kids.)

Essentially, this story was already written word for word in my head on the way home. 

I’m thoroughly surprised that I remembered it all to be honest.