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.

The Burdens

I wrote an abridged list of my miseries - forgive the total lack of eloquence as well as the many things I omitted - in the hope that the cathartic process of their expression will give clearance for brighter things to grow. It's time to burn this all and start a fresh tomorrow for the very last time. 

I have no place to call home and sofa-surfing is incredibly draining and demoralising 

I am a problem - I'm a burden to anyone and everyone I spend any length of time around given that I can't control my emotions or my eating disordered behaviours and I'm tired of making everyone's lives a misery as well as my own

I don't have the money to find my own place and the services can't work quickly enough 

This has quite possibly been the worst half term of all time - I spent my Halloween trekking around Sussex for six hours looking for somewhere to spend the night instead of having a good time with my friends or family

I don't feel supported or cared for anymore; not even by my own mother who I had thought I could depend on. Even though I forgive her I cannot forget the hurtful things she has said and done. I cannot shake the feelings of betrayal, and for her now to deny moral support in me finding somewhere else to stay is only making me feel more alone than ever. I didn't watch her spend years in a severely unhappy relationship with my Dad and learn nothing - there is no denying that we need time and space from each other before the situation deteriorates any more. Right now it is only a ticking time bomb before another dangerous situation explodes between us when I feel suicidal whenever I am in the house

I don't want to be sad anymore but I don't know how to be happy

I can't find peace anywhere

I am ugly and fat - I'm not even thin enough to be deserving of pity

I can't seem to do any work for sixth form as I'm overwhelmed by misery and anxiety at my situation

My bedroom is a mess

I can't sleep without having horrible nightmares - when I slept last I dreamt that I was being raped and no-one would help me and then that someone attacking me leapt onto my back and I didn't have the strength to shake them off

I'm exhausted by the constant battle against food, against fear, against sadness, against anger; against myself

I feel physically terrible - I'm tired of feeling like shit 99% of the time and being under the weather with a cold coming on doesn't help AT all

I'm worried about my brother Tristan as I know he is struggling mentally but there seems very little I can do to help him

Every effort I make to help others is never enough - if I make breakfast in bed for my Mum, babysit my brothers and cook them dinner, get myself to work without troubling anyone for a lift to save me struggling all the way to the station… it is only appreciated for the briefest of moments before I get shit for something else

I'm tired of being spoken about so negatively behind my back by members of my own family and I'm sure thought of negatively all the time

I'm horrifically worried about the ELAT test on Wednesday as I'm the least prepared I've ever been for any test in my life. I gave one of the books from Oxford University I could have used to revise from to a patient at my last unit to read and I think she has died which makes me more miserable than you can imagine and also means that there is no chance of me getting it back

I feel like I am letting everyone down by failing to reply to messages or letters in good time but I don't want to respond when I'm in such a bad place when I desperately wish to be a positive influence to others

It makes me bitterly sad to see all my friends getting on with their lives - my sixth form friends now flourishing at university, many of those I know from various inpatient units now recovering from their conditions and loving life again - all whilst I remain stuck

I miss my friends more than I can say

I can't forget the things I have seen: E being brutally force-fed as I cried and girls screamed and tried to escape; L slitting her wrists with my paint tile that I had left on the table and seeing the blood that drenched her bedroom floor; T vomiting in the washing machine before she was restrained and injected in her room where she screamed 'rape' for hours on end; walking past the isolated ward on the AMU a few days following my worst overdose and seeing a lady being resuscitated after a heart attack, then returning after my cigarette for her to be gone...

I can't forget the things that I've experienced: being taken advantage of by a guy I didn't know when I was paralytically drunk those years ago; having the naso-gastric tube inserted up my nose and into my stomach to be sedated and drip-fed constantly for three weeks; watching my life slur by in strange dream-like scenes as my present senses began to diminish and vitality faded whilst I was at A&E during my physical worst; being conspired against by mental health professionals when they assessed me for sectioning without my knowledge before admitting me to an institution that has left me permanently traumatized; being screamed and spat at by a woman suffering from severe Anorexia herself and told I was a selfish cow who didn't deserve to be here; being rushed off in an ambulance after my fourth major overdose, impaled with needles and wires as the sirens screamed; having my own mother grip my wrists nearly to breaking point before we fought so viciously until she called the police…

No-one understands how I feel

I want everything to go away but I'm judged for any means of escapism that I resort to

I don't know where to go or who to turn to

I miss my boyfriend and I am ashamed to see him tomorrow when I don't deserve him and he doesn't deserve to be burdened with me. I am terrified that I will lose him for I know I will not survive that loss

Lou Reed is dead

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.

I Mind

I'm growing horribly tired of either feeling too much or feeling nothing at all. It seems there is no comfortable medium, no bliss of relative contentment - only the agony or short-lived thrill of an extreme. The rapid and intense oscillations of temperament are persuading me to a point of exhaustion. 

Feeling nothing is unpleasant. It might not be painful, but it surely renders a sickening discomfort to the newly barren expanse of existing as a ghost. At times it almost seems as though feeling absolutely nothing at all is worse than feeling hurt. The chronic emptiness, the crippling loneliness... they are like a nausea which will not go away... I am washed out at sea, indolently rocked by the ocean's currents which keep me afloat but leaves me lost. I can somehow miss the interjection of pain amidst the vast, grey void. At least it reminds us that we are alive.

The lows are, understandably, pitiful. Once sunken into the dark, unfathomable depths it is seemingly impossible to drag oneself from the mire. You can fall unexpectedly too; in a moment a minor incident can throw you from the level terrain of comparative emotional stability into the rocky chasm of absolute turmoil. Worse still, the higher you fly, the deeper you plummet. The potential for subsequent despair jades even happiness with a sense of danger and trepidation. 

I don't think I'd be here however without the sporadic highs. Disorientating though they can be when the mania and hyperactivity is so intense that I feel I might be losing myself in the exhilarating whirlwind of my thoughts and actions, to be floating above one's surroundings in a strange yet delightful haze of delirium can be an oasis amidst an otherwise torturous existence. Who wouldn't want to feel happy? Even if the manic sentiments are purely superficial, an armour of glorious ecstasy enveloping and, ephemerally, eclipsing the internal anguish, they still feel better. I could describe it like being in a curious daydream you don't want to wake up from. Logic tells you it is all a figment of the imagination and will soon swiftly leave your mind in a potentially abrupt and frightening manner, a flurry of newborn starlings leaving their nest; but this knowledge does not necessarily hinder you from (foolishly) allowing yourself to be swept up in the romance of the euphoric sentiments. It truly is a crying shame that the good times all have to come to an end. More often than not I find they meet a miserable fate.

It isn't just the volatility which is draining, but the nature of my sensitivity and relation to others in terms of what has been described as a 'fatal sense of empathy.' I simply cannot stop feeling for other people. Blotting paper for the suffering of others, I can't help but absorb their pain on top of my own. I know that it is only detrimental for me given that it reliably sends me into self-destruct mode, but upon hearing that there is someone struggling or witnessing their decline I become dangerously pre-occupied, even if the anxieties go unspoken. It literally kills me. I can cry myself to sleep over someone who, though I've never met, I'm aware is in poor health; or spend hours ruminating, worrying myself sick over those poor girls I left behind in that horrible place. What am I supposed to do to stop seeing and feeling all this suffering? There is no way to expunge my thoughts of worry, nor my breaking heart of its pains for them. There is so much hurt everywhere; I just can't not notice it. I can't stop it from affecting me, more deeply than I can begin to describe. It is utterly impossible to detach my mind or heart from it: I cannot forget, I cannot forget, I simply cannot forget. 

In essence it isn't just that I've been through too much; it's that I've seen others go through too much and it still haunts me day and night. I mind that there are people out there in misery who I am powerless to help, and I mind to a damaging degree. Of course it is difficult for anyone to move on, but the past seems inescapable for me, as does the continuation of suffering which pervades the present. There is little solace from the perpetual grief - I am sad to say - and I'm not sure how to go about finding any, unless in the near future there were to be some technological advancements toward brain transplants which as it is I may well be morally wary about. Perhaps there is no answer. No escape from my woes. Is it possible for one's life to embody an eternal grief process? 

If I cannot turn off my mind the best thing I can do I suppose is to enrich my life with joy as oppose to allowing myself to succumb to the darkness within. I am endeavouring to look forward instead of back but it is far from easy when it truly is a day-to-day battle. Maybe I need to accept that I will always be emotionally fragile as a result of what has happened, and particularly susceptible to the stresses suffered by others as well as myself; I might never be able to move on. The best thing I can do for now is to live, in spite of it all. I will; for those I love and care for if not for myself. I have good experiences ahead of me if I can make it and - typically, as a testament to my rapidly fluctuating mood - I am determined to. I am going explore the wonders of this world with those most precious to me. I am going to embrace new discoveries and take joy in the positive memories I do have deep down. If only there was a way to erase the anterior areas of the brain which have been wounded by trauma and torment... perhaps my mind and spirit would be sanctuaries rather than cemeteries.