**

I am sat in front of a computer crying, looking at the wikipedia page for Cambridge University.

Looking at the pictures. People throwing their exam results in the air.

I cannot have that.

I’m searching for song after song to try and soothe my wounds, but I just can’t find anything. Nothing fits. Nothing says everything’s going to be okay.

“Nothing doesn’t exist”, says Stephen Fry.

A Cambridge graduate.

I read books as a child illustrated by Quentin Blake. Learned Philosophy from books written by Bertrand Russell. Studied An Inspector Calls by J. B. Priestley for my GCSE’s.

These people. People who I admired and who played parts in my life.

From Cambridge university.

A world that I am unlikely to experience in my entire life.

And I hate it.

I do not consider myself a stupid person. In fact, I would hedge to say I’m fairly intelligent. The operant word in that sentence being hedge.

I feel stupid for writing this, too. For all I know you, reader, might not have been to University (or “College” if you’re American). You might have left school with the bare minimum you could because your life couldn’t allow you to go any further.

But when you have the ability. When you waste it. When you fritter it away on meaningless angst that washes away into nothingness weeks later. On plans which are abandoned.

On stupid hopes.

I opened my first ever fortune cookie the other day, and do you know what it read?

“Your exotic ideas lead you to many exciting, new adventures!”

Heh.

But here I am again. ‘Wasting’ my time on something which brings me no closer to any real goal. No purpose. No true function. Purely phatic.

But yet time and time again I find myself up at 11PM, wasting time instead of doing Spanish homework or completing coursework or doing my shoulds, woulds and coulds.

Instead I blog. And play on twitter. And watch illegal HD films.

I watch Autotune the News on YouTube and memorize the words to Star Wars Explained By A 3-Year-Old.

I remember reading about extrinsic and intrinsic factors of motivation. Intrinsic is typically more powerful than extrinsic, though typically a little more rare to have in modern society.

“Research has found that it [intrinsic motivation] is usually associated with high educational achievement,” says Wikipedia.

**

I’m finding it hard to come to a conclusion with this one. It’s ongoing. A lack of discernable sense of self within it all. It’s like I’m watching the sky, fixated on a cloud passing across the open sky, not noticing the room behind me is on fire.

Erik Erikson said that this stage of my life was all about finding my identity.

At least he didn’t go to Cambridge.

No beating around the bush in this post:

1.Seriously, Spanish teachers, I GET that you have to teach me a subject, but the fact that I haven’t given in homework to you for the past month is because: A) I’ve had EPIC amounts of coursework to do. As in, you know, that stuff that gets sent a couple of weeks after I give it in and then adds to my OVERALL grade. B) I’m sure languages are great, but I’m getting SICK and TIRED of trying only to get things wrong, to get splotches of support I could find on the internets when we have FOUR people in the class and to receive seemingly-cursory grades without you spending time to tell me where I fucked up without making me feel like dog shit. And, as a result, STOP SENDING MY TUTOR SANCTIONS BECAUSE I HAVE MORE IMPORTANT WORK TO DO.

2. Board of governers at my school? I do not care to be on your board. I did not choose to be on your board. Your meetings are long, seemingly endless and make me want to bore my brains out with a bratz doll. I understand that you have to leave all rocks turned with your administrative duties, but ultimately I AM NOT INTERESTED IN THIS.  I do NOT want to do presentations on vertical tutoring or the college system at school. It sucks. That’s it.

3. Fuck you, work.

4. I am seriously starting to hate getting up before, you know, 10AM. I’m a real night person and honestly? I much, MUCH prefer to tap my fingers until 2:30am than I enjoy getting up at 7:30am and then rushing around to suck the fat into clothes so that I can impress people with flab-sucked-in awesomeness.

5. No, hija de puta, I have NOT burned something onto your pan that you could replace for £12. This is 2010, not 1935. Even if I DID burn something onto the pan, it’s not going to UBER STICK FOREVER or DESTROY THE PAN FOREVER AND EVER. Stop being a douche about the fact that your youngest son can cook. Or would you prefer I smoke tobacco, pot and drink gushes of alocohol whilst going to the doctor about an STI? You know, like most guys my age? Oh wait. No. You wouldn’t. So STFU or I’ll push you down the stairs again.

6. And also, puta madre, no, I’m NOT going to eat it all tonight. If you make it in a big batch it saves time and money. But you’d know that already, right?

7. Yes, back of my mind, I get that you want me to engage in some hot, passionate and steamy sex with some hot, passionate and steamy guy. When you find someone that goes for hot, passionate guy-on-guy sex, call me and I’ll actually HAVE hot, passionate and steamy sex. Otherwise, keep your crazy man-urges to the edges of my awareness or I’ll chop it off and then you’ll be sorry.

8. Yes, Last.fm, I know that there are only about 30 songs you can POSSIBLY play to me, regardless of the amount of artists I favourite. However, could you at least try and switch them up a bit? Just because I like them doesn’t mean I want to listen to the same 5 again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

9. How in ninjas has no one seen Kittens inspired by Kittens, Star Wars explained by a 3-year-old or Auto-Tune the News? That’s like saying you’ve never heard of porn.

10. I’d like to lose weight. Like, NOW. ARGH. I’m not overweight or anything, but I’m slowly noticing encroaching weight gain and it’s NOT cool. Not at ALL. And yes, I will buddy up with you to lose weight. Seriously.

The sad thing is that I’ve not yet even started properly. But I can’t stop. I have Spanish homework. For tomorrow.

Wikipedia game, anyone?

And just to show you how crazy drugged-up this household is…

And, for your viewing pleasure and as a bonus to getting this far on my kitchen adventure, let me show you the 3 switches I found which, insofar, I have NO IDEA what they do. And honestly? They look important in a “sex us up with some special flippage of our switches and we might just tell you our recipe for switch casserole.”

(Ignore those splotches. They’re just splatters of food juice which we’re still invisibly power-struggling to decide who is the one to do the cleaning up of them).

See? If I were a pirate and I had niched myself into the land-plundering-then-catering-with-the-loot industry, this would be my wet dream.

We’re going to Edinburgh today so that I can check whether or not I like the university.

Honestly? I could have done this on street view instead of having to kill all of those damn hamsters for fuel.

This is why I don’t get out, peeps.

For your viewing pleasure: Matt, Through The Ages

2002

Look at the rolls!

On this day: I lose my keycard for the room my brother (on the left) and I have in the sea and don’t tell anyone until 3 hours later.

2005

In Canada. On a beach. Looking gangly.

On this day: We, my family and 2 of my parents’ Canadian friends, walk to a shorefront restaurant; it was windy and much warmer than it looks.

2006

Me! Without a top! About 400 yards away from where Maddie McCann was kidnapped!

On this day: I spied an elderly man picking fruit from his beautiful garden, across the street from the hotel.

2007

The sun was SO bright that day, let me tell you. Also, notice the weight loss (esp. the legs). And yes, we are at Niagara.

(Me -> Madre -> Grandma -> Grandad)
On this day: My madre, Auntie Len and I go on the “Maid of the Mist” tour, taking us up to as close as possible to the bottom of Niagara falls.

2008

Auntie Len and I find respite in a Mallorcan town square. Don’t I look European?

On this day: I fumble some TERRIBLE Spanish out to a Mallorcan waiter, only realizing later how poor my Spanish-speaking was.

2009

I go crazy and take 300 pictures of myself; this one is the best of the bunch.

On this day: I reflect on the beautiful weather and wonder to myself, “Who am I?”

2010

Today, on this grey and somewhat morbid valentine’s afternoon.

On this day: I wake up feeling like it’s a Monday and feel guilty for it. My left eye hurts from the inside of the eyelid.

Intrigued, I decided to make my own.

Oh dear.

Luckily, my worries were more focused upon the tiny amount of pee being released from my loins due to my increasingly hard laughter rather than the fact that computers now think I am a woman.

At least I don’t have to worry about periods?

And then all of a sudden life starts to come at you. You grow, you change, you get married. Life goes on. But now that friend that you had in highschool you have not spoken to in years. Your not really sure how you lost contact with them. They did one thing, you did another, you spoke for awhile and then BAM!! Its been ten years since you have heard from them.

We live in a modern world. An internet world. A world where people are not that difficult to track down. You don’t have to call their mother, or wait for a highschool reunion No!! You’ve got facebook. And viola!! There they are. So, you click the add as friend button. Your friend confirms and you talk again. You joke in an easy way. There is very little of “what have you been up to?” talk – just enough to fill each other in. Otherwise you talk about everyday things – the same as you did then. You joke freely and openly. The banter flows, there is a little harmless flirtation. Your spouse knows – they do not feel threatened.

This goes on for awhile. This back and forth. You realize that it has been years since someone (aside from your spouse) has really “gotten you” like this friend does. You find yourself looking forward to telling this long lost friend about the crazy person at the grocery store or the funny ad you saw. You wonder about this new/old friendship. Is it starting to cross a line? Would you even ask yourself this question if the person were of the same sex as you? Probably not, but none the less they are. You try not to think about it. And then one day the jokes go too far. This friend offers something altogether inappropriate.

They offer an affair. You think they are joking, but you are not 100% sure. You really hope that they are. You do not really want to bring it up and ask because well, what if they are not joking. Your spouse has no opinion. They trust you so it does not matter. Whatever you do is fine. Continue the friendship, don’t continue the friendship it makes no difference to them. You try to talk to your other friends. They tell you not to talk to this person. That this person is no good – but really what do they know. They do not understand you – how could they possibly understand your friend?

But, of course, in the end you know that joking or not it is all too much. You have to at least scale back. Maybe you can assume they are joking and keep in contact with them. You figure remaining “facebook friends” will do no harm. But you know you cannot continue this talking everyday or so friendship. It is a bad idea. And all of a sudden you realize how much you hate sexual tension.

A part of me sighs internally. I think of him, but the light has changed. Things have changed. Things are different. A new bulb in my mind switched on, knowing the truth behind the front he projects.

*

They did start going out, my friend and him. She and I talk on the bus, the hum of the engine and the drawl of children drowning out the noise of our conversation. A conversation filled with hidden knowledge and normally-unspoken, worrying confessions. My loyalties weigh heavily. I find myself flare in anger at him as she tells me things; things he says to her, things I find incomprehensible.

There is a new side to him. The lustre has faded and now I can see the real, tarnished version.

A person who I would never have feelings for. A person in which I do not associate. A person whom I do not recognize.

*

I reach the top of the stairwell and glide into the room where this all started… where the feelings were first birthed into my life. I dart around, talking and laughing to friends yet all the while looking for him, wondering where he is. Wondering why I care. Wondering why any of it matters when my feelings have been suppressed and subsided into nothingness.

There’s a sense of tension that still remains between us, me and him. He social butterflies around the place, leaving traces of himself for people to return. My friends seem to dislike him, yet all the while I can’t help feel an amicability between us. He made me feel, yet all the same I can’t help but wonder whether or not there’s anything of substance below the surface of our banal, empty transactions.

*

I glance out the window, watching a band of smokers come from the bridge where they attempt to conceal their dirty habit. I name each of the people, The Boy’s name coming to mind as I notice him walking in the death-stick crowd. They trundle between cars before disappearing from sight behind a wall and into school. The white noise of the library silently amplifies a silent truth which I soon realize.

A friend and I laugh with each other. We talk about friends and life and university. There is no expectation, no need to wear a mask — she does not know about The Boy. About the emotional rollercoaster. I am open and I am closed.

She leaves for a while and I’m left with the hum of the ventilation acting as a backdrop to my thoughts; they swirl around haphazardly, waiting for a conclusion to burst from underneath. There is no conclusion or dramatic ending. No bang and no eureka.

*

Some friends and I are sitting and watching as he speaks with a teacher semi-privately. He glances over and makes a facial gesture. His girlfriend, A, quietly screeches with excitement. A part of me can’t help feel a split in the relationship, his behaviour sporadically forceful, hers reactive to his mood. A part of my mind sirens. There is something gently anxiety-inducing about their relationship.

I sit back and watch the world for moments. Each one passes, and I can’t help but feel like this new year has entered a new chapter in my life. There is a difference. The deep fracture in their relationship only seems to highlight the new ones in my own psyche.

A darkness still exists deep inside yet the sun of hope has dawned on my life once again.

I am no longer bound by a fatal obligation.

I am not in love with this boy.

Somehow, I forgot my doctor was a cunt when it comes to emotions. And I use that extremely strong word for a VERY good reason, as you’ll read below.

So I got to the surgery, went in, told the receptionist who I was and that I had an appointment. After she confirmed me I went and poised myself on the old, murky-red chair-sofa things in the waiting area. It wasn’t long before my doctor came out to see the receptionist for his next appointment. When he saw my name, he looked up straight at me. I caught his eye but, feeling embarrassed, looked outside through the large, square window dominating the seating area.

He called my name. I followed him in and sat down, feeling equally as nervous as any time I’ve been to see a doctor. He pulled up my file on his computer and then sat back in his large swivel chair, asking me what was wrong.

I started to blather about knees and my eyes and, most importantly, the case notes he should’ve received from the counsellor I saw a few weeks ago who only did short-term work so had to shoo me away. As far as I know, they specified that I was in some high-risk band. Something to do with my frequent suicidal ideation and because I had means available to me. It requested that I be referred to a long-term treatment NHS psychotherapist.

I could tell that he wasn’t going to understand before we even started. I could tell it was going to be an uphill battle I would eventually lose. I forgot he doesn’t “do” non-factual talk from people who are doggedly reserved about their real, nightmarish emotions.

Below are extracts from the 30-minute, mostly 1-sided ‘conversation’ we had:

Him: You’re just one of the masses.

–

Him: You have to accept that people just don’t care about you.

–

Him: And… and… and and… and I think you’re having a spiritual crisis, not an emotional one. Wouldn’t you agree?

–

Him: I don’t think you need psychotherapy.

–

Him: What I can see of you, you don’t seem all that distressed.

Me: I wear a mask all the time to hide my true emotions.

Him: Okay. Well that would make you a great actor. It reminds me of Catcher in the Rye.

–

Him: I think you should have these… /hands pamphlets and cards on mindfulness/ It’s from Buddhism.

Me: Oh yeah, I know about that.

Him: Oh really? (In a tone that says, “Why is it that you’re bothering me with your obvious lies of poor mental health when you can fix yourself without wasting MY time?”)

–

Me: I need an emotional outlet. I find it hard to express my emotions to people… I think a lot of my friends aren’t ready for my emotional intensity.

Him: What type of outlet do you need?

Me: Someone whom I can talk to without feeling judged and someone who I know will just listen and not try to give advice.

Him: Have you tried praying?

Me: I… uhh… I’m not… I don’t…

Him: Because you know if you want someone to listen prayer can help get what you need to say off your chest. Or have you tried writing how you feel down?

Me: Yeah, I’ve tried journaling and keeping a diary but I just can’t keep up with it. My hand doesn’t go fast enough.

Him: But you write it as it comes and when you feel like it.

Me: (*inner eye roll*)

–

Him: Okay well everyone is look for that. You see, how the human condition works is that we’re all searching for meaning. We all have very fragile egos.

Me: (mentally: So you’re going to dismiss the fact that I’m in an extremely-high suicide risk-band because you assume my ego is “hurt” rather than I actually need some help?)

–

Me: I want someone who can be there for me when I have bad days and good days… when I just can’t deal with all the shit anymore.

Him: You think you’ve had a bad day? You don’t even know what a bad day is yet. A bad day is like being told you have cancer. Or that your best friend has cancer. You have no idea what it’s like to have a bad day.

… and then later…

Him: I’m not trying to sweep away your problems.

Me: (*inner eye roll* + *want to cry right now but can’t because this doctor is a bully*)

I’ve been referred to a psychiatrist, not a psychotherapist. I’ve taken medication (fluoextine (‘prozac’) and carbamazepine) before and abused them whem my mood shifted; which is dangerous, as SSRIs themselves have been shown to increase the likelihood of suicide in teenagers.

Frankly, I’m absolutely appalled by my doctor. He treated me with such little regard for my well-being, and instead rambling on about english literature, shakespeare and Hamlet, that I’m considering scheduling another appointment to get a second opinion.

Unacceptable has reached a new height. And the worst part?

I might have to see the psychiatrist I had before. And at their offices is the BATSHITCRAZY ‘adult mental health specialist’ who is more interested in politics than mental health.

Hold me.

I wasn’t kidding:

“Stalker”, “NOT”, “a$$” and “war” all in 140 characters? Well that’s a major turnoff.

Also, by some other user a while back who I snapped:

Have a nice day!