Diamonds Made of Glass

But This Time It's Not the Same

2013-05-08T14:50:00.001+03:00

But This Time It's Not the Same

Destruction plays

A brain in bloom,

A dish of red flesh

Served on a tin platter,

I never said that

I would matter—

Charm them with

A thunderous drawl

Of spit, tongue in the

Slit, I nip and nip

At broken walls

In broken corridors,

Suckling on the remnants

Of sighs and screams

From deep within the

Wallpaper—

I never thought

I would be the girl

Hiding plasters in

Her panties,

Prying blood out

Of candies, paying

Homage to silent

Ultimatums over

Post-adolescent skin,

Because even within

The pulsing rings thin,

My body a chaos

Of too many selves,

Turgid and lanky in

Daylight.

Flightless

2013-04-30T15:01:00.002+03:00

Flightless

Stimulant affliction,

I purged my addiction,

Of soft-shell bombs under

Transparent levers—

And,

Ruffling my

Feathers,

I hold the command

In the pit of my palm,

The white granular

Ovals an intercellular

Psalm,

Chanting along

Nervous train tracks,

The synapses humming

In unison—

Be happy

Be happy.

Monday Madness #25

2013-04-22T23:02:00.001+03:00

Nobody said it was easy;

No one ever said it would be this hard

I just love how much of a busy bee I've become; I mainly write during my 45-minute bus-rides to and from Helsinki. And here I am again, writing as the sun sets and as my thighs throb against the seat from a super-exhausting but amazing three-hour dance lesson.

I doubled my dosage on my new meds, Lamotrigin, from 25 mg to 50 mg last Wednesday as guided by my doctor. The pills taste icky. They're the kind you let melt in your mouth or chew. One was okay but with two the taste stings my tongue. I've been having a bit more of generally-good days this past week, though I've had a few anxiety attacks. I forgot my meds yesterday morning and was wondering why I was developing a terrible anxiety attack and crying fit at dance class. Then I had a light-bulb realization. I told my teacher and she got really worried as I was just crying and crying. I made it home safe though, and took my meds and took it easy for the rest of the day.

I'm starting at the Day Ward next Monday. I'm nervous. Very, very nervous. I did not get a very good first impression of my ward doctor and nurse, so I'm worried it'll be a waste of time. But I'm trying to keep an open mind. Attitude is key, right?

Almost home now.
I'm so hungry.

Monday Madness #24

2013-04-15T22:01:00.000+03:00

April showers bring May flowers

I'm sitting on the bus as I write this. It's 8:30 PM and the sun hasn't set yet. Today has felt, and smelt, a lot more like spring than te past few weeks. No more winter coat. No more winter shoes. No more thick leggings or tights. The wind feels milder. It has been raining instead of snowing for the first time in five months, FIVE months, so it's a welcome change. The tapping of droplets on our tin roof has really helped me fall asleep.

I had my admission interview for the Psychiatric Day Ward last Friday. I had suspected it would be a disappointment - and, naturally, it was. The doctor and nurse, my soon-to-be personal worker, were of the soft-spoken kind, their speech a slow, whispering drawl. It felt as though they thought even a slight raise of their voices would make me crumble to pieces like a fucking pastry. I guess in a way they were trying to gently give me the news that I have to wait another few weeks to be admitted. Embittered, I stared at the tiny alarm clock in front of me and tried to control my aggression as I demanded to know whether I would receive support and treatment in waiting. The answer? Negative. They said I would normally be seeing my nurse once each week. I scoffed loudly, explaining how I receive nothing out of those appointments and that, as my nurse had told me herself, they were mainly for them to stay posted with my symptoms. I asked what the hell they expected me to do in the meantime. The doctor leaned in and told me to focus on the good things, and that these things tend to heal with time. I swear my face was firetruck-red with rage by this point. Had I been capable of just focusing on the good things, like a normal human being, I wouldn't have been sitting in that room in the first place. I reluctantly took the nurses business card and walked out the door, locked myself in the bathroom and cried, kicking at the door frame.

The truth is, had the clinic really taken action a year ago when I was first admitted, I would not be in this condition. I have repeatedly demanded to get the sort of treatment I need but have always been cut short. Only when I went through the Emergency Room a few weeks ago did they begin to do their job. And I guess in my naivety I had built much too big an expectation for the upcoming treatment. My cynicism and naivety tend to clash a lot these days.

On a positive note, once I got home, I talked to my family; I let out my resentment and aggression and disappointment vocally instead of clutching a blade and listening to the voices telling me to slice my skin. I guess I'm recovering. I guess I need to wait. I guess that I'm not always right. I guess I just need to remain open.

Fuck.

It's time to actually listen to the advice I give others and act accordingly myself. I am so ready to help others. Yet I cannot help myself. The thought of throwing my blades away gives me the same sort of stab in the stomach that I get from thinking of losing my 17 year-old teddybear. The thought of asking for help makes me feel like an infant. But I guess I need to accept the fact that I am not alone anymore. You'd think that would be easier to embrace.

I Ate the Flowers You Gave Me

2013-04-14T22:34:00.001+03:00

I Ate the Flowers You Gave Me

I’m standing on the threshold,

And it saddens me to think I have

Been here so often—

Bold against the world, like an

Adolescent lion, my sighs

Saturated with the stench of

Antelope blood, haughty of

My cynical third eye—

As my mind walks by,

Bearing swords, rapturous

Of the destructive path ahead,

The blood to be bled,

Purple against the well-lit walls—

We fight indoors, too lazy

To control our teeth.

----------------------------------------------

Rebirth

2013-04-11T19:39:00.000+03:00

Source

Rebirth

I stare at the sun,

With brand new eyes,

The sleepless night,

Has left a film over

My corneas and I

Can feel it peel split

In the middle like

A rusty zipper—

I've anchored my mind

Upon steady sea-borne rocks,

My scalp embellished with thick,

Curly tentacles of mermaid hair,

Floating in waves of

Black water, red and

Courageous as the

Wind finally awakens,

Reborn from the

Womb of night.

Monday Madness #23

2013-04-08T05:00:00.000+03:00

The Cat that Lost Its Claws

It's been a while. It's quite ironic but the way I have been feeling inside my head has gotten so twisted I haven't even been able to write about it. But I guess I have to, for the therapeutic benefits, right? Today at 10 AM I have an appointment with my nurse at the psychiatric clinic for diagnostic testing. These past few months have been hell with my anxiety attacks and auditory hallucinations. I have gone on a cutting spree on several occasions and I am not proud of it, at all. I have this thing I do that when I think I'm supposed to be okay I fight it out and try to be too brave and perfect. It's like there's a war in my mind between the helpless, sick, and traumatized me and the ambitious, happy, and balanced side, which results in a perfectionist climb that ends up in an anticlimax where I don't sleep at all and mix medication with alcohol.

The worst thing about these past few months has been the fact that people haven't taken me seriously. I am repeatedly told that it would be okay, I am made to go in circles; one place tell me to go to another but that other place tells me to go back. Even at home my symptoms seem to be belittled in accordance to my personality traits. The fact that I mixed sedatives and alcohol is still not believed by my family even though that is what happened --- even if it was just one sedative and a normal glass of coffee liquor that had an alcohol percentage of twenty. The scary fact is that I wanted to have more of both. The voices in my head were just getting too loud. Luckily my darling was up and helped me stay awake long enough for the medicine and alcohol to be out of my system.

I have been contemplating throwing my blades away for good.
I have yet to find the strength to do so.

I have started eating a new medication, called Lamotrigine, for Bipolar Mental Disorder. It's a starter pack so it's just a teeny tiny 25 mg tablet in the mornings for two weeks until the dosage is doubled. It may just be placebo effect, but I can tell the difference after a few days. My mood doesn't go up and down like a roller-coaster anymore, and my stress-levels are considerably lower.

Due to my various visits to the school nurse and one to the Emergency Room, my treatment has been bumped up to a more acute level. I will be spending one to three-week treatment periods at the Psychiatric Day Ward nearby, which means I would stay at the ward between 9 AM and 3 PM every day and go to school for about one day per week. Within the ward I will have my psychiatric doctor, my nurse and several psychologists and functional therapists. Let's just say I'm ready to kick this thing in the butt!

My choreography has been ready for a long while now, I just really need to clean it and sharpen it up so I have been training a lot. The past few weeks were a low point since I had basically no time for dance classes or other exercise due to my mishaps. I did go to a Dancehall workshop yesterday and it was superb <3

So I'm going to start the morning off with some pilates and try to make it a good start for the day.

Wish me luck =)

Let the Universe In

2013-04-07T21:02:00.002+03:00

Let the Universe In

My mother always tells me

That my life revolves around technology,

That the touch-screen I clutch in my hands every

Second of the day is determining my

Every move; that every bling and buzz acts

As an activation key to my nervous system,

Zapping me like a dog with an electric collar.

The thought seems comical to me—

That the black-and-pink rectangle in my hand

Merges together the mechanics of

My daily timetable, the emotional and biological

Details of my menstrual cycle, and

The bits and pieces of love letters exchanged

Across seas and continents

Between my fiancée and myself—

It serves as a sort of physical mantra,

A reminder that I, indeed, am connected to

The rest of the world through stellar satellites

And inquisitive search-and-find databases.

My mother always tells me

That my life revolves around technology,

And I usually refuse to admit she is right,

Because every time I hear this question

I get the urge to open all the windows and

Let the universe in,

To prove that my

Daily project of leaving more fingerprints

On the screen of my phone isn’t meaningless.

----------------------------

And I Taste(d) the Truth

2013-03-31T22:23:00.001+03:00

And I Taste(d) the Truth

The memory is like

Suckling on pills meant

To be swallowed;

Crystalline microgranules

Brushing across misconceived

Sensory territories,

The taste similar

To baking soda;

soapy, sour, sweet—

In a stinging kind of way;

You are the filling agent prematurely

Metabolized, the melting capsule

Tickling on cellular membranes,

Spreading up the roof of

My mouth & beating my uvula

Like a punching bag,

The feel of you impossible to

wash away

with neutralizing liquids.

Mind the Gap

2013-03-29T14:55:00.002+02:00

Mind the Gap

Thighs are off limits,

I see prophets through gaps

In the ceiling, disciplined pieces

Of heroic gesture staring

Down at me—

Waiting for the moment,

The sublime zeal of sin,

Imaginary candlelit dinners,

And tears pinched out of open

Eyes—

We peel away the gentle aura,

Gazing at the middle matter

Like chemistry candidates,

Squeezing at the suffix of

A disillusion,

Until we find the core,

The root of dust and

Blue-haired mold,

Coiling.

Mendacity

2013-02-24T18:32:00.001+02:00

Mendacity

And then there are those nights

When I long for blood and vodka,

When familiar faces swarm the foot

Of my bed, snarling at hidden blades

And dried out scars in the back of my

Brain, a silent revelry of painful

Nostalgia, my body will convulse in

After-midnight allure, aching with the

Words etched into my skin—

Never knew how to be a victim

When all I felt was iniquitous,

A dark delight to a faraway audience,

Pared and naked like a dead fish.

30 Days of Truth: Day 13

2013-02-08T17:00:00.000+02:00

DAY 1 / DAY 2 / DAY 3 / DAY 4 / DAY 5 / DAY 6 / DAY 7 / DAY 8 / DAY 9 / DAY 10 / DAY 11 / DAY 12

Day 13:

A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days(write a letter)

Dear Lady Gaga,

Back in 2010 I was locked up in the psychiatric ward. Every possible connection to the outside world was cut off, leaving me stuck in a room with walls of three different hospital colors. I spent the days reading books to escape the place I was in, and ended up reading 20 books during my three-and-a-half month hospitalization period.

I was originally brought into care due to my self-destructive behavior, which was connected to my disastrous past. However, something else was characterized as the cause for my problems. Earlier that year I had met a Lebanese woman online, and had in some naïve sort of way fallen in love with her. We were speaking non-spot for about a month or so. It turned out, however, that this woman was, though young and just four years older than me, married. Her husband of the time got a hold of our texts, and threats started pouring in. Helpless, I told my parents of what had happened. This happened to coincide with the climax of my self-destructiveness. So, inevitably, when I was put in hospital, my little love affair was put as the blame.

For the next two months I was the main subject of gossip among the nurses of the ward. I was typified as the lesbian lover of a Lebanese housewife. Instead of helping me with the problems at hand, I had to repeat my “scandalous” story to every nurse in every treatment meeting. I was banned form any contact to the internet. My phone and my laptop were taken from me. A rumor had somehow come about that my Lebanese friend and her siblings were developing some sort of mass suicide plan. My father and stepmother scolded me of having been in connections with a possible terrorist, making assumptions of them having used me in some sort of sexual play.

After the two months, I was discharged.

But after a week, I was locked right back in. During a treatment meeting I had told my nurse that I had been sexually abused. My parents, appalled, did not believe me but instead stated I must be psychotic and locked me right back in. I had to go through several psychosis tests, police investigations, the works. The nurses told me they believed me, but again and again my “false memories” were put on the backshelf as some sort of symptom of a more serious mental illness. I was banned from seeing anyone, including my siblings. My father would come in, teary eyed and white-faced, to describe things that would account for my “change”. I would cry for hours, curled up into a ball on my scratchy hospital bed.

To escape, I wrote and wrote in my diary, hidden from the nurses. I would lie on my bed, earphones attached to the little cd player they had in every room. I’d listen to the Fame Monster on repeat for hours, read the lyrics in the little booklet, and attempt to forget everything. I had a Monster Ball audio recording on my iPod, and would listen to that with my eyes closed and pretend that I was there instead. I can’t imagine what it would have been like without you, screaming words of acceptance and love and strength in my ears. I stuck to my word, and stood my ground. I stayed in a youth home for the following summer, again accompanied by your music. And in the fall, when I was actually able to go to the Monster Ball, I cried my eyes out.

It felt funny, for somebody who never knew of my existence, could be able to say the exact words I needed to hear. I stayed strong.

Thank you.

30 Days of Truth: Day 12

2013-02-07T12:27:00.000+02:00

DAY 1 / DAY 2 / DAY 3 / DAY 4 / DAY 5 / DAY 6 / DAY 7 / DAY 8 / DAY 9 / DAY 10 / DAY 11

Day 12:

Something you never get complimented on

Okay, this is going to sound weird. But there are minor things in my body that I really like, but I never get compliments on. Like my fingers, and my fingernails, or my collarbone, or my eyes — my fingers are really long thanks to my mother’s genetics, and my fingernails are bigger than usual, not that they’re long past the fingertip, but they start from an earlier point in my fingers.

I’ve always liked it since nobody seems to have fingers or fingernails like me. There’s one finger that got stuck in a car door when I was seven, and has been crooked since. I love that finger; I love the little tricks I can do with it by bending it weirdly. Usually, though, it creeps people out.

I’ve always been fond of my collarbone for the way it sticks out, not in a too-skinny stick-out kind of thing, but it’s something in my body I’ll always consider beautiful. It doesn’t change whether or not I have a good or bad self-image day. It’s always there, like a comfort. I hold my fingertips to my collarbone when I’m nervous, or really focusing on something.

My eyes, well, I usually get compliments on my glasses but not my eyes, or how my glasses make my eyes look but not how my eyes look just as they are. It’s funny, cause my glasses are just a frame, the lenses are see-through, after all — yet they act as a barricade. My eye color tends to change in the light a lot. It changes with time, too. When I was little they used to be bright blue. Now it’s some green-gray-blue mixture.

Thimble

2013-02-06T22:32:00.000+02:00

Thimble

I wasn’t a man of many words,

I climbed on top of cities,

Metropolitan mountains,

Libraries and churches,

To absorb the wonders of

Caramel latte lips, of red

And pink nails on cracked

Touch-screens—

In a feeble attempt to

Melt together the old and

The new, the repeat and

The reverse, to grasp

The scent of exhaust

Fumes on a cold July

Day, rimmed with cardamom

And cigarettes—

The world was like a ladybug

Stuck in a thimble: red and on

Its convexed back, legs

Twitching in the shadows.

Sanskriti - Waiting For The Adventure

2013-02-04T21:34:00.000+02:00

Sanskriti - Culture

Back in September 2012 — not so long ago, though it does feel so — I was contacted by Melissa Balan, a 22-year-old emerging filmmaker who had been intrigued by the content of my blog in relation to the documentary she was doing research on. For the next seven months we exchanged emails, very long on my part as I answered her questions about my life and the culture I have been brought up in, and expressed my views on several cultural concepts, mainly upon globalization and how the world is growing smaller. As she briefed me on her project, I grew more and more interested in the general concept of looking at how technology has changed the world for my generation. As the year 2012 neared its end, I received a request to take part in the documentary as one of the five subjects to be on-film. Obviously, I said yes.

Excerpt from the Sanskriti Website:

”But while we are not the first generation to go through this Quarter Life Crisis, as it’s sometimes been called, it’s obvious that there is something fundamentally different this time around. We do have computers, internet, email, texting, Facebook. We have literally a universe of information freely and easily accessible to anyone with internet access. Gone are the days of landlines and hand-written letters – we have a plethora of ways to get in touch with others, and to share knowledge, ideas and information. The world is more connected than ever, and is smaller and more tangible to us than it ever was to our parents or grandparents.

So what does it mean? What does it mean to come of age in a globalized world?

What are the implications of entering adulthood in this modern, revolutionized, technological universe? How have our goals for the future shifted from the goals of previous generations?

As a generation trapped in the middle of two eras – the pre- and post-millennium – and the leaders of an unknown future, where do we stand?

Sanskriti is a Sanskrit word that translates to the equivalent of the English world for culture. The film will be a global affair, shot over a period of months and spanning five countries. It will follow five members of the Millennial Generation from all different societies and walks of life, from Asia, Africa, Europe, and the USA, and explore their view of modern civilization from their unique culture. By profiling their day-to-day lives, exploring their universe, finding out their goals for the future, and understanding who they are, we will attempt to answer these questions.

Sanskriti will try to understand what it means to be a member of a global village and a digital landscape. It will be a portrait of a generation, and an exploration of the twenty-first century human condition from the point of view of the world’s future leaders. By better understanding today’s most important and complex generation, Sanskriti will try to better understand the world we live in.”

I’ve been in contact with technology since a relatively young age. My family wasn’t the richest during my early childhood; my mother stayed home with me and my sister while my father studied in university and worked part-time here and there. Our first home computer arrived when I was four or five years old. My father was a keen gamer and introduced me and my sister to the enthralling world of computer games — mostly of car racing, in which I remember driving some Land Rover around in a desert, jumping off huge cliffs and exploring (instead of racing).

As I entered elementary/primary school, we had moved to a better neighborhood and were a lot better off (by the way, you start school at the age of seven here), and my sister and I had frequent fights over who could go to the Disney website (or Barbie, or MyScene, or DivaStar, those dolls with huge heads that were ripped off by Bratz) and play games and usually print a bunch of stuff.

When I was nine years old my father set me up with a Microsoft MSN account, which I primarily used to talk with my aunt. At the time, though, my father was into multiplayer games online and had gained many friends abroad. When I was ten we went to Italy to visit two of his gaming buddies, one in Rome and one in Naples. By that time I was fluent enough in English to converse with his friends more than he or my mother did, sitting in the backseat as we drove through the disastrous traffic of Rome and Naples, pointing out cool motorcycles and tiny cars in English. I remember the scent of the pomegranate trees around our rental house, and the goldfish in the little pond, and the tiny invisible mosquitoes that bit every inch of my body. I remember the spaghetti (which to us felt undercooked) and the yummy orange soda with a starfish picture on it. I remember being surrounded by people, foreign, strange people for the first time. And I loved it. Us, coming from the generally-considered cool Nordic summers, basking in the October sun in shorts and tank tops as natives strolled past in thick jackets and mittens.

Since then, I have had this growing hole inside, this hunger for knowledge and connection with other parts of the world. My childhood safety zone was opened to a big world, which made me all tingly inside with a mixture of fear and excitement.

A few Christmases onward, my sister and I got our first personal computer. That was only the beginning of my technological life. I was just eleven years old, but had already gained experience in the world of computers for the past four or so years. In came the different joys and dangers. Both of which I got to experience, and both of which I still experience today.

TO BE CONTINUED

Remember to check back for more posts on this awesome adventure I'm about to embark on. More importantly, don't forget to check out these important websites:

Our Facebook page

Our official blog

Our fundraising website at IndieGoGo

Dress Rehearsal Number Two

2013-02-01T23:44:00.001+02:00

Dress Rehearsal Number Two

Wind chime, dinner bell

Vast entity in one bite

Tattered fantasy wings,

As legs lay open—

Churn the inborn mist,

Skirted gentlemen in the

Doorway, I squat on the

Edge, bite into the meat

Like a pecking baby bird,

Tease the dogs till they howl—

I suckle on the hope through

A pink bendy straw,

Bloody and raw,

My fingertips bearing

Microfilaments of magic.

Monday Madness #22

2013-01-28T22:59:00.003+02:00

by Colette Saint Yves

Yesterday you said tomorrow

I haven't been posting much lately; mostly due to the combination of a busy-bee lifestyle and a general confusion regarding this blog. I haven't really had much to write about, or I have, but I haven't been able to put it into words. Call it writer's block or a creativity block or whatever - I just haven't been writing.

There's been a lot of things hovering over my head, a lot of issues and memories that tend to merge into this blue-gray Eeyore-style personal raincloud. Though I try my best to fend it off, and push it away in some unsorted folder in the back of my brain (which I know is not healthy, at all) it keeps popping up rather spontaneously during the day. At night, well - I have dreamt of these things every night for the past month so I guess it says something. Always running away in a panic, but am always caught. Last time I was stabbed in the back with a peeling knife. Lovely.

I am, on the bright side, quite proud of myself for working very hard in school and in my dance training. I am halfway through my final-thesis choreography, and have been doing the written tasks. School has been good. I have been studying a lot at this wonderful library I found near one of the dance studios I go to. It's such a dream, a really old building with lots of floors. And they have comfy couches and blankets in the reading room.

I haven't cut since November - not so long, but still a small accomplishment. I have had my temptations. My therapy-search is still on hold due to money. I'm going to need to overcome my anxiety over phone-conversations and call my psychologist at the psychiatric clinic (actually called the clinic of mood-disorders, classy) to set up an appointment and thus keep me on their list. And I need to call the icky psychiatrist to renew my prescriptions for my meds - my pill-free dream shall be put on hold for another decade or so, I guess. It sucks. I hate it. It's like a fucking imprint of the insane and the uncapable. It will be a risk-factor in every job I apply for, every future educational facility... I never liked this let's-mess-with-nature business to begin with. I just wish my sixteen-year-old self had just flat out said NO FUCK NO NEVER to medication. But hey, what can you do...

I am happy to be moving forward. I have always had a future. There is always tomorrow. But I have to work toward it. I am working toward it, now. Every day is a day closer, every task completed is another step on the staircase. I am done with being on hold because of things that are out of my control but which, still, control me. The past can go fuck itself. I have a life to live.

Eat the Heads First

2013-01-26T20:58:00.000+02:00

Eat the Heads First

I set my bones

Out to dry,

Charred by

The milky broth

Simmering inside

The pot—

The creatures give

A rampant sigh as

I sink their weary heads,

Charged with the

Guilt of a tumultuous

Nothing,

Knuckles blue and

Delicate—

I call for the

Skin unchanged by

Iron clawed revenue,

For the clarity of

Flames strewn across

My drunken eyes—

And I stir the pot.

Thinking I may

Finally deliver

Death

In a delicious pop.

Monday Madness #21

2012-12-31T23:09:00.000+02:00

My body is not a graveyard

So this is how I shall be ending my year. My darling is currently snoozing in the break room at work due to being sick (again) so there shall be no New Years kisses tonight. Not that I mind, at least the first New Years we get to spend together I'll get a lot of kisses. Thinking back I spent last New Years Eve just as tonight, at home, with the family, mostly alone once the little man is asleep. It's how I like it though; transitions such as this require some alone-time.

Though I haven't been posting much lately, my mind and body have still been pondering over things quite fervently. I have grown a little paranoid of unwanted eyes reading these texts, and thus have kept my mouth shut. Or rather, my fingers. December went by really quickly, to be honest. Starting out with an exam week and then the kick-start of a new school period, then paddling on to dance recitals and work shifts (tiring, very tiring, but pretty nice) and then bam, it was Christmas. A new sort of Christmas once again. I've been feeling very guilty spending the holidays with this half of my family only. Not that taking the other half into account would be possible - I do not see a way in which it would be - but I must admit I felt very very guilty, for numerous reasons. The fact that I couldn't afford a present for basically anyone (the presents that I did get were sponsored by my mother) was among the least important.

What ate at me most was the absence of my father, and my reluctance and inability to deal with this fact as it was, after all, a voluntary parting on my side. However much I move on with everything else there is that big bubble inside, full of questions, anger, disappointment, guilt. To tell you the truth I feel as though I have murdered somebody. Memories, good ones, are dying, numbed out by fluctuations in medication (I forget to take them) or just put away somewhere voluntarily. Every now and then I remember things, little things, and it shocks me like an unexpected needle. My therapy process has been put on hold, for a change. I haven't cut, and I hope to keep it that way. My eating-disorder bug is back inside my mind again, though. It is scary.

It'll be midnight soon. 2013. This year has gone by way too fast. I'm still thinking of resolutions. All I know now is that I just want to be happier. A lot happier. Not that I haven't been happy. I just want the happy-sad ratio to even out more.

Need You Right in Front of Me

2012-12-25T23:45:00.000+02:00

Need You Right in Front of Me

I’m not the soul-speaking kind—

Doll of soft words in pillow-cased plight,

I don’t whisper enigmas in

A Sunday-morning kind of love,

My cravings differ on paper and in bed—

Scratch on skin until it’s red,

I hurl words across continents

And seas as I hold folds of flesh

Between trembling fingers

The thought lingers, exasperated:

I touch but do not touch

I feel but do not feel,

I watch, but only in secret

Blinds shut from curious eyes—

She’s there, but she isn’t

Her breath is caught in the context,

Our words fuse into a manic song,

A screen that seemed

so spacious

Is now a tumultuous mess—

Slightly of resemblance

To the slick post-apocalyptic appearance

Of the sheets last summer.

Change The World

2012-12-25T22:34:00.000+02:00

Change the World

The rare rustle of

Newspapers—

Consistent,

It’s only a weekend

Kind of thing,

Little fingers

And feet like

To destroy

The news with

Chocolate pudding,

As soldiers clench

And politicians sigh,

Their heads suddenly

Sugary and delicious.

Look, She's Laughing

2012-11-20T20:47:00.000+02:00

Look, She's Laughing

With caution,

His palms travel

Along the stone,

Easing in

The flesh and

Bone, as small

Fists pound

An intrauterine

Drum—

Like bees

We hum, content

Unless it rains.

30 Days of Truth: Day 11

2012-11-07T00:00:00.000+02:00

DAY 1 / DAY 2 / DAY 3 / DAY 4 / DAY 5 / DAY 6 / DAY 7 / DAY 8 / DAY 9 / DAY 10

Day 11:

Something people seem to compliment you the most on

My intelligence, or my uniqueness — it depends on the environment. At school I am complimented on my intelligence and my study/work methods and my note making. I make very colorful notes, being for the most part a visual learner, and am really specific about my work. I have inherited a bunch of perfectionist tendencies from my mother, and always strive to do my best in my work, whether it is at school or at a job. Part of the cause is, again, everything I have been through. It is very difficult to let go of the past, or live through the present. The future is an important asset in my every day life. Getting a good education is basis for a good future, ergo I put my energy in my education.

Some of my history notes from last course.

I am also complimented upon my uniqueness and, moreover, how I am different from others. I have had my spell of trying to fit in but after a while realized it’s not good and started to just be me. These days, I don’t have to fear that I will be judged upon qualities of my persona. Some people will mention how I dress differently, or how I see things differently, or how my laughter is different from the usual kind (whatever that is).

In the earlier years these things have not, however, been a compliment.

I was bullied for a long while due to my smartness. Had I come out in high school, I figure I would have been bullied for that too. I guess giving out the full picture of what it is to be you requires an audience mature enough to digest this information. Thus, what used to be seen as a fault has become a virtue.

It’s funny, really, how things can go through such a transformation without actually transforming. It’s like I am observed through a different lens.

Monday Madness #20

2012-11-05T06:00:00.000+02:00

Let Me Sleep

So this weekend's been interesting. My mother and her husband flew off to Paris on Friday morning so it's just been me and my sister and my step-grandparents (so to speak) to take care of our little three-year-old energybomb. I usually love spending time with my little brother, but this weekend could not have come at a worse time. My body, most likely reacting to all this uproar inside my cranium, has mainly been longing to sleep the time away, or curl up and cry. While at the same time, sleep has been difficult to find.

On Thursday night, when my stepfather's parents had already arrived, my mother sat my step-Grandma down to tell her about my condition. She asked me to show her where my pills were, and that if I were to feel terrible I should go to her. Easier said that done, obviously. Not only did the situation further agitate me, it left me ashamed. First I wore long sleeves to hide the damage from last Monday but then grew tired. Why should I care?

In a way I have been enjoying the absence of my overly-perfectionist mother. Instead of having someone hover over me all the time, I feel cared for. I don't get yelled at for putting a spoon in the wrong spot in the dishwasher. It has been soothing to my overly-stressed filter of all the bad-nothings that slip out of my mother's mouth unintentionally. Yet, her presence is still imminent, and leaving things undone due to lack of energy has mainly left me embarrassed and confused. My little brother has clung to me as his surrogate-parent for the time, and though I love his company, it has been stressful.

I went to watch a scary movie last Monday to have something more normal to be scared of; something trivial and ordinary but frightening enough to wipe away my seemingly irrational fear of an out-of-touch parent hundreds of kilometers away. Stupid idea, I suppose. I have been sleeping with the lights on for the rest of the week. Instead of fearing only the things in the film, they joined together with what was already inhabiting my mind, and created this lovely monster that just sits there without doing anything, enjoying the fact that this immobile presence is enough to scare the living hell out of me.

On top of this, I have felt unsafe within my own home. I have wanted nothing else than to be held, but faced with the company of two supposed grandparents not too close to me, a younger sister with intimacy issues, and a three-year-old that is too small to actually hold me, I have had to make do with whatever huggable I have found on my bed. My anxiety level has been suffocatingly high. Getting out of bed has resulted in my vision slowly turning black and a sudden wave of nausea. I have curled up into a ball and just stayed there in my room which, though empty, has felt very small and crowded.

More than anything, I have felt ashamed. Ashamed that I have relapsed, ashamed that I have more scars to hide, ashamed that having to deal with my anxiety has made me seem less willing to handle my responsibilities in taking care of my little brother. I visited the school nurse and doctor this week, and they gave me yet another BDI to fill out, which has only made things worse.

Thinking of next weekend, I just want to get drunk out of my mind and forget.

But that isn't something I do.

Blah.

Kindle

2012-11-04T01:22:00.000+02:00

Mother, Father by VIN Tew on Flickr.

Kindle

The sight of blood kindles

A dark sense of release.

Blades of upturned skin

Yawn open slowly,

A rupture

As I watch the beads

Of red that begin to appear,

Fattening.

So fucking special.

Inside, the shame and sense

Of empowerment interlock.

Again, I have done

What I should not do.

Again, I feel a prickling

Sense of pride.

I hurt.

I am special.

I am seen.

But the truth is

That the pain

Is no longer a victory.

At this stage,

Where the only step back

Is a minor relapse,

There is no victory;

Only a haunting sense loss.