Thursday, 9 January 2014

The Bad is Coming to Get Me

I’m feeling bad. Again. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe it’s just one of those days (it is Tuesday after all).
The last one certainly isn’t the reason. You don’t have more than 40 days of ‘those days’ consecutively and remain ‘just’ having anything.
Some people don’t understand a person feeling so extremely BAD but not crying, not moving, not making a fuss, not doing…anything normal ‘feeling bad’ people do.
I want to see the Doc again. I want a shrink. I want some new pills. I want better ones. I want the Bad to go away. I want to be skinnier. I want to run away on holiday. I want more money. I want a pet monkey…I want the new…the better…I want….I want to just be god damn happy .
There’s been something behind me. Or maybe it’s above me. Maybe it’s both. I don’t know. But something, I can feel something getting closer, gaining on me. It has been for ages. It is ‘the Bad’. It hasn’t seen me yet. But it will soon. Because there’s only me and there’s only it and I’m the only one it wants. So it’s coming.
I’m feeling scared. Not screamy scared, no. But flinchy scared. Sleep with one eye open scared. I hope it doesn’t come at night because you’re not allowed to have ‘one of those days’ in the night. People are sleeping. The world is sleeping and you must be good and quiet and pretend to be asleep also. You must stay in your bed and not disturb. But what if it comes? What if it comes?
I’ve got pills for night time. Doctor’s orders. Keep them close. Under the bed. In the drawer. Take one. Or two. Two means you’ll knock things over, even in the morning. But at least two makes it safer. Better hidden. I’ve got pills for the day, but they don’t hide me; they just stop me crying so much.
I want to see the Doc and I want to see a shrink. I want the Doc to make me feel like smiles from the bottle and I want to shrink to come and get the thing coming for me and kill it.
I want to be normal. I just want to be normal.
This is why you shall not hear me slagging off those ‘silly girls’ of society that so many people mouth off about. The girls that stride around in groups smelling like a terrorist attack just happened in Boots perfume depo. Those girls in crowds in the toilets, applying ever more layers of makeup to their masks. Those girls who ‘annoy’ with their coarse laughter, jostle with their huge patent bags. Yet their crises are so black and white. So rational. Boys. Bags. Work. Beauty. Money. Sex. Work. Parties. Money. Uni. Sex. Beauty. Lack of money. Travel. Clothes. Sex. Boys. LIFE!
Secretly, I’d kill to be them. Simple. Simple means safe. Simple.
It turns my stomach to hear the high and mighty haughtily ‘validating’ their own struggles and traumas against those of such girls. In my opinion; if you are in such a comfortable position as to be able to sit back and compare your troubles to those of others, well then they are just as invalid as theirs.

When you have real mental suffering it is all you can do to not bloody kill yourself let alone take a break to have a quick shifty about to make sure you’re still better than other people at ‘doing’ suffering. 

Wednesday, 8 January 2014

A quick one about a surprising event.....

This is a very hastily put together post because I'm knackered and been in a dark mood lately which means I find writing  not so easy at the moment.....But I've been wanting to share this with you ever since it happened...You excuse the non existent prose- it will be back soon!

Now, I'd already sworn myself into going out on New Yrs.
I had made a decision; 'Katie- you have NEVER 'had' a proper new yrs. You've NEVER gone out, and why? Ana that's why. THIS year, though, I dont care how sick you feel, how 'not up to it' you are- even if your bmi was in the minus- YOU ARE GOING OUT and getting into exactly the same horifically trollied state as everyone else your age.'

Then another friend asked me 'fancy going to london for new yrs?' about 3 days before the 31st. My response was to dimiss it as another one of her feather-brain plots, I instantly shot it down with my black and white logical reasons about just why it was a completely unrealistic expectation, quoting price/extortion, travel, planning time blah blah blah....


To cut a long boring story short.....


I am still rather bloody proud and smug with this HUGE achievement for me. 

She drove down, we managed to get a premier inn for £39 each in Heathrow for the night...

Bought copious amounts of alcohol from Sainsburys on the way (looking slightly suspect as we checked in with sagging, clonking bags'. 

Drank a goodly amount in the evening in the room, then got the hotel shuttle bus to Terminal 5 where we rode the underground (free on new yrs after 11.45pm!) taking directions for the best hotspots for the night from other commuters.

In the end we adopted the tac of 'follow the pissed happy people'. It worked!

We wandered about for a while, soaking up the atmosphere but then went and found a pub to stay warm in until the was the BUSIEST pub i have ever been in- like- busier than any nightclub.

Somehow I managed to get to the bar enough times to leave that pub in a happily disgraceful state.

Bit of a blur from then. Flashes of chatting to police officers...briefly losing my companion....singing...falling over...more alcohol from somewhere or other......



from then on it is seriously BLANK. 

I woke up feeling as though the end had finally come.....

Never, ever been so so ill. I thought I was dying. 

I can no longer say 'I have never made myself sick'. It's a sorry state of affairs when you are knelt before a grotty disabled loo as your friend checks you out and you attempt to drag as much alcohol out of your system the same way it came in......sorry for the details.

Still, ACHIEVEMENT! Can't believe I did it really. It broke all my 'rules'.

Here are some pictures...