well just show me how, and let me never be broken

He told you everything you couldn't bear to tell yourself, he made sure you knew your flaws intimately. He made sure you adhered to your standards, and he understood why you had them. He was there when you felt no one else was, and he promised he would never leave. Blades always keeps his promises. Blades would never lie to you. Not like the rest of them. He introduced you to Bones, and you felt you were betraying Blades. But Bones, she was a temptress. She knew what you needed, she told you what Blades never could. She started slowly, whispering in your ear, making you spend five extra minutes really looking. Made you see everything you'd been missing for years. Everything you needed to fix, everything Blades couldn't help with. As Bones lulled you into her bed and hung her laundry in your mind, Blades became her instrument. She had seduced him too, stolen you from right underneath him. You were left captive.

She would squeeze tighter, her skeletal hands digging into your shoulder blades and clavicle and circling the thin wrists you were always secretly proud of, bruising and mottling with her contempt. She would tap the hipbone and revel in the hollow sound of bone on bone. A job well done.

She made you kneel on bathroom floors. She made you taste the acid. She told you everything you knew deep down was true, what everyone else wouldn't tell. She congratulated you on the pit in your stomach, the knot of hunger that was ever present, the drug of fooling everyone, of having the one thing no one could take from you. Always just a little bit further, always just a little bit more. You couldn't get out from under her.

Until, one day, you did.

You knew they were poison, the two of them. You left them, hoping they wouldn't claim anyone else. Knowing they would, and feeling ill at the thought.

Blades showed up on your doorstep one day, ratty suitcase in hand and wet from the rain. It was like he never left, and you fell for him all over again. He knew everything about you, and you knew nothing about him. And that was just how it was. But this time, no one could stand the lies Blades was telling you--and they were lies. And you were starting to see him for what he really is, and you still are now. and he terrifies you.

words are the only currency left to trade in

I just want to be happy.
I just want to be happy.
I just want to be happy.
I just want to be happy.

(I'm hoping if I say it enough, it'll actually happen. I am utterly sick of feeling this way, and I'm sick of myself, most days. I just want out of this fucking hole I've dug myself into. My words are stilted and nothing is really making much sense and I'm a second out of sync and I just want to be ok. I'm sick of writing letters I'll never send, and I'm sick of you thinking it's about you. It's not. You were not my reason for anything, you were an amazing person in my life and I fell in love with you and I don't see why that is such a bad thing. Yes, I relied on you. Yes, I was dependent. You said yourself, though--you relied too. You were getting dependent too...and my head is going in circles).

Fuck this. I have a paper to write.

so, ok, maybe sort of?

I'm pretty sure Chris is right: I put too much value in individuals. But I don't live my life for anyone else, I honestly do not. And I feel like it's being made out that this is my fault, that I somehow messed up by getting attached, by relying. I'm probably wrong on feeling like that. Maybe my wording is off, it's definitely stilted. I think I'm out of words, at least for now.

"I keep running around, when all I want is to lay motionless."

I should probably cheer up. I'm going to go write my Global Politics paper now.

sea dreamer, oh perfect machine

My continual ability to show up at concerts super early is really astounding--but at least we didn't show up at 8 this time. Wildlife was doing their sound check when we got there, which was phenomenal--they played "Sea Dreamer." 'Nough said.

Wildlife played first, and they were the band I knew the best. They were wonderful, and hilarious, and talked about how there was a referendum for people from Oshawa to Oshawaians (or something similar?) or Oshawawatts. Apparently, someone on some committee or council didn't think through Oshawawatts--just say it out loud. Auschwitz, much?

Oh well. Oshawa is industrial and situated between two nuclear plants--according to the lead vocalist, they have a lot of deformed babies anyway. I love banter.

The Bad Arts: Paul Conrod's voice is a brick wall and broken glass and gasoline and air so cold you see your breath. The soundscapes that this band creates are amazing. I was up front, and there was a guy next to me who was pretty much on the stage. A friend of his offered me a drink from his beer. It was a good night. It was intense, I don't think I can accurately convey. I was close to convulsing, because I get like that at concerts. It was sublime.

The First Aid Kit: Sing-alongs and more banter and lots of clapping. A very good way to end the night. Lots of dancing and getting really sweaty and warm and it was fantastic and wonderful.

It was a freezing walk home, and I am very sore now, but I had an amazing time and I wouldn't change any of it. I also bought a cassette tape, and am just now realizing that I'm not quite sure if I still have a tape player in Saint John. Oh well, the band also has a link to download the album, so I'm set. Hurray anachronistic technology!

let's be perfectly honest, here

I just miss you. Lots. I recognize you don't miss me too much, though, and I'm dealing with that. We really fucked up, boy. We really, really did. I just wish you would talk to me again.

Good things about today: I had a meeting with Dr. McKim, the Honours adviser for those considering Honouring in English. She had no idea I'm a first-year, and said my work and what I say in class is "outstanding." We went through courses for next year, and it's a lot of English--History of Literary Theory (3 credit hours), Contemporary Literary Theory (3 credit hours), History of the Novel (full-year), Survey of Children's Literature (3 credit hours) and a seminar on Contemporary Atlantic Canadian Women Poets.

Fun Fact: She is also best friends with my grade 10 English teacher. Small world.

I'm excited about that. And I'm going to a concert tonight with Mark and Sarah (a girl in my Soc class), so it should be fun. I doubt the walls will have condensation this time around, but I'm looking forward to it.

You go around telling people we're not speaking because you think it's better for everyone involved? How, exactly, are you the one hurting more in this situation? Fucking Mother Fuck, I'm the one on medication, I'm the one who relapsed, I'm the one who feels fucking sick at the sight of you and not being able to speak to you and never fucking knowing where I stand. I'm the one who fucking had a staring contest with a bottle of pills and a bottle of whiskey and barely, barely won. You say you almost killed yourself and you get hand-holding and hugs and me telling you "No matter what time, I don't care, call me. I'm here for you." I get your fucking voicemail. And you tell me you understand? Are you fucking kidding me? You fall for girls easily and then you don't pursue anything because they're too young or you're not ready for a relationship despite the fact you were pretty much in one but really, I'm pretty sure you're just fucking scared. Really, I don't think you fall for us--you just fall for us falling for you. You know we're doing it, I know you're not stupid, you can tell when a girl is falling hard for you. And you let it happen, because you like it.

And you say I'm childish?

How I Live Now

I wake up in the morning and I don't want to. I drag myself out of bed when I don't want to, but I can't justify staying--I consider that a plus, I take what victories I can. I go to class to keep my average up, I go to class because it's distraction, I go to class because it's the one thing I know I'm good at that no one can take away from me.

I focus on my family-by-blood and not my family-by-choice, and I ignore the fact that the picture Zara drew that time she visited is pretty much a lie when it comes to me now. I take solace in hugs from my nieces when I see them, and I talk to my sister because she grounds me more than anybody else I know. I love her for it, and I can't wait until I'm past this and can thank her properly. I can't wait until it's five years from now and I'm able to laugh at the more high school bits of this, I can't wait until it's five years from now and this will feel like a really bad fever dream that I couldn't get out of.

I find little things to focus on. I don't always focus on the big things, and I may not always focus on school, but I'm still trying. I try and accept the fact that you're ignoring me completely, I try to accept the fact that you probably just need time. I try and not be mad with you, I try and not think it means you hate me and never want to speak to me again. I try to not feel like you abandoned me, but that's what it feels like. My success in that department is mixed at best. Abandonment is not unconditional love.

Instead, I focus on the people who don't ignore me. The people who actively seek me out, who realize that a lot of the time, I can't ask. I try and work on self-forgiveness and self-compassion and self- care instead of self-injury. When I feel like my life has gotten entirely off of where I wanted it to be, I just remember my water wings and that it happens to everyone and it is not the end of the world and this does not make me a weak person. I try and reverse the situation, like Kathleen and I have talked about. I try and avoid manipulating what we talk about. I follow the list. I try, and fail, and try again. And somewhere along the way, I swear, I'll get better.

sleeping pills to feel forgiven

October 2006- Approx. March 2007

Breakfast:
1/4 cup oatmeal (when measured dry)
approx. 1/4 cup skim milk
1 tsp. brown sugar

Eat half. Throw the rest out.

Coffee (1 splenda, approx 1 tsp. skim milk)

OR

2 egg whites scrambled, 1/4 skim milk, salsa

Lunch:

4 cucumber slices, quartered
1 cup iceberg lettuce
3-4 baby carrots, sliced
1 tbsp. fat-free Italian dressing

Dinner:
Around 2 cups of vegetables--broccoli, red pepper, green pepper, mushroom, and carrots, mostly.
1 tsp chopped garlic
1 tbsp soya sauce

OR

1 English muffin, 1 egg

Control, for me, used to be 400 calories a day, an hour of pacing my room, and countless leg lifts. It used to be the space between my thighs and punishment over a cookie. It was throwing a phonebook because my parents response was "just eat something." Control used to be a razorblade in hand because it was easier to do that then to think about it. It is so much easier to fix a bleeding cut than it is to fix my head.

Fixing a bleeding cut, eating, exercise, purging--these are solitary activities. They require no involvement but my own, reliance is not a part of any of these. Because when you rely on people, they have a tendency to leave. The ability to stick my fingers down my throat--that doesn't leave. The ability to drag a razorblade across my arm--that doesn't leave. People do. You did.

I found this, a few months back, and the only thing I can do when I read it is cry: http://community.livejournal.com/proanorexia/35459872.html#cutid1

I hated myself so. much. I would chew in intervals of 6, 12, or 24. The feel of my hipbones and clavicle, the protusion of my clavicle meeting my shoulder blade--these were my moments of solace. What was I proving?

What am I proving now? I relapsed, yes. I have a diagnosis, yes. I have medication and a support system that is slowly dying and I have a mother who seems to think I don't need to see a counselor. I want to be healthy, but I don't know for certain what healthy is.

Kathleen recommended that if I have anything to say to you, just write in a letter. This isn't one of those letters, but I know you'll never read this. Chances are, this should not be on the internet. I'm really past the point of caring.

Did you know that contacting you is akin to self-harm for me now? I can't wait for you, I need to fix me. Are you really giving up that easy, do you really not care one way or another? I was starting to think that may just be my thought process going off in places it shouldn't, but I'm really starting to wonder.

I always was a strong swimmer

Even as a kid. I could spend hours in the pool in our backyard, I would kick my legs and look like a frog. The swimming in my mind has always been a little different, though.

I've been swimming for years. At first, things were ok--I'm a strong swimmer, I'm smart, I have a good head on my shoulders, I know when to rest and I know my own limits. But then, the current gets a bit stronger. The wind gets a bit cooler, and I start shivering. Before I knew it, I'm not in my little happy pond anymore--I was stuck in the middle of the ocean, and I had no way to get back. I lost a major source of support in my life, and I drove him away in the aftermath of that, but that was only the catalyst for something that had been building for at least the past five years.*

I'm still swimming, my arms are tired and my legs are weak and shaky and my mouth is filled with salt and algae. Some days, I feel like I'm drowning. I have come so, so close to drowning, closer than anybody realizes. Closer than I've let myself acknowledge. I've been on the edge of letting it win, giving up, throwing in the towel and floating indefinitely.

But I've got water wings. And sometimes, the most you can ask of yourself is to admit you need a little help every now and then.

I've been breaking, and I know I've worried all of you. I know you're probably angry, and upset, and feel completely lost and helpless--I know because that's what I've been the past four months, and then some. I know you all saw me destroying myself long before I did, you saw me fall so many times I've lost count. You saw me. Not always at my worst, I think only one person other than me has seen that, but thank you for not letting me drown. Thank you for keeping me afloat when I just couldn't anymore--for offering beds to sleep in and canvases to paint on and laps to cry in.

I'm not kidding myself, this won't be easy. I need to pull myself out of this water and find sand and dry land, and it's been so long since my feet have touched solid ground that I don't know what it really feels like anymore. But I miss it. I look forward to days laying in the sand, feeling sunlight for the first time in months.

* in all honesty, it could potentially be more around 8 years.

on the plus side:

I'm cocooned in warm laundry, my nieces are continually adorable, day 8 is coming to a close and it stays at 8 (no 0's here, nuh uh). Failbooking.com continues to be excellent, if a little painful to read given the amount of spelling and grammatical errors inherent on such a website. Twin Peaks remains excellent, my English homework is mostly done (I just need to type it up, which is what I've been telling myself I'll do for the past two hours--I got a little derailed). Grades are good, the weather is getting warmer, the aforementioned laundry provides lots of clean socks, my hair looked good today, things are out of my control and while I'm nowhere near ok with that, I at least recognize that's the case. I've got people who love me and I love them.

An Open Letter to Conor Oberst

So, I totally loved your music when I was 14-15. I still love it now, but it was verging on obsessional at that point. Seriously. I wrote a paper about you for my Art class and everything.

But it makes way more sense to like you at that age, that's the obligatory I'mma-cry-for-no-reason-and-feel-everything-really-intensely phase that every teenager has. So why am I listening to the Every Day and Every Night EP and empathizing way more than I'd like? Seriously, did you have to put "A New Arrangement," "Neely O'Hara," AND "A Line Allows Progress, a Circle Does Not" all on the same album and right after one another?

Come on, man. That is far from cool.

because who doesn't love a good personality test?

Apparently, I'm INFJ: Introverted Intuitive Feeling Judging. Because answering 68 multiple choice questions clearly reveals the depths of who I am...regardless, it's fun.

The agreeable nature and quiet personality of INFJs makes them particularly vulnerable to hurt feelings. Distress within close relationships can shatter the INFJ. Like all NFs under stress, INFJs feel fragmented and lost — as if they are acting out a part rather than simply being themselves. This disassociation can be related to physical symptoms for the INFJ, whether real or imagined. Feeling split off from their physical natures, INFJs may become virtually immobilized by repressed feelings.

Although INFJs may feel like remaining still and stationary until the chaos and confusion of a stressful situation dissipates, it would be best for them to actively sort out their needs from others. Being excessively cooperative and agreeable, the INFJ has a tendency to adopt values and beliefs of others as their own. When external conflicts grow, so does the INFJ's sense of personal disharmony. Disassociating themselves from others takes a great deal of effort for the INFJ.

Quote of the day: "there's a fine line between love and madness."

I feel like I'm breaking apart. I'm losing bits of me daily, losing limbs, muffled ears with cotton-balls and feeling ghosts in my fingertips. Sensations, experiences, nothing is touching me right now. I feel like I'm breaking down. I'm terrified. I don't know when it started, I just want it to end. I want my head to be fixed and I'll be happy and normal again. But I don't know how to do it. And people keep leaving, because they get fed up that I can't fix me and that I think they don't care and I don't know how to make them stay, I don't know how to say what I need to.

I know there's a light at the end of the tunnel. I just can't see it right now, my vision is blurred.

holding onto yourself the best you can

"The assumption is that the alternative to self-injury is "acting normally," but on the contrary...the alternative to self-injury is total loss of control and possibly suicide. It becomes a forced choice from among limited options."--Solomon and Farrand (1996)

How you know you're ready to stop:

• I have a solid emotional support system of friends, family, and/or professionals that I can use if I feel like hurting myself. Pretty much, yeah. I try to spread the crazy around.
  
• There are at least two people in my life that I can call if I want to hurt myself. There are at least two people in my life who've offered...seeking them out is another story, and is more difficult than I'd like to admit.
  
• I feel at least somewhat comfortable talking about SIV with three different people. Yes. To varying degrees.
  
• I have a list of at least ten things I can do instead of hurting myself. My list has five things. But most people can only come up with one, so I am good with that.
  
• I have a place to go if I need to leave my house so as not to hurt myself. Not anymore. Good job, self. Just keep fucking things up, how's that sound? Sound good? Seems like a common occurrence with you.
  
• I feel confident that I could get rid of all the things that I might be likely to use to hurt myself. Oh Jesus. I have trouble with that, in all honesty. I was doing good on Boxing Day when I threw them out when talking to Fin but but but things have changed since then.
  
• I have told at least two other people that I am going to stop hurting myself. Yes.
  
• I am willing to feel uncomfortable, scared, and frustrated. Working on that. It's. I can't really put into words what it's like.
  
• I feel confident that I can endure thinking about hurting myself without having to actually do so. I have good days, I have bad days, I have good hours and bad hours and it really all depends. Sometimes, I just get tired of fighting it.
  
• I want to stop hurting myself. No one wants to actively harm themselves, it's not a "Oh, I'm going to do some homework, slice up my leg, watch some Twin Peaks and maybe write a bit." It's not a matter of wanting to stop, it's a matter of wanting something better for yourself. Do I necessarily want something better for myself? Do I necessarily think I deserve better? I'll get back to you on that.
  

Apparently Fin thought it was only a matter of "Want to hurt myself, talk to someone, everything's ok" since that was the only experience he really had with me and that, according to him. He thought I would be more capable of handling everything when it ended, that I was more independent and strong. He didn't know he was pulling a rug out from under my feet--apparently, he didn't know there was a metaphorical rug there in the first place.

I feel so out of control.

September 7, 2009--March 7, 2010

Well. That was an anti-climatic ending to a friendship: unpack my books and leave. I don't even really want to talk about it, so if you have any questions, ask him.

Also, 6 months exactly? What the fuck?

I also have a Philosophy paper I need to be writing. There's nothing really concrete to distract me, I just can't write it. Nothing is working, my head keeps going in circles on should'vewould'vecould've and I'm trying to figure out how he went from inlovewithme to notinlovewithme in a span of about twomaybethree weeks--with no outside force, it just sort of happened and I can't figure that out.

I hate this. I am complaining, yes, but I fucking hate this. This would be so much easier if I just hated you.