For many nights now I have sat at this very computer infront of this very screen trying, trying, TRYING to let it all come out.
You see, I know once I have started this, I am not going to stop. A diary of events is important. It's calming, a moment of respite, it's escapism.
It's escaping and it's facing reality. The harsh reality.
It's escaping and it's healing, it's accepting. Perhaps more importantly, it's acknowledgment.
It is something that cannot be forced. It would not be true to say I have been in denial, for I have felt more in the past few weeks than in the past few years. My body is coming back to life. Whether I indeed hate that aforementioned existance is largely irrelevant, it is refreshing to feel emotionally turned on.
My soul is replenished, perhaps with searing pain, but replenished it is and the ability to express sadness is something that inherently makes us human, and something that had been lost altogether from within me.
It is a comfort to feel it once more. To search out the depths, for it is only when looking for loss that we truly can feel every part of our being. That part is perhaps the most indescribable of all.
Nothing and everything does not do it justice.
I do not hope to do it justice on this blog, for it is is a language that goes beyond our understanding. To touch someone you love, to feel that grip slowly slipping away. When we try to contemplate it logically, we cannot.
Tears protect us from the truth.
Love shields us from the wilderness.
Every other feeling can be expressed in words. Either, we have not reached our full potential yet, or the answer lies in some higher force.
I had hoped to tell the full story tonight. Yet suddenly, I feel overwhelmed. Yet still, a little more at peace.
And that is why the rest will follow.
The process has begun, and it will complete.
What starts, must come to an end.
Whilst the last few precious breaths are taken, they will be written about, and remembered.
It is only right.
Goodnight, loves.
We will meet again shortly.
Be prepared.
It won't be easy.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Thursday, 13 August 2009
What the fuck do they know?
Dear Mr Gilder,
I'm afraid to say we're screwing you and your Mother over. Just to rub it in, we're going to pay you fuck all money starting from... er... this week.
Well thanks. Thanks alot.
Yup, that's what the letter might aswell have said.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm well down the road to finding my true self again, to finding my own pathway, to wanting, nay, demanding my name be the one that's lit up bright and proudly. There is no way further for me to help others 'til I help myself and become a little more greedy. That is for certain. And ironically perhaps, as part of this long, but rewarding process, the first steps were to cut the ties. Not completely, but a thin snip, enough to begin to heal the wounds of years of strangulation and breathlessness. Enough to stand on my own two feet, to put pressure on myself, knowing I'd be relying on my income to survive. That's the kind of pressure I want, need. That's the kind of pressure that scares me. And boy, I need to be scared.
But regardless, those issues are not important. Whether I come off Carers Allowance is an irrelevance. My Mum still needs that money to give to someone else. It's vital for her survival. That's not an over-dramatization, but simply a statement of fact. Without the help she would buckle. She would melt faster than a pale-skinned Brit in the exotic sun, dieting on alcohol-fuelled ignorance and protecting their dumb, precious skin by slapping on a tube full of something particularly unsuitable. Lubricant perhaps. The point is, take away the support and she would fall to her death. Literally, I fear...
Things have been awful of late. Truly, brutally awful. In a way I am glad, it's been the making and toughening of me, and I am flourishing - slowly perhaps - but with a fair amount of grace and dignity, qualities that were lacking before. A solid foundation. Good, healthy soil. In my mind, in my bones. Those are the things that will make the flowers turn the most beautiful, rare and tempting colours. Okay. Haha. Perhaps I was pushing it with the grace. But still..
So what fucking right, what fucking right have THEY to tell ME that things have gotten better? Can they see the bigger picture on a form? Can they see the constant, exhausting battle to stop her from tipping over the edge of insanity? Because I can assure you, she's been teetering on the brink for a long, long time now. But how would they know that? Have they come to visit? Have they seen her bedridden, anxious, frail, completely at the mercy of a perceived cruel and dangerous World? Of course, the physical work is nothing. Not having come out of the years of dozy-eyed meandering, a drugged up zombie living off nothing more than an addiction to depression. No, the physical work is the easy thing.
Ironing, cooking, washing-up. Who really gives a fuck. We all have hands. There are always arguments. Always. But these are inconsequential, in the bigger picture. But clearly, they don't see the bigger picture. The braindead morons buy the picture, seeing it's signed 'Van Gogh'. That's enough for them. That's alright. That's proof enough that it will be a masterpiece. They forget to look at it. I mean, really look. They don't notice there's nothing there except the bleakness and emptiness of a blank canvas.
Because people are fucking braindead nowadays. They'd rather make a decision based on a bit of paper. Rather make life-changing decisions based solely on the mundane, uninformative, characterless text staring lifelessly at them from the murky screen. What if they cared to listen? Just for a change. Just for old times sake? What if they came round, and saw the shit that I have to put up with.
I'm not going to whinge. That's in the past. I could whinge 'about' the shit. But the shit has been shatted out long before now. I live with it. Of course I regret it. I regret it impacting negatively on other people. Especially one of them. But as it goes, now sometimes I think the shit makes me stronger. This is not a whinge. This is anger, pure and thoughtful, but furious in it's own right. I am angry that they dare take my money, our money away from us without even so much as a proper explanation. I am angry that it takes 5 fucking phone-calls to get the right sodding number. What if I was a brainless moron like them? I'd stand no chance. I'm angry about their lack of empathy. understanding. Lack of anything. Lack of life. They need 'evidence' in writing do they now? Or over the phone? WELL HOW ABOUT THE FUCKING EVIDENCE THAT WOULD BE STARING THEM, GRIMLY AND FRAILY RIGHT IN THE RUCKING FACE IF THEY BOTHERED AS TO SO MUCH WASTE THEIR PRECIOUS TIME PAYING US A VISIT? How about that evidence, hey? Does that not count?
Lets forget the physical symptoms once again. I could list them on a big piece of paper. I could mention the fact I could probably pick her up with the strength of my little finger, due to the months and months of near-starvation. I could list the drugs she mostly throws away. I could list the upcoming hospital appointments. But even if those are not enough for you, what consideration is given to the fact that any sane person could see that she is a stark raving lunatic? What procedures have you for dealing with them, for the stress they cause those around them when they're confined...well...to the freedom of their own home and not locked up in some looney bin?
Oh yes...you've forgotten about those havn't you.
You've forgotten that some children lie awake at night, simply wondering with deadened eyes when they would hear the thud on the cold pavement outside. Oh sorry, suicide. That's a difficult topic. Better not fucking mention that to you, had I? It's black and white for you. You're either in an asylum, or you're out. You're either alive, or dead. There's no room for being stuck in the middle, in a permanent state of living deadness. Those people are aliens. Sorry, zombies.(Wow, two mentions of zombies in one post! I might read this back and get all sexually excited afterward. Well...who doesn't have a zombie fetish?!)
They don't exist.
Or if they do exist, we know about them. We know all about them. We keep them under lock and key. It hasn't once occurred to us that some of them might have escaped the 'perfect' system, that some of them might be putting on happy-go-lucky faces for the Doctors smiling back in approval, nodding in all the right places. Lying, blindly, but unconsciously, to themselves and to the outside World, and to the forms they stain their mad-blooded fingers on. Smudging the ink, manipulating it till it looked right to them. Not evidence of the facts, but evidence of delusional, misplaced thinking. But you'd never know, would you? You'd be such a dumb cunt, you wouldn't notice any smudges. Shiny, shiny paper.
Shiny, shiny World.
In with the white people. Out with the black. Fuck everything inbetween, it doesn't exist. At least, we'll pretend it doesn't.
Because that's easy.
It's easy to be a face behind a screen, a title behind a letter, a government shuffling together like mindles sheep to hide and cover up individual corruption.
We are all finding more and more ways to communicate, yet all losing our touch when it comes to remembering how to.
How about next time, you stop making a judgement based on how we respond to your own fixed, thoughtless, emotionless questions?
How about next time, you treat us humanely and let us have our say first? Let us write a script. Paint a picture. Then maybe you'll see the full story.
Life isn't black and white, you fcuking wankers.
So stop telling us it is.
I'm afraid to say we're screwing you and your Mother over. Just to rub it in, we're going to pay you fuck all money starting from... er... this week.
Well thanks. Thanks alot.
Yup, that's what the letter might aswell have said.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm well down the road to finding my true self again, to finding my own pathway, to wanting, nay, demanding my name be the one that's lit up bright and proudly. There is no way further for me to help others 'til I help myself and become a little more greedy. That is for certain. And ironically perhaps, as part of this long, but rewarding process, the first steps were to cut the ties. Not completely, but a thin snip, enough to begin to heal the wounds of years of strangulation and breathlessness. Enough to stand on my own two feet, to put pressure on myself, knowing I'd be relying on my income to survive. That's the kind of pressure I want, need. That's the kind of pressure that scares me. And boy, I need to be scared.
But regardless, those issues are not important. Whether I come off Carers Allowance is an irrelevance. My Mum still needs that money to give to someone else. It's vital for her survival. That's not an over-dramatization, but simply a statement of fact. Without the help she would buckle. She would melt faster than a pale-skinned Brit in the exotic sun, dieting on alcohol-fuelled ignorance and protecting their dumb, precious skin by slapping on a tube full of something particularly unsuitable. Lubricant perhaps. The point is, take away the support and she would fall to her death. Literally, I fear...
Things have been awful of late. Truly, brutally awful. In a way I am glad, it's been the making and toughening of me, and I am flourishing - slowly perhaps - but with a fair amount of grace and dignity, qualities that were lacking before. A solid foundation. Good, healthy soil. In my mind, in my bones. Those are the things that will make the flowers turn the most beautiful, rare and tempting colours. Okay. Haha. Perhaps I was pushing it with the grace. But still..
So what fucking right, what fucking right have THEY to tell ME that things have gotten better? Can they see the bigger picture on a form? Can they see the constant, exhausting battle to stop her from tipping over the edge of insanity? Because I can assure you, she's been teetering on the brink for a long, long time now. But how would they know that? Have they come to visit? Have they seen her bedridden, anxious, frail, completely at the mercy of a perceived cruel and dangerous World? Of course, the physical work is nothing. Not having come out of the years of dozy-eyed meandering, a drugged up zombie living off nothing more than an addiction to depression. No, the physical work is the easy thing.
Ironing, cooking, washing-up. Who really gives a fuck. We all have hands. There are always arguments. Always. But these are inconsequential, in the bigger picture. But clearly, they don't see the bigger picture. The braindead morons buy the picture, seeing it's signed 'Van Gogh'. That's enough for them. That's alright. That's proof enough that it will be a masterpiece. They forget to look at it. I mean, really look. They don't notice there's nothing there except the bleakness and emptiness of a blank canvas.
Because people are fucking braindead nowadays. They'd rather make a decision based on a bit of paper. Rather make life-changing decisions based solely on the mundane, uninformative, characterless text staring lifelessly at them from the murky screen. What if they cared to listen? Just for a change. Just for old times sake? What if they came round, and saw the shit that I have to put up with.
I'm not going to whinge. That's in the past. I could whinge 'about' the shit. But the shit has been shatted out long before now. I live with it. Of course I regret it. I regret it impacting negatively on other people. Especially one of them. But as it goes, now sometimes I think the shit makes me stronger. This is not a whinge. This is anger, pure and thoughtful, but furious in it's own right. I am angry that they dare take my money, our money away from us without even so much as a proper explanation. I am angry that it takes 5 fucking phone-calls to get the right sodding number. What if I was a brainless moron like them? I'd stand no chance. I'm angry about their lack of empathy. understanding. Lack of anything. Lack of life. They need 'evidence' in writing do they now? Or over the phone? WELL HOW ABOUT THE FUCKING EVIDENCE THAT WOULD BE STARING THEM, GRIMLY AND FRAILY RIGHT IN THE RUCKING FACE IF THEY BOTHERED AS TO SO MUCH WASTE THEIR PRECIOUS TIME PAYING US A VISIT? How about that evidence, hey? Does that not count?
Lets forget the physical symptoms once again. I could list them on a big piece of paper. I could mention the fact I could probably pick her up with the strength of my little finger, due to the months and months of near-starvation. I could list the drugs she mostly throws away. I could list the upcoming hospital appointments. But even if those are not enough for you, what consideration is given to the fact that any sane person could see that she is a stark raving lunatic? What procedures have you for dealing with them, for the stress they cause those around them when they're confined...well...to the freedom of their own home and not locked up in some looney bin?
Oh yes...you've forgotten about those havn't you.
You've forgotten that some children lie awake at night, simply wondering with deadened eyes when they would hear the thud on the cold pavement outside. Oh sorry, suicide. That's a difficult topic. Better not fucking mention that to you, had I? It's black and white for you. You're either in an asylum, or you're out. You're either alive, or dead. There's no room for being stuck in the middle, in a permanent state of living deadness. Those people are aliens. Sorry, zombies.(Wow, two mentions of zombies in one post! I might read this back and get all sexually excited afterward. Well...who doesn't have a zombie fetish?!)
They don't exist.
Or if they do exist, we know about them. We know all about them. We keep them under lock and key. It hasn't once occurred to us that some of them might have escaped the 'perfect' system, that some of them might be putting on happy-go-lucky faces for the Doctors smiling back in approval, nodding in all the right places. Lying, blindly, but unconsciously, to themselves and to the outside World, and to the forms they stain their mad-blooded fingers on. Smudging the ink, manipulating it till it looked right to them. Not evidence of the facts, but evidence of delusional, misplaced thinking. But you'd never know, would you? You'd be such a dumb cunt, you wouldn't notice any smudges. Shiny, shiny paper.
Shiny, shiny World.
In with the white people. Out with the black. Fuck everything inbetween, it doesn't exist. At least, we'll pretend it doesn't.
Because that's easy.
It's easy to be a face behind a screen, a title behind a letter, a government shuffling together like mindles sheep to hide and cover up individual corruption.
We are all finding more and more ways to communicate, yet all losing our touch when it comes to remembering how to.
How about next time, you stop making a judgement based on how we respond to your own fixed, thoughtless, emotionless questions?
How about next time, you treat us humanely and let us have our say first? Let us write a script. Paint a picture. Then maybe you'll see the full story.
Life isn't black and white, you fcuking wankers.
So stop telling us it is.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
Friday, 2 January 2009
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
A change for the (less) wetter
Our kitchen is limited. We don't have a dishwasher. For many, many days and months I have been washer-upper-in-Chief. An expert scrubber by now, you may think? A dab-hand with a scourer? One who laughs in the face of even the most disgusting dirt? (Well not all forms ;)
And though those things may be true, one thing has always irritated me. No matter my proximity to the sink, no matter the particular model or make of the washing-up bowl, I have ALWAYS ended up getting wet. A nasty sort of wetness, the sort that makes you feel uncomfortable, barely wet enough to justify a change of clothes, yet just visibly moist enough to cause embarrasment on a post-washing-up-perambulation.
Today my friends, I found the answer. And no, it is not merely starting the due process in old rags, one is far too lazy for that. Besides, my problem-solving skills are far superior.
Yes, people of the World. Change has come.
We may stare cautiously. We may agonize in fear. We may shudder at the thought of being labelled as a metrosexual. Or worse, a 'modern man'. We may have nightmares about appearing in the latest issue of Good Housekeepers magazine, clutched possesively by Mother dearest, her prized feather duster tickling against ones 'cheek' slightly suspisciously.
Let us not care what they think. Let us not think of the latter consequences. We shall live in the NOW. We shall stop procrastinating over the smallest issues. Who cares if we look stupid? Say no to sloggy sleeves. Say no to 'pissed pants'.
Say three words with me. Say them out loud, say them like you'd live and die by them. Say...
YES WE CAN!
We can wear an apron whilst doing the washing-up.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Our greatest flaw
the truth is I don't feel very eloquent tonight. And I suppose I feel uncomfortable talking about your flaws because I associate alot of them with myself. Or more so I consider your flaws probably alot less in number than my own. It's weird because normally I don't have a problem putting people down. I'm not an insensitive brute all the time like often my Brother is, but there's something sadistic in me that enjoys a good insult. But when it comes to you, I can joke about things, but still when I think about your personality I get weird butterflies in my stomach. Some days I feel disconnected from you, like you've had it with the human race and would rather communicate via a pen and paper because they won't hurt you, they won't cut you, but then I close off on at least as many occasions as you. Yet ultimately, deep down we're both ultra-sensitive souls. We can get hurt by the stupidest, most pathetic throwaway comment, take it directly to heart and think it over for days on ends. Let it slowly seep into our souls untill we believe it ourselves and it begins to destroy the self-confidence we've built up. Those are the days where we harden our shell on the outside and become difficult to crack.
Those are the days perhaps when we appear perfectly fine to the outside World, yet there's a little guy inside the padded cells of our mind who keeps running at the walls. Into them. Head first. Wishing there was someway out of the confined prison, wishing there was at least a length of rope nearby. Yet those days are frustrating, because when people come a'knockin on the apparently shallow depths of our conscious we want to grab them and scream at them that everything isn't all right and that are minds aren't hollow but full of hatred and worthlessness and bitterness. Why can't you see me? Why can't you see I'm hurting. Are you too dumb to look in the right places, under the armour, or am I just completely invisible to you? Because under the exterior I'm not all fucking nice, everything isn't all la-di-da but maybe, just maybe if you actually took the time to realize that for once, you could see my evil thoughts, my twisted plans, and pull them out of me. Drag me. Heal me. Heal and share the exruciating pain you caused in the first place. Just stop fucking pretending that life is all rosy. Yesterday never happened, did it? You're too greedy. Way too greedy to share my pain. Or maybe you're just a coward. Maybe you're hurting too, but too much of a fucking robot to come out and say it. You might break down huh? It might break you down. Maybe we're all the same. Maybe we all need to let it out. Does anyone ever really? That's our greatest fault. Gritting our teeth, wallowing in ourselves, but not letting others share the misery they've caused us. Because keeping it in, in, in. It's easy. But this is NOT WHAT WE WANT. We've had a life of it, to an extent, but they can never fucking stop our heart from pulsing. That is why we want them to listen. Listen to our heart beat. Closely. Because it beats for freedom. It wants to dance, to sing, to run free, over the hills and far away. To parardise. A paradise full of fervour and passion, colour, desire, romance, sex, violence. Violence? Yes violence. But not the kind where we live in fear. The kind where we fight for love and morals and humanity. We fight from our strength, we don't fight from our fucking weakness. Because this is who we are. We want to make a difference in the World, we want to care, to cherish, to help, to be needed. We are a thousand brilliant lights racing through the never ending skies, brighter than the sun that's burns through our tingling skin, with wings spread wide and tears streaming through our eyes. Tears of unbridled joy, of gut-wrenching pain and indescribable madness. So why is that choked out of us so easily? Why do we let people possess us, put their corrupt hands on our throats and shake the wonderment out of us. I don't know. I only know it is not yours, but our greatest weakness. A flawed way of living. To feel it all, and say nothing. To say everything, and feel nothing. We cannot strike the balance. We shall always be looking to find it.
Those are the days perhaps when we appear perfectly fine to the outside World, yet there's a little guy inside the padded cells of our mind who keeps running at the walls. Into them. Head first. Wishing there was someway out of the confined prison, wishing there was at least a length of rope nearby. Yet those days are frustrating, because when people come a'knockin on the apparently shallow depths of our conscious we want to grab them and scream at them that everything isn't all right and that are minds aren't hollow but full of hatred and worthlessness and bitterness. Why can't you see me? Why can't you see I'm hurting. Are you too dumb to look in the right places, under the armour, or am I just completely invisible to you? Because under the exterior I'm not all fucking nice, everything isn't all la-di-da but maybe, just maybe if you actually took the time to realize that for once, you could see my evil thoughts, my twisted plans, and pull them out of me. Drag me. Heal me. Heal and share the exruciating pain you caused in the first place. Just stop fucking pretending that life is all rosy. Yesterday never happened, did it? You're too greedy. Way too greedy to share my pain. Or maybe you're just a coward. Maybe you're hurting too, but too much of a fucking robot to come out and say it. You might break down huh? It might break you down. Maybe we're all the same. Maybe we all need to let it out. Does anyone ever really? That's our greatest fault. Gritting our teeth, wallowing in ourselves, but not letting others share the misery they've caused us. Because keeping it in, in, in. It's easy. But this is NOT WHAT WE WANT. We've had a life of it, to an extent, but they can never fucking stop our heart from pulsing. That is why we want them to listen. Listen to our heart beat. Closely. Because it beats for freedom. It wants to dance, to sing, to run free, over the hills and far away. To parardise. A paradise full of fervour and passion, colour, desire, romance, sex, violence. Violence? Yes violence. But not the kind where we live in fear. The kind where we fight for love and morals and humanity. We fight from our strength, we don't fight from our fucking weakness. Because this is who we are. We want to make a difference in the World, we want to care, to cherish, to help, to be needed. We are a thousand brilliant lights racing through the never ending skies, brighter than the sun that's burns through our tingling skin, with wings spread wide and tears streaming through our eyes. Tears of unbridled joy, of gut-wrenching pain and indescribable madness. So why is that choked out of us so easily? Why do we let people possess us, put their corrupt hands on our throats and shake the wonderment out of us. I don't know. I only know it is not yours, but our greatest weakness. A flawed way of living. To feel it all, and say nothing. To say everything, and feel nothing. We cannot strike the balance. We shall always be looking to find it.
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