Freefall.

You know how some days tear you up from inside, devour your flesh, vomit you back out in a half-digested mass and hope you feel better at the end of it?

Yeah. Just worse.

I guess I should admit that it's not as bad as it seems. There are plenty of things I am thankful for, and yes god I am very thankful. But I should also admit that I have a tendency to exaggerate the situation to a point where it can't be identified.

But I still feel like shit and you can't deny that.

It's that time of year again where I only leave my room to breathe. Everything suddenly becomes a distraction: the sick state of my room, the spot of grease on my window, the speck of dust in the corridor, bread in the toaster, a leaky faucet, the absence of cheese in the fridge, grass growing, paint drying. And just when I have seized that moment of concentration, it evades me like the bug on my wall.

Ooh, bug.

I have an unnecessary stockpile of magazines on the floor of my room that are calling to be perused, when it's the financial markets and the fucktards who gamble on it that need to be understood. I have sticky notes reminding me of unfinished work, pasted on the sole strip of wall in my room untouched by anything decorative (shocking), but nothing motivates me to get to them. I have less than three weeks until my brain completely explodes, and I don't seem to want to care about it at all. I can't focus on anything solid, and I feel nauseous reading information I don't even want to care about.

Who gives a fuck about risk and return on fucking bonds that crashed the fucking markets in the first place sending us all into friggin freefall with no chance of covering our asses?

This isn't the first time the stock market has crashed ... maybe there IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH IT.

Take a hint.

Cheers.

We Are Broken.

How do you break if you are already broken?

It's quite simple, really. You determine what exactly it is you are holding to, and take it away from yourself. Destroy it. Watch it crash and burn and die in front of you, while the embers from its flame linger past your eyes only making you want to cry harder. Now, for many of you, you might be holding on to many things, all of equal importance. And the rest of you, to whom I can relate, there only one thing in the world you could ask for and it is the one thing that helps you go to sleep at night. That helps chase your worries away when you are hurting.

That keeps you breathing.

And just as easily as it appears to hold you up, it tears itself down. You immediately lose your balance, fall, collapse and hit your head so hard on the ground it paralyses you. And while you are still conscious, you observe your mangled body and try your best to carry out damage control. But eventually you will realise that there is no way out of your broken bones, or your burst organs, or your mental distress.

Just before your eyes close and you lapse into a virtual haze of peace.

But it all depends on just how much you rely on this pillar of hope. If it is something you can easily substitute for the same amount of contentment, then it might not affect as much as it could. But what if it was something that made a difference in your day? Something that gave you that glow, that spark that people noticed when you walked by? Something that made your cold lonely nights so much more bearable than it really is? Something that helped you fall asleep at night, and woke you up in the morning? Something that helped you hold back your tears when you were upset? Something that motivated you to work extra extra hard in your days and overcome sloth?

Something that made you so fucking happy.

Why, it could make you hurt for as long as you can imagine. As long as you want to keep feeling that pain, it will be there. Stinging. Burning. Ripping you apart. And the tears that follow. That never stop. That stop you from sleeping. That stop you from dreaming good dreams.

It's what makes pain so feared.

And while you're suffering, pain gives you the power to pass it onto others, like a chain reaction you did not intend to start. But before you even realise it's happening, it has already spiralled out of control. Affecting everyone you know and those that you have come to love. Those you wish nothing but beautiful things in the world for.

And in an immediate reflex, you turn to the person who appears to have pulled the pillar of hope from under you. The person left standing holding it in the air, as if it was an innocent child-like mistake that was meant to go unnoticed. But what you don't realise is all the other people who are standing behind her, who coaxed her into trying the stunt in the first place and pushed her inch by inch to it. And just as she was about to commit they would back away instantaneously as if they had no hand in it.

Leaving her to take all the blame.

Is there a way to ever replace that pillar? To restore that hope, that spirit that you need to keep functioning? I suppose not. The only way out is to slowly rebuild one, taking extra care with it so that with each brick you lay, it only gets stronger.

So it gets strong enough to hold you up.

Holding up long enough to keep you alive.

Cheers.

Dancing On My Own.

Robyn needs to stop reading my mind, and even more so reading my blog. How she hits the nail on the head with every new song is still an enigma; it's as if she's sitting behind me now, reading over my shoulder as I type this post.

Which would be crazy cool but totally creepy at the same time.

And as she sings, she makes you imagine just where she is and how she is feeling, and consequently you become her. That miserable girl who is second best to everyone, who watches on as others follow on to success and happiness and general sugary chocolatey candy fun. That miserable girl who only wants you to hear her out when she has something to say, however morbid or even if it involves unusual amounts of blood. That miserable girl who only wants what she has.

That miserable girl who only wants to be everything but.

And as you might have guessed (gosh, you people are incredibly slow today), this post is leading to something you've never read before on this blog. About sadness and depression and my frustrations about life.

New material is important for progress, as they say.

There isn't any point in explaining how I am feeling because quite frankly I am too damn exhausted to think about it. All I know is that maybe that pending change of perspective needs to be set into motion soon. Should I start looking at the brighter side of things from now on? Perhaps I could ignore the malfunctions of life (mine and everyone else's) and place myself in a comfortable spot where nothing can hurt me. Maybe I could even blow up a giant bubble to live in so the air I breathe is pure and pretty and untainted.

Let's leave the eventual suffocation out of this for argument's sake.

But if you live on the brighter side of things, you would be avoiding the very things that make life what it is : bitter, burdening and essentially broken. Now you'd be missing out on half the fun don't you think?

Here's something interesting I read the other day, which quite frankly is something I have spent alot of time thinking about. (Can't remember what I had for dinner, but sure let's think about mental patients.)

The Total Perspective Vortex

'It’s a disconcerting concept. It’s certainly easier to think of the mentally disordered as lunatics running about with bizarre, inexplicable beliefs than to imagine them coping with a piece of reality that a “normal” person can’t handle. The notion that we routinely hide from the truth about ourselves and our world is not an appealing one, though it may help to explain the human tendency to ostracize the abnormal. Perhaps the reason we are so eager to reject any departure from this fiction we call “normality” is because we have grown dependent on our comfortable delusions; without them, there is nothing to insulate us from the harsh cold of reality.'

Seriously, read it.

But I digress. I can't force myself into a happy-thoughts-only process because that isn't the way I function. I'll bet it could lead to one heck of mental disorder, but maybe I am better off just accepting that I am never good enough. Always second best to someone else. Always watching someone else get what they want. Always hoping for a miracle, and just that - still hoping for a miracle.

And maybe I have learn to be better off without any friends. I should stop looking for them, and constantly making sure they are in my life. If I have something to say, I should tell someone who really bothers. I should stop telling people who are only there to receive information and then withhold things they could easily discuss with me, but prefer to elaborate with other people much different than I.

I should start living for myself.

But I have a strong feeling that this epiphany is short-lived. There is only so much time before I pass everything off as depression.

I'm in the corner watching you kiss her

I'm givin' it my all, but I'm not the girl you're takin' home

I keep dancin' on my own.

Cheers.

We Make Plans.

So you can break them for us.

Maybe if I put more time and effort into the things that actually need work on, I might get somewhere. Like the definite things in life that need no reciprocal action from others. Things that I can accomplish on my own without having to involve others. Things I have put aside to fulfill at a later date, that could easily be dealt with at this point in time.

Things that I don't want to worry about.

But it's the things that aren't within my power I want to grab the reigns of and hold close to me. Until nothing fazes me. Until I become fearless. Until I don't have anymore reason to expect it and wait for help. I will no longer need people to keep me company, to keep me sane.

To keep me alive.

That's what it means to be powerful, doesn't it? To be able to hold yourself steady when everyone else is dying like daisies. To control over your emotions in their entirety and manipulate them as a separate being. To have the ability to mind fuck as many people as you can, without even trying.

To hold the world as if it was your own.

But there is an irony to it. The hunger for power inevitably destroys it. The more you are starved of it, the more it validates your internal wars. The more it tells you to do what's wrong, for the sake of what's personally right. The more it heightens your ability to seek and annihilate, and wound those who can help you overcome your addiction.

Until you reach its pinnacle.

And it's at the pinnacle where you realise that there is no pinnacle. There is no peak. It's a never-ending climb to the infinite end. Why? Because you want it that way. The peak is never enough. You will reach that virtual end and then think - how is there not more of this? Wasn't I promised more?

I could make this taller if I was in charge of the pinnacle.

And then you continue to climb and climb and climb and try your best to satisfy yourself, until you disappear beyond the thick clouds. Drunk of power.

And dead from it.

Cheers.

Trains.

Dream chambers, those are.

I haven't got anything to say, really. It's all been said before. Emotional burdens. My various hit-and-runs. My epically dramaless days. Times when I haven't got anyone to talk to. Physical anguish. Weight issues.

It's like the world is running out of things to throw at me.

It first poured liquid emotional frustration into the bodies of mental teenagers with nil people skills and rolled them my way. Then it tried to break me with exam papers. Then it took the only friends I ever loved away and put me in a foreign place. And its gang of Secret Service Hit-And-Run boys decided to pursue me and take advantage of the trust that I give away as easily as my body.

I wonder why Oprah hasn't called me.

So here I am click clacking at my keyboard, trying to put together a string of ideas into legible text so people can read them and want to overdose soon after. I have a question though.

How do you put depression into words?

Could there be some sort of code for the mentally-ill I have yet to familiarise myself with? Could there be a transitional language that applies only to those with permanent states of upset? Could all those doodles that I produce have some kind of weak connection to how I feel inside?

Is that how you write about depression?

Or maybe I just mean that I am sad. Because there is a clear boundary between being properly distressed and exaggerating your life away. Because being depressed hurts more than it should, but being sad can't be too bad when you have Ben and Jerry's.

Because clinical depression isn't free.

To be honest, I can't explain exactly how I am feeling now. I have so many things to look forward to at this point in time. I only have this many weeks left of classes, I am going to see my closest friends in less than three months, summer is coming (yes!), my birthday will be here soon (double yes!), and I can be home again.

But something upsets me still.

Maybe I am one of those people who will never be happy with what I have. I will always have too little to be content with. I will always be pushing myself as far as I think I can go. I will always be hurting and I will blame it on things around me.

I will always find something to be hurt about.

How after all this while, in a new environment, I am not myself. I haven't found someone to give my spirit too. I haven't found someone to run to when I am broken. I haven't found someone to give me a reason to stay. All I've got are my dreams, really.

I swear that if that's the only thing that is going to keep me moving, I might just want to stop.


Cheers.

I'm Stagnant.

In the flow.

This disjointed title is pretty self-explanatory and any attempt of trying to discuss this would launch me into a full-flung state of upset and sometimes I am just not ready for drama, even it it's my own.

The last 14 days have been crazy for me because I have actually put in more effort into my work than in the last 7 months combined. The stress of the impending exams has gone straight to my head and it's hit me worse than wintry mulled wine.

That has a long story to it, but let it be known that it's been the only time I've felt like throwing up from too much drink.

The whole weight of the situation that I was in a week ago sent me back into that depressed state I try so hard to overcome and leave behind. It really sucks having to be so upset about everything. It really sucks that I find things to be upset about more easily than I find things to be happy about.

I'd put it down to a state of mind, not entirely, but perhaps to an extent. It's not something I can change automatically though, and it's not something that would change soon unless I have a mighty revelation from some out-of-this-world source that needs me to be happy for the sake of the universe.

Right.

As human nature dictates, it is possible to find solace in something around us, no matter how toxic and no matter how much it costs us. You can't put a price on happiness, even if it means obsessive gambling or sending your blood pressure to rocket levels after your easy fix or giving it up for love that lasts a night and is only worth a dirty bed.

It really depends on what comforts you.

Taking a fairly long train ride into shopping heaven relieves me of all my adult duties (Isn't it funny that I have adult responsibilites but am deemed to have no right to adult fun?) while my bank account dies a little. At least I am past the first step of curing my addiction - admitting my problem. It's the leap to the next step that is going to hurt the most.

God forbid that I am allowed credit cards.

I suppose I could make this blog more interesting with pictures. Here are my latest buys.

Marc B. Oversized Shopper.
Same bag in black.

Topshop Strappy Sundress
Same dress in screaming yellow.

Upper Fifth Graduated Fuschia Leopard Print Scarf
It graduates from white to fuschia!

Two Tone Wal G Dress
When the wind blows, people get a good view of your bits.

Cheers.

*Any mistakes in spelling or grammar are purely accidental. And if anything makes any sense, I'm sorry.

Missing Me.

Missing you.

I suppose it's going to be another ohmeohmy post lacking direction and common sense. One of those where you wish I had something better to do than spend my life facing this computer screen, mindlessly browsing through the same pages every two minutes and playing idiot songs on repeat.

In shambles I tell you, in shambles.

I really don't think I can carry on trying to portray my feelings in puzzles anymore. I used to be in this phase where I couldn't reveal names or use real people in my posts and I couldn't discuss things as they had happened, for fear of my blog falling into that trap of being a retarded online diary for people who haven't realised that diaries are meant to be sacred. Secret. Secluded from everyone else. Antique books of crisp brown paper bound in leather, waiting to be scribbled on in thin ink; and perhaps a burgundy strip of suede to keep the book sealed.

No?

Well that's what I had in mind anyway. And I thought I should maintain a blog as my go-to plan when I'm feeling less than amazing and no one else wants to hear my story. My blog always listens, and therefore I tell him everything. I named him Twisted Tragedies because only something so strange could bear to listen to me over and over again at any odd hour of the day.

And I'm sure he loves me.

I used to take more care of him. I used to make sure I was satisfied with what I was coming up with before publishing it. I used to make sure I used the right words, to exactly express myself. I used to make sure I had people read him and give him the attention he deserves.

But I can't be bothered. I can't be bothered about alot of things lately. How I feel, how I look, how I want to approach the day. I quite simply, can't give a fuck. Nothing really matters to me anymore. What I achieve in the future, what I work for in the future, who loves me in the future, who befriends me in the future, who matters the most to me in the future, who brings out the best in me in the future.

Who cares.

I don't and I can't. Because I've put too much hope into myself. I've put too much hope into people that I think are worth my while (or anyone else's for that matter.) I assume that things always get better when I hit rock bottom, and it does for a little while, until I dip back to where I was before and sometimes I plunge beyond that. When I think that I can focus on my work and hope that I can push through to make it happen, I fuck up and procrastinate until it becomes humanely impossible to accomplish what I should have started aeons ago. And I hope for people to come through to hear me out, but it doesn't always work out now does it?

Something has brought on this intense emotion. Literally putting it, I am alone in this house. The people I love very much are away for a short break and will be back in a week. Although a week doesn't even seem like a week anymore, it still hurts that for the time being they've left me alone.

Alone with my thoughts.

And a week does tend to go by as slow as it can when you feel like shit.

I've got to hang in there, I suppose. Never have I been left alone (and deprived of a holiday) before, so maybe it has to hurt for a while.

But I don't understand why I have to hurt all the time.

Cheers.