A Bit Of My Life Right Now.

Signs and symbols of musicThis is something I wrote last night….

I sit here listening to soppy half aggressive love songs with lyrics such as “see the flames inside my eyes” crying those eyes out with no control.  I have lost it; I have lost my balance that I just spent the past sixteen months trying to achieve.  Here I sit drinking in bed scared to move, tipping over the edge of sanity.  My silly brain is sending me messages of where the scissors are in my room, the penknife in my bedside draw.  Why won’t this sickness just leave me?  Why am I just not allowed to be better?  What have I done to deserve all of this pain and confusion?  Why just why!

I am now terrified of my travels that I was previously ecstatic for.  It is not fair.  Self-pity is washing through me.  As you can tell.

I wish I could write songs, intense short moments of exposing my pain and being free of it.  I feel like writing my story is a lullaby-luscious song, I just cannot be as free from it as quickly as I could if I wrote a song instead.  Although there is that big issue with the fact that I cannot sing.  Fuck
my life.  Seriously just fuck it right now.

Head Fuck

Those of you who followed my blog before I deleted it and restarted it will know about a guy who I was seeing for a mere few weeks before he jetted off around the world travelling. I was infatuated with the boy, when he left I was devastated. Cry in his jumper on my bed for hours, smelling it like a crazy lady. What a mess!

Well he has returned and  to be honest with you it is a bit of  a head fuck – excuse my French. I don’t think I see him like that any more, he has been gone for six months now and we have both been with other people. I have seen him twice since he has returned and things are just not quiet the same. That joyous click isn’t there. Which is a shame, but also probably a good thing seeing as he is off again in a Month and I am off in four to Australia. Saying that I think we will both end up down under anyway…

In my head I just want to be friends with him, I know it is the right thing to do. But for some reason my brain isn’t connecting that and cutting off the confusion. I DON’T KNOW WHY! It is really, really… really! annoying.

Only a few boys have messed my head up like this and he is one of them for sure. I don’t want to have that with him any more, but I think the memory of how good it was before he left is hard to shift. We both feel the same, it is different now. But I don’t understand if that is the case why it is floating around in my head so much and confusing me. I am usually very logical about these things.

I hate how much he confuses me, how much he is confused, how much worse it makes my sickness, I hate how my brain won’t just detach from the confusion. I don’t understand why this is causing me such a head fuck :/ excuse my French.

I feel like punching something, wailing hysterically, or doing something reckless with how much confusion this has created over something that in my head should be simple:

I know we should be friends.
I know things are nothing like they are before.
I know we are both going away again.
I know neither of us feel how we did before.

SO WHY WON’T MY BRAIN ACCEPT THIS. HATING THE HEAD FUCKING RIGHT NOW BIG TIME. 

Oopsing and Fixing

Almost deleted my whole book yesterday. Scared me half to death.

Currently sat in hospital to try and resolve one of the side problems my sickness has created. Joy of joy. Surrounded by the sad and sick. 

Just a little update for you :) I’m still doing the edits.  Slowly but surly. I feel like I need a wine evening. Drinking and correcting! Would probably get quiet a lot done.

Here’s a song for you that was recently introduced to me, currently listening to it. Headphones in. Watching the hospital world around me:::::::

She loves you by gas light anthem (will insert the link later but check it on YouTube, it’s a good’en)

Motivation Week and Edits

I need to get these edits done.

They are constantly on my mind like an annoying fly that you just can’t swoosh out of the room or hit with the freezing weapon that is hair spray.

I have been away for a long weekend of debauchery – it would be a lie to say I was not jaded right now. I feel like I need to be wrapped in blanket of hugs and for someone to tell me that I am pretty as they stroke my hair and feed me crispy bacon nomm. Yes it is one of those afternoons. I have 118 days until I leave the Country!!!!!!!!!! Not long now, not long to get these edits done.

It just feels like SUCH a BIG TASK!

I guess I am worried that:
1. I won’t be able to do what my editor wants me to do!
2. It won’t ever be as good as I want it to be!
3.That it will never actually have a finish point!

I need to stop thinking about it and do it… Agh it just isn’t going to be a fun task, boo to edits. Boo, boo, boo. Down to the depths with you please. Could someone just do it for me? Not that I would actually let anyone else do the edits to my story! I need to find an inner strength from somewhere – new motivation.

This week is therefore going to be my Motivation Hunting week. If you know a good place to start looking please let me know, just don’t say the bottom of a bottle as I really don’t think I could handle drinking just yet for a few more days.

MOTIVATION. MOTIVATION. MOTIVATION.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again

Humpty dumpty falling of the wall

Almost three years on from my attack and still he has this hold over me.

I thought that I had dealt with it, I thought that I had convinced myself that he no longer thinks of me, feels for me, or could even acknowledge me. If he felt nothing for me, why would he pay me any attention to hurt me again – this was my logic.

I guess I was wrong. 

He has moved on publicly, with a new girl friend who seems nice, kind, and cute. I guess I always knew it was a front, but then it felt like I was bigging up my importance in his life by thinking that.  Therefore I removed the idea from my brain in fear of self obsession.

But, I guess I was right.

He found a route to me, he lashed out, and all of my defences came tumbling down.  All the therapy in the world, all the pills and potions, remedies and theories, could not make me fully defended again. I felt once again like that manipulated teenager, confidence eroded and the need to please, to be accepted, taking control.

It scares me to think of what he made me. 

Visualize yourself not falling off the wall

Just like the expectation of the next wave to crash behind your legs, I know my attacker will return. Time and time again. I have given up believing the people who say he will probably just ignore you next time he sees you, he is being childish, try not to think about it.  Those people do not know our story.  They do not know the lashings of hateful words were lashings on my body.  They do not know the cutting comments where him cutting his way in to me.  They do not know that he will NEVER stop.

I will always be that girl to him. The one that reminds him of everything, his first serious girl friend, his first ‘love’.We share friends, we share neighbourhoods, we share the local super market. There is no escape from him here.

This is why I am going away.
I need to get away from here, from him, from the memories. 

UK………………………………to………………………………AUS

Rant over. No more.
I fear more than death itself that I will sink back in to the murky miserable depths of my sickness. I can not go back there. I can not do it. The past year and a half have been the worst in my life and I WILL NOT live through them again.

Sex

For those of you that followed my blog before, well you know that I have an ever so slightly, (cough cough), weird and altered relationship with sex. SEX SEX SEX. Even typing those words makes a girl feel a little good inside; far, deep, down inside – sorry I couldn’t resist the pun.

I have had some pretty crap experiences.  Hasn’t everyone though I hear you say? Yes they have, but my level of crap I don’t think is quiet so common.  Never the less, I LOVE sex. The overwhelming feeling of lust and hungry warmth rushing through your body is undeniably addictive. I am a sex addict. And… you know what? I don’t care. (Not a diagnosed sex addicted by the way, I am no Tiger Woods. I have urges that are hard to managed when they are not fulfilled. So I guess I am a Tiger Woods in a minor minor teeny tiny form, minuscule.)

It was only recently that I realised not everyone enjoys normal sex… some of my friends are just put off of sex because of shitty fucks and poor performing pricks. A girl friend of mine, who is referred to as Sophie in my book-to-be has recently lost her V plates. She broke down the barrier and is now getting on the sex hype bandwagon. Her love of the new sport is shown by her compliance to find completion even with a kidney infection – what a trooper! Yet one of our other close friends who has been having sex for the past 3 years just seems totally disinterested in the whole act. The last time she was kissed was before Christmas!!!

I know that everyone has differing libido’s.  However, the variation just seems ridiculous. This taboo subject (which thankfully is becoming less tabooy) feels in large, unexplored. How comes some people can squirt, how comes some people can’t come at all? How come some guys are good to go after a ten minuet rest period and others are good for a day or two?

Sex has always fascinated me, I guess because it has a hold on me.

I know that this post touches upon crude subjects than I usually talk about.  But I need to start being a bit more open about it all, and stop holding back as I don’t at all in my book. It is full on with everything. Which I guess is why it was so cathartic. I am going to be finishing the book edits soon, and then after that I am going to upload a few taster chapters to get your opinions. Your reviews and criticisms. No more being scared of the opinions.

So from here until the books release I am going to start peeling back that little layer that I keep all covered up in fear of the Judge’s slamming down those wooden hammers, peering over their high and mighty desks to point a finger at ashamed little young me.  

gavel on white background