Diary #1

There are days like yesterday that still feel like today and spill over on to the next. There are days like now which won't start until I wake up, and days that won't end until I collapse.

Today has been particularly stressful though; I can't leave the house because I feel too much. I have a few drinks to try and regulate everything; a carlsberg, a bit of wine usually goes further for me than most other people. Its great; you can feel it. There's a hit each time that increases with intensity, that provides an inner warmth that continues to burn brighter and brighter; so long as it is fuelled. And that distraction, that feeling of grabbing another is just a temptation I can't stop submitting to. At times like now, I know that the quantity is making me ill; headaches, nausea, a pervading dread, weakening organs and a sickening feeling that I know it can't and won't last forever.

And that is exactly when I think: 'I don't have to do this anymore'.

Apparently, thats the first step of freedom. What a load of shit; that thought flits about my brain like a moth to a flame. Eventually it gets consumed and turns to dust, but returns later on. And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Everything seems far away; emotions, motivation, victory. Feelings can quickly come to the fore in almost nuclear outbursts. Its like I'm recklessly slashing a sword to cut through anything that strays into my path knowing fine right I'll be suffering recoil damage. Knowing somewhere at the heart of intoxication I'll regret it.

But thats the thing about feeling like someone else; you aren't you. You don't want to feel like you; I want to be the bottle, and I want to be empty.

The 'L' Word

I've never experienced love and it scares me that so many people I know to throw it round like a basketball. They know they have conviction in their passt, but I'm worried eventually I'll have to catch the ball and expect to score a goal. Exactly. It feels that overwhelming. I could be in the middle of the court, I could be near the goal, but scoring that basket feels like a very epic battle for me.

My feelings have always been under question since they fluctuate on a whim, almost uncontrollably. They can hover over me like an umbrella; trying to shield me from all the piss that flies out of everyone's mouths and sometimes flood my insides like a deluge of drowsiness.

I mean, What am I supposed to do if someone utters that word before me and I'm not there? Perhaps that word is just something that is relative to each person - each feeling can never be exactly replicated for another. For example, I love my parents so much, and some of my friends so much too. In different ways. Maybe that is the way too. But if someone says it to me and I don't feel it, or don't think I do, have I fucked everything up?

Its a constant anxiety because for me, someone to love me would be perfect. If someone can look me in the eye and tell me that they will be there for me through good and bad, it would make me ecstatic. And happy. Then low. Then angry. It would be like spinning a wheel of fortune and everything thrown at someone at once. I'm worried. God, I'm fucking worried that I would just ruin it. It would make me feel far too much to be able to cope with it. I don't want to love someone if I'm just going to burden them with an explosion of emotions that I'm unable to contain.

I guess that's why I'm attracted to the idea of sacrifice. Like Jean Grey, or Jesus... I guess I wonder whether I'm going to have relinquish that kind of intimacy so that I can exist like a relatively normal human being, and so I can't hurt anyone, or so I can save everyone from a potential self-destructive downward spiral.

But isn't that something that is in love? Hurt? How do we love if we don't accidentally inflict pain upon someone? I've been hurt a lot, but I still don't know the diametrical opposite. I don't know what its like. People ask me if I have ever been in love, mainly because I've slept with a lot of guys and frankly, I haven't. I just feel self-depreciated and dried up. I'm worried that I'll simultaneously fall in love and live in solitary confinement for the rest of my days.

Love. Its a scary word. Its not 'lovely'. It fucking scares me so much. So fucking much.

#amwriting

I actually am writing; yes readers I have managed to conquer the borders of procrastination equipped with the tools to write and have permeated the wall surrounding me with the nib of a pen. It feels so... unexplainable. Not something I won't be able to put on to paper, but a feeling I'll try to replicate in my writing. Flushing out everything that is building up like awkward tetris blocks is one of the most satisfying feelings (also was that a weird simile or a good one, I honestly don't know). Writing isn't a game and if it were, it'd be to just do it. When your tools become dusty, your losing, but when your typing away at times of the day when people aren't catching commuter trains or even thought about sipping their morning coffee... That is a sensation I will never get tired of.

Even now on my post-caffeine high, watching the world bloom outside my living room window. I don't know if any of you have ever watched the sun rise and if you haven't, its something you need to experience at least once in your life. I've watched it numerous times, due to problems sleeping or because I've been pulling an all nighter and each time it fills me with energy. It feels rejuvenating to just bask in the world waking up and as I plug myself into Morning Mood by Grieg that feeling swells between the oboe and the flute and the strings and it is just so inexhaustible. I can play it each time I witness the sunrise and still know that each one is different; incredible.

So for the moment I've been working on three stories; my fairytale The Bloody Syrup which is a tribute to Angela Carter and a rewriting of The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson, The Seventh Veil which is my dissertation piece and novel idea & finally The Enigma which is my dystopian environment piece. I've realised how in the past I used to try and spend individual time writing one piece at a time and never multiple pieces but I guess I've evolved. Its difficult not to adapt when the situation changes; I'm a second year student with piles of work to be finished and I can't always work the way I wanted to.

But then it makes me think: "This time, next year... I'll have written my ECP. I'll have applied for PGCE courses. I'll have a month and a half left of my tenancy before I pack up to go."

When I was 17, I was told I would (and I quote) "never be able to make it into a University that asked for higher then CCC or CCD". I achieved grades well above what was expected, I became extroverted and I decided that I wanted to become a writer. I just think its so strange that I managed to get here and when I'm feeling low and shit, I try to remind myself of my career advisor smelling of alcohol, telling me I wasn't good enough. And now I'm here.

And now I'm writing three stories simultaneously, watching them hatch into the world.

Week.

The end of my first week ends with an avalanche. Sort of. If you count opening your window to a deluge of snow rushing down the roof and freezing your nipples off, then it did. Which happened. Yeah, I'm confused.

The week has been a respite for me because its finally kicked me back into a routine; gone are the days when I can crawl out of bed at three in the afternoon and lounge like trailer trash in my underwear; I've actually been getting up around 6 *gasp*, changed by 8 or 9 *le bigger gasp* and been pretty productive! *le-what-the-fuck-gasp*. Its strange to have a feeling that this will be rigid, that I won't let things keep me up  at night, letting thoughts unravel until I'm left with a mess of anxieties to clear up: I wake up and the day doesn't feel so broken. I mean, like every other human being I still dread getting up without a bit of a lie-in, but who doesn't?

My actual classes this week have been pretty interesting, either due to debates that nearly escalate into fisticuffs or having to work with people that I have a history with. When someone you loathe sits deliberately sits near you for whatever reason, it always seems like a power play of some kind. It feels like I should either a) just try and be decent or b) just embrace my sardonic personality. B usually wins. I'm never really surprised.

But I guess one of the strangest things about this week is the amount of things have happened; I got the rest of my results for last semester and got a decent 2:1, My boyfriend broke up with me, I've maintained a more healthier routine, I've met with an older ex and managed a coffee date. All in the space of 5 days.

It all feels a bit unreal to be true. Its what I used to think a lot. But it has this kind of strange cohesion that just makes it fit, as opposed to when everything felt unreal and was fractured and messy.

Life is strange, and unreal I guess.

Some Poetry

In the second half of last year I found it difficult to write poetry that I was wholly satisfied with. Poetry last year really made me question whether I want to be a commercial poet or just do it on the sidelines for fun, probably because of my lecturer. I mean, I'm not stupid, I know poets don't make a lot of money nowadays but contemporary poetry, or at least from my lecturers perspective, seemed like the last dregs of creativity that were just becoming more and more diluted, more and more manufactured. I mean, even now the media is trying to 'sell' individuality and independence: 'yeah we're totally indie people we live on £2 a day and weave baskets with our beards'. I know not everyone is like this but its almost becoming vapid to stand up for yourself and say 'Well, I guess my music taste is unique' without getting a ton of criticism from other people claiming nothing is original. And when something is sold as individual its like the dogs fucking bollocks.

I find life confusing sometimes so I wrote this poem which may or may not be related.

I'm not surprised people become alcoholics.


The Last Dregs

The first, the last; the worst
--not second or third
the thirst,
a craving for liqour
drink quicker get sicker

See how she rolls from dusk to dawn
sweet Aurora,
with her lips still longing,
unsatiated,
for the taste of something more.