The Monster

*TRIGGER WARNING*

An eating disorder is a monster

that hijacks your mind, body, and soul.

It eats away at your brain,

making sure that every day there's less of you left.

Taking away every fragment of you.

Replacing each discarded piece

with a piece of itself.

Each action, interaction

is dictated by the beast. 

Everything that makes you unique

sucked away into an endless vacuum. 

It takes your voice

and locks it away.

So no matter how loud you scream,

how long you beg it to stop,

no one will never hear you.

It ensures that any relationship,

apart from the one between you and it,

is cut. 

Or at the very least

kept at arm's length.

It takes everything

until the only way to get rid of it,

is to get rid of you.

Dermatillomania

When I’m feeling 

stressed,

anxious,

depressed.

I pick at my skin,

it always helps,

I dunno why.

I’m always picking away,

squeezing away,

all the imperfections.

Making imperfections,

while removing them.

I think there imperfections

but 

they might not be there.

I always think,

‘What if I’ve got skin cancer,

I need to squeeze out the skin cancer’.

I think there’s something wrong with me 

cause 

I don’t think others think like this.

Claw at their skin,

with fear of disease.

All the while,

most likely,

creating disease.

My Voice

*TRIGGER WARNING*

I wrote this last night when I was drunk, quite a running theme for when I write emotional poetry...the only time I can write about bad stuff that's happened...which probably isn't great.
Anyhoo....here it is:

Please don't talk to me,

Please talk to me,

I'm sorry I'm not here,

I checked out a while ago.

I always want to talk to people,

but I can't.

I feel that when the bad thing happened,

his dick stole my voice,

stole an essential part of my soul.

Lots of terrible things happened before that,

but after that,

that one particular night,

2 hours to be exact,

I couldn't find it within myself to talk,

to even look at others.

It's like,

everything that happened just took over,

became an unbudging boulder,

over everything.

Leaving only a half-assed attempt mask of who I was before.

Thankfully most people can't see through it,

Can't see how truly destroyed I am.

How much I'm not really here.

******

This poem is about rape and about how he took so much more than my dignity. I feel like my dignity was somewhat easier to get back....I think. This is really difficult to write (talk) about.

I think people think that I'm being rude when I don't talk to them or run away from them when they try to speak to me but that's really not the case...I get afraid...terrified that people can see how much pain I'm in. I also can't socialise the way I used to anymore, I can't strike up casual conversation, I can't joke around and laugh at trivial things anymore, I'm afraid that people can see how awkward and different I am now. I don't like meeting up with people I knew before because I think they can sense that I'm not the same and I want to be the person that they knew but I'm really not. I also used to be really good at making new friends, starting up conversations from nowhere but even that's harder than making cheese out of playdough. A lot of the time I also just don't have anything to say, like all my words, my ability to make words has been taken away, sucked into an endless unforgiving vacuum. The effort it takes to try and pretend that the worst thing that could have possibly happened didn't indeed happen is astronomically tiring. It makes me want to spend all my time alone because then I don't have to speak, don't have to put on an act, I can just breathe and be me. Me who is now very quiet.

(I feel I should add this; CBD oil has helped me deal with these issues quite a bit and I'm on a journey to getting my good auld sociable self back but it's still really difficult and I've got a really long way to go. I can, at the very least, say that I am trying and I try to take each day as it comes. I guess all you can do is try and hopefully one day you'll get to your destination.
I'm also still able to talk to close friends, some family members, and a few workers, which I'm very thankful for but I can't go through my whole life being mute around everyone else, especially when I'd love to talk to everyone.)

I don't know if any of this makes sense but I know that nobody really reads this so I guess it doesn't have to make sense. I guess I'm using this as a coping mechanism and nobody else has to view it for it to work for me.

I wish I could share this with more people but I feel so up my own arse sharing the link, like I think it's great and I'm proud of myself for being able to write about stuff but I think/worry that I'm oversharing and people just want me to shut the fuck up. 

I hope that anyone who reads this enjoys it and has a wonderful day. :)

I'm Sorry

I wish I could go and visit you.

I'm sorry for all the times that I didn't.

I was scared because you were ill,

I was scared.

So scared that you were going to die that I couldn't even see you.

Pathetic.

If I could go back in time,

I'd come see you every day.

I'd make sure that you knew I loved you,

that we got to spend time together.

Instead of sitting,

getting stoned,

trying to pretend it wasn't happening.

Trying to kill my own pain,

rather than putting my time to good use,

by spending time with you,

cherishing the time of a clock that was about to stop. 

I'm sorry Granny,

I'm sorry for not visiting you,

until the almost end.

Without you,

I feel like there's no point in anything,

no point in getting up

unless I'm making you proud.

On the days that I'm not at college,

working towards my goal,

I feel nothing but 

sadness, 

guilt, 

shame,

that I'm not doing enough,

to be the best I can be.

I want to be the best for me,

but I also want to be the best for you.

I want to make you proud,

but I also want to make me proud.

I just want to be the best I can be.

The best friend, daughter, sister.

The best I can be.

******

I wrote this the other night when I was, for lack of a better term, mwi. Obviously, there's a little bit of exaggeration but I do feel on the days that I'm not really doing anything that I'm wasting time...time that I could be using to create or work towards my career goals. I do have good days and they're happening more often but I also have bad days and weeks but I guess it's all part of the journey that is life.

I hope you enjoy reading it.

I hope y'all are having a wonderful Thursday 😊

Grief

Grief is like an ocean,
one minute your surfing its waves,
sun shining down,
a melancholy sadness
hangs in the air.

You remember all the times you spent together,
whether good or bad.
It's sad and it's painful,
but you accept that death is part of life.

Grief feels heavy.
Heavy like your wearing a suit made of rocks.
A suit made of rocks, a boulder at your heart

 of random memories,
the next,
your drowning,
being dragged down by rocks

your weeping into your coffee,
drowning in an ocean.

******

This poem doesn't necessarily make sense but neither does grief.  

23/01/19

Got my laptop fixed. Woohoo!

Today I got my laptop back after it being broken for about a month or so....praise hallelujah I've got my electric baby back.

~My cat is my real, non-electric, baby ❤🐈~

When I dropped my phone in a bucket of bleach and it was fucked for a couple of days (until it worked the power of resurrection on itself), I was a wee bit bummed out about it but I wasn't really that bothered. It was more of a blessing than a bummer kinda thing. But when my laptop suddenly died mid rapid research/netflix binge, I was absolutely fucking devastated. Although I didn't actually take it into the shop until last week~due to anxiety but more on that later~the time spent without it has been, for lack of a better word, dire. Absolutely fucking dire. I know I could've spent my time reading or drawing or being creatively productive in some form-I did a bit-, but there's just something about writing (and publishing, now) that I find life extremely boring without. I did put a few posts to paper but it's just not the same...I like being able to share my work. Even if only 1 or 2 people, or even if nobody reads this, I like seeing my work, on my blog, for my own benefit. It makes me feel so proud that I'm managing to get my words out, managing to share my voice after so long of feeling trapped by anxiety. Anxiety is an on-going struggle for me but I'm taking steps to combat it; this blog being one. 

Christmas Day

Starting off Christmas with some lovely, kind words, my brother just told me that I'm "the biggest retard" he knows. He's so kind.

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you about that and it's because, for the first time, perhaps ever~or at least in a while~...I am not hurt by his words. In fact, they flew right over my head....into the bin where they belong.
In the past when he's said shit like the aforementioned, I've either been in tears or ready to decapitate him but right now I can confidently say that I don't give a shit. He can say what he wants about me, he can use any manner of disgusting words to describe me but they can't and won't hurt me anymore. I have evolved and developed the ultimate bullshit shield.

******

On a lighter note...I wrote a Christmas poem. I think it really pinpoints the highlight incident of my Christmas:

Christmas Poem

Merry Christmas,

I got soup in my eye,

Now I want to die.

******

As you can probably tell, this is from Christmas. I was gonna post this then but everything got very overwhelming and I could barely deal with it, let alone type it. So, I'm posting it now cause I really like my poem and I think it would be a shame not to share it....even though y'all probably think it's shit, I like it~also, my friend said that she likes it too. 

Merry belated Christmas & Happy belated New Year peeps! 

I hate Christmas~mostly just Capitalism but that's basically all Christmas is nowadays~with a fucking passion but if you like it, I hope you had a good one.