Dear Alex
You are an amazing guy. You don't deserve the shit society and your parents put you through. You deserve to get everything you want in life. You deserve to find some one you will truly love.
I love you. I adore you. I would do anything for you.
You are my best friend and you make my heart flutter in a friendship way.
I'm glad we dated. I'm glad you've seen my breasts and it doesn't bother you.
I'm glad I met you.
Love,
Chloe.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Dear Friend
I'm not sure why I am telling you this but I maybe should start doing stuff like this. I dont' know what date it is, I could look at the calender but whats the point?
Sometimes I find it hard to say things so bare with me please.
I think that I'll never pass my GCSE's you know? I think that I will have to repeat and repeat and eventually give up. I'm never going to be able to stick the stress. I can feel myself crumbling already. But I'm holding it together because I have found a reason to actually look forward to each day. I don't love you not like I used to. I just think you make me feel better because I feel like you need me as a friend. I dont need you though, please don't take that the wrong way. But I want to need him. It doesn't make sense, I know but it might when you read on.
I feel sick when I think about my future because if its hard now, then its only going to get worse. Death is scary but living is that little bit fucking worse.
Worst of all, I can't tell anyone becasue they'll laugh.
I'm really fucking alone and I can't fix that. I don't want to get close to anyone because I'll only get broken again. Doesnt matter if they promise, they all leave. So will all my 'friends'. They'll leave and not keep ties. It pains me so fucking much to think this. And thats why I can't let anyone else get close to me, never again. Not so close that they see me cry or they know whats going on inside my head. To them, I'll be crazy and a mess. One big fucker of a mess.
I admit that. I am a mess. And I wish someone could tell me why. Nothing happened to me to make me like this. I wasnt hurt as a child, overly, or anything like that. So, why am I screwed up? Why do I have all these deep and profound thoughts just turning and turningg in my head? I feel like Charlie from The perks of being a wallflower. But he was more naive than I am and alot smarter.
I want to buy pot and smoke it til i'm too high to know my name. I just can't get any. I want to just forget about the world, go for a walk at night and stay out to all hours of the morning, just hanging out with a friend and discussing life while looking at the stars and smoking pot, or me smoking pot, and drinking and talking. Just, talking and laughing.
It doesnt make sense. Not even to me, but I want it.
I actually gave up alcohol and cutting myself for lent. I kept the alcohol well enough, but not the cutting. I guess its what I do. And I dont care. Becacuse its mine. Yeah, I know. You hate it and what not but yeah.
I know I may say that I'm fine alot and I am getting better but I dont really think I am. I just wish we could discuss life some time. You and me. And go for a long walk to nowhere at all and drink what ever and just maybe be in each others company. This could be aimed at anyone, but I aimed it at you because I have been holding out on you and I think you should know. This is what is beneth the surface and when I eventually tell you that I'm all better I want you to know that I'm more thna likly lying to protect you.
Argh. None of that made sense.
Please don't let this make it all awkward now. This just happens to me sometimes, I think too much and I need to say something. So, I'm sorry. Again.
Sometimes I find it hard to say things so bare with me please.
I think that I'll never pass my GCSE's you know? I think that I will have to repeat and repeat and eventually give up. I'm never going to be able to stick the stress. I can feel myself crumbling already. But I'm holding it together because I have found a reason to actually look forward to each day. I don't love you not like I used to. I just think you make me feel better because I feel like you need me as a friend. I dont need you though, please don't take that the wrong way. But I want to need him. It doesn't make sense, I know but it might when you read on.
I feel sick when I think about my future because if its hard now, then its only going to get worse. Death is scary but living is that little bit fucking worse.
Worst of all, I can't tell anyone becasue they'll laugh.
I'm really fucking alone and I can't fix that. I don't want to get close to anyone because I'll only get broken again. Doesnt matter if they promise, they all leave. So will all my 'friends'. They'll leave and not keep ties. It pains me so fucking much to think this. And thats why I can't let anyone else get close to me, never again. Not so close that they see me cry or they know whats going on inside my head. To them, I'll be crazy and a mess. One big fucker of a mess.
I admit that. I am a mess. And I wish someone could tell me why. Nothing happened to me to make me like this. I wasnt hurt as a child, overly, or anything like that. So, why am I screwed up? Why do I have all these deep and profound thoughts just turning and turningg in my head? I feel like Charlie from The perks of being a wallflower. But he was more naive than I am and alot smarter.
I want to buy pot and smoke it til i'm too high to know my name. I just can't get any. I want to just forget about the world, go for a walk at night and stay out to all hours of the morning, just hanging out with a friend and discussing life while looking at the stars and smoking pot, or me smoking pot, and drinking and talking. Just, talking and laughing.
It doesnt make sense. Not even to me, but I want it.
I actually gave up alcohol and cutting myself for lent. I kept the alcohol well enough, but not the cutting. I guess its what I do. And I dont care. Becacuse its mine. Yeah, I know. You hate it and what not but yeah.
I know I may say that I'm fine alot and I am getting better but I dont really think I am. I just wish we could discuss life some time. You and me. And go for a long walk to nowhere at all and drink what ever and just maybe be in each others company. This could be aimed at anyone, but I aimed it at you because I have been holding out on you and I think you should know. This is what is beneth the surface and when I eventually tell you that I'm all better I want you to know that I'm more thna likly lying to protect you.
Argh. None of that made sense.
Please don't let this make it all awkward now. This just happens to me sometimes, I think too much and I need to say something. So, I'm sorry. Again.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Dear....
Dear you.....
I'm sorry for how things turned out. I was a bitch. I was childish and naive. Please. Forgive me. All of you. I messed it up, I runied it.
I sunk the boat.
I'm sorry.
xxxx
I'm sorry for how things turned out. I was a bitch. I was childish and naive. Please. Forgive me. All of you. I messed it up, I runied it.
I sunk the boat.
I'm sorry.
xxxx
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Memoirs
Prologue
It’s hard. If you can’t control what you are feeling inside. If you can’t refrain from watching the blood in your veins course and slide down your skin. It’s mesmerizing. Because in that single moment nothing else matters except for the numbing.
“Do you know what you’re feeling?”
“No.” Pause. “I don’t know what I’m feeling.”
Silence.
You hurt everyone around you. Continually. And it seems selfish, oh it seems so selfish but it’s all you know. You’ve probably been taught other ways to cope, but this works for you. It always has. Feeling the hunger in your gut, the claws pull the lining of your stomach in on itself in a bid to feed its self. It all gives you a sense of satisfaction, much like the blade. Why? I don’t know, I wish I did because then I could find a way to stop it. Hell, I would do anything to stop it. But it just feels so right, and so good.
I used to want help. I used to really want to get help. Now I realize I don’t, I realize that I’ll only fight against it. So, I would waste time, resources and most of all I would hurt everyone more.
If any of you have been there, you’ll know how hard it is. You’ll know about the rush you get the desperate need and hunger for self abuse and self discipline. It’s like a high. It numbs your whole body, helps you relax, helps you realise stress and helps you sleep. It can also wake you up. For me, it was always better than coffee and I love coffee. Given a choice between cutting or starving and a nice drink of coffee. I always chose the latter.
“Why do you do these things?”
“I don’t know.” Or “Different reasons.”
“What reasons?”
And that could be anything. Ranging from a nasty glance to child abuse. For me, never so severe as child abuse and I thank god for that. But some days I would wish that it was as bad, just so I could have a reason to justify my behaviour.
Very often, if you’ve been there, you’ll know that suicide isn’t just a word. It’s a thought that enters your head almost every hour of every day. You plan, you scrap and then you plan again. You can try or you can never try. It doesn’t matter, fact is it’s there, the thought is there.
“I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. How you hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.”
Maybe you do, but I’m not going to pretend like I don’t. Pretending doesn’t help. At least not pretending to your self. Convincing others can be hard, if you wear your heart on your sleeve. I did, but then they gave me these anti-depressants and now, I can hide behind a mask of smiles and jokes. But I can’t cry. And I think that’s the worst part. Not being able to shed your tears.
“Razors pain you, rivers are damp, acid stains you, drugs cause cramps, gun aren't lawful, nooses give, gas smells awful, you might as well live.”
(quotes from Girl, Inturrupted)
Eight
I was seven, three days off my eighth birthday, when I woke up with cramps the size of London. Usually I would relish this and try, again, to convince Mother to let me stay at home. But I was the sort of child who hated school, who came home for a ‘headache’ almost every day, so I had long since given up telling Mother when I really was ill and stuck it out. She knew my games all too well.
I didn’t eat anything that morning; I just went, reluctantly, off to school. So, I waited in the rain for half an hour and once the bell rang I was the first in. As usual. I tried to be social as a child, but no one could relate to me. I knew from an early age I was a freak; and so did they.
“Look at her.” They’d snigger, “Playing with the boys.”
“She’s weird….”
As the clock struck noon we were given sheets of math. I asked the teacher could I use the toilet and off I went. The room was cold, like a freezer, the cubicles old and worn, the mirrors smudged and scratched. The older students got the ancient toilets, while the younger children got the freshly painted ones. I locked one of the cubicles, went through the usual pre-urinating procedures and as I sat on the seat, I looked at the underwear around my ankles.
I don’t remember what I felt in that moment. Most likely dear, dread, worry, confusion. All I remember is the blood. Dark red, angry and mocking me. I was bleeding from my ‘private area’, I knew that much, what I didn’t know was why? What did this mean? Was I dying?
“Mummy. What is happening to me?
Am I dying? Is this death I see?
Mummy. This never happened before,
I don’t think I want to be a girl anymore.”
Back in class, fifteen minutes later, I couldn’t concentrate. The rest of the day was a blur. I didn’t say anything to my mother that night. I was too ashamed
As you can guess, it stopped seven days later, by which time I was officially eight. I thought it was over and I was okay again. But I felt different. Strange. And needless to say it was back in a month and the feeling of hopelessness and lose grew stronger. But I still didn’t tell my mother. All evidence of the bleeding was hid in a box under my bed. Underwear, jeans ect. I used toilet paper and tissues on the crouch of my underwear – not knowing about tampons. I cried myself to sleep every night and barely slept at all. I went through each day in a blur.
I was cutting onions one day for the dinner and my hand slipped so that the knife slit my arm. It stung for a moment but then I remember feeling better when I saw the blood. Like a weight had been lifted. So, the evening I took a small severed edge knife from the drawer and went to my room. I was scared of being found, so I hid under the desk and put the heavy chair against the door. I was scared at first, in case it hurt too much, but then I remembered that it was ether this or feel numb and helpless. Slowly I began to cut, near my elbow so it wasn’t overly obvious, and as the blood started to flow I just felt relief. Complete relief.
I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I’m tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut.
It continued. The secrecy of my ‘disease’ for one more cycle. Then my mother found the evidence and sat me down to have the puberty chat. Why I was fatter than the rest of the girls, why I had hair in places I shouldn’t, why I had breasts and why I was bleeding. One thing she didn’t tell me was why it had to happen to me when I was still a child. Why it had stolen my childhood, why I was becoming a teenager, before I was meant to. I was happy she knew now, but I hate my body, and I, for what was happening.
At eight years old, I had grown up.
It’s hard. If you can’t control what you are feeling inside. If you can’t refrain from watching the blood in your veins course and slide down your skin. It’s mesmerizing. Because in that single moment nothing else matters except for the numbing.
“Do you know what you’re feeling?”
“No.” Pause. “I don’t know what I’m feeling.”
Silence.
You hurt everyone around you. Continually. And it seems selfish, oh it seems so selfish but it’s all you know. You’ve probably been taught other ways to cope, but this works for you. It always has. Feeling the hunger in your gut, the claws pull the lining of your stomach in on itself in a bid to feed its self. It all gives you a sense of satisfaction, much like the blade. Why? I don’t know, I wish I did because then I could find a way to stop it. Hell, I would do anything to stop it. But it just feels so right, and so good.
I used to want help. I used to really want to get help. Now I realize I don’t, I realize that I’ll only fight against it. So, I would waste time, resources and most of all I would hurt everyone more.
If any of you have been there, you’ll know how hard it is. You’ll know about the rush you get the desperate need and hunger for self abuse and self discipline. It’s like a high. It numbs your whole body, helps you relax, helps you realise stress and helps you sleep. It can also wake you up. For me, it was always better than coffee and I love coffee. Given a choice between cutting or starving and a nice drink of coffee. I always chose the latter.
“Why do you do these things?”
“I don’t know.” Or “Different reasons.”
“What reasons?”
And that could be anything. Ranging from a nasty glance to child abuse. For me, never so severe as child abuse and I thank god for that. But some days I would wish that it was as bad, just so I could have a reason to justify my behaviour.
Very often, if you’ve been there, you’ll know that suicide isn’t just a word. It’s a thought that enters your head almost every hour of every day. You plan, you scrap and then you plan again. You can try or you can never try. It doesn’t matter, fact is it’s there, the thought is there.
“I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. How you hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.”
Maybe you do, but I’m not going to pretend like I don’t. Pretending doesn’t help. At least not pretending to your self. Convincing others can be hard, if you wear your heart on your sleeve. I did, but then they gave me these anti-depressants and now, I can hide behind a mask of smiles and jokes. But I can’t cry. And I think that’s the worst part. Not being able to shed your tears.
“Razors pain you, rivers are damp, acid stains you, drugs cause cramps, gun aren't lawful, nooses give, gas smells awful, you might as well live.”
(quotes from Girl, Inturrupted)
Eight
I was seven, three days off my eighth birthday, when I woke up with cramps the size of London. Usually I would relish this and try, again, to convince Mother to let me stay at home. But I was the sort of child who hated school, who came home for a ‘headache’ almost every day, so I had long since given up telling Mother when I really was ill and stuck it out. She knew my games all too well.
I didn’t eat anything that morning; I just went, reluctantly, off to school. So, I waited in the rain for half an hour and once the bell rang I was the first in. As usual. I tried to be social as a child, but no one could relate to me. I knew from an early age I was a freak; and so did they.
“Look at her.” They’d snigger, “Playing with the boys.”
“She’s weird….”
As the clock struck noon we were given sheets of math. I asked the teacher could I use the toilet and off I went. The room was cold, like a freezer, the cubicles old and worn, the mirrors smudged and scratched. The older students got the ancient toilets, while the younger children got the freshly painted ones. I locked one of the cubicles, went through the usual pre-urinating procedures and as I sat on the seat, I looked at the underwear around my ankles.
I don’t remember what I felt in that moment. Most likely dear, dread, worry, confusion. All I remember is the blood. Dark red, angry and mocking me. I was bleeding from my ‘private area’, I knew that much, what I didn’t know was why? What did this mean? Was I dying?
“Mummy. What is happening to me?
Am I dying? Is this death I see?
Mummy. This never happened before,
I don’t think I want to be a girl anymore.”
Back in class, fifteen minutes later, I couldn’t concentrate. The rest of the day was a blur. I didn’t say anything to my mother that night. I was too ashamed
As you can guess, it stopped seven days later, by which time I was officially eight. I thought it was over and I was okay again. But I felt different. Strange. And needless to say it was back in a month and the feeling of hopelessness and lose grew stronger. But I still didn’t tell my mother. All evidence of the bleeding was hid in a box under my bed. Underwear, jeans ect. I used toilet paper and tissues on the crouch of my underwear – not knowing about tampons. I cried myself to sleep every night and barely slept at all. I went through each day in a blur.
I was cutting onions one day for the dinner and my hand slipped so that the knife slit my arm. It stung for a moment but then I remember feeling better when I saw the blood. Like a weight had been lifted. So, the evening I took a small severed edge knife from the drawer and went to my room. I was scared of being found, so I hid under the desk and put the heavy chair against the door. I was scared at first, in case it hurt too much, but then I remembered that it was ether this or feel numb and helpless. Slowly I began to cut, near my elbow so it wasn’t overly obvious, and as the blood started to flow I just felt relief. Complete relief.
I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I’m tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut.
It continued. The secrecy of my ‘disease’ for one more cycle. Then my mother found the evidence and sat me down to have the puberty chat. Why I was fatter than the rest of the girls, why I had hair in places I shouldn’t, why I had breasts and why I was bleeding. One thing she didn’t tell me was why it had to happen to me when I was still a child. Why it had stolen my childhood, why I was becoming a teenager, before I was meant to. I was happy she knew now, but I hate my body, and I, for what was happening.
At eight years old, I had grown up.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Dear me, well my mind actually - 6th
Dear me or my head rather…
I think I need a break. I mean a break where I am isolated - or indeed, where I am with my boyfriend and my boyfriend alone for a few hours, day’s maybe? But it would never be approved. Not by my 'Parents'. Do I want to call them that anymore? You should know the answer to that better than me - you are, after all, my head. My mind. My dead centre to more exact.
Ivor and Paula. That sounds better. But it also makes them nothing but people who are looking after me now. Looking after me sounds childish. I don't want looking after - I want out. I want to be free.
But I don't want the streets. Or the brokenness. Sounds a bit selfish - I know - but can't I be selfish? Can't I just want them there to give me the money when I do my chores or when I do my chores plus my sisters? Wait! I haven't been getting paid from them at all lately. Only on holidays where I got my wallet stolen and the 'loaned' me money and gave Emma money when she ran out and told her not to bother paying back. Just because I work - yeah. 3 and a half ours a week. For a tenner. Great. I can totally pay them back.
That is 60 euro they won’t see again. Not from me anyway.
I'm a little jealous of my sister - I admit. She gets everywhere; she gets money handed to her on a plate and doesn't do any chores. When I critise this all I get is ' Shut up Chloe! Just because you’re fuckin jealous of her! Don't be so jealous!' - Fuckin straight I'm jealous. I have been working for my money all my life - one way or another. Everything I own, I bought my self through saving up. So, why does she get treated completely different? Just because she eats like a fuckin pig. I'll say it! I like the fact she is fatter than me - she looks leaner and better than I did when I was her size. She is their golden girl, so fuck them!
I just ruined their perfect bubble. Or was it Box? Yeah, they said box. Not bubble. Bubble, to me, just sounds nicer and pleasanter.
I hate the fact that I might turn into my parents, Brain. Can't you make that stop? Don't you understand by now that the self harm, the smoking, the attempted drinking, the pill popping, the starving, the excessive exercising and the constant scratching is because I want to hurt. Because, perhaps, I want to hurt so bad I die from it.
Selfish Bitch. Yeah. I am. Perhaps a little insane. Maybe I belong in an Asylum. A real one.
I feel the need to call someone now. Not Alex. I don't want to worry him. Not Geo. We only made up. Nor Anne. I'm still pissed at her.
James? No. He doesn't care and wouldn't help much. Sam? Maybe it’s the same deal with him. I'm not sure.
I have no one really. Complete strangers yes, but no one close who I can really open up to. Maybe closeness doesn't mix with opening up. I actually don't know.
Sympathy. Yeah, that’s what I want. Again. Selfish. But maybe sympathy, the one thing I actually despise, will teach me to shut up and bottle up. Here I go again. Little miss self destructive.
"Chloe. Stop attention seeking." Tsk. Attention? What the fuck? If anything I want to disappear - from Emma, Ivor and Paula. Mostly the later two. Maybe from the world? Possibly.
Not from Alex, his family or his friends. Or Geo's friend’s ether- they have welcomed me to their circle. They seem rough, tired. Perhaps weary and I know Alex's group drink and smoke. Not just fags ether might I add.
I can already see a pattern. Rich kids, middle class kids. All the way to the poor kids. All of us. Turning to the rails or off them rather. Why? Why are we so destructive? Child abuse? Sexual abuse? - Maybe, but mostly no.
We have hatred. To the world and the people in it and we can see no where to go but to ourselves. That’s what you’re telling me now, brain, and you could keep going all night.
I wish I had insomnia. I wouldn't have to dream as often. Because there’s nothing in my dreams for me anymore. Not most of the time any way. There is the occasional one I wish that I never left behind.
Alas. It is not to be I am afriad.Possibly my writing of 'Dear' letters will cease after this - or maybe they will just be to those outside my own head. Who knows? But for tonight - I think I am finished. At least, I hope I am.
Because tonight - I just might have lost all will to live.
I think I need a break. I mean a break where I am isolated - or indeed, where I am with my boyfriend and my boyfriend alone for a few hours, day’s maybe? But it would never be approved. Not by my 'Parents'. Do I want to call them that anymore? You should know the answer to that better than me - you are, after all, my head. My mind. My dead centre to more exact.
Ivor and Paula. That sounds better. But it also makes them nothing but people who are looking after me now. Looking after me sounds childish. I don't want looking after - I want out. I want to be free.
But I don't want the streets. Or the brokenness. Sounds a bit selfish - I know - but can't I be selfish? Can't I just want them there to give me the money when I do my chores or when I do my chores plus my sisters? Wait! I haven't been getting paid from them at all lately. Only on holidays where I got my wallet stolen and the 'loaned' me money and gave Emma money when she ran out and told her not to bother paying back. Just because I work - yeah. 3 and a half ours a week. For a tenner. Great. I can totally pay them back.
That is 60 euro they won’t see again. Not from me anyway.
I'm a little jealous of my sister - I admit. She gets everywhere; she gets money handed to her on a plate and doesn't do any chores. When I critise this all I get is ' Shut up Chloe! Just because you’re fuckin jealous of her! Don't be so jealous!' - Fuckin straight I'm jealous. I have been working for my money all my life - one way or another. Everything I own, I bought my self through saving up. So, why does she get treated completely different? Just because she eats like a fuckin pig. I'll say it! I like the fact she is fatter than me - she looks leaner and better than I did when I was her size. She is their golden girl, so fuck them!
I just ruined their perfect bubble. Or was it Box? Yeah, they said box. Not bubble. Bubble, to me, just sounds nicer and pleasanter.
I hate the fact that I might turn into my parents, Brain. Can't you make that stop? Don't you understand by now that the self harm, the smoking, the attempted drinking, the pill popping, the starving, the excessive exercising and the constant scratching is because I want to hurt. Because, perhaps, I want to hurt so bad I die from it.
Selfish Bitch. Yeah. I am. Perhaps a little insane. Maybe I belong in an Asylum. A real one.
I feel the need to call someone now. Not Alex. I don't want to worry him. Not Geo. We only made up. Nor Anne. I'm still pissed at her.
James? No. He doesn't care and wouldn't help much. Sam? Maybe it’s the same deal with him. I'm not sure.
I have no one really. Complete strangers yes, but no one close who I can really open up to. Maybe closeness doesn't mix with opening up. I actually don't know.
Sympathy. Yeah, that’s what I want. Again. Selfish. But maybe sympathy, the one thing I actually despise, will teach me to shut up and bottle up. Here I go again. Little miss self destructive.
"Chloe. Stop attention seeking." Tsk. Attention? What the fuck? If anything I want to disappear - from Emma, Ivor and Paula. Mostly the later two. Maybe from the world? Possibly.
Not from Alex, his family or his friends. Or Geo's friend’s ether- they have welcomed me to their circle. They seem rough, tired. Perhaps weary and I know Alex's group drink and smoke. Not just fags ether might I add.
I can already see a pattern. Rich kids, middle class kids. All the way to the poor kids. All of us. Turning to the rails or off them rather. Why? Why are we so destructive? Child abuse? Sexual abuse? - Maybe, but mostly no.
We have hatred. To the world and the people in it and we can see no where to go but to ourselves. That’s what you’re telling me now, brain, and you could keep going all night.
I wish I had insomnia. I wouldn't have to dream as often. Because there’s nothing in my dreams for me anymore. Not most of the time any way. There is the occasional one I wish that I never left behind.
Alas. It is not to be I am afriad.Possibly my writing of 'Dear' letters will cease after this - or maybe they will just be to those outside my own head. Who knows? But for tonight - I think I am finished. At least, I hope I am.
Because tonight - I just might have lost all will to live.
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