3 12 2011

I want to write.

It’s been so long, time has moved so fast that often I wonder if soon everything will be over and there will be no new times to look forward too. So much has happened, so many dreams came to life and I threw them away, so many times of happiness and sadness that I cannot get back and I didn’t write about them – didn’t bring them alive through my words.

I was loved. Truly loved. I made him go away.

A year of life summed up in that sentence. A year of my life that I cannot talk about in more words as I don’t have them to explain. He tried so hard to love the unlovable, he tried so hard to break down my barriers. I couldn’t do it, my craziness took on a new edge as I felt stifled, confused, trapped. My anger took sinister turns as I pushed and pushed and finally made him leave. The coldness of my soul was put before him in all its evil glory.

He used to call me the ‘Queen of words’ because he felt so many of mine were untrue. It always struck me as odd, as my life has always been one big lie and when I tried to tell him the truth that too was judged as a lie. And me, this Queen of words, never found it in herself to write even though I tried so many times.

After he left I sought help, I knew I had needed it for a long time but I made myself gain the courage to ask. I was diagnosed with Pure O – a form of OCD. Some of it fits but not all. The medication started, and it helped me to live normally, it took the edge of life, of my feelings and worries but it also took the edge off me, it killed the thinking that drove me to this late night blog. Pain, happiness and sensitivity were numbed. Everyone told me how good I seemed, how happy I seemed. I made new friends, I started to carve out the career that I had let flounder for so long. I was living, but I was not real.

It’s only now, 18 months on, after a week not taking those little white emotion killers, after an evening drinking red wine and thinking about the new person in my life that I opened up this blank white page and started to fill it with words.

I want to talk, I want to talk so much, but when I talk I want someone to listen, I want someone to try and understand what makes me the way I am – try and understand my past and the mistakes I have made. I want to come clean, I want to talk in the dead of the night and be heard but still loved in the daytime. Please God, I want someone to see and know the truth but accept me anyway. I’m crazy, a little more each day.


Missing Words

24 01 2011

Where did my words go?

Sometimes I sit here looking at a blank page and will the words that used to come so easily to dance upon the white background and provide me with some salvation from the craziness of my reality.

But they don’t come. I want so much to tell you the truth, to tell you how I have self destructed in such a big way that even my blog friends, who always have a positive and warm thought for me could not justify my actions.

I had it all … everything that other people dream about, but I threw it away, rejected it and then destroyed the giver simply because I can’t function in the real world like other people – I need to be shackled, locked up in a mental hospital where they can keep me from poisoning the world that surrounds me.

I’ve walked so many lonely roads, battled the wilderness but still I do not learn my lessons, still I hurt and destroy, still my words come so harsh in a world so gentle.

I am here … all the time I am here …

It´s not alright

29 07 2010

and I am not ok.

But words are so hard to put down when in a room full of people, when there is no silence.

I´ve stood with a noose around my neck and only just found a way back.

And …

17 05 2010

She’s off again … going backwards …. back to the place that felt like home.

Volcanic Ash Part 2

3 05 2010

We are recovered taken back to where we started from, the insurance company paying the cost of a taxi … as it Spain on a Sunday … no recovery truck willing to do the distance. I am sitting there in the front of that taxi with the overwhelming urge to cry, my chance of getting to France now lost; no idea what to do next. Already I had taken the kindness of strangers to the limit.

I swallowed my proud and made a call to an old friend from the taxi, asking for help … it seemed so wrong that after one year of being away I am ringing them again asking for help, putting my dramatic problems on their doorstep – not the way I wanted to go back … not the way I planned it at all. He offers me a place to stay immediately, so I head in the direction of the place I called home for the first time in a year.

I turn up looking like a Romanian Gypsy, eyes as dull as coal, face bare and hair scrapped back. I feel ugly, I feel useless, I feel old. We sitting at a café drinking coffee and catching up, then back at his house all of a sudden the room is full of people, my tiredness and my rusty (and never that hot) Spanish making it impossible for me to keep up. I am giving 2 kisses and saying hello and after that I fade quietly back to the sofa. It’s funny but that’s when I first saw Mario – he is from Chile he rents the upstairs of my friends house – I remember being introduced but I don’t remember registering him.

The next day, after precious sleep I spend the day with the 2 boys my friend and Mario, we sit drinking small beers outside, after the previous week of not knowing if I was coming or going having two people concerned if I was eating enough felt overwhelming, the kindness of one old friend and a stranger both looking after me was all encompassing.

That night we friend has to go to work, Mario is taking me out with his friends, we are heading onto one of the strips, on the back of scooters … remembering the life and the freedom that I loved so much once upon a time, before the moss begun to grow under my feet.

I don’t remember who kissed who, I don’t remember where it happened or why. We partied until the sun come up, I remember leaving the bike at a club and us walking back to the apartment, I remember laughing constantly and I remember falling asleep entwined with Mario. For the rest of the week I moved upstairs, for the rest of the week he become my 24/7 companion. My friend, far from being annoyed, seemed delighted, the 3 of us spent the days together … eating, talking, laughing. Of a night I visited old friends with Mario in tow, or made new ones as he took me to his haunts. I watched them dance salsa and try to make me join in.

We made love … a lot. We talked just as much, in broken languages, told our stories, laughed about things that seem to transcend cultures and times. By the time it was time for the airspace to reopen I was left wishing that the threatened brother of the volcano would erupt and leave me safe in this moment. But all too soon, the flight was booked and it was time to come home.

Volcanic Ash Part 1

25 04 2010

150,000 British people will have a story to tell … I heard them everywhere, in the chaotic airports, as I passed on the street, in the bars …

Landing in San Javier on the 10th filled with apprehension, going back so close to the place I called home for nearly 3 years of my life, a place I tried to put roots down in. When I heard my sister had made her way back down to the white coast I just wanted to go back, to see, to touch, to feel the place I felt I belonged for so long.

Heading to Orihuela, I spent the first few days in sunshine lit bars, catching up on tales of the life she has led since I packed my backs and returned to the UK … messages from my old friends laying dormant in my phone and on my facebook as I tried to get the courage to head closer to Torrevieja … so scared of seeing Andrew, so frightened of facing the hurt, the feelings that once flowed like water but that I have frozen out like ice.

There coming again, the words, the words that my family seem to say so much, the spitefulness, the shouting, the throwing of fists, like many before her my sister has the anger inside of her … like always my face is the face of someone who deserves to feel the rage, like always I am the agonistic, the irritation that brings the rage … I just want to go home … suitcases in street, the feel of her force … the tears that come so easily.

I’m in a taxi heading back towards San Javier, the drink is blurring my feelings I can make no sense of the situation … the airport is closed, a military base it does not stay open overnight, I am asking the driver to take me to a 24hr bar I will sit and drown my sorrows before catching an early flight. I walk into a bar in La Santiago de Riberia, strangers are taking pity on me, the rag a tag girl with the suitcase, offering me a place to stay for the night, my fear is becoming confused with what is the more frightening prospect being stuck in a bar with Morrocan drug dealers or staying with British strangers … I go with the people from home, they are good people, helping me anyway they can. Next day I am unable to get a flight as the Volcano has brought Europe to a standstill, I don’t know what to do, my desire to leave the country and head back home is all encompassing.

The strangers put me up for one more night, their kindness is killing me, I find a lift with yet more strangers into France, they are heading back to Germany and offer to take me as far as Perpignan, from there I plan on getting a train to Paris and then from Paris to Calais and then from there the ferry crossing to the UK … we set out at four in the morning, I am tired but glad to finally be on my way … finally the journey home is starting and I can escape Spain. It’s raining, the rain feels like it is an echo of my mood, we are close to Valencia and I can see the bend in the road, we are going too fast just for a split second I think please god, the car is skidding, we are hitting the barrier … thank god nobody is hurt …the car is not so lucky.

To be continued …

The Almost Baby

2 04 2010

Years ago, almost 7 in fact, there was nearly a baby.

Sometimes I wonder how my body conceived, not only did I take my birth control regular as clockwork, I also abused my body with a constant supply of illegal drugs and my closest friend the bottle, but mother nature has a funny way of working and I managed to fall pregnant.

The father – God… the father – was (sadly still is…) my itch, my itch that cannot be scratched, the person of my nightmares, the person of my dreams, the one who holds the power to bring my world crashing down and then raise me to the heights of heaven in a one minute conversation. I hated him, I hate him, I was obsessed by him, I am obsessed by him. He is, to put it crudely, my very own non-curable STD.

He has been my endless infatuation … he has never been my love. I have been his constant whipping girl … I have never been his love.

But the baby … the baby was different, it was pure, it didn’t know that it had been conceived by two of the most egotistical, fucked up beings that it would ever have the misfortune to know.

I found out (I am told) that the baby existed a bit later then women normally do, as the realisation dawned on so did the peace, I remember feeling tired, so tired all the time, and I remember feeling I had a secret that I didn’t want to share, I wanted to keep it all for myself.

Until the blackness arrived … until the blackness of what I really was started running through my veins like heroin, until I started looking in the mirror and seeing the outline of a bump and looking around me and seeing how my life really was. The genes, which created me, the genes of the people who destroyed me, were running through me into this new life form. How could I – the hated girl with the black eyes and paranoid-fuelled temper – pretend to myself that I was capable of being a parent any better then the ones I had had myself? Would it have been possible for me, the girl whose only sense of directions points the wrong way, the girl who could outrun the fastest cheetah to not run away from that baby … to not destroy that baby.

I didn’t have the kindness … I didn’t have the wickedness … to try …

He was meant to come with me the day they took the baby away from my body, in the end he didn’t bother, I remember his words …I should be there …I remember thinking what am I doing. I went alone.

There were protesters outside I was too numb to take in what they were saying, it seemed ironic to me at the time that most of them were men. I sat and waited for my name to be called in a waiting room full of couples, all ages, some looking tearful others so certain. I nearly got up to leave six times in ten minutes.

Your not supposed to see the scan they tell you to turn your head away but my eyes fixated on the screen, I needed to see the baby, I needed something to crucify myself with.

I cried when I left that day, sitting in my car in the carpark protesters still in sight, my body feeling empty, my evilness all consuming, I cried like someone who wanted to shed every tear that could possibly exist.

Sometimes I wonder who I was crying for … sometimes I wonder for whom I am still crying for.