Day 17
I posted the last blog late last night because I literally wasn't sure what else to do to let it all out, I've tried just about everything apart form yoga and I really doubt yoga will reconstruct even a pebble of this crumbling stone mind of mine.
I think I am going insane. I honestly do. Slowly. Very very slowly.
Because today I sat in the coridoor, on the grubby, half finished carpet, for a sum total of two hours and just stared at the wall. And talked to myself about it all. And then I kind of snapped out of it and went to make lemsip.
Lauren came over. She is my ROCK. (My other, much nicer rock, not the one I said was rattling in my ribcage.)
But then she went and the day kept getting darker, and the flat was empty and I swayed to my own humming on the sofa, too ill to do anything other than hum. And the humming was shit at that, because my throat feels like someone dragged nails down the side of it during the night.
And I wanted so badly for him to reply to my text. To email me. To call me.
But when he called I just glared at the phone and couldn't answer. He called twice. And texted.
Sylvia is clambering all over me.... I have done it again. One year in every ten, I manage it.
I love Sylvia like a mother. I listenned to her recordings on youtube today, her words soothe me. Dying is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
Eventually I called him back. I tried to act normal, with all my might. But the normality disintegrated and GUESS WHAT. ....I broke down into tears. Again. I imagine this is getting far too old for him. For me. For my tearducts, with a mind of their own.
He took her on a walk. He kisses her. He holds her. He tells her she's beautiful. He strokes her neck. Oh God, I'm like a spoilt child.
Why can't we just go back? I am begging for something to change. Please.
I sat on the sofa watching a french film and suddenly it hit me. I am like an immature, miniature replica of my mother. My bitter, angry, jealous, lonely mother who was left by everyone. Everything down to my posture, my blank, stupid facial expression. She is utterly isolated. Her only hope is to see me married and happy and blahblablah shitshitshit in the future. But what if, and this "if" is probably more of an inevitable predetermination than an "if" at all, I wind up just as solitary as she is.
It could be a family thread. I couldn't ask my grandmother - she is dead. But I'll question, in this head. Will the water stay like lead?
Wow, speaking in rhymes. Mental progress.
It certainly didn't help that (and I had no idea of the plot) this Film Francais, ended up with the main 17 yearold, screwup of a girl protagonist, killing herself for some wanker. Optimism - the therapist said. Optimism. The therapist is coming round tomorrow. Hmmmmm.
I want to leave. To stick myself on a train and leave. I will next week. I have money now. Just a little. Ill leave mother a note and tell her I need some space. And Ill pack a bag and go. To Leeds. Manchester. Bristol. ...We were going to go to Bristol.... And come back in a few days... Or not come back at all. Yes, next week. That way the school is closed and can't stick their greasy, ignorant noses in if I decide not to come back. If. Not "not come back" because I'm staying in my steel refuge of LeedsManchesterBristol to live. Because... because I'm tired. And obviously not as persevering as I'd hoped. Re-incarnation - Ill come back as a toad. Or a hare. Or something equally cowardly. Because I am terrified of her, him, my father, my sister, confrontation, rejection, isolation, him. But not Sylvia. She ran away thirty years before I was even born, but she wasn't scared.
There are several stages to getting over things, they say. Denial, Depression, Anger and Acceptance, I think. I am at anger - at myself, at him him him him him him him, all of them. But parallel to this raging madness, I want him back more than anything in the whole stupid fucking universe. Just to hold him in my dried up, bitten fingers and hear him say I'm his. I would tear myself from limb to limb. But what are limbs when he looks the other way? He's pushed it so far from himself, that he can't feel me nowadays. Five years. Five little years dripping down the drain. Drip. Drip. Drip. I need him like a plant needs sunlight to photosynthesise and live. What could I possibly scribble, or type or sob into the reciever to turn this mess around. Please. Please. I need to grow up. So many say I act old for my age, well they should have a read of this. I am like a five yearold who has lost her favoured trinket.
I can say I am in terrible love with him a million times, but what would it matter.
Still, Sylvia found a way. I'll go and talk to Sylvia.
Goodnight.
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