I just need this year to end, and for me to escape to France. I can’t deal with this or anything, I hate the unknown or the wonder. I hate being this besotted and completely submerged in these emotions, it hurts. The emotions I can deal with, it’s the hope that gets me. The hope that maybe, one day she’ll let me adore her the way that I want to.
Perhaps it sounds to you like she’s the source of a lot of my turmoil, and that’s not true at all. My attachment, my turmoil and my true need for her comes from my other problems -and I hate that it does.
But I do want you to know, I suppose (and I don’t know if you care or not) that, even if I didn’t have my issues and even if I didn’t feel like I do -even if I was normal, I’d still care about her this much. Maybe it wouldn’t upset me as much, maybe I’d be able to just let her be happy without hurting but I do promise, she’s that incredible and amazing and the true embodiment of beauty that I’d want her as much as I do right now.
 I don’t know what this was mean to be saying, or why I wrote this at all.
I just think I need a break from everything. I’m going somewhere where no one knows me or about me, I’ll be completely alone. And that’s all I want. Just for a while, just for eternity.

--Andria

uncertainty.

It's very odd to feel this connected to someone without actually knowing them. I suppose connected isn't the right word. Infatuated? Besotted? They're more to do with the point.
I've hardly spoken to her, but I watch her all the time and I want to see her and I want to talk to her. I'm a fairly confident person in the personality that I've created for myself. But when I'm around her I become an idiot. I talk to loud, I do stupid things, I don't look around me. It's like she takes my walls and she rips them apart.
I've never been nervous around anyone before, but around her I am. And I don't even know anything about her.
I'm slightly terrified, mostly enthralled. Maybe one day I can have a conversation with her.
That'd be nice.

--Andria.

I've been vegan for the last three weeks and I thought it'd be more triggering than this. I've lost about five kilograms, and it feels nice.

Everything just feels flat at the moment. I'm sadder than usual. I'm at a low point of existence -far from the worst that I've been, but much worse than normal.
I just don't want to do it anymore.

--Andria.

I don't know why it's so difficult all of a sudden. Well, that's a lie. I suppose I do know why, but my theory confuses me. Because I lasted the eight or nine months she spent with the one before this and it didn't hurt as much.
It hurt in the beginning, because it was just after she'd told me she knew and a small fraction of my head thought she might maybe reciprocate. But that idea just of bled out on the pavement.
Maybe that's what happened again. Maybe I thought she might want to. But that'd be a stupid thing for me to think ever again (though I do on nights like these.)
It's no longer nights like these but days like these as well. Days where I don't talk for a long while because I imagine her wanting me and days when I think too hard about it and I can feel the pressure at the back of my retinas. The pressure and the pain and the hurt of over a year of devotion that has gone unrecognised and unappreciated.
For every moment, every second I care for her. I care for her as a friend and I care for her out of concern and I care for her in the way that I want to hug her and hold her hand and kiss her forehead and bring her baked goods on unexpected days because I think that she is awesome and deserves baked goods. I want to be open about how I feel about her and that involves all of those things and there isn't a single minute that I don't feel it.
I mistake it for something bitter sometimes -and that's becoming steadily more often, now- but that's because I hate knowing she's made me feel anything but numbness and resignation.
I hate caring for someone in this way. I hate attachments, I hate even slivers of ropes keeping me tied to any one thing. And that one thing is her and it has been for a long time.
It's stupid, being tied to something that has cut you free, or perhaps she was never with me at all.
It's stupid and it hurts.
And there's nothing I can do about it because she is the only person, in the entire world that I care for like this for. She's the only person in the world I want.
She's the only person in the world I couldn't live without, because if she were gone I'd feel hollow.
Because the earth should not exist without her on it.

I don't know what any of this means.
All I know is that it is both the best and the worst fucking feeling.

--Andria.

I have to do it again, close myself off. Otherwise I won't be able to survive this - I won't be able to survive it. I miss how I used to be, how I never told, how I never depended on anyone and it wasn't necessary for anyone to "stick around" in my life because they were oblivious. But I fucked that up, I fuck everything good up. I was going so well, it was so much better than it is now. I was safe back then, I didn't need anything back then. I had myself and I dealt with me. Now I have to deal with all of them.
I want them to go away, I want to go away.
I want that 8 weeks abroad to come quicker. I need to leave here, I need to leave them behind. I need to get a good grip of my security again. I can't let people in like this. I need to bury it further because it's dug its way out over the past few months. I need to squash it. I need to suffocate it again.
Because, although it may feel terrible -it's only the adjustment. And I know it's so much better than this. I know that I can't trust anyone, and I know that I can't keep anyone.
I can't believe I shared Katie.
I don't want to face her after sharing Katie. Katie was mine and I just gave her up. I have nothing that is mine anymore.
I want to create something that is mine.
I want everyone to stop fucking talking to me.
I don't want them to know.
Take me back to when no one knew. Please.

There is no difference between night and day anymore. It's all life. It's all existence.

--Andria.

She's dating this boy.

red.

It's lifeless without
the sun.
Dead and
motionless,
nothing more than
kindling
and a catalyst.

But when the light
catches
it moves
with delight.
Spitting out
with agility and
grace.

The fire, it
dances
on her shoulders
half-consuming her
face.
The burn not felt,
she issues no scream.

"And the clouds embraced the sun with such need it suffocated its warmth, so all the people in the street could feel the icy adoration." 

 

One of the truest things I've ever heard (a certain lyric from a certain song -A Letter- by a certain band -La Dispute).

I've never spent a lot on finding a remedy.
I guess I figured that it hurt for a reason.

Once I heard that, I knew it. Really knew what this meant. Some people I know -some sad, sad people- spend their days finding their triggers, whether that trigger be for happiness or sadness. They collect what they have and attempt to avoid the things that sadden them. There was once a time that I myself attempted that, but I stopped. Because I realised that I don't want to mould my life and my actions around these things that I feel. If I get worse, then I get worse and I deal with that. I don't want to know if there's a way to stop it. I don't want drugs to make me numb. As even this, this excruciating silence in my head and this ringing that seems to surface from beneath my very bones, and the hurt that echos in my mind and collapses through my form -that's something, and that's better than being numb.

The lyrics then go onto;

I guess that's why I always turned to writing it down.

And even though I might complain, and get upset and scream and yell about how writing it out doesn't work -I can't deny the fact that, the weight seems to lift off of my chest -even if it's only slightly, even if it's only a small amount. I can breathe just a littly easier. I can survive one more day.

Things have become even more of an endurance. Like a pattern. It hurts, but I'm too tired to hurt myself in response.

--Andria.

I think the thing is that I shut off from everything.
From friends and family and my own ambitions.
From having fun.
I just shut off from everything.

Before I'm 39.

1. First and foremost, I'd like to finish my novels. Because, they are honestly the one thing in my life that I've done to be proud of. They have plot and character development and I feel if I were to finish them -I could really make something of them. It doesn't matter if they are popular or not, I want to properly finish something entirely in my life.
2. Perhaps it's not great that my second achievment involves another person, but I don't care because this person is incredible. Her name is Regina and she lives in The Phillipines. And before I'm 39 I want to meet her, in The Phillipines, with Oreos and ice-cream. And music.
3. See La Dispute live, in concert, and dance to The Last Continent. I want to scream the lyrics at the top of my lungs, jump and yell against people I don't know but that won't matter -because if you like La Dispute, with all your heart then there's a reason for it. A real reason.
4. Work in a book store. They're actually my passion -books and music. But, I think if it came down to it books are much better. Because books are written by the author and for the author. People talk all the time about the context, and who the audience is -but books are written for the people who write them. And that's it. Good books have the author's inner-most thoughts and feelings threaded into their pages, for the reader's to move through and un-stitch.
5. Live in London, with a flat that has the view of the city. So I can sit out there and smoke as the sun sets.
6. Be hugged in the rain. When I'm wrapped up nicely and they rest their forehead on my shoulder. It's cold, and we're both shiverring and there's a paved street beneath out feet. Then there's the build up, when they pull back just slightly and I look up to meet their gaze. Then slowly (that's important) they'll run my hand up my neck until they reach my jaw line, they'll tip up my chin as they step impossibly closer. The build up is what I like the most, the pounding hearts and the panting breath. When you don't speak and you just look at each other. That's the best.

I have deep moments in my head at odd times. This was today's;

Sometimes I feel people don't truly realise the momentum of it. It's not an occasional thing, and no amount of laughter means you're happy. People find out, and they care at first but slowly -very slowly, it goes away. Because people do that -they forget about things that don't effect them. They don't feel it. It leaves them. But it doesn't leave us, and that's what people don't see. They don't see how we endure it. Because you can talk about it and write about it and cry to your therapist about how much it hurts. But no matter how much you do that and no matter how much you try, it doesn't make it go away.
At the end of the day, you're left with it. And the tears and the screaming and the talking at the internal begging for people to understand leaves you so hollow and finished. You're finished, and you want to make it finished too.

Slowly, I'm beginning to realise it. That others don't, and will maybe never understand. The professionals, they know the facts and the science but they don't know how it feels.
It kills.
It's killing me.

--Andria.

She is going to date this boy, I know it. I can feel it coming, and I'm going to have to hear about how funny he is and how sweet he is and how much she likes being with him.
If it makes her happy, I'm ok.
I'm ok, I'm ok, I'm ok.
No. I'm not.
But if it makes her happy, then it's worth it.

--Andria.

I want to have 10 minutes of truth with her. That's all.
If I did, this is what I'd say.

"I like you. I really like you. I like you more than I've liked anyone before, in my entire life. I like you longer than I've liked anyone before, in my entire life. I like everything about you. Because everything about you is perfect. I like your cheeks and I like your eyes and I like your hair and I like your laugh and I like how pretentious you are because it gives you character and I like your character.
But I hate how much I like you and sometimes that makes me hate you. I hate that, even though nothing has happened with us I truly think I couldn't survive without you in my life. I feel that the world --my world-- should not exist without you in it. I couldn't do it. I'd need you --even if it's just to see you in the hallway, or ask you how work was or to tell you a terrible joke in the hopes you'd laugh. I need it to live and without it would not be living.
I'm not saying I want anything to happen, because I know how you feel about me and it's not the same for how I do you. But I want acknowledgement. I don't want you to think that I'm not hurt by what you say or what you do --because your opinion affects me more than anyone else's. But, at the same time I never want you to think I'd hate you or be angry by what makes you happy. Because Rach, your happiness is the most important thing in the world. It's everything. It's all that matters to me.
If you're happy, then I'm ok. I promise.
If you were ever happy with me, it'd be a miracle. But I'd never let you go, not ever. You mean too much and I want you too much and I need you too much."

--Andria.

I'm steadily falling back into my old habits and I'm stubborn. I don't think it's a problem and I don't want to stop it. I don't want to eat anything.
I don't want to be hungry.

This post had no point.

--Andria.

I don't think I know how to have a successful relationship with someone. I don't know what I'm meant to do, how much I'm meant to talk to them, how much I'm meant to tell them. Because, anything and everything seems far too much to share. I see people all the time being so open about their thoughts and feelings, and it just seems so ridiculous to me.
There's a part of me that's jealous --a small part at that-- about how able they are to just share what they're going through, what they've been through. But most of me is simply angry, because it's a personal thing. You shouldn't bring other people into your issues. It's selfish. It's rude.

So, if I were ever to be "intimate" with someone, I couldn't have something deeper. Because that requires telling, and I really can't do that. It's mine.
Telling would make it someone else's.

I wonder how long I'll last like this. 

--Andria.

I miss her. I miss her smile and I miss her eyes.
I miss her round cheeks and the touch of pink they held. I miss her small lips and I miss her odd eyebrows. I miss her frustrating hair and I miss her delicate fingers.
I miss her voice. I miss what words she'd form with that voice, which would form sentences which would form ideas which made more sense to me when she said them.
I miss the way she'd catch me looking at her and how she'd give a laugh.
I miss that most, her laugh.

I want to see her. I have to see her. If I'm going then I want to run in the moss of her irises one last time.

--Andria.

It's unfortunate that I have to distance myself from another friend because I might strangle them if I saw them.
Also it's rather triggering when people talk about it like it's a good thing, something to strive for. I've found there to be only one person I can do that with and this boy is not it. He's an idiot for wanting this.

My shell seems to be growing emptier. It echos when I speak.

--Andria

I never know how to comfort people.
They say you should tell others what you'd want people to tell you, but I don't know what I'd want people to tell me. I'd want people to distract me because I don't like talking. Other people like talking and I never know what to tell them besides the ever-repeated lie of "It's going to be ok".
I try and tell them good things but it's much harder when they're not there with you.

--Andria

It was better today because I was distracted.
But the minute I returned home, to my solitude -it all became so much worse. It's like a ringing in my ears in that it's constant and it's loud but no one else can hear it. Like I'm being suffocated.
There's a pillow being shoved further into my nose and into my mouth, and I can't scream and I can't breathe and I can't do anything.
I just endure it. I never die.

I told her far too much and I wasn't meant to do that.
She was concerned. So I told her what she wanted to know and that was that. I've caused so much unnecessary worry and I hate it. People shouldn't care like this -they don't care like this. Not really. They feel morally obliged to but I can see right through them.
I know what I need to say to get them to leave me alone.

People think they're so intelligent and able to know what I'm feeling but they're not. None of them are. They're easy to manipulate, they're easy to scare. All I need to do is glare at them, tell them to back off and they're gone and that's that. They don't ask anymore. Not like they used to.

Because they've realised it's not going to go away because they want it to. They can't tell me sweet things and expect that to solve my problems. People get frustrate, people get tired and people can't be bothered to stick around when things don't go their way.
And that's fine.
That's the way people are but they shouldn't pretend that I matter to them when they'd leave in a second when they realise they couldn't help.
Because people are pitiful. And people hate knowing that they can't save you.

I don't know how many nights like this I have left.
It's unbearable and I want to stop it.
I want to stop it soon.

I don't want to deal with life.
I don't want to deal with my mind.
I want to forget.

--Andria

a list of things that make me happy.

Cold mornings when I need to wrap the covers tight and bury my head beneath the surface.
Coffee in the afternoons.
The way the grass is after it rains and how it crunches underneath my feet. It breaks away with ease. It's beautiful, being destroyed.
Gray skies and fog because I like the world better in a monotone. Colours are overrated -like the sunshine or the heat.
Oversized and sleeved shirts that I can tug down to cover every inch of me. The ones that I can burrow into. The ones that feel safe, contained.
Pastel colours, they're undefined and vague. ((like my soul 0.o))
Hardcover books. They look brilliant stacked next to eachother.
Second hand novels have so much history behind them. Well, in the sense that I like the idea of books being passed around through the years, kept pristine and mint.
The smell of peppermint after a shower.
Pale skin after it's been washed.
Drawings that are left as sketches. They are so rough, emotional. They don't need to be covered and perfected.
The way her eyes look when she laughs and you can see the green-blue-white well when her cheeks are flushed.
Her smile. It's everything. 

--Andria

Sometimes I get these moments when I'm alone -everything gets so intense. The world seems to spin slower and the air is still. My heart begins to beat a million miles a second and I can feel everything. I can feel it on my skin and in my hair and behind my eyes. In my mouth, in my lungs, through  my veins. It hurts a kind of blunt pain that makes me feel sick.
I can't move or think I can only exist in a never ending kind of way that feels infinite. I get so tired, and at the same time I get so scared. I'm afraid to sleep, afraid to shut my eyes because of what I'm going to think. And yet, I'm afraid to be awake because of that reason also, and of what my thoughts will make me do.
It's getting worse, everyday. The other night was just the beginning and I can only imagine what I would have done if the scissors hadn't been blunt.
I can feel it coming on all the time, like I'm a second away from breaking. People don't understand how close I am and that hurts. Like people don't think I'll do something, like I'm not serious. And not in a good way, they think I'm putting it on.
Why would anyone fake this feeling? It's not fun.
It's fucking terrifying.
Being scared of yourself, having something beneath yourself that calls the shots -it's not desirable. Is this what people believe I'm doing? Making it up?
Bullshit.
I don't want to be alone, but I don't want the intimacy of another person. I don't like people holding me or touching me or pretending they care.
And that's contradictory, I know. But I can't help it.
It doesn't know what it wants.

--Andria

It's the morning after and it feels like I'm hungover. Feeling so much at once for a long amount of time does this to me. It doesn't feel real, like it was a dream or something. Maybe I can pretend it was because I have no marks to show for it.
I'm just glad she was up. I feel bad, because I kept her awake into the early hours of the morning and I feel selfish because mostly I don't care.
I really, really needed it.
I'm sinking, ok. Like there's stones in my pockets and I'm sinking.

--Andria

I don't think I can coherently type about what happened because I can't believe what happened. I can't believe I did what I did. I never thought I'd actually attempt it. I don't like it and I feel sick. I feel sad above all.

--Andria

I wish I was Cas.
I wish I had James as my friend and I wish I could watch Gray everyday and I wish I could smile with my brother Luke and I wish and I wish and I wish.
Maybe Cas is just that, my wish. Cas is who I wish I was. Cas is beautiful and Cas is kind and Cas is intelligent. Cas will be successful. Cas will end up with Gray.
Cas is not sad, not truly.
Cas is the everyday kind of sad where you stare off into the distance and stay up too late at night. But Cas is always better in the end.
I won't be better, in the end.
My end will not be a long time in the future. My end will be bloody and loud. My end will be in pain.
I will make sure that Cas has a good end, in the arms of someone who truly cares about her. Even though she may not get Gray for too long -Cas will be alright.
Because that's what Cas deserves.

--Andria

an update.

I still don't know where anything is headed. I don't know what I'm doing, with anything or anyone -with life. I don't know what I'm meant to do or say or think. I don't know how to act anymore. I've reached a point of purgatory and I'm just floating. I don't know if I'm meant to care. My energy has drained entirely and I'm finished. I've nothing left. Nothing at all. I don't even have enough in me to hide it. It's out, in the open for everyone to see and I don't care.

And like I said, I'm floating. In the middle. Like I'm just below the surface of the ice cold recess. I can't breathe and I can't think and I'm not fighting it anymore. I don't want to break out into the air and I don't want to sink further. But, I know that if I do I won't try and stop it. I'm so tired.
I can't try and stop it.

It's been worse this past week than it has for the past 106 days before. I don't know why. I thought that, maybe it was the realisation that I had nothing just for me any longer. For people knew and I always told myself that people were not meant to know, ever. But they do, so what do I have? I have a shit recovery and a few friends who try their hardest for a cause that has been lost. I have a need to be wanted and appreciated and cared for, but something that smothers that into a fear of being wanted and appreciated and cared for. I have an overwhelming anchor pulling me further down into suffocation and an urge to end it all. And that urge has not ceased for a week now.

I am scared to be alone for the first time. I'm scared of what I'll do, I'm scared of what I'll think.

I remember a time when I never had these thoughts. I had the others, perhaps I've always had the others but I didn't have these.
Then, after that dream with the little horizontal cuts on both my wrists... they commenced.

Things were ok for a while. But they're not now and anyone who might even be remotely prepared to listen to my endless and repetitive complaints and pains either has their own problems or isn't really in it.
And that's all I want, to trust someone completely. But I don't.

I don't even trust myself anymore.

She says I can take care of myself. But all I want to tell her right now, is that I don't think I can.

--Andria

She dreamed of bones. Obvious, protruding from her skin like black rocks on the shore of a stormy beach. She wanted them to define her, to make her. Masked only by a thin sheet of snow-coloured skin they would be her. She would be the walking skeleton -the haunted remains of what was once a pure soul. The origins of children’s nightmares -she would shake them awake with her silent screams. The screams that were only heard when her worn joints rubbed together in a fit of pure agony. The screams that hid behind the ever-constant repetition of the phrase that had become the entirety of her vocabulary,
“I’m not hungry.”
The screams that filled the ever growing empty space of her clothes which hung like a black cloud of dread and fear and regret over her.
The screams she longed to voice.

She would not stop. She would never stop.
Not until she was bones. Not until she was perfect. 

And I've just binged.
I know when I say this people think,
"It's her own fault. She shouldn't cry about it. She just needs to get over it and not complain about it."
But I don't know what happens to me. I'm not even hungry I just need to eat... everything. And I mean that. I want to clear the cupboards. I want it all in my digestive tract.
Fuck.
Seriously just fuck.

--Andria

I don't know if it's getting worse or better. Truly, it all generally feels the same now. I can feel slightly less drained -but I am never full. No, I can't be full can I? That's not what it wants. It wants me to suffer. It wants me to die. And one day I will, but not yet.
I can't tell if I want to beat it any more. Do I really want to "get better"? Do I want to be like everyone else? Do I want to be happy? What does happy even feel like? I don't know. I can't tell the honest difference between emotions. I'm not even sure if I have them. This can't be what emptiness is -can it?
If so then it's truly overrated.
Everyday is a true struggle. To move, to think, to speak, to eat... It all just hurts so much. I need to get away from here but I can't. I need to tell someone but I can't. I'll never be able to truly tell anyone what this feels like. I can't even explain it.
It's like my heart is beating so fast and I can hear it and feel it thrumming around in my chest but at the same time I feel so devastatingly finished and hollow.
And I don't know what is the enemy and what is the friend. Is food the one I should trust? Because it doesn't like that at all. It screams when I go to eat. It thrashes into me when I swallow. It hates me, it truly does. It hates what I am and it hates what I want. It's feeding off of me.
And I adore when it does.

--Andria