Bathroom Hideout

        

 

I often take my laptop to the bathroom with me. I like that I can lock the door and hide away. It’s usually because I needed to use the toilet in the first place. But sometimes I just want to hide. 

At home it’s not so bad. My parents have a large house so I can be away from everyone relatively easily. At my flat it’s not so easy. In fact, it’s hard. Neither my partner nor I lock or even CLOSE the bathroom door most of the time. So going in to hide, type, cry, be locked away from the rest of the world is not easy because he knows I’m in there. 

Why do people take it personal if I’m upset? Why do they always assume it’s something about them? And why do therapists, psychiatrists, doctors, and also just anyone  – why do they think they can help me? How narcissistic to think they are so great as to be able to know what to tell me to ‘help’. Haven’t they realised that what they are saying is 

a. unhelpful
b. has been said, written, and heard at least 56 billion times
c. i’ve already thought it myself.

People just assume that because someone is angry or upset that firstly there must be one single valid reason.
why are you sad? what’s wrong?

If i was going to answer that question I would have to explain my entire life, all the things that have continued to disappoint me as I’ve gotten older, and the fact that the only thing I want from life is to be in a hammock on the beautiful paradise beach and own a quad bike to ride along said beach. pick fruits. help out the locals with fishing. Be naked sometimes if i wanted to be. swim in the sea. dance at sunrise. dance at sunset. eat delicious food. not have to make too much effort with anyone. play guitar. sing. die quietly in a hammock. the guitar will be lying over me. There will be a coconut next to me with a straw sticking out of it. I’ll lean over to finish the last sip. Lean back and think “i’ve finally got what i’ve always wanted” i’ll sigh and all life will come shooting out of me in one painless exhale. my head will tilt back and my eyes will close. That will be the end of my life as I know it. 

Apparently I have to make money first to be able to live like some of the poorest people in the world live.

I don’t want to be part of a tribe though. Tribes are just smaller societies. Same shit. smaller size. 

I want to be like a wolf. I can go off on my own, independent and strong. But if I want to be around others then we can be stronger as a pack. We can work together to achieve the same goal. But when we’re done I can go off alone and do my own thing. Wander around. Pick something off a tree that’s too high for a kid to reach and give it to him smiling and pat  him on the head and walk off humming songs to myself. Have the silence and space to just think my own shit. 

Anyway. I think what I hate about life is the people. 

i really fucking hate people. i don’t think i’m better than them. i hate myself too. what a fucking pathetic moron i am. 

I hate the control that dickheads over my life. i hate bankers, i hate players, i hate air head bimbos who think the only thing to gain from life is a rich husband who will (guaranteed) cheat on her but buy her lots of shit that she doesn’t even fucking NEEEDDD RAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH RAAGGGGEEEE!!!!!! I JUST WANT TO SMASH EVERYTHING! 

sometimes. i imagine I’m on top of a mountain. and there’s noone else around. trees. cold damp grass make contact with my bare feet. I look up to the clouds. look straight ahead of me and see a lake. I breath in deep. i close my eyes. then I scream and the whole world vibrates. and in those sounds waves hurling out of me are words, are pictures, are memories, are explanations, are feelings. Everything that I want to get out of me comes out. laid bare for the entire world to suddenly see and know and understand. I normally do this while crying into a pillow. i hold it, my entire body shakes, i open my mouth. I’m screaming but not a single sound is coming out. but for that moment I’m happy imagining myself on that mountain. and then i realise where i really am and what I’m really doing and i just think ‘what have i become?” 

Sometimes I feel like maybe I’m special. Like i’m Jesus. but not Jesus. But special in a way that I’m meant to make shit better for people and take all their shit on my own shoulders and deal with it. 

I do that anyway. My whole life i’ve done that. I’ve taken a lot of shit. And not given it back. I own a lot of shit really. Maybe that’s why I have stomach problems. I woke up in crippling pain today. I think my stomach aches are related to stress.

But since i was child I’ve been that person. everyone comes to me when they’re upset. everyone. even people i hardly talk to. even my parents. is it coz i just sit and listen and don’t say much? i just say back to them what they told me but from a different point of view?

I try not to tell people my own shit. I don’t like people knowing my fucked up thoughts and worries. I don’t like people seeing my upset or crying or sad. I don’t like them to know of what I really am. What i’m capable of (in a negative way). I think that’s why I wanted to write a blog. To get it out – for myself. So I can try and make sense of all that shit that goes racing through my head. And also, maybe just maybe someone will read this. Maybe it’ll change their life. Maybe they’ll say something that will change mine. Probably not. But sometimes. I think. maybe something good comes from getting it all out. And also I don’t really like speaking that much. Not if I’m sad. i don’t like doing anything if I’m sad. eating seems like the most vile thing to do if I’m sad. just the thought of opening my mouth makes me want to vomit. and i hate vomit. 

Living in a small flat – it’s not easy to hide. And i often have to explain myself. Why should he have to know just because we’re a couple? In a way it’s nice i suppose. that he knows and can try to make it better. and even that he wants to show he cares, even if he really can’t be bothered to have to put up with my shit.

Mostly i hate it. he can judge me. he can make assumptions about me. he can think I’m weak. he can think I’m insane. he can think that i can’t handle my own shit. he can maybe feel sad that he isn’t enough to make me happy. he can think I’m melodramatic. i hate melodramatic people. 

Though he told me he doesn’t think my depression is that bad. I thought I’d lost the strength to hide it. But obviously not. If he thinks its ‘not that bad’. He had depression. he was on antidepressants. I refuse to get help because 1. it’ll be a waste of time 2. i dislike medication and in no way whatsoever would I ever want to take any kind of mood controlling shit. fuck. that. 

Maybe people think that because I want to just deal with it myself that it’s not bad. But really, because it’s so bad I feel like I am the only person who can deal with it. only i know what i feel. only i know what i think. only i know that only i can make it better. 

Anyway. 

So. 

in conclusion. if I’m going to be happy. or if I’m going to be less pissed off and angry and depressed at, in and with, the world is if i just leave to that beautiful paradise island. 

I just want to leave. i tried it before when i went travelling but it didn’t go the way i wanted it to. in fact it was the most awful experience of my entire life and I have a strong dislike for Australians now. I didn’t meet a single one that was awesome. the most awesome person on the entire trip was me. and i suck. 

I imagined myself sitting on a beach. looking at the sunset. looking at the stars. looking at the waves. looking at the stillness. looking at the silence. and in the middle of it all would be me. me with a paper and pen. writing. and then me with a man. we are talking. we are discussing life. we are struck by the way our thoughts, our ideas, our morals, our understanding of everything, intertwine and wrap around each other and become one. and then we ourselves intertwine, becoming one. we kiss passionately. he pushes my hair back and looks into my eyes. its the most life changing and incredible moment that anyone could hope for. it changes us forever. it makes us stronger. it makes us happier. it makes us less dissatisfied. 

that only ever happens in my head. life in my head is much more fascinating. 

it’s all i’ve ever dreamt about – escaping to some island. forgetting everyone i ever knew. no matter whether i liked them or not. and just being. just being able to be.

people would ask me what i want to be. i would look up at them like i was a deer in the headlights. i didn’t want to share my beautiful dream with them. i didn’t want to tell them anything. i didn’t want them asking me questions and invading my private thoughts. 

anyway. its what one would called “a beautiful day”. 

in my eyes its hot. its sunny. there’s a breeze. its a good day for being at the beach.

i wish i had my own private beach. with no one. 

no screaming kids, no topless girls, no sleazy boys, no dirty looks. so i’m not a fucking super model. but i don’t look that bad. i like my body. it needs to be more toned but i like it. so fuck off your with fucking face. 

writing this blog has made me realise how angry i am. i never thought i was angry. but i am. I’m very very very very very fucking angry. I like being angry more than depressed. i think i might try and be more angry from now on. 

at least its a positive emotion. it’s an emotion. it has passion. its fiery and colourful. it’s loud. its a feeling i can revel in and make sense of and try to improve. 

depression is nothing. its watery and grey. it’s wanting to die so much that the rest of the world doesn’t exist outside my own head. it’s too loud. it’s too silent. it’s an endless hole where you can only get further away from the finish line. It’s knowing that you’ve failed. it’s knowing that you’re probably only ever going to do what you want to in your own imagination. it’s the disappointment you feel when you wake up. its cold and yet boiling hot. sweat has its own smell when you’re depressed. it’s the shiveryness you feel when you have to communicate with someone. it’s being on a roller coaster and just sitting there staring at nothing. not reacting. not caring. a glint of annoyance that you’re having to do this. that you couldn’t just be away hiding somewhere. it’s the frustration that you’re expected to react, to make noise, to enjoy. its the disappointment that not only don’t want to but that you can’t do any of those things. 

 

if god exists. why is life such a cunt? 

i like that word a lot. most people think its the most offensive word ever. it’s just another name for vagina. VAGINA! VA GIN A! thats the most disgusting word i think. it sounds vile. cunt sounds passionate at least. 

why is it worse that cock or dick? 

CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!! 

 

people are so fucking cunting retarded. and if you’re offended by the word cunt. then you’re probably just a big fat cunt. 

CUNT! 

sounds like current. and currant. 

it’s lost meaning now. i said it too many times. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good at life.

I’ve decided that I’m not very good at life. Or at least I think I’ve decided that. I’m not really sure of any of my decisions anymore.

I started reading Vonnegut’s Slapstick or Lonesome no more. Well, to be more precise, I read the prologue and a few pages of the first chapter. The prologue drew me in. The chapter, not so much. Not yet. Or ever.

For some reason I’ve lost my ability to finish a book. Or anything for that matter.

Regardless of my  inability to finish anything, the point of why I mentioned Vonnegut’s book is because he says ….. * a while later after reading the same few pages over and over again and even googling* – I can’t find what he said – at least not the exact thing I thought I was looking for. I’m quite sure he wrote that his dying sister said that she felt as though she wasn’t “very good at life”.

I relate to that statement. I don’t think that I am very good at life.

Sometimes I’m not really sure about grammatical rules so I just apply them where I feel like they should go. I was never very good at languages. I didn’t really speak to anyone apart from my immediate family for a long time. They thought I was shy. I was. But I also feared other peoples’ reactions. I think because of my own familys’, especially my mother’s, inconsistent and unstable behaviour. I never knew, and still am unsure, of what to expect from people. Especially my mother.

I had a lot of tests done on me. They tried to see if I was retarded. But I wasn’t. In fact, I was a mathematical genius but nothing was done about it. I would finish the entire work book and everyone else would still be on the first few pages. Instead of getting more work and being encouraged I was made to just sit there or told to ‘go and sit on the carpet’ like it was Kindergarten Cop.

Everyone got excited about being about to go and sit on the carpet. They would smile smugly while I sat at my desk having to write about ‘what I did last weekend’. As a four year old (and yes I did maths and english as a four year old), I already knew I couldn’t just write,

‘My dad sat in his office doing work while my mother took my sisters out into the city. I stayed home and ate a lot of stuff till I felt sick and watched a lot of cartoons and movies and wished I could be the characters in them. Then I got my teddy bear and put him on a sledge and dragged it around the garden. Then I decided it was lunch and got out 6 plates. One for me and 5 for my imaginary brothers – Brendan is the eldest – he’s the nicest and most responsible, then Justin who isn’t around that much and can be a bit moody and always has a girlfriend, then there’s Mikey, Zac and Hozay. He doesn’t spell it Jose coz it looks ugly. They’re triplets and they’re fun and crazy. I’m the youngest and the only girl so they all look out for me. We live in California and have American accents. We don’t have parents because they died in a fire when I was 2. It’s a bit sad but Brendan looks after us and we can do what we want and are more free without parents controlling us. Sometimes we go in the attic and look at pictures of them and Brendan tells us all the nice things he remembers about them and how I look like our mommy. Later on my real parents left me and my real life sisters at home while they went to a party. We watched Ghost. They thought I would fall asleep. They fell asleep. I stayed awake and cried my eyes out asking why he had to die over and over. Then I cried myself tired and went to bed and pissed myself.”

Instead I would try and imagine the most normal thing ever. I would get wrapped up in own imaginary stories that I would have only written a few words down when everyone else was done. I once wrote, “I bounced a ball and then I went to see my friends”. I didn’t have any friends. And I didn’t really get the carpet thing either.

There’s a lot of things I don’t get.

In general, what I don’t get is life.

What am I meant to do with it? Why does it matter? Why does “the system” suck so much? Why do I have this perpetual feeling of waiting for something, for some critical moment when I can finally do want I want? Why can’t I just do what I want if it doesn’t hurt anyone? Why is marriage such a big deal? Why are people so …

so frustrating. Myself included. I frustrate myself with my idiocy. The fact that I spell things wrong and can never find the right word. The fact that when I talk to people I concentrate more on the way I sound rather than what I’m really saying and do weird facial expressions to look like I’m thinking about what I’m trying to explain but really I’m just stalling because I was contemplating my own accent and tone of voice. The fact that I was an honour student. Moved countries. And became a student who got Ds to match the D at the beginning depressed which is what I have felt my entire life. The fact that my back hurts all the time. The fact that people talk to my chest more than they do to my face and that I’m short so they’ve gone to the extra effort of looking even lower. Is my face that unbearable? Or are my boobs really that incredible?

All of these things. I hate them all.

I dislike socialising. I don’t really care what people do. I don’t care what their name is. I don’t care how old they are. And I also don’t really care what music they like. I hate that sometimes I want to be silent and/or cry. But I have to hold it all in and smile and pretend like I’m fine.

I don’t like the looks they give when I say things. Like I can’t see them looking at each like ‘what the ..?”

They just ignore me and talk about something else like shoes. No one ever adds anything to the debate that I’m having with myself. Unless they disagree. They tell me I’m wrong. And I ask why. Then they tell me they don’t want to have this discussion, not in public. It’s not appropriate. FUCK APPROPRIATE!

I dislike this feeling. This feeling of being trapped. Of feeling like I’m in a pool and my face is just poking out the surface. Like someone’s tied me up so tight that I can just about breathe in but my exhales are painful. Like someone just punched me in the throat. The tickle of cold wet tears that have reached my jaw line and continue down my neck. The way my eyes and eyebrows go pink when I cry. The way my voice wobbles when I’m nervous and upset. The way I’m so self-pitying.

I just don’t really like life. I don’t like what it has to offer me. It’s a chore. Something I wake up and sigh about. ‘another day’.

I don’t like the way that a symptom of depression is ‘a decreased/lack of interest in activities’. Why should I always be interested in the same shit to be ‘normal’? isn’t that childish, immature and naive? To always get enjoyment out of the SAME thing your ENTIRE LIFE!? Isn’t it kind of expected to just get bored of things? It used to bug me a bit. That I didn’t really like anything. But now, right now, I realised that it makes sense.

And even though I’m not interested in doing new things that’s only because I know that I’ll do it and then what? great. i’ve done it. woo fuckin hoo. It might have even been painful, tiring, sweaty to do. And then after it. What do you have but a memory that you did it?

When I turned 23 everyone told me that 23 was the best age. Everyone.
I hate it.

I think 17 was the age I hated the least. I was always drunk. Even when I was alone – which was most of the time. I would walk to the students’ union alone and drink and smoke indoors and check out the boys. One boy came up to me once while I was smoking and told me I was smoking ‘rather seductively’. That comment made me happy.

18 was shit. I was in a lame relationship with a boy who is probably a closet homosexual. and was in love with morrissey and had a crush on his cousin and would tell me stories about how they almost kissed. he messaged me years later just to tell me he had a new girlfriend and she thinks he looks like james dean. he doesn’t. he looks like a gay spotty skinny boy with a massive chin and stupid hair and jeans that are WAY too tight. and he was shit in bed. boring. i started falling asleep once and he got weirded out. HAHAHAHHA

19 i got high a lot. moved back home. started going to the gym a lot. i just wanted to get married and have kids. spent a couple of months in the States and did some naughty things in a park with a jewish boy while hobos watched. then i got stung by a bee and chased by the cops. the bee sting hurt for weeks.

20 i got high a lot. lived at home. still went to the gym and started looking hot. didn’t want to get married nor have kids.

21 got high a lot.  graduated from university. went travelling. got in the worst relationship with a complete dickhead who was in love with another girl but was with me because i was more beautiful than that..THING he liked. he was also crap at sex and had a small penis.

22 got high a lot. started talking to a friend from years ago. fell out with only friend from childhood. was glad to finally get rid of her. but sometimes miss just hanging out with someone i have so many memories with. started dating friend from years ago not that long after dumping dickhead mentioned above. lied to family about having a job in another city to move in with new guy. started a masters. had to go through a really horrible situation which I don’t wish to disclose.

23 getting high a lot. dropped out from doing a masters. am miserable. confused. don’t know what i want from life. is this guy the right guy!?  i want to cut his hair.and change his clothes. and wish he was more confident and outgoing and a bit more wild and crazy and found metal music as hilarious as i do and would take me on adventures and we would end up somewhere magical and talk about life and what not and make passionate love in the wild and under a waterfall. and mostly i just want to be alone.

where am i going to live? who is going to give me a job? do i want a job? do i want to go back to my masters? why should i aim so high when taxes are so high? what is the point of making lots of money if half of it goes to the army and to shitty ‘developments’  that make the motorway look even worse than it did before (and other things too obviously but fuck)? do i want to do a herbal medicine course? do i want to do an interior design course? should i get help or should i just suck it up and carry on like always? should i just fucking kill myself and be over with all this shit that i hate and don’t want to wait and find out the answer to? should i just leave everyone to clean up my mess and have to get rid of my stuff coz I’m dead? should i let them find my vibrator?

All of this worries me on a daily basis. The only way I get to sleep is to tell myself the same continuing story since childhood. i imagine a story like i’m watching a film. but its me and my imaginary brothers – the ones i’ve had since childhood and who make an appearance in my mind most nights to this day….. I feel like I’m maybe insane. And no one knows it. no one even suspects it. people think I’m smart and confident and happy and a high achiever and really caring. boys tend to think I’m a feminist and aggressive. I’m not any of those things AT ALL. far far far removed from each of those things. I’m just a really good liar. in fact I’m fucking great at it. I should be a lawyer for criminals but it goes against the morals I think i have.

I’m 23 and it’s like going through puberty for the second time but this time its like what i do/think/feel/say/want/need/have is so much more important coz it affects the rest of my life and i dont even really know what i want or like or need or feel and all that. Much less so than when i was going through puberty the first time. In fact I think I had a better grip on shit. even though I also wanted to kill myself a lot more then.

Sometimes people tell me things. and i just think ‘i should say something in response to this because otherwise they might get upset or think i’m weird that i’ve not commented but i don’t really think anything about what they’ve said so i’ll just say something generic like ‘cool”.

I think that maybe I’m autistic apart from I have great emotional intelligence I just can’t fucking express it nor want to express it.  I only learnt how to socialise because of internet chat rooms.

I hope the Myans were right about 2012.