Literary Persuits and other Ramblings

Tag: life

Living my Life: The Disorders

Yesterday was crippling. I hurt myself and didn’t feel that I got the sympathy I deserved, I had a mountain of work to do and then found out that I was going to be completely alone in the office/shop. I felt sorry for myself, I felt fearful and I felt alone.
Then when I was rescued, and it was suggested that we should go grocery shopping, I freaked out. I felt claustrophobic, my skin felt too tight, my heart was racing and all my mind was telling me was that this was a conspiracy to keep me from my comfort space.
Now to many, it seems like a whiny day where I should put my big girl pants on and just get on with it. I have heard this many times in my life. One too many times.
The problem is that I live with a few disorders which can literally turn a mole hill into a mountain.
Yesterday was a spark of my anxiety. I have what is referred to as Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which is fancy speak for if I can worry about it, I will. This also include being anxious about being anxious. Sounds ridiculous, right?
Well for me, it is standard. Yes I have medication which helps, but days like yesterday are bound to happen. Then I feel like I have done various types of extreme activities. Sitting alone in the office made felt as though I was walking across a tight rope across skyscrapers with no net. My heart was racing, I was fidgety and couldn’t concentrate. Despite needing to get work done, I could only think of getting out of there. At the same time if I left, then I wouldn’t get my work done. I eventually was so wound up that I just sat in my chair sobbing silently to myself.
Yes, the solutions seem simple, but for me, the solutions seemed impossible to attain.
Once I was rescued from the office and adequately passified that the work can be done the next day, I was more than happy to come home to my comfy bed where I could get some relief from my emotional turmoil in the form of a nice calming nap. That was my focus, which was then taken away from me by the suggestion that groceries are needed. Logically I knew that the shop would not take long. Logically I understand that we need food at home. Yesterday it just seemed as though my rescuer had turned against me and was keeping me from the only place I could find any peace. I shouted, and threw a temper tantrum a toddler would of been proud of. I cried. I used every arrow in my quiver to ensure that I could get away from anxiety inducing situations and get to safety.
Yes, it was manipulative and I am anxious now about the consequences of my tantrum, but in the moment it was more than I could cope with and I was willing to do anything to get to a place of safety.
Now that was a Sunday.
That was not a need to be functional day. My anxiety has landed me many different labels in my functional working life. I have been told that I am abrupt, rude, acerbic, unfocused, and more often, that I am grumpy. The truth is that my anxiety to make sure that I am working right, not letting anyone down and just plain being functional makes me come across that way. I am genuinely hurt when I hear these things about me. I am a person who loves hugs and cuddles. I am not the horrible person my anxiety makes me out to be.
Yes, it is manageable. Yes there is medication. Unfortunately the best method of dealing with it is therapy. Therapy which, due to circumstances, I cannot afford.
The moral? I am still figuring this out. Until I do many more molehills are going to turn into mountains.



There is you

Then there is me

Two worlds in orbit

A distance kept by circumstance

No closer

No further

Circling round and round

A merri-go-round spinning out of control


There is you

And the world in which you live

There where everything is closed up

Private and quiet

All is hidden from view


Then there is me

And the fantasy I rule

Where everything is open and aired

Loud and obnoxious

Keeping quiet that which is hidden


There is you

Then there is me

Divided and torn

Broken and weathered

Beaten and left


There is you

Then there is me

And then there is your past

And then there is mine

On the Edge of a Blade

This post is specific to my experience with cutting and self mutilation. If you are sensitive, judgmental or recovering cutter you may not want to continue reading.

I can’t remember the first time. Nor can I remember a time when I didn’t have scars.

All I know is it starts with a feeling. A crushing weight, somewhere between sadness so intense you can’t breathe let alone cry and rage so strong that your body shakes with the violence. Somewhere between the two is this perfect emotional helplessness.

Everything rushes passed in a haze yet time seems to slow down to a crawl. The concept of time is irrelevant. It is ongoing and eternal. A deep dark hungry abyss with no end. All you can do is fall through it.

Then there is the cold. Freezing from the inside. No matter what you do you cannot get warm. It doesn’t matter the temperature outside. It doesn’t matter how many layers you wear.

It is cold.

You would think that there is a thought pattern to it. But there is nothing. It is like your rational mind has take a vacation leaving you with nothing but a hurricane of emotions which feel as though they are tearing away at your very soul.

Everything is primal. You want to scream and cry and fight but there is nothing there.

No voice. No tears. No energy.

You are betrayed by your body, by your brain, and left to rot with whatever demon hunts you. You are stuck playing cat and mouse with yourself and there is no escape.

It is all of this, but not. It is so much more complex yet somehow more simple.

I guess the first cut can be understood by an alcoholic as the first taste of the alcohol or by a druggy as the first hit. That moment when everything starts to calm down. When you are finally given release and you can start to breathe again.

It is in the tearing of the skin by the blade. The way the skin parts so easily. At first, there is a moment when the skin lies open and all that is there is white flesh. Then the blood pools in. It is hot and red and oh so cleansing. The red little beads that leave a little trail and fall to the ground are like the tears you are unable to shed. The physical pain in more bearable than the emotional pain.

Each cut is like a breath of clean fresh air deep into your starved lungs. Each cut is a measure of peace. A moment of calm in the middle of a storm.

When it is done there is nothing left. Just emptiness. Everything that was clawing inside and ripping your very being apart has bled out on the floor. There is nothing left to be felt. Just pure emptiness.

The aftermath is easy to deal with. Blood is easy to clean. The stinging of the cuts keeping the emotional whirlpool from sucking you to the depths again. Keeping you numb. Empty.

As the cuts start to heal and you watch the skin knit itself back together, you feel a measure of relief. Slowly everything is healing. It might not be as perfect as it was before, but it is over.

Until the next time the storm threatens to swallow you whole again.

I know that it is different for different people, but that is what cutting was for me.



So I have wanted to write about my tattoos and their various salient meanings. I say salient, because as I grown and change as a person the meanings behind my tattoos alter slightly. I guess what this says about me is that I spend a lot of time thinking about my tattoos and their meaning. That way I am not going to have a tattoo that loses significance later on in my life.

So, my first instinct was to start from the first…

Then I thought I would start with the tattoo I am planning on covering up.

After the last couple of days, I have decided to start with the last.

The Backwards Text Tattoo

yeah yeah, slightly NSFW.

So, other than those perverts, whovians and OCD cleaners, you may probably notice that the text is backwards. Well duh. If you going to leave a message for yourself maybe you should be able to read it when you look in a mirror. No, that is not the real reason but it is a good reason.

Actual reason: I like to write backwards. So I got a backwards text tattoo. How awesome is that?

So, what does it say?

So I wrote you this song, but you won’t sing along

Okay, that is kinda poetic and cute. Maybe a little girly. Where did it come from?

Well, that part is easy. It is lyrics from a song called Assurance by a band called Hurt.

The significance?

Well it involves a boy. A stubborn, pain-in-the-ass ginger accountant to be precise. There are many ways to interpret that sentence. Lets just leave it as it being said with more than a little fondness.

I fell in love with G almost immediately. Well, he gave me butterflies the first time he smiled at me. An amazing feat considering we were running uphill, and it was some ridiculous time in the morning. Say, 7am or so. I was struggling (because I hate running) and he was prancing around, running backwards and all round being happy. The moment was fleeting as I still had to run back to the kung fu school and do the torment of what was then San Shou training.

However, I was eager to go to every extra training class after that just to see this strange boy (with a fantastic ass).

So, after much flirting (to which he is immune) and dropping hints, I eventually asked the dumbass on a date. I think I have probably fallen in love with him more and more each day since.

The issues started a while into our relationship.

He is grounded, stubborn, logical and prone to depression.

I am all over the place, stubborn, emotional, and well, all my flaws will have to be written up in a another post. We could be here a while.

Needless to say, the concept of opposites attract mostly applies to magnets.

So, where does the tattoo come in? Well, it was one weekend. We had been fighting a lot, the first time around (we have tried and failed this relationship twice now) and this weekend we were back to normal. It was my cousins wedding. When we eventually got back to my aunts place and collapsed into the squishiest bed on the planet, I asked him what would be the song that we would play at our wedding.

He said Assurance by Hurt.

So I listened to the song. After we broke up, I listened to it all the time. I still listen to it.

So, what does my tattoo signify?

  • love is not enough to keep a relationship together
  • no matter how hard you try and be someone to another person, sometimes life has other plans
  • sometimes two people who love each other cannot be together, but it doesn’t make the love any less real

It is by no means a sad tattoo. It reminds me of many happy moments I got to share with G.

So mostly, it is a reminder that loving someone is complicated. That combined with the complications of actually being in a relationship with another person means that if you know two people (or more) who have relationships where there is love and it works, you should be really happy for them.



We know so many. We use them all the time.

We tie them in neat little packages and send them a drift in hopes that someone, somewhere will understand them.

They hold so much meaning, these words, but often fail to express what it is that needs to be said.

 That is why I sit in silence. There are no words. Nothing comes to mind.

It is dark inside, and there are parts of me I don’t want you to see because I am afraid.

So, I sit still.



Desperately looking for words to describe everything I am trying to hide.

I look at you, willing you to understand, but I can’t face the pain I am causing you. I would do anything to push this all down deep inside to keep away from you. To hide it from you. Just to see you smile.

I loved you selflessly once. Please don’t ask me to do it again. Not when you asked me to love you fully now.

To touch you, to hold you. Everything for so long I dreamt of doing.

A surreal fantasy.

To be around you is peace. There is calm.

There is something safe and secure.

Words. Just more words. Trying to convey a meaning.

Take for instant the word friend. To each and everyone it means something different. I could call you my friend. It would not be a lie. To say you are a good friend would even be the truth.

Distance. Silence.

Two more words to keep a friend a friend. To be only a friend.

To stay loyal and true. To be there through all, and to never leave.

Ah, but by that definition alone I have never been a friend,

Instead I just was there.

I accepted the choices you made.

I still accept them now.

Words don’t make feeling any of this easier.

Commitment. Loyalty.

You have my unconditional love, on the condition that I am not there.

To sit and feel and feel and not speak because there are no words. Words which talk about love, and the joy. Words which make me want to share every second of every moment with you because you are so important that I need to share my life with you.

Indescribable happiness. I want to see you smile. Laugh. Your eyes shine with the burning passion you have blazing deep inside. To share in your achievements, your happiest moments, your love.

To hold you and be your comfort when you are sad. To be your distraction when you are stressed. To just be there when you need someone. To be that someone you need.

To be needed.

Needed and loved.

I could decorate this with words so beautiful, a single perfect teardrop would never compare.

But the words would still be words, and a meaning will still need to be conveyed.

So I stay silent.

I don’t tell you where it broke or got hard. Where your words stopped being words and became so much more.

Where one touch has so much emotion that it is almost unbearable to feel.

I can’t love you like you want me to. Not when it is restricted.

I can’t love you without it hurting. Not when I know it must end.

Oh these words. So simple. So easy. Words that come and go, strung up in different ways to mean different things to many people.

These beautiful, heartfelt little packages which cannot even begin to scratch the surface of all that I want to say to you.

So I sit in silence.

Searching for the words.

The Loser, a black hole, some friends and a lifeline.

It is amazing how quickly a song can take you back to a moment in your past, like a reminder of how crappy being a teenager really was.

There are many stories of people talking about their horrid teen years. of being the outcast at school. The lone person.

Was I that person? No, not exactly. I was different, but I was different within a group of different people. Did we accept each other? For the most part. I guess as much as teenagers trying to fit in, make sense of life and school and pretty much everything. All waiting for that day we became an adult and everything would make sense.

The following was something I wrote when I was 18. It was during a very bleak period of time in my life. So bleak I may have projected it onto everyone around me.

I called it ‘A Tale of a Black Hole and a Group of Friends’

‘We all knew that it would be one of us. It was an unspoken agreement. One of us would get fed up, feel more hopeless than usual and just do it. The question was who would it be? Who would be the first to go and how would they go. It was only a matter of time, nothing more… and definitely nothing less.

We all spend our days standing on the edge, wondering who it will be, how it will go, and would we really miss them. Or worse, if it was us, would we be missed or would we fade out, like a background actor in a theatrical play. It makes little difference though; it’s our fear that drives us.

We around the black hole that could signify the difference of a life corrected or a life ended and we wait. Some of us try to pull away, grasping to ideals that will set them free of the path chosen when they all became friends. Interchangeable, we stand wondering how we got to be so much luckier the people next to us, wondering how they could cope with a life so much worse. We all wait, our demons holding us tightly and refusing to let us leave, until one of us takes the plunge. Who will it be?

Will it be the girl who boys walk straight passed, who never understands why she’ll never be loved and waits for a knight in shining armor to rescue her from herself? Would the need of someone to hold her in the dead of night drive her insane and will she take the plunge? Will we miss her and notice she is gone? Or will life pass her by, nothing in the long term will remind us she was ever there?

We stand without noticeable struggle, waiting for our defeat, wondering if it will be slow or if it will be over before we fully understand it.

Alone stands the boy who is afraid to be loved, who has a voice of an angel and flirts like the devil. Will he go, just plunge himself into the darkness for fear he could never keep the love away? Will we miss him, the girls in their infatuation and the boys in their admiration? Or will all thee feelings vanish with him and we’ll never remember his name, just that there was possibly someone there?

Will it be the Love that kills one of them, whether it is the lack of Love or the fear of it? We stand and wait patiently, itching to know who it’ll be, with our suspicions and our thoughts, hoping against hope that it wont be us, wanting to survive, but not wanting to be selfish at the same time.

The black hole seems closer than it was earlier. Maybe it’s trying to choose someone itself, tired of waiting for the demons to take control and push one of us in. Still, we wait and watch.

The most nervous is the boy who we all love to hate, who takes our feelings and hang them out to dry while indulging himself on any trend he can be addicted to. The more he tries to walk away, the closer he gets, his fear of the black hole pushing him closer and almost making him fall. We know he comes from a messed up family, and his exposure of us is a defense, but we long to see if he will be the first to go, his selfishness causing him to take the plunge before any or our demons can even try.

The black hole carries on swirling, calling to each of us in turn, with its seductive voice and promises. We long to give in to its lies, just so we can rest our heads and our feet. We all have been standing far too long.

Still there stands the girl who has it the worst, the girl who hates herself so much, she buries it in alcohol and camera shots. Bored by those who don’t drink, she stumbles at the edge with no one to catch her. Swearing she’ll take her demon with her, they stand there, clutching each other like long lost lovers, while she tries to seduce any boy into becoming her lifeline. We all know she’ll fall eventually, but will she fall into the black hole of our fears and take the plunge?

Or will it be the boy who everyone thinks is funny and witty, who hides his emotions in jest. Will his final joke be to plunge himself in the black hole, while all of us stand there and laugh. He seems so far from the edge, but we all know that sometimes what we see isn’t always as it is. The reality is far stranger than the fiction.

All alone, with no one close to her, stands the girl with the battle scars visible. She holds these people at arms length, wondering what her next move will be. Forever cautious or the black hole. She has already put a foot in, just to see how it fits. Although she is free of it, she can feel its warmth and knows she will be easily seduced by it. Just one more scar, and she will take the plunge. And unlike the others, she listens to her demon speak, hoping to find a way to make it go away, knowing that someone has to take the plunge and knowing in her heart that it should be her, because she deserves to stay the least.

But still we wait. Watching the black hole, trying to avoid each others gaze, least someone sees how close we are to the edge. When we look up, we see the tattered and worn connections that hold us together, so worn that if one of us does take the plunge, no one will really follow. We all know someone has to go, and we don’t want to be attached to that person.

So we wait, holding on to our small little rays of light trying to make sense of it all. Trying not to be the one who falls. We deceive each other, pretending we further than we are, knowing they are closer that what they say. And we wait. No one can change what is about to happen, because there are plenty more around the circle who are bound by us to stay. They to can take the plunge in stead of one of us, but we know in our hearts that in order for it to be really over, it has to be one of us.

So we slowly choose how we will go, from suicide, to drugs. From alcohol, to reckless driving. We know that inevitably one of us must go, and that at least it will be on our terms.

We all hope that it will be quick though.’

I was right about one thing. One of us must go. The only thing is back then I thought it meant that one of us was going to die. End it all. More specifically, I thought it was going to be me.

Where my lifeline came from, and how my life changed so drastically I will never fathom. Life did indeed change. It still remains a dark scary place that I remember from being a teenager.

However, I have learnt to see the wonder and amazing aspects of life. That it is not just one big tragedy but a mish-mash of many different things making up a big picture that I hope to look back on one day and say ‘Hey, it was one hell of a ride, but it was worth every second.’

Inspire Me! – Ghosts

Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

There are no ghosts there. There are no ghosts because the house was never a home.

What many fail to understand about ghosts is that they are an imprint of life being lived. It could of been tradegy, love, fear, longing, or any strong emotion which is the height of life.

There are no ghosts there because no life was ever there. People lived there sure, but they were devoid of life. They were people in body, but their spirit, their very essence was long gone. Leaving nothing behind after they left.

Ghost can only haunt a home.

And that house was never a home.

Burnt Bridges

If there is one thing I am good at, is burning bridges. 

Once a relationship has run its course, turned sour or toxic or is no longer fitting as snugly as it used to, it has to go. Harsh, yes, but I have always been a bit of a lazy friend. I wouldn’t say I am a bad person, but I would not say I am the easiest person in the world to have any form of relationship with.

So when the time comes, I wave goodbye and walk away.

Usually messily.

So, yes, I am very good at burning bridges

Although I am now starting to think that sometimes when you burn a bridge the foundation is left. You have to clear all the rubble, and probably patch up a couple of things, but no one said that a fire destroys the foundation of something. 

So maybe, and just maybe, when you burn an elaborate expensive bridge, One filled with memories, character, trust and love, there is a solid foundation waiting underneath all that rubble.

I am sure in some cases the foundation will never hold such an elaborately decorated bridge as it once did, but perhaps it can hold a stable decent bridge. Or even a bit of a misshapen slightly wonky but full of character bridge. Whatever it is, it is still salvageable due to the foundation.

However, there are those rare times. Times when the foundation of the bridge was so well built on mutual respect and love that a bigger, better bridge can be built. A bridge that will last a lifetime.

I am not saying it is easy to sift through the rubble of burnt bridges. I am also not saying that all bridges that were burnt should be rebuilt. 

What I am trying to get at, is that if both sides are willing to put in the effort, the forgiveness, sometimes what you find under the rubble will surprise you.