Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Wicked Game

I brush my hair. I wipe the tears off my computer but let them run down my face; sometimes into my hair, sometimes over my lips so I can drink them. Blessed are the tears for they make me feel alive... alive when I am so dead.

I'm praying that this might just be another time in which she is underestimating me, another time in which my own self-image is tainting her view... because if it is not then I am hopeless and there is nothing more.

I brush my hair and I look at the shadow I cast over my grey walls. It's not an unpleasant silhouette, that of my hair falling over my hair. I suppose I am not unpleasant sight. I suppose I can still live upon delusions of beauty now and again, as if behind the veil of my hair or the elusive quality of a shadow I can begin to believe I am beautiful... I am worthy...

I promise myself I won't touch the mirror, but I'll keep my gaze fixed only on my eyes which are beautiful by themselves and I'll try not to think of the rest as I wonder if anyone would ever love me...

Saturday, February 19, 2005


I'm sitting on the TV couch trying in vain to start my psychology project, mentally berating myself from all the time I've wasted, and my mother was watching this utterly stupid movie and I just screamed at her without meaning and I wish she was just away having fun somewhere else so that she doesn't have to notice how broken I am.

She notices I'm stressed. She hates it, she hates me for what I just did, thinks I'm an ungrateful little bitch who can't take into account the years of love and care she has bestowed on me.

How bitter is the taste of her victory. That she is right. That she has raised a wretched little monster who cannot even speak to her civilly.

Today I wanted to be good, I wanted to do good, I wanted to smile and think that what I did was what I should have done. So I woke up and went to my college course and took notes and tried to find out when I have the blasted English exam for college admission. And here is the crucial difference in my life, the way in which the two most important people in it can hurt me. Because when I, without being asked, washed the plates of everyone's breakfast at my father's house I got nothing, not even a passing thank you, not even a kind look. Simply nothing.

So why do I bother to please someone who does not care? Why do I bother if he will never care?

And now I should have started working hours ago but I didn't and I'm snappish and in an awful mood and cannot even begin to conceive how people can stand being in the same zip code as me when I am this bitchy.

And every time I move a hand or take a breath I am thinking, she doesn't approve of this, this mess of papers that is my project, how could anyone? And no matter how much I try finally, in the last lap, in the last second I always manage to do something or be something that somehow in a mysterious aberration of the law of equality manages to erase every good thing I have ever achieved.

I just don't know... I'm so tired... and I keep thinking, that if only for the sake of my mother I should put a bullet through this silly little skull of mine...

Friday, February 18, 2005


Before anything else, yes I am feeling better. No, I still can't get over the suicidal urge but at least it's not pounding in my head constantly anymore.

I'm tired beyond anything and not trusting in hope anymore. My belly is in agonizing pain and I should go take the cramps medicine thing before I enter shock...

It's not like I can write or even THINK about writing. I have a thousand things to do and I want to do none of them. Somehow I'm working under the impression that whatever I do, however hard I try doing it, simply won't work. I get the feeling that the 8.88 of my fifth semester is going to chase me with a vindictive passion long overdue. It seems like the last stroke, as if the only thing worthwhile in me, the only thing that ever gave me value is... just not as good as I thought.

And if I can't be the best I can then what good is working anyway? What good is staying in or the weekends to do the same dreary work if the result will be the same... grey, half-good, half-interesting.

I can't live like this... how can people manage a 10 for average? How can I be that excellent, that good? By working for one, by not being here but back in my Psychology work...

Oh, did I tell you? I think I'm in love... my heart is still pounding... fancy that...

Monday, February 14, 2005

God, sweet God I've spent the last 45 minutes huddled in my bed trying not to be heard while I cry. God I think I'm dying, I think I'm shattering. God O God I'm trying not to tremble and I'm just thinking can somebody hold me I'm in pain, I can't stand the pain.

And it had been a year since I last considered wildly what could be found in my house that could kill me, what would ever give me a quick painless death. I was thinking, my mom's pills, no. Any chemicals in the kitchen, no I'd have to investigate.

I'm so scared. I don't want to hurt people anymore, I don't want to be a burden anymore, God I can't face life anymore. I'm so scared, I'm so scared...

Sunday, February 13, 2005

To the Moon and Back

It’s strange when you are trying to remember why you liked certain things, certain people, certain days. At the moment I’m remembering why I loved Savage Garden.

It has been a hellish weekend and I’m not sure if I should be glad it’s over. Tomorrow I’m going to have to wake up some two hours earlier to attend a conference and it doesn’t seem to matter how much I actually sleep, but I am always tired, always at the point of exhaustion.

Suffering, they say, takes its toll.

At the moment I’m watching Darren’s baby face fill the screen and his voice fill my ears. This was probably back in 1998 when I was still in primary school, maybe twelve years old. That I was then and am now in love with this band and this particular song and video is not surprising.

She’s taking her time
Making up the reasons
To justify all the hurt inside

I’ve been trying very hard since Wednesday to become better, perhaps to apply finally, the effort and work I should in the things I do. Not going last night to Andy’s house was my way of trying or maybe it was my way of punishing myself for all the time I waste. I’m not particularly sure of the amount of work I’ve accomplished since then.

Because when you ask yourself if you are doing the best you can, when you’ve been accused of slacking, of not taking things seriously enough and you answer that yes you have, this is not your best, this is not all that you can become… then God you don’t seem worthy of anything anymore.

Guess she knows from the smiles
And the look in their eyes
Everyone’s got a theory
About the bitter one

There’s a very beautiful girl in this video, wearing the sort of tiny green dress I’ll probably never even dare look at. I’ve been avoiding the temptation to think about this for sometime, quite a long time actually. But I don’t know if when I look in the mirror I can say I like myself anymore. And it’s not like I’m doing anything about it, because for the first time I’m not. I don’t do exercise, I’m not eating less. And even when I know this is not the best I can look, I’m just not making an effort.

I wish right now that I had even a particle of what is a good singing voice just so I wouldn’t have to feel so patently ridiculous while I wait for my mother to leave the house so I can sing and cry at my heart’s content. I want to watch the screen and tell myself this is beauty, this is genius, this is what you’ll never achieve because you simply can’t be bothered.

They’re saying
Mama never loved her much
Daddy never keeps in touchThat’s why she shies away
From human affection

I’ve never actually said how stupid, how utterly ugly I believe suffering makes me look. I don’t like looking at myself cry, I don’t like other people seeing me cry or scream or simply stretched out on the floor because it is a sorry sight. Because there is no beauty there is nothing ennobling, nothing poetic about this. This is why I find it so hard to think of myself in love, to imagine myself with anyone, because if I even dare to envision it I’ll be so filled with shame, with a deep sense of self-disgust and ridicule that it will make the whole exercise impossible.

So I’d rather just watch this pretty girl, looking at me with incredibly big sad eyes while Darren Hayes (who has the voice and face of an angel in this video, I love him) sings to her about love and second chances.

Well I’m not entirely sure of how I should finish this entry except that I’m not fishing for pity, that this journal is and has always been deeply private, despite the many people who read it. In a few minutes I’ll go back to writing an essay on the role of man in the movie Thelma and Louise and this will be forgotten.

Good Day and I love you all.