My idle notions of misplacement.

A place for scribblings of thoughts and deeds. Mostly my own. Sometimes they're deeper creations of my imagination. And sometimes they are my notions in other people's mouths.
Essentially, this is a map of my head.

I don’t know.

I don’t know why I’m writing this here, or even what I’m writing, but I have to write something, somewhere. To find out that Dan, the most important thing to me, is unhappy at University with me breaks my heart. Of course to some extent it feels like it’s my fault; that he’s happy at home, away from me, and unhappy at Uni, when I’m around. That I’m not enough somehow. But I know not to think like that, I know it’s more complex. 

He says that he just always feels ill at University. The work, the stress, it’s actually making him sick. And that’s awful. That’s so toxic. And I never knew; he always says he’s fine, so I never know. Of course I have to let him know that he doesn’t have to stay in this environment, not if it’s making him physically ill. And that’s such a hard thing to do, because I don’t think I could survive my final year without him, but I don’t think I could survive my final year knowing he was staying just for me.

Strangely, it’s similar with me, but in reverse. I always feel ill at home. My self-confidence plummets and my anxiety goes through the roof. I eventually get so that I feel suffocated, my independence taken away from me. I lose all motivation, getting out of bed is the hardest thing I do all day, and it’s goddamn hard. Then there are the headaches, the aching limbs, the bad breathing and the severe lethargy. But for me, staying at home for a few weeks is such a treat, despite the sickness, and I always look forward to going away again at the end of the holidays. For Dan, I know he isn’t really happy at home, and he isn’t happy at University.

I wish more than anything that I could just make him happy; that I could march into the biology department and demand that they ease his workload; that I could discover a magic pill that would actually get him to sleep through the night, every night. But I can’t. 

Dan, if you’re reading this, I’m so sorry that I always make everything about me, that I always make sure I get my way. I’m selfish, and I’m going to try my hardest not to be from now on. I will do everything in my power to make this term and next year easier and happier for you. I love you with my whole heart. <3

I’m finding it really hard to be happy at the moment. And I’m trying, I’m really trying. But there’s just so much to dread. I kind of feel like I’m sinking, drowning. 

I literally spend every hour of every day thinking about you, wondering what you’re doing, and worrying about you, worrying about whether you’re ok, whether you’re happy, whether you’re sleeping ok, how your family are… But you never fucking talk to me. How do you know I’m ok? How do you know I don’t need you? Because sometimes I really FUCKING need you and you just don’t fucking care. Out of sight out of mind right? How the hell are we meant to carry on our relationship when we’re apart if you just forget about my existence? It feels like you literally don’t give a shit about me or us. And the worst thing is, I talk to you about this so often; I tell you how much it upsets me, how it kills me when you just ignore me, and you promise you’ll keep in contact more and you still don’t. I’ve practically spelt it out for you, that to make me happy you literally just have to show that you maybe think of me every now and then. How fucking hard is it to go on facebook and write “Having a nice day, out with Mum” or “Feeling a bit poorly, can’t wait to see you”, when I have actually told you a thousand times that when you don’t I GET FUCKING MESSED UP AND DEPRESSED. DO YOU EVEN GIVE A SHIT.

I’m so unhappy at the moment. I’ve had a lump in my throat and I’ve been holding back tears all evening and I don’t even know why. I just want to crawl into bed, go to sleep and never wake up. I hate this. I hate this so much. 

I wish you knew what people said about you. It’d hurt, but you need that. Maybe it’d help you change. Because you need to change. We’re not going to put up with this shit forever.

Scared.

I get so scared when I think about the future. Because, as I see it, there are two options.

He follows his dreams, he has an amazing, glamorous job, he spends most of his life on a different continent to me and I spend most of mine wondering if he’s alright, if he’s even aware of my existence. 

Or he has a job that means he can stay with me, our family. And he’ll gradually get more and more bitter about the fact I stole his dreams from him. 

He keeps saying he can deal with a non-travelling job as long as we go for all these amazing holidays. I don’t think he can know how much I want to see the world, but my parents have worked so hard their entire lives and we barely make it to Cornwall once a year. I have no work prospects. At all. I’m not exactly going to be making enough money so that we can go on safari every year. 

One of us is going to end up killing the other. One way or another. 

Problem.

I fantasise about suicide. I have done for years. In my head it’s poetic, beautiful, y’know? Jumping from a great height, your last sensations are that of falling. Slitting your wrists in a final act of pain to escape from life. In reality, death fucking scares me. It didn’t used to, but now I feel like I have a future to look forward to. I’m not going to kill myself. I’m really happy. But I still have dreams about suicide, and they’re some of the best dreams I have. 


The problem with me is that I glamorise mental illness. Having painkillers instead of breakfast, passing out from sheer fragility, wearing bracelets to hide scars, waking up in hospital, having strangers feel concern for you…


The thing is, when I was gulping down paracetamol like they were the only thing to keep me from going insane, I didn’t feel glamorous at all. Feeling like I was going to pass out every time I stood up wasn’t poetic or romantic. The only people who were concerned were the people who cared, the people I wanted more than anything to think I was fine. I felt like shit when I was depressed, when I had disordered eating, when I was self harming. It’s unbelievable to think that I forget that sometimes. 

Shaken.

That anon message has really shaken me up. I woke up so low this morning anyway, and now it’s so difficult not to crawl back into bed. That’ll keep going round and round my head all day at work. 

Weird.

It’s weird, whenever I have self-destructive dreams about suicide, anorexia or self-harm I wake up not hungry, and remain not hungry for the rest of the day. It’s like my brain recognises my self destructive streak and wants to help. Luckily, I’m sane enough to ignore it these days, and I’ll force cereal down my throat.