moments, Poetry

Meeting Charlie 

Dear  Charlie,

we are born into this world on someone else’s terms. Then we are expected to manage its monstrosities, feeding from the hand that they give us.

But if those who birth us tube down our throats that we are nothing but selfish, lazy and ungrateful we are painted the toxic view of the world from that point forward.

We are made to breath down these negative spirals and believe them to be the truth.

However, every time I meet you Charlie, hunched over a card in the bathroom stall of a club vibrating the stench of sweaty bodies and rotten feet, I smile. You make me happy again. You awake my tired body and exalt it with joy, putting a spring in my step as gibberish leaks itself away from my mouth into the atmosphere. You help me to believe in myself and rein my own destiny, a throne in my future.

And then, as suddenly as you come, you disappear again. Hanging me by the arms of a noose, lowering my depraved mass into the body of a dark, dismal well.

Only for me to look up and pray your glorious snow will fall onto me again. Bringing with it you, my dear Charlie, with all your wonderful and splendid hopes, dreams and promises.

Missing you,

the grin of a lost girl
nakedstreetkid out x

Advertisements
Flashback, journal, moments

Flashback: A letter to my brother

Dear Brother,

You had made all these cross-wired connections that were illogical in nature but made sense out of context. Like, I could understand what you were feeling but the why was so over the top that I couldn’t fully grasp.

However, in a position where I was so vulnerable, self-esteem so low it was drooling past the depths of hell, where the flashbacks were hitting me full force with their penetrative glares and living from day-to-day was becoming harder. Where I looked up to you so much and treasured and held true every word you said, I, for a minute, broke.

I broke down.

I cried. Wanting to kill myself. Believing the words you spoke – saying that I was selfish, that how dare I serve myself for a second instead of you, how dare I not sacrifice my wellbeing for your own, how dare I?
But, how dare you.

How dare you ask that of your little sister? No, of another human being, of any other person, to give up themselves so completely to serve your every whim and wish.

Especially when you treat them like the shit on your shoe, only to condescendingly pat them on the head for doing exactly what you feel you needed.

I, for months, despite everything you said, dismissed all those evils you committed onto me. I continued to believe that angels shone out of your arse, them being the ones blessed to touch you, that God worshiped you and Satan cowered in fear every time he heard your name. And, most importantly, that I was the one completely in the wrong. That everything that happened was my fault and only my fault when let’s be real here.

Let’s be real.

The more that I took the responsibility for the faults that happened on that day, the more I serve to negate from the fact that you are a flawed human being like the rest of us.

Because guess what? The sun does not shine to greet you every morning, nor does thunder and lightning boom and bend to your will. You are human. You deserve to take some fault of your own onto shoulders too proud to slump, onto the flattened circumference of your mind crushed away by your demons that you indulge yourself in. I’m just sick of it.

I’m sick of how you’re all too ready to announce to the world how you’ve had it harder than any mere mortal who has experienced pain or anguish. That you believe yourself bigger than what you are. More superior because you choose not to understand what others go through but instead enjoy swimming deep in a sea of your own self-pity.

It’s silly.

Can the idea that someone else may feel pain without you having to make it a competition exist? Because God knows that when I feel good and happy I don’t go comparing it and stopping myself because someone else may be happier than I.

I don’t make it a competition. I just feel happy. And have enough sense to respect other’s happiness, the same way you should respect other’s pain.

I wish you could just see the truth and grow up for once. Because it’s not grown up to give people the silent treatment, it’s not grown up to expect family to serve you unconditionally – love you unconditionally, yes, but not serve. And finally, it’s not grown up to push everyone in your life away just because they communicate with you they do not agree with the way you treat them.

Grow up.

Grow up before everyone that you still love grows up and away from you.

Yours truthfully,

Your excommunicated sister

Continue reading “Flashback: A letter to my brother”

Flashback, journal, moments, Poetry

Flashback: My First Swear

pexels-photo-192560

Time stalls on the window sill

My tiny feet grips past the gloss, straight onto the flaking wood, face pressed onto the window, hands by my side

Laughter from the living room reminds me of their harsh words

Their intent to scare me, to remind me that I was no more than a common fool a success

Tears work its way down my cheeks

My warm breath dents the cold glass as a silhouette shaped like my chin and nose forms as the rain on the other side collect into droplets

 

Finally, I let the pain go and give room for anger to emerge

It wrestles my body into havoc as I begin to kick out against the window, punch away the fabric within the curtains and let my tongue boil out a single word

“Fuck”

I scream it

Then stop cold in my tracks

Did they hear?

Did they hear their 8 year old sister collapse into a word forbidden in this household

I wait

I listen

And nothing.

So I say it again

Nervous giggles jolting the words out in a quiet whisper

The word feeling oversized but good, easing away my anger

 

Better.

 

I feel better again.

Continue reading “Flashback: My First Swear”

moments

Moments: Warm Winters Gloom

It feels like it is stuck there and it burns. My sertraline tablet. I take another swallow of water from my bottle and try and ease the remainder of the burn with my finger across my chest, massaging it slowly, carefully.

Happy cheers and smiles pass me by from men sitting on bicycles. Mothers pushing along empty prams as their children run ahead of them in a gleeful fashion, every now and again turning back to grin at their mothers as they keep pace with another child. And finally, couples hand in hand, pointing out the way the coast bends into Canary Wharf ever so slightly like a lopsided chuckle.

I feel as if everyone is out today, at least, a lot more people than usual. This made sense considering the sudden change in weather with the suns beautiful glittering glory gracing us as it must – quite suddenly and without cause. It was a great change from the usual – a gloomy and cold London, only ever covered from head to toe with blankets of rain. That is part of the reason why I’m out now, enjoying it as I know it won’t last long.

And also because I am just upset today. Tired and a little fragile because everything feels empty despite all this beauty around me. Depression has hit me once again and I needed to get out of my house before I spent all day in bed. I won’t spend all day in bed. I could never. Never again.

So I’m here instead, soaking up the warmth. Invisible to all but the vast space of water that lays in front of me.

It is the only thing that makes a change to how I am feeling.

moments

Moments: Just A Number

I often got that feeling of betrayal, of liberal shock when someone who carted me around work, held subtle exhibitions my way and treated me as a living sculpture pretended to know my name but didn’t. And only felt obligated to ask of my name when opposite me, with one gawky and awkward hand outstretched while the rest of the guilty but gleeful spectators stood a step behind, leaning in to hear my answer.

“Regina” I would say.

And a fake smile would be chalked across each of their faces as a chorus of ‘ooing’ and ‘ahing’ would ensue at such a moderately placed name. And the person leading the group would nod in appreciation, never once practising the name on his lips and congratulate me on what hard work I was doing. And I would say thank you because it would be impolite not to.

And as they would walk on with a casual glance my way, I would ponder at my place in this line of work. How valuable was I to them? How expendable?

And I was sure, in that moment, that I was just a number to each and every one of them.

moments

Moments: The Library

I’m in the library and I’m writing.

The pitter patter of the rain drumming throughout is distracting and I have to place my headphones in my ears in order to ignore it. Not that I’m playing any music as that would be equally distracting. You see, I had the tendency to analyse a song’s lyrics and or instrumental abilities quite thoroughly. No, I’m using my headphones as something to dampen the sound. And it does a good job until the rain intensifies and becomes an all disastrous force of nature against the windows of the library.

It’s a good thing I’m inside and the rain is out.

I evacuate my headphones from my ears as there is no longer a need for them. As I do so people begin to crawl into the library, bringing their chatter and whispers with them.

I guess I won’t be able to get as much work as I need to done today. No matter, that is why I have a book in my bag, just in case of small emergencies similar to this one.

I stare dimly at my copy of Juno and Juliet and smile. The cover, torn and ripped, stares unashamedly back at me. The light blue of the cover has been washed away of even more of it’s colour until it is has become a stale, powdery white. I wish I could say that it is in this state because it has been following me around for years like a much loved blanket, but that would be a lie. Despite loving it with a deep passion, the rips on the cover were not made by me, but made by a younger version of what I am now. A disastrous tyrant who somehow believed that in order to show your love for something it must show signs of wear. So, in a quick passion to do, this said tyrant fabricated a few of her own to show just how much she loved the novel.

Stupid. That was stupid.

Because now I’m left with a book that I’m not quite sure how to look after. I don’t want to tape it back together because I’m worried that it would destroy the already thinning cover. And I don’t want to protect it with a rain cover because there is still a part of me that believes that the scruffiness – for lack of a better word – shows just how much I love the book.

Stupid. Just stupid.

But, what can I say?

I guess I’m just a hopeless romantic.

moments

Moments: Lacking the Voice of Reason

Before I begin this Moments “vlog”, you should know that it may be quite triggering for those with an eating disorder. So, I’m saying this now:

TRIGGER WARNING: Eating disorder habits and depression mentioned. And of lesser importance, swearing.

Don’t say that I didn’t warn you…

———-

I made a mistake yesterday.

I ate at, or before, 1pm yesterday. Actually, it was most definitely before as I had been able to eat four bagels in two hours. And it wasn’t until I had eaten the last of the ten millionaire bites (caramel covered, chocolate topped, biscuit base bite size chunks) on the third hour at 1pm that I had realised how many calories I had consumed. I had consumed a lot and it began to freak me out.

Now, although I did not know exactly how many calories, I had somehow been able to stop myself from peering at the calorie content on the package of the bagels and recording the number.

I’m not sure if I should consider that an accomplishment, for it was not a noble act but a cowardly one. I was not only afraid to see the calorie content but also the nutritional one. Knowing quite well that I had consumed little, to no food of nutritional value that day had made me even more anxious than I already was. I didn’t need the confirmation printed into the back of mind with the specifics.

I wasn’t sure what to do, but I knew that I was frightened.

Usually, I would have exercised quite thoroughly for the next two hours – three hours if I could help it. All the while checking my weight on the scales periodically but… I was stopped. I was stopped by the nagging voice of my therapist erupting gently into my mind.

“Be kind to yourself” the voice whispered, while another voice, a little stronger and far more violent grabbed me by the consciousness and screamed in my mind’s ear “you fucking fat shit!” And so ensued an argument between the two. Imagine that, two voices battling it out in my head, one fading under the intensity of the other. And if you can imagine that, you will understand why I started to laugh. Hysterically. So much so that I began to feel tear after tear crawl down my cheeks while my laughs were interrupted by slight hiccups from the force of it all.

Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure what to do.

And I wish I could end this by saying I did the right thing, that I called up my friends and talked to them. That I continued my day as normal and ate something healthier when I was hungry in the next few hours. That I actually took a minute to reflect on how I was feeling and calmed down. I wish I could, but I can’t. I instead did the only thing I knew to do in situations like this. I took to my bed and folded myself into a tight ball underneath the cover of my sheets.

Oh, and think to myself in the dim silence:

At least I didn’t exercise.