Ten Suicide Notes

PRIVATE DIARY – DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT OWNER’S PERMISSION

HELEN SEIGEL

June 22nd 2012

I slept with Danny two nights ago. I don’t know how it happened, it just happened. We were drinking at the Clone Bar and I had four or five red bull and cokes and I was just glowing. I wasn’t drunk but I was beautiful and everyone in the bar was beautiful the lighting was right and I could feel the music and I breathed in his sweat and his love and it felt so right and important that I did it. That’s real power. I knew how good it would feel and it was even better than that, it was the best. I fucked him over and over until he couldn’t go on, I swallowed his cum, every last drop of it, and then I made him finger me one last time until I came again. I made him tell me how much he wanted me, how he loved me, and I ate up every word and then laughed in his face. In the morning, I sucked him awake and then sat on his cock again. I wanted him to feel like he was being raped, I shouted rape me in his ear when he was coming and then laughed but he didn’t laugh back.

I didn’t even think of Ethan. He didn’t see the pictures in the flat or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He’s a scumbag if he saw them and didn’t think anything. Men are cunts. When he came out of the shower, I must have looked disgusting to him lying out on the bed with that fucked up pornstar tattoo on my arm and his dried come all over my body. I called him tonight but it went through to his answering machine, that stupid message where he pretends to be a gangster. I’ll call him on the weekend. I told him I loved him but I didn’t mean it. I love Ethan and only Him: my one article of faith.

Ethan phoned afterwards and said that he wants to stay in Ann Arbour until August. I miss him like crazy but I said that maybe it was for the best because I have a load of my own shit to do. He sounded really sad and accused me of smoking again but that’s got nothing to do with him what I do with my life. If only he knew how much I loved him. Nothing feels CONTROLLED anymore and it HAS to be if I want to keep the disease at bay. If I don’t talk to him every other day I go mad. I feel like ripping my hair out and slashing my face until I can’t see my face in the mirror. Ethan knows how I work. When I talk to him, my breathing changes, I can touch myself and it’s not sexual. It’s love, it’s real love, and when you have something like that you learn to be really careful with the way you treat them.

I wish I had the money to fly out there occasionally, just to see him for a couple of days. I’ve trained myself to do without his body, but if I need to hear his voice every now and again. It’s like he’s part of me that I can’t switch off, no matter how hard sometimes I try. I resent him because he must know he has that power over me but he still says whatever the hell he wants and ignores the fact that he can kill me with the wrong word.

I always go to him when I’m at my weakest. Why is that? Is that because he means the most or because he represents the things I know I can never have, not truly? Sometimes I think it’s just because he’s the most stable thing in my life, compared to my family and my friends, but that means whenever I fuck up he’s the one who’s most likely to be hard on me because everyone else knows how messed up I am because THEY ARE TOO. Sometimes I’m scared that I’ll bring him down to my level or hurt him so much that I’ll make him exactly like me. I would still want him even then. I’m not sure if he would still want me, not the real me, not the worst parts of me.

“A gun gives you the body, not the bird.” Henry David Thoreau

June 23rd 2012

I smoked most of today but I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t concentrate at all when I was sober but after I took the first toke, I got about three pages of the essay done. It wasn’t perfect but if I edit it enough when I am sober, I think it’ll be okay. This is the last week of the extension. Every time I read through it, I think who the fuck cares about Emily Dickinson really, but I must have cared enough about her at some point...!!!

In the evening I had this epiphany that I could either make new memories or I could destroy the old ones. Those are my only two choices because of who I am, but if I make people love me the old memories become new memories because I bring those people from the past and make them part of my future. So that way I stay complete.

I went to a party and it was wall to wall coke, but I managed to stay away from it. Since the overdose, I’m sticking to the whiskey and the odd joint now and again but when I’m feeling down, when Ethan’s not really doing his job, when nothing is really going right, I think I can fight it again and win. A couple of lines never killed anyone. It’s when you go for it like you have nothing left to lose, that’s when the snowstorm can fuck you well and truly up. Besides, I’m too poor to be a cokehead again! So if I did want to be a cokehead, I would have to go to parties and pretend to like everyone, no matter how stupid they are. I. Don’t. Think. So.

I don’t like responsibility. It’s a confidence trick that adults play on younger kids to keep them in their place. Everyone has to find their own limits. I think I’ve found mine, although I had to do it the hard way. That’s what it’ll say on my headstone: SHE DID IT THE HARD WAY. I’ve already ordered it from Amazon.

June 25th 2012

I preferred it when I had multiple partners. It was more fun. There’s no pressure at all. You don’t have to rely on anyone and nobody takes it personally if you re-arrange things because it’s just a fuck in the end and a bit of friendship. You feel better about yourself too because when you have that many relationships going at the same time, you feel more in touch with your looks, with your sex appeal, everything just feels easier; they were just great people, the most relaxed, easy-going human beings ever. I would never have fucked someone like Danny back then. Where was my self – respect? I don’t even find him that attractive. If he called me back now, I would tell him what a douche bag he is. I can’t believe I slept with him.

“Everybody sees me as this sullen and insecure little thing. Those are just the sides of me that I feel necessary to show because no one else seems to be showing them.” – Fiona Apple

June 26th 2012

I phoned up Ethan today and left a message that if he didn’t come up to see me in the next 7 days I was going to kill myself. I know it was childish, but I meant it, I meant it when I said it. He called and emailed me but I didn’t respond because I want him to suffer the way I suffer. I want him to feel how lonely and dead I feel inside. If he feels the smallest bit of what I feel, he’ll come. He doesn’t understand what it is to be empty. I grope around in the dirt for some kind of meaning and nothing comes and then suddenly there’s no point in going on. I wish there was more steel inside me. I feel like I have to hide every minute of the day to make things fit together. Every last piece of my energy is used up trying to make things fit together.

I’m going to see Dawn tomorrow and I think she’ll up the lithium dosage. I half hope she does, even though I know how it’ll effect me. I’ll tell her everything and let her make up my mind for me. I don’t want to fight her anymore. If she thinks she can save my life, then good luck to her. Many have tried, many have failed. Her heart is in the right place. Mine is in a shoe box somewhere in a wardrobe with my mother’s wedding dress and pictures of old relationships.

The good news is I made a new friend, Cleo. She’s a black girl who lives a few blocks from me, very sexy, thin, big tits, total lesbian. I saw her in the store and there was something about her mannerisms, the way she was moving, and I suddenly knew that she was bipolar. I was feeling pretty confident so I went straight up to her and asked her and she said yes, was I the bipolar police or something. She’s really funny but she just got diagnosed, so sometimes she’s all over the place and acts scary, but I’ve been through it myself so I can normally calm her down. I like her a lot. We fucked but it wasn’t serious or anything. More than anything else, I just wanted her to feel loved. I know I didn’t feel loved when I first got diagnosed, I thought my life was over, so it felt good to give myself to her. When I close my eyes, I can see her smiling in my arms.

“I shall not see the shadows,

I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.”

Christina Rossetti

June 30th 2037

I’m space-age, bitches.

I went to a science fiction convention yesterday, the nerdiest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, and I had a blast. I wore one of those tight fitting military uniforms that all women in sci-fi are legally obliged to wear and I felt like a goddess. I even indulged in a bit of science fiction acting: talking in a serious schoolmistressy voice, pointing a lot, leading with my tits when striding across the conference floor.

Watching those teenagers with their hopping hormones and seeing how obvious they were, especially when they were trying their hardest not to be… it was really funny. Some of them were quite cute in their own way. They didn’t have that hardness that jocks get around that age, that sense of entitlement. I got talking to one kid dressed up as Spock, couldn’t be more than sixteen, and I put my hand on his knee and felt it shake so hard that I thought it would break. He was so embarrassed that I whispered in his ear that I had to go but if he was five years older, I would take him somewhere private and suck his cock for hours and hours until he couldn’t take it anymore. I walked away after that. I’ve probably given him years of masturbation material (and a story that no-one at his school will ever believe).

There were some other girls there, but they were even more sexually backward than the boys. Some of them were gorgeous but they had either bad skin or crap hair or so little confidence that they walked like zombies. I felt like putting my arm around them and showing them how it’s done, but then I thought – maybe they’re more likely to meet a nice guy at a place like this. If someone did a fairy godmother job on them, they’d probably end up with a jock that’d trap them for the rest of their lives. They’re more likely to meet a Bill Gates or someone similar in a sci fi convention. It felt good to reach out to them, though, to feel what it was like to be sixteen again, how brilliant and terrible it was. I can’t be that bad if I feel motherly towards the girls, can I? I might not be consistent, but that basic feeling of love, that’s what a girl really wants. I would be an excellent mother.

I bet some of those girls were too scared to even masturbate, though! They’re so tense. I bet if I touched them like I did that boy, they’d freak right out, probably come right there and then.

As predicted, Dawn upped the lithium dose and it made me shaky for a couple of days, but now I seem okay. I say okay, I am of course MAD with a capital MAD, but I’ve learned to enjoy the calm periods as if they’re sanity.

I phoned Ethan last night and it went okay, as well as it could after all I’ve put him through the last week. He’s probably the most patient, most forgiving, most genuine man I’ve ever known in my life, but I could hear the hurt in his voice. I know this pattern I have with him, of treating him like crap and then apologizing endlessly, crying, can’t continue for much longer. Something in him will break or he’ll see straight through me or start seeing me as a joke. I wish he would understand it’s not personal, although of course what else could it be when I treat him like that? A lot of the times I know I must seem like a joke version of myself. Then other times I think he’s lucky to have me. Maybe in my heart of hearts I want more than he can give me: I want to fuck around, get high and enjoy myself for damn’s sake, while I still have the time to do it.

He’s coming back in two weeks. That’s the best I could get out of him without pleading. I know he talks about me behind my back, but I don’t care. As long as he tells me the truth when he’s with me, it’s enough.

I found a couple of grey hairs yesterday. I must ask Dawn if that’s the medicine or if it’s that other deadly poison, Time. It’s an awkward topic between us because one time [I was on the top of the bipolar rollercoaster at the time] I said that she couldn’t understand what it was like to be beautiful and then lose it. She actually not that bad looking, but I can guess what her early experiences were like with boys, the failed relationships, the overturned relationships, the other stupider prettier girls that flit around in the periphery of her life like butterflies. It probably made her the woman she is today. In moments of absolute clarity, I can sometimes see the entire flow of these people, the sci-fi nerds, the rejected and the confused, the ugly professionals, through their lives. It’s like a river running through existence. You don’t see them on television or written work or anywhere really, other than in real life, but civilization exists because of them. The beautiful people – we’re just window dressing. We’re nice to look at. We worry about our grey hairs, about ageing, about sagging skin, about baby weight, because it matters more to us than it does to you. It’s all we have. Don’t hate.

I’m like one of those drug adverts on tv: four positive effects but the possibility of infection, heart failure, infertility and death. Do you want this pill? Well, do you?

“Every woman knows that, regardless of all her other achievements, she is a failure if she is not beautiful.” – Germaine Greer, The Whole Woman

July 2nd 2012

Attacked outside of a bar last night. This guy invited me out for a cigarette and I said yeah, whatever, because the music was shit and he seemed okay.

It was quiet out there and the guy said come over here behind the dumpster I want to show you something and me like a dumbo said "yeah, okay, but make it cool", like I thought I was in a Tarantino movie or something. When I got there, he swung me around by the arm and smashed my face up against the wall. When he knew he had me fixed in place, he pulled up my skirt and grabbed my ass and slapped it a couple of times. I didn't say a word. Then he ran off, laughing. I don't know why he ran off. He could have raped me, killed me, whatever. Maybe he thought it was a joke, that he wasn’t doing anything so bad.

I pulled my jacket up over my chin and got a taxi back home. The driver didn't say a word even though I cried as I got closer to my flat. When I got back, I checked myself: there were a few cuts and bruises but it was minor. I put some make up on to cover the worst of it. It made me feel better, but I fell asleep with it on and felt like a monster when I woke up.

I make that the sixth time I've been attacked by a man over the last ten years.

I phoned ethan and told him I'd been assaulted and he said he'd shoot the guy if he ever saw them. I said he didn't own a gun, and besides he'd have to be in Seattle a lot more often to make good on that particular threat. He didn't think that was funny, hung up on me. I guess an assault isn’t as bad as sarcasm in his book.

I remember one time He told me he had a dream where he was woke up by the police and they tell him that they’ve found me wandering around in the street somewhere. I’m in a disordered, addled state, like a lost and confused child, and then they cart me in soaking wet and with a towel over my shoulders.

It’s nice of him to express his fears [I guess!] but I think that probably says more about the way he sees me than any chance of my actual ending up in that state. The police don’t come with the message that I’m death, or near death. No, they deliver up an idiot. Somehow I think that’s infinitely more satisfying to his psychology. Maybe after he rescues me, he can train me back up to be a housewife.

Yes, he thinks I’m one drink or joint away from being an idiot or ending up in a trailer park like my mad- eyed redneck aunt. And this is the man I say I love.

July 5th 2012

Bad night last night.

I woke up shaking and covered in sweat, felt like I’d swallowed my heart. The physical pain wasn’t the worst of it, though, because I’ve got used to that over the years. It took me about fifteen minutes to remember who I was. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate, I couldn’t fix on anything, couldn’t sense where I was. I don’t remember being that bad since my last drugs breakdown and I’m scared, I’m really really scared. Normally when they up the dosage, things settle down and I can concentrate more, I can be a better person, but this strangeness, it cuts into everything. During the day, I couldn’t do basic things, like take out the trash or put something into the oven. I felt too scared to go into the shower, even though some part of me understood it was irrational. It made me wonder if everything that I call my personality, the bits that aren’t because of the disease, are just pretty patterns that I’ve spun over the top of something ugly and primitive. But if this is the disease, if this feeling is the disease, it has the power to rip all of those patterns to pieces and return me back to being this stupid frightened child. That makes me want cry and scream all at once because how else am I going to survive unless I force myself back into life. I’m so afraid. I don’t know what to do. If I tell Dawn any of this, they might take me back in and I couldn’t deal with that. I can’t fight back unless I feel I have some power and those places are death. I made some close friends in there, people who were stronger than me, and a lot of them are dead because they came out and then it destroyed them. It fucking burned them into the ground. When I had that thought, I emailed Cleo straightaway because I was scared for me. I wanted her to know what I’d worked out. She’s got a blackberry, the same as me, so I know she got the email straightaway, but she didn’t get back to me.

I’m writing all this down because it makes sense when I write it down. As soon as I go back to bed, it stops making sense.

I can’t contact Ethan about any of this. I’ve learned not to phone Him when I’m weak. He won’t listen to me when I’m weak, he despises me bleeding all over him. Most of the time I fake strength to make him happy and then he ALLOWS me to talk to him, but he won’t compromise on his side. I’m so weak right now that I can’t even pretend. Besides, it’s so close to him coming back, although it looks like it’ll only be for three weeks until he has to go back to Ann Arbour. I don’t know what I’ll do after that. I’m not sure I’m mentally prepared for him leaving again. I just want to curl up and disappear in his arms. God, that sounds so cowardly. I hate being the little woman. But I could sleep forever in his arms. Come to me, my lover, please come to me.

Love is the last relay and ultimate outposts of eternity.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

July 7th 2012

Ethan phoned up and said he can’t get the time off work, so it’s going to be another month until he can visit. I took it well at first because I couldn’t really doing anything about it, but by the end of the conversation, I couldn’t breathe and started shouting at him as if I was some cracked out hooker on the street. I called him some horrible names, but he must have known how much he was humiliating me, making me beg like that.

The world is wrong. There’s nothing beautiful in the world, nothing.

July 8th 2012

Why am I still breathing? The only reason He hasn’t killed me yet is because he’s scared that I’ll bleed all over Him, that I’ll smother Him with a pillow the moment He falls asleep. What’s the point? He doesn’t love me. He never loved me. He adores throwing this malicious shit in my face, every bad thing I’ve ever done to Him comes up when we start arguing. He’s so mean. Without even trying, he’s so mean. He called me old in an email yesterday. I’m twenty seven for fuck’s sake. He was making a joke about how everyone over the age of twenty is on their way out according to the media, but he must have known how I would react. He knows how sensitive I am about my looks and my age. He’s even met my mother, that evil dragon bitch, that witchfinder general of any good decent emotion in the world. He knows how she used to treat me like a puppet in a string when it came to weight, so it’s beyond a fucking joke that he would say that stuff to me. He doesn’t really care, not in any way that matters. How amazing is that? The love of my love doesn’t even fucking care about me. That’s how much people care whether I live or die. Doesn’t he know how easily He could kill me?

These emails back and forth, they’re evil. It’s like everyone needs to say the worst thing possible. It’s like we’re not even real people anymore, we’re just weapons cutting each other, taking pieces out of each other until there’s nothing left. There’s no love left at the end. We see through each other to the point where neither one of us means anything. We see how worthless we are. I’m the useless child and he’s the hateful absent father. That makes him marginally worse than me, but it would kill him to admit it. Cleo at least treats me like an equal.

July 10th 2012

I'm screaming but no-one can hear me. Ethan helps me turn off the voices in my head. I can’t tell him that. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the responsibility. He would reject me, I’m sure of it. He talks about love but he has no idea what it means. I’m too ashamed to call him. All he wants is my mouth wrapped around his cock.

Not all screams are screams for help, doesn’t He understand that? When I’m screaming it’s because I have no words left. I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM. I was on the subway and an old black woman started screaming at me and I felt like I was inside her mouth. I had a full blown panic attack. It’s only the third one I’ve had in my life and you’d think considering all the other horrible shit that’s happened to me, a panic attack would register low down on the scale, but I wasn’t prepared for it. I was already scared but down there underground, I thought I was going to die right there and then, so I got up and started beating against the door to open, even though you can’t open the doors down there. The passengers looked at me like I was mad, even the screaming woman stopped. When the doors didn’t open, I crumbled up on the floor like a scared baby and just cried. No-one came to help me. I have MENTAL ILLNESS written across my forehead. I’m a plague, I’m a fucking plague. When people see what I really am, they want to run away. I want to run away, but where? Where can I go to hide from it? I just wish it would all stop. I look at every else walking down the street and I wonder how the hell they keep it together, how they don’t just stop and stare out into space rather than carry. Their momentum horrifies me.

July 14th 2012

Brilliant day! I had a long conversation with Ethan this afternoon and we cleared up nearly everything that’s gone wrong over the last few months. He apologized and I apologized, I cried a river. He was lovely. He even brought up children for the first time in a year. I mean: it’s impossible, I wouldn’t want the responsibility, even though I love children, but just him saying was so immense. I’ve said some awful things about him since the very start and I feel like crying every time I remember, but when it comes down to it, he’s my best friend. I don’t have a lot of friends, not real ones, because I don’t trust people to treat me properly. He treats me like a human being, not just a succession of symptoms or a piece of scorched earth, even when there’s little left of me other than the disease.

There was one thing I couldn’t talk to him about, how close I came two nights ago. I haven’t talked to Dawn about it either, but that’s for obvious reasons. Suicidal ideation, that’s the technical phrase. I’ve been thinking about suicide for the last ten years, so that’s a lot of ideation, premium rate ideation. I don’t normally tell anyone, but I’ve learned to take it as a sign that I’m on the slide again. It’s never scary, not when I think about it. It would make a lot of people happy, I believe. It would definitely resolve a lot of things for my parents and my sister; they wouldn’t have to worry about me all the time.

Sometimes I can’t carry on and that’s when the beauty of suicide almost overwhelms me. Look at it without prejudice and with love and if you catch even a moment of how rapturous it would be, how hard it shines, and it sticks in your head. I’m clever enough and sane enough to see how beautiful it is. All of the mess and horror in your life and inside your head is immediately clean and silent and perfect. All of the terrible mistakes in my life are gone, the whole slate is wiped clean, and the people I’ve hurt will know FOR CERTAIN that I didn’t mean the horrible stuff that I did. I can stop apologizing and stop hurting.

Sometimes I can even taste it, I can taste it my mouth, and I want to drink all of it until I’m blind and dead. I’m like some giant moth crashing my wings against the light at a thousand miles an hour and I can’t help myself; I can smell my wings getting crisp in the heat and I love it. I know that sounds sick, but once you’re inside the feeling, you feel powerful, I’m glowing. It’s the ultimate power, stopping everything.

I’ve been stockpiling codeine and xanax in a secret compartment under the bed. I know if I take one, I’ll want to take them all. Ethan used to hide them from me and dole them out to me like I was a child, which I suppose I am, but over time I’ve stashed enough for the biggest blowout of all time. I won’t do it, not really, but sometimes I take out the orange cylinders and line them up on the table like tiny parts from some kind of epic machine, then sit down and watch them standing in front of me. It might as well be a gun. They’ve nearly killed me before, so it might as well be a gun. I won’t do it, but every now and again, I shiver with how much joy is contained in those little white and blue pills. It’s nearly as good as taking them.

I’ve always loved arts and crafts, so a few days ago, I printed out a big sheet of smiley faces [I don’t know why they’re still called smiley faces – most of the expressions are sad or mad] and attached them to the pill containers. I don’t know why. It seemed funny at the time, but now it feels like maybe I’m not taking the situation seriously.

July 16th 2012

I’m day-dreaming a lot about suicide still but not feeling depressed, so I think I’m safe. Ethan only returning one out of four calls. Cleo seems to have disappeared altogether. I went around her flat but no-one had seen her for a week. I hope she’s okay. Not that anyone cares or notices anything. Maybe I should cut an anarchy sign into my forehead to see if anyone notices.

July 18th 2012

I remember another time I was lying out with Ethan at the beach holding hands. The sun was blazing down on us and I felt like nature was a palace and we were the king and queen. Then he got a serious look in his face and I knew something awful was coming. We’d split up a month before and it was the first days of the new relationship. I was expecting some kind of kickback but I didn’t know how it would come out.

What he said was that he was scared of me. He’d fallen in love with me again, but he knew, he knew as a fact, that in all of the key moments of his life, I would let him down. I gripped his hand as hard as I could and I waited until he finished because I knew he needed to get it out, but I hated him for saying it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was the wrong time to say it. The beach view in front of us, it felt like someone simply rolled it up and left us with a blank.

He pictured himself dying of cancer or some other body horror and he tried to imagine me by his side, but on past experience, he knew I wouldn’t make it, I would flake out, or go hide in drugs or depression. If it was easy to get there, I might make it occasionally to the hospital, but in the moment he died, I would be alone. He said (and I admit I cried) that he would love me anyway, knowing all of that, because I couldn’t help the way I acted.

At the end of what he said, I couldn’t argue back. I was going to give him a big speech about how much I loved him and believed in him and would fight for him, but I couldn’t. I just cried.

Later on, when I was making him an omelette in the kitchen, I thought of what I should have said to him and why what he said was cruel. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that when I’m out of control, when I’m partying and I look like I’m enjoying myself, but I’m treating people like shit, it’s my brain telling me to act that way. Of course I’m enjoying myself: drugs, alcohol and sex. In those moments, I can barely remember how terrible my life is, how much I hurt people. But it’s the flip side of depression and suicide and I have no choice. I have to suffer both and by the time I’ve smashed through all of my friends and my family, alienating the people I love the most, I’m usually on my own when the darkness kicks in. I’m left with the ugly, shallow people I’ve collected while I’m on a high, who don’t care a damn whether I live or die. So what if I don’t feel it when I’m partying? I know I must look like the worst person in the world when I’m flying, like a stupid party girl who gets into all these stupid situations and deserves all she gets. When I wake up, a lot of times I’m disgusted with myself. When I see the pictures of me enjoying myself, sometimes it feels like I’m looking at a stranger. Try and understand I can’t control how these things turn out. I really can’t. If that makes me weak, then I’m weak. THAT IS WHO I AM.

I wish Ethan could imagine what it’s like to live in a world in which your brain chemistry decides how you feel any given day, no matter how well or badly your life is going. Sometimes I wish he could feel it for one day, the insane mood swings, just so he could love me better. Then I realise that I love him so much that I could never wish him this dance of death. Not even on my worst enemy, but least of all him.

If I mythologize it a bit, if I say I’m the wild one, it’s because I don’t have anything left except that. I really have NOTHING else. It’s what keeps me alive. Ethan, my love, please, please, please think of that next time you lash out at the party girl. I don’t need any more guilt. I have a truckload already to deal with.

I didn’t say any of that. I didn’t want to spoil his omelette. I make a mean omelette.

July 21st 2012

He won’t come. He won’t ever come. He doesn’t even answer his phone, even though it’s the morning so he’s either hiding from me or there’s someone else there in his bed. That would add up: some cuter, younger model with her mouth wide open, some skinny slut cunt bitch that isn’t even fit to put on my shoes, let alone live in them. I yearn for him. He’s part of my body, but he’s cut me out like I don’t even matter.

If you knew what I knew, what I know for a fact, you would scream until your throat was in so much pain you vomit. You would scrape the skin off your face and you would scream at anyone who dared to look at you and you would scream until they were blind looking at you. You’d rip the colour out of their eyes. You’d dig all the muck out of your eyes, all the jelly and throw it at them because they’re scum. This world is full of SCUM and I’m the worst of them all. I’m going to scream until there’s nothing left of me, nothing. I’m fucking EVIL, so hang me up on the hook with the other pieces of meat and let me DIE for fuck’s sake, already LET ME DIE. I’M SO FUCKING UGLY.

Hang up the phone the fucking noise. SHUT UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

July 22nd 2012

More clarity today. Physically not feeling too great, woke up with puke in my mouth and aching arms, but it passed after ten half an hour later. Brushed my teeth ten or so times during the day but I couldn’t quite get rid of the taste. I didn’t eat anything except haribo and twinkies. I know that’s stupid and the last thing I want to do is fall into anorexia again by accident, but I had no appetite at all and the smell was disgusting when I tried making an omelette.

I was in a daze yesterday. I read back what I wrote and it doesn’t sound familiar, which I think is a good thing. That person isn’t me. I can look at it dispassionately and analyse which part of it are clearly me and which parts are alien. It’s important that I divide the part which is bad behaviour and everything which is clearly the neurological condition taking control. I know they’re going to bury me with this disease, but I would like to choose when and where rather than live my life as a fucking pinball.

Ethan is so full of love. He deserves better than me. I mean it. Sometimes I say it and I’m devious, I don’t mean it, I want him to tell me how good I am, but that’s rubbish. He IS better than me.

July 23th 2012

I saw right through him and his lies, I saw right into the heart of the world, and it opened itself up me and it was so beautiful my eyes were blinded for ten minutes and then I realised it was love, it was love all along BECAUSE he loves me despite being a liar and a cheat and failing me.

I wrote him something. I’ll give it to Him when he comes, so he can see how much he means to me.

To Ethan

I’m sorry but I died.

I’m sorry that

I didn’t get to chance to tell you how much I loved you

And also how much I didn’t love you.

It wasn’t straightforward because

You weren’t always the nicest of people,

But I did love you, and

It’s good to know about that kind of thing in general

Even if now you can’t do anything about it.

I suppose that it’s for the best in a way

Because if you did know I was going to die

You probably would have made more of an effort

And that would have misled me into thinking

You cared more than you actually did.

This way at least we end truthfully

And both parties can go their separate ways

Knowing that time has overtaken us

And told us who we are.

July 24th 2012

This is the last entry I will ever make. I am FUCKING EVIL. I deserve everything I Get.