L'Afrique

I'm in such a state of limbo right now. Grounded, misplaced trust, loss of liberty. My parents say that they can't trust me to do anything right now, that they feel as if they have to watch me all of the time. Ghana is an uncertainty.

But I hope, oh, I hope it happens. I've applied, and will (hopefully!) be accepted soon. I need this. I need to get out. I'm suffocating here, trapped within old expectations. This city is stifling. I think going to Africa, helping people, doing something really worthwhile - I think it will give me a much-needed new perspective. I think it will lift me up out of my life and give me something new to work for. Some motivation to pick it up and stop being a drifter, to stop lazing through the days. I can't ever get these years back.

I cannot, cannot wait.

glam

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsPFDzAGb4A

Love this man. That eyebrow lift and smouldering gaze ... mmhm.

My problem is that I've become the girl I used to hate.

Total 180.

I feel like nothing is real anymore. I've lost all of my passion, my drive. Lost my artistic talent. I'm never inspired anymore. I'm scared to start anything, scared that I won't care enough about something that used to define me.

I drift through life, uncaring, indifferent, not doing anything real. What mark have I left?

I'm going to regret wasting these years.

Lost.

I'm feeling alone, ostracized. I've completely lost who I used to be, and am rapidly becoming this new girl. This new girl who I would never have associated with in the past, a chronic smoker, toker, a girl who doesn't give a shit about school, a girl who is so indifferent to those around her. A girl I would have hated just a few months ago. A girl like me.

I've changed. Who I was is no longer who I am. Who I was is gone, dead, killed in a fatal accident between a girl and her depression. My friends don't know how to deal with this. They don't like who I've become, don't like my new addictions. They talk about it behind my back but are pleasant to my face. I can't deal with it. They can't deal with it. We cling to this semblance of friendship even though we all know how strained it is, how excluded I really am. I feel like I have no one anymore. My confidante is so faraway, my (almost) boyfriend distracted and sharing my addictions.. my former best friends huddle in their group, opening up for me when I come around, but we're too different, really. I love them so much, but they can't accept who I've become, and who can blame them, really?

I can't help this, though. I am just so lost, drifting, confused, indifferent, dust particle in skyway haze. Who am I? Who am I, really?

A fuckup, a stoner, a smoker, a burnout? Attention-seeking whore? (On that note, rips mended, Carissa's character completely changed, laughter, friendship? Weird, double-take).

Today was a bad day. Sorry for the rambles.

Work.

A dreaded word, bringing awful anticipation for the masses. An exchange, a barter - service for money. Necessary, but I question the validity of our society's philosophy. How can we expect people to throw themselves away in dead-end jobs, struggling to make ends meet? How does that improve their lives, make them worth anything? Isn't the whole point of life to do something worthwhile and to enjoy yourself?

Questions aside, work has a strange effect on me. I'm usually sleep-deprived and exhausted when I take up position behind the sickly, jarring yellow of the cash registers, and for the first hour, I'm cordial and smiling, settling into the verbal routine. It's static and unchanging for the most part: "Hi there, how are you? Good, thanks. It comes to (total). Debit? Go ahead, stripe out. Here's your change, have a great day." It becomes so automatic that my brain literally shuts down. There is no cranial activity there. I am in a daze, hardly glancing at people as they drop their groceries on the belt and pick through their change with germ-infested fingers. My eyes stare blankly at the scanner. Of course I'm not comatose, but for the most part I am unaware of my surroundings, my short-term memory shot to bits. This takes place gradually: for the first hour I am perfectly aware. The second hour, I slip a little and refrain from offering non-mandatory statements. The third hour goes by in a daze, as does the fourth. The last hour perks me up, and I am happier as I time my last few minutes behind the desk. The monotony and repeated questions and answers deplete my resources and I end up too tired to deal with it proactively.

Weird, right?

Lobes.

So here I go again. Even though I know and understand what is hanging in the balance. Even though I realise how defiant this really is, this evading of the rules, deliberate misconstruing of parental guidelines. I didn't get caught yesterday when I circumvented their wishes and got high. Embarrassingly, out of control high, possibly alienating a friend. But I pulled it off without their knowledge. Guilt, yes, but also exhilaration.

This is different. This isn't a one time thing, home safe, several-hour defiance. This will be noticed. This is for a lifetime.

No more piercings, they said. No more needles through your skin. Fair enough, although I plan on pleading for a more lax viewpoint. Fair enough for me to follow their rule, at least for a time. But body mods are addictive. You can't stop once you've had a taste. If I can't stick needles into myself, I'll adjust the mods I've already gotten, I reasoned. Lobe stretching is common. Even though I know how much they hate this, how it will make my mother cry, I am selfish enough to need to express myself this way. I need to change, stretch the boundaries and learn how far I can manipulate myself. How much I can get away with.

My preliminary research severely lacking, I got bad advice from the girl at Rock Universe - the only person I've ever met who actually looks good with snakebites - and headed home with acrylic plugs and taper. Bacteria love acrylic, harbour there gleefully. I'll remember to buy metal or glass next time, although this decision will deplete my wallet horrifically. It's worth it, though, because I am prone to infection. Stretch, stretch, plugs in. Now I will wait, wait, wait.

Finally some relief for my masochistic side; the burning of newly stretched lobes is enough to curtail my need for more extreme measures.

What art gives us

Moebius may be my favourite artist, or at least in the top three. I love his style. His subject matter is often surreal or science-fiction-like, almost magical - something that greatly appeals to me. And his use of line is terrific. There is always some sort of detailed bit that you miss at first, then discover with a small spark of excitement.

This is far from his best piece, but there's something about it that both draws me in and repulses me. It makes me a little uncomfortable to look at it, a jarring sense of impossibility, that sheer terror of falling. A concrete pterodactyl soaring through the sky? His rendition seems so heavy, as if it will tumble at any time, that I find myself unable to look at this image without feeling that heaviness within me.

Regardless, he is a master artist.

Moderate Amnesia

That's a frightening feeling, you know. Losing that memory. Split second glimpse before it's lost in muck. Your brain feeds you a snippet of words, a feeling, an idea, and it floats there, glimmering just out of reach. Your eyes shift to the side, momentarily distracted, and the idea just - disappears. Gone. Then you reach backwards, trying to recall, recollect, but you're met with emptiness. There is nothing to be found.

fixing this impossibility

I haven't been taking my medication, choosing instead to believe fairytales of miraculous recovery. I swing through stages of happiness; everything is okay now. I am better. I was fooling myself all along.

Then, suddenly, destruction. Crushed in catastrophe, I rush back the other way. Suicidal tendencies resurface, drug use escalates. I know it makes it worse. How else do I deal with this shit? My mind is a mess.

My sister cut at me the other day. My wire bones and twine sinews shuddered: "How come you never smile anymore?" Then, my mother: "Even your grandmother noticed how unhealthy you've been looking lately." My ex-best friend: "Don't call me when you hit rock bottom. I've learned a lot from you. How to let yourself go, how to lose all respect for yourself."

I am a drain on society. I hurt my friends and family to the point where I sometimes wonder if it would be better that I just leave. Let them be safe from my masochism and their worry and fears for my future. I need to figure myself out, fix this, but the deathly quicksand of bad choices is much too tantalizing. I've gone too far into this fog; I don't know if I can (want to) find my way out.

suicide?

Why, oh, why do I do this to myself? Inhaling chemicals, curling smoke drifting through my veins. Headrush, dizziness. It's unpleasant, but I need it. Or do I? I've been questioning my motives, lately. The sensation is not what drives me; it's repelling, in fact. I think I just love that feeling of secretiveness. I can't show anyone. This is not what they would expect of me. I love that feeling of burning lungs, damaged tissues, pain when you draw in breath. It's comforting. I love that feeling of lifting that cancer stick to your mouth and breathing in, finally something real to focus on, something else to shut out the world. I hope I can keep this manageable.

A week, and a few days extra, without. Bad cravings, at first. It wasn't by choice; I had no way of purchasing those deadly boxes. Chainsmoking the previous weekend, the stark days of emptiness struck me as being absurdly difficult to manage. I craved cigarettes. At the end of the week, I was fine. No urges, nothing too harsh, anyway. But today I finally had my opportunity; hesitant questions, cash passed from hand to hand. Inhale. Yes. God, yes.

I had to sit down; the dizziness was overpowering. Is this normal? How can I crave something that has the power to make me feel so awful? Wobbly, weaving.

I must be insane. Looks like she was right.