When I was afraid of 12 meters

When I'm sad or scared there are a few things that I sometimes do.


These are the most common ones: sing and write letters.


I never sing loud. If I do I can't hear if there's something around me. It would be silly to sing too loud. Too loud means as I said, that if there's something there you can't hear it. If you can't hear, you can't know. I'm afraid when I don't know. I'm afraid my whispered words are covering up the sound of something else. Sound is a comfort in this way. It is there for me. Actually. Perhaps it is better to say music. Melodies strung together. There's comfort in it, warm and safe like bread baking on a cold day.


I love the smell of bread. Dough is nice too, but not as nice as bread. Gumnut's house smelt just like this the other night. It was nice. I felt safe. No one was shouting, no one was angry; there was just the sounds of the TV, soft laughter and smell of warm, warm bread baking silently away. If I have a house one day, I'd like to make my own bread. I wouldn't make it now. I'd make too much of a mess and upset everyone. It wouldn't turn out nice. But we have to share and I'd share it anyway. It would turn out a disappointment. Still, just wait! When I have my own house I will bake my own bread and the only one disappointed would be me. I want just once to not be told that everything is wrong. I want to just try again and again, until I get it right so I can say I did it myself, trial and error, slaving away, writing sketches of recipes, sketches of sketches of recipes and finally in the end have a product of warm, safe and kind thoughts. Like music.


I would play the piano now, but my stomach is cramping up. I'm afraid now to be honest. Utterly afraid. It's a little cold too. I feel warm, but even as my brother opened the door I felt the coolness of the world outside. It's as though the piano and I are worlds apart. It sits alone, in the cold, cold place of dreams that are slipping and of a person I used to be. And I, I sit here, warm, my stomach cramping and with a headache that appears to have taken up permanent residence as of at least over a month ago.


I tried to sleep. I was reading a book before too for about an hour and a half. I don't usually have that time, but I figured to myself that I have the right to do something 'intellectual' while still resting. My headache is very persistent today you see, and my eyes are heavy. But now, I'm upset and confused. Not so much confused actually. It's more I'm wishing someone will come and tell me how to feel and think, tell me that everything is okay, that what I did wasn't wrong. But no one will come. Because no one knows. And if they did come anyway, I still wouldn't tell. I couldn't just yet. I feel like I'm lying when I almost tell. I hate that feeling. It makes me feel like I'm rubbish. Trash. That really disgusting type you dread throwing away because you don't want to come within a meter of it yet have no other choice because the small is already starting to slowly swamp around you.


I've been writing letters too. I think that's something else that's 'intellectual'. I've been writing letters to no one in particular this time. Sort of. It's sort of to the whole world at once, just a final few words for everyone to know. I don't write these letters down. They're just in my head. They begin like a stroke of paint. Full of thought and colour, bold and strong but begin to fade as the thought seeps in that these letters will never earth. I used to have a book for that. Writing letters that is. I would write and write and write whenever the mood took me. I didn't really have an obligation, until I started writing letters to God. I would write every Friday and apologise if I was one or two or sometimes even three days late. I'd forget sometimes you see, or be too tired. My Friday letter to God would be like a summary of the week. It was probably one of the first things I really did without fail. But this stopped a long time ago whilst trying to complete a religion assignment. Things went poorly, I blamed God and didn't look back for a while. It wasn't just about the assignment though. It really wasn't. I'm not that petty. It had to do with the entire bubble I was living in. I hate it still sometimes. But I don't hate God. It's not God's fault. Everything is just a lesson.


I used to write letters to Haillia and Lumesia too. Not that you would know who they are. No one knows, except me of course. But even now sometimes I'm still not sure who they are. They seem distant and to think, they used to be with me each and every night. That's a secret by the way. Well actually of these things are secrets. I havn't told people about them, mostly because they are peculiar idiosyncrasies, not quaint, not cute. Idiosyncrasies was a word I learned to use in Extension English class. My idiosyncracies even disturb me at times. I wouldn't put that on someone else. I don't want another look of sympathy, that look someone gives you when you're going slightly mad. Like in the movies. That look that says, there is nothing I can do, poor child, dear child. I don't like it. But sometimes, I want people to be there. Of course, it's not nice to be alone all the time.


But things have happened. I was looking back today and as much as I tried, as much as I reasoned, I could not rightly justify my actions nor find the reason I used to use to justify them. I say 'my actions' because I believe we all have a choice. But in saying that I still think I was quite mad at the time to allow it to happen. And then I think of all the things that have happened after it. The enjoyment it is for others is another reason I wish to die. I've heard this so many times with Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, John Keats and I could not more whole heartedly agree; I'm half in love with death.


Yesterday I met a girl called 'Laura Brown'. Well I didn't really meet her. But I was in the same room as her. I couldn't stop thinking about the novel, The Hours, by Michael Cunningham. It has a character called Laura Brown in it you see. It also has Virginia Woolf. I kept practicing and imagining in my mind how I would approach her. I wanted to ask her if she has read the novel. If she knows who Laura Brown is. But I never did. She might think I was strange, or not appreciate the invasion of privacy.


A plea of insanity I think is my best bet. But like I said before, I think I am responsible for my own actions. So sometimes, times like now actually, I become torn between telling someone and shouting insanity and receiving that 'friend' comfort


(you know the one you can only get from a friend...it's warm and loyal and reminds me of Lassie. I've got a video of Lassie at home. I havn't watched it in a while. But I would, if I had a day. Just a day would be nice. We can't become greedy. That's a test neopets tries all too often at the money tree - but that's another story)


or telling them and sinking into that feeling of rubbish because in my beliefs, I am the only one who can be held accountable.


or another option; I may just continue to hold my tongue.


Sometimes I have bursts of inspiration pushing me to tell someone to speak and be heard and be honest with them if not myself - but - I stop. I start then stop. And they get annoyed at the fact that I did not continue. But I really can't help it. I think maybe part of me is just daring them to ask, so that if I do tell them, it is not my fault - they were the one who wanted to know.


I think I'm half in love with death because ever since I was a young girl, I've thought of it fancily. Death is an idea and it is the final and ultimate means of safety. Some days I will sit for a long time (I don't know how long, it just feels long) and battle with persistent thoughts of death. I think of my dad a lot and how we released his ashes at Stanwell Park. I like the thought of that. I like the thoughts of those cliffs. If I were to die now, that is how I would die. I would fly, not fall into the embracement of the ocean. I would wear the dress that I now have, it's the perfect one. Even though today I was having second thoughts about it. I've been planning it for a long time and I always imagined a dress, a white dress. Simple yet elegant and young. That's why I'm always searching for the right dress. You can only die once. At the moment I feel that there are some ill related thoughts connected to this dress. Because of a boy. Sadly and pathetically time and time again it seems to be about a boy. I still want to look for another dress. Just in case. Something more young - innocent - I want to fool myself. I know I cannot fool God.


There are many who still haunt my thoughts. Two in particular. One I never saw his true face - he was afraid, he hid - I lost myself and all I knew. It was the start. I hesitate to speak on it. But some things, some things I can't ever forgive myself for, no breathe a word to another. Another 'idiosyncrasy' - no - another fault. The second touched me and not my heart. I still remember his hands, his body, his breath and his smell. It disgusts me. It is worse than the rubbish I see myself as being. I'm temporal with this. Sometimes I don't blame him, but today I will. Because today I feel rational and strong and upset and a need to tell everyone else to leave me alone. Today I feel like telling the one who might actually care about me that I know his secret, I know he doesn't care, I know he only wants what everyone else has ever wanted and that I never wish to hear of or see him again. But I won't because I could be wrong. Such a possibility I wonder. But I suppose this is what trust is meant to be. Trusting someone. Something. It's hard.


I don't know why I didn't punch or push or run or even say something when it was happening. I guess I fancied myself in control. In power and dominant and cruel. Like I was the one who knew exactly what this would lead to. Like I was using him and didn't care. But I'm glad for one, that I did say no. I pushed. And I made him go away. It is in this way, that he has not done much to me, and I feel sorry for him. As I was the one who continued it after he started it. He wanted everything after that. I didn't. He made up lies to others. He told me to do things. His voice still ring dissonance in my ears. I hate it when people do that. Say things they shouldn't. Or even when I say things I shouldn't. Then when I hear other people even mention the words that they said, I shudder at the memory. I don't like it when people destroy sound for me. I don't like it when they imprint their words. But I didn't listen. It was not my music.


They probably have forgotten all about it by now. So I'm glad they don't know it bothers me so much. I'm glad they have no clue. It would be embarrassing. I find it too hard to forget things. I want to forget things.


This is a big aspect in my life which troubles me. I feel alone whenever I think about it. I think about my mother's attempts to protect me, I think about how much I love her and how much I could never say and how much I've let things go wrong.


I feel I need to say this finally, 'secrets'. Not secrets now I suppose. That's okay. I'd rather write it here. Because here it is for those who 'happen' to read this. I know not many people do. So that makes it okay. I'm a little afraid of if many people did. That scares me too. I think I'll be okay for now and safe with the thought that if many did know about this, I could always write more letters or sing or even brave the world beyond and play my silent piano. But I want those who read to know, the purpose of this wasn't to tell all of this. This is just what it turned in to what it is.


This is why sometimes I don't like myself, I don't like being in my skin. I hate myself for the mistakes I've made and wish to not make a mistake again, this is why I try. The reason I live, is for the thought that there are better times and days beyond this, that if I work hard now, thing may be okay later. I don't tell others the magnitude of each action, and so I must punish myself at times. I refrain now. Mostly. It's hard it is. And I don't like the stigma people create about people who feel this way.


I guess I'm afraid of what others will think after this point, the aftermath. Right now I don't mind, but later on I will, it's about how they react and what it all implies.


In this moment I know a few things:

I have reason to live.

I have reason to die.

But I have most reason to wait. And hope. And pray God still hears my prayers.

colour on a darkened day

dangerous thoughts

We are no longer immune to time. Definitely not. How did we defy it in our younger years as children?


Life has been very difficult. No. That is unfair. It is only as difficult as you make it.


I have been very fortunate, but also unfortunate in my life. The balance is there, that must be solely what this is.


Another death, another argument worse than a death, making you think and feel like death would be a much better escape. Another failure, false solace from the ones who "love you", vindication, fighting, constantly, continuous - eternal.


And the silence.


A painful science.


In my honesty, I have not played the piano lately, I have played it - I won't deny, but perhaps just twice in a week or less for a few minutes at a time. I want to just sit and play, I'd love to be able to do just that. But I am letting time pass me by. There is so much to do and the critics seem to have high hopes for you.


I want the days to stop. Just stop. I want to sleep and rest, but I cannot. I had my time and I chose to not rest. So now, in this period where I should be working harder than ever, I need a break. I have to remember to forget about those times and focus on "the task at hand".


All I wish is for someone to come and explain the catch phrase, sort out my thoughts and give me a white road strip to follow. For someone to not ask me questions of why or how or want - want want want - like they always do in return. Just simply say "there you go, this was my good deed for the day".


It is utterly incredibly how alone you feel when people create images of you. They believe you are achieving and well and strong and that no one would ever think otherwise of you. They create distance and think it's all just fine. But it's not. It's not. The more you do, the more they expect, the less achievements become noteworthy. And then there are others who just leave. Leave because they do not want you to succeed this time. They will not help. They will not move for you.


I cannot make a mistake. I cannot show signs of being human, why? Because it means I am ungrateful, I am not driven, I am distracted and tainted and no longer who I used to be.


You are not who you once were as a child. I miss that child.


There is no difference. As we grow we learn to adapt according to the world we grew up in.


I try not to make mistakes, and not to miss out, but time, time is something I am unable to fight.


There are days when we plan the music at our funerals, our deaths - preferably before the funeral - others our weddings, our daily routine, dream careers, what we would do if this person left, or "if we won lotto we would.." More and more I find I need to plan and still yet more I find I need to withdraw, drown myself far in the ocean and await a real silence rather than the one that seems to have gripped my life.