Fuck you life.

I keep asking people wether they like their jobs and to my surprise everyone does. It looks like it's just me who hates this lifestyle of 10-6. My family is out getting their nails done and I'm at work as always. Want to talk about God and justice? Neither exist. If they did, this wouldnt be my place right now. This summer I survived everything, and I was the best person I could ever be, I gave in completely and lived selflessly, and yet look at me now. Punished for God knows what, while everyone else seems to love their life. And then theres my mum who keeps telling me that this is temporary but six months at a job you hate, if not more, doesnt sound like temporary to me. It sounds like a cruel punishment. Im mad at both of them, my sister and my mother. At my sister for being happy and living life exactly the way she wants it, while I, the sick one, work and wonder the fuck I'm for, and at my mother for being so unhappy and infecting me with her bullshit too.

It's almost New Years, but I've never been less excited about it. Another day spent alone in the company of people who only make me feel more lonely. Putting on a smile, pretending to be grateful for things I could never learn to be grateful for, dancing, joking around, bullshitting.

Last night I practically cried myself to sleep. I was crying because life is a fucking bitch. It makes zero sense and yet it hurts like hell at the same time. I have to sit here for another 6 and a half hours, being someone I'm not, and waiting for nothing. I used to be a waiting person, I used to wait for everything, but its easy to stop waiting once you've stopped believing. I dont believe in a single thing about this universe, and my eyes are transparent, like my sister would say. Because theyre empty. Theyre not waiting for anything and theyre not thinking of anything. They're just there, imprisoned like him, and there's not a single person in the world on whose shoulder I could cry on. Everyone is too busy being happy.

Ramble ramble

Day 5 without antidepressants and I'm feeling fine. I've barely changed. The tears are gone and I'm not even all that sad. Just tired. Very tired. How can they expect me to keep taking them when they destroy me? Because thats all that can destroy a writer - whatever destroys his ability to write. And I'm not giving that up. It's all I'm made of.

I'm starting to feel like my boss hates me, but maybe thats just my imagination. But I wont be surprised if I'm fired any time soon. Nor will I be upset if I speak honestly. This place almost kills me. 8 hours of continuous repetition. How do people put up with that for years?

There's less than an hour left of work so I'm just killing time. It's all I do at work. I kill my life as I wait for the clock to tick away til 6pm. And time couldnt move any slower.

I wish I could write poetry. I am fascinated by it. By the talent to organise words in an order that makes them rhyme, that leaves the edges so succinct. I attempt it of course, but my poetry is poor and useless. I wonder if it comes with practice or whether you must be born a poet. Something tells me it is the latter.

My sisters boyfriend arrived today so we'll be hanging out with him for a while. He's a smart guy but I'm no longer a smart girl. I used to be, back in the summer, when I was schizo; that's when we met. But now I'm like a downgraded version of myself. Same face, different story. 47 minutes left, can I ramble for that long? But why fill this blog with polluted text that has no purpose? Because I'm hoping that writing even such simple things will help me start writing my novel again. I keep waiting for something to hit me, a wave or a hurricane, so I can continue what I do best. So I can finish it and see whether it's worth anything.

I have a peculiar brain. According to some, I have to medicate myself against it for my entire life. But that sounds like a death sentence to me. Not being able to own your mind, just because you're not quite like everybody else. Having to suppress things that are dying to come out. Who the hell do they think they are? And how does anyone have the right to tell me that my mind is inadequate. Is schizophrenia a life sentence? Yes. Is it dangerous? Yes. Is it worth the risk? Yes. Damn whatever they say, they dont understand it. How can you unless you're in it, right? And I was in it. And it made me understand things I would have never understood before. I saved myself. I self medicated my brain against depression and understood my entire life. And although half of it was built on a fallacy, that doesnt mean that my whole argument was wrong. I got carried away, but I was just a begginer, and now I'm a veteran. I've survived the war and I'm not scared to go back in. To me, there is nothing more fascinating than a mad mind. There is so much truth hidden in the corners of someone who is completely delusional.

I met up with a friend yesterday and he told me I need to move out, and he is so spot on. My house destroys me, my family is so infected with sadness that it kills everyone around us. And maybe I'm the cause of it right now but I was only a child before and they cant hold me responsible for that. I need to move out, but that is so unrealistic right now that I cant even dream about it. I wish life was more accomodating to young people, I wish it made it easier to start your life off, but unless you have money, you're stuck where you came from, like me. But this cant last forever. One day I will pack my bags and by some miracle, leave. I will finally be alone again, with no one messing with my mind or body. Until then I am just like him, imprisoned and wishing he took me with him.

From you to me.

I've stopped wishing on you. Now I wish on me.

Drugs or no drugs, that is the question.

I've been taking anti depressants and abilify since September I think. At the beginning I didnt mind it, it didnt affect my writing. But now, I cant write for shit. And unless I finish my novel my life is going to stay this way forever: I dont know how else to get out of this. If I write a novel and somehow it ends up successful, that's my way out. If not, then maybe life isn't for me.

I was thinking about this last night and neither work nor studying appeals to me anymore. Nothing does. I want to write, but above everything I want to be able to write, and the drugs have killed it.


Maybe it's a huge mistake but 4 days ago I flushed the pills down the toilet and decided to never take them again. What has followed is two nights of being overly emotional, crying for no apparent reason and a lot of cold sweating. And now I dont know what to do. If I stay on them I'll remain a futile vegetable, if I dont I risk being caught by my mother who is already suspicious and has asked me on several occassions whether I'm still taking the drugs (and we live together so its hard to hide. Today I had to pretend to take them and then spit them out later.) But either way, I dont know whether I can keep this up. She'll catch onto me soon enough. But it is my body, and there is no way in hell that I'm planning to become one of those people who take drugs for years. I wanted it to be a solution to a problem, but now that things have calmed down, I want to try on my own. I mean, whats happened really isnt the end of the world. So I cry occassionally but I dont care. Its worth it if I can start writing soon again.

But the bigger problem here is that I have no one to talk to. A few days ago my sister and I met up with a friend who used to take anti depressants, and he urged me to go off them. And I did. But he also told me that he thinks that I'm the brains of the family, and unless I get out of this, no one else in my family ever will. Im the younger sister, but Ive never felt like it. My sister relies on my guidance, not so much anymore because she's sort of rebelling, and my mother is a deeply unhappy person who suffers daily because of my depression.

I have an appointment to see my psychiatrist in mid January but do I really want to wait that long? Besides, he'll tell me not to go off them, and if he says that, my mother says that. I feel trapped and what's worse - alone. There is no one to talk to, to ask for a solution, there is just me, the brains of the family, feeling brain dead every day.

What do I do?

A sad Merry Christmas.

I don't even miss him. I miss me.

My boss

A wednesday at work. No excitement. Except my boss just came to talk to me. That was interesting. She told me that if I want to succeed in this business I have to be more hands on, and she's right of course. She told me I look sad, and don't seem to enjoy the job. She's hit the jackpot there. I hate the job. If I had the means for it I'd quit today. But that's just mindless dreaming.

I wish I could have told her the truth, but she's my boss, not my best friend. I did however tell her about my schizophrenia, and that I'm on anti depressants, which is the reason apparently for why I'm so calm and asleep all of the time. I want to get off medication. That's something I have to talk to my doctor about. Except I'm scared to relapse. To fall down again. Either way, I almost felt like crying when I spoke to her. Thank god I didn't.

There's 3 hours and 20 minutes left of work. That's what I do everyday, just countdown til I cant get the hell out of here. And that's no way to live, I know that, but how can you make yourself enjoy something that you dont? And what the hell would I enjoy anyway? I could quit of course, but where else is there to go? The next place will be just as bad. If not worse.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Power through I guess. Hold my breath and keep working, become more hands on, wake the hell up. What the fuck has my life come to?

Ta-daaaa!

I am going to try and come back to blogging.

I've been better lately,so much better. My sisters moved back home which has been tremendous help! I don't really have any friends here so I'd never been more alone as I was for the last few months. It was miserable. I went to work in the morning and sat at home after, and that was my routine. But now we go out, and do things, and I feel like a human again.

I miss him, but its different. He's no longer on my mind all day, and I no longer wait for his name to appear. I've sort of forgotten him. Let him go. But I'm still all alone. And I don't believe in it ever getting better.

Other than that, I'm now working at a real estate agency which is not too fun. But I need money so there's nothing else to do. In case I haven't explained that earlier, after everything that happened this summer I had to take a year off uni, but now I'm not even sure if I can go back next year as my family is broke and we're in a desperate situation. I hate my father for having triggered this. But whatever, cant grieve forever. I'm working and I'm doing nothing remarkable with my life. I wrote a lot of my novel in the last couple of months but now I've reached a stall. I can't write, nor do I want to. Maybe it's the anti depressants. I've become dumber. I literally cant think. Things that used to be instinct to me now feel foreign and I cant grasp them. I want to talk to my doctor about going off them but I know my family will be against it, which makes this almost impossible. But I hate being like this. If I'm not writing, I'm wasting my time. Writing is the only thing that can get me out of this.

And that's pretty much it really. I have no revolutionary ideas to share anymore. I've gone dry.

My life now.

I've just finished 2 new chapters of my novel so I"m before the daunting task of starting 2 new ones. The joys of being a writer.

But to update you all... I've been coming out from under depression for a while now. Things got really ugly this summer when I turned completely schizophrenic and lived delusional for 2 months. So I was naturally sent to a psychiatrist (against my will, but that was then) and I've been on medication since.

I'm much better now hence back to blogging, although actually if I'm honest I'm only doing that because I am so fucking bored of my life.

I am taking a year out from uni and staying back home with my mother, which as you can imagine, can't be fun. We are completely different people.

So I spend my days writing and dreaming, high mostly. Treatment sucks, but what can I do? This is my life now.

The Economist.

Killing me softly...

Coming out from under schizophrenia is like getting a downgrade in life. I'm beyond bored, and I even miss Paris.

There's people to call now, but the only person I want to call doesn't seem to want to hear from me. And suddenly, that's all that matters.

Who do you call when there's no one?

I just tried calling 5 friends, all in different parts of the world. Most of them were out, living life. The rest went to voicemail. And that's what my life is about.

I've left Paris, that city that killed me but not enough to end this, but unfortunately I haven't been able to leave myself behind. Clinical depression, apparently that's what I've got. And what I'm starting to realize is that as far as a veridict it goes, people still don't take you seriously. You're still able to laugh it off in conversation, to make yourself the punchline, and no one will have their heart skip a beat for you.

My family keeps asking me, what do you want us to do? That just makes me angry. Would I really say the same if any one of them was going through what I'm going through? Because what I want, no, want I desperately need, is for someone to not have to ask. It's impossible to pull someone out of the darkness without joining them there first, but no one's willing, and the only person I have left to talk to is my shrink. How sad when you're left with no other option but to pay someone to listen to you.

I could try and explain to you just how tired I am of myself but no words can do it justice. I'm hanging on, and I'm doing it for them, despite the fact that it doesn't really seem like they need it.

An honest update.

So much to tell, so many stories. Today as I sat across the table from my friend, he held my hands and told me that he thinks that I'm incredible. His eyes told me something else. That fine line between friendship and love. I've lost it so long ago. I can never tell what's real and what isn't. I dream too much. Reality eventually becomes a blur.

Did I ever tell you there is three of us? It's not just two girls, but there's a boy too. He is beautiful, blonde, and has the biggest ears. The last time I saw him I must have been eight. I never forgot him though. That's what family means, never forgetting. He doesn't remember me anymore, he only remembers her, because she's always been good that way, I've always been bad that way. I'm not really memorable, people forget me, and I understand. It's easy to forget me.

I fell in love a few months ago. I didn't even notice. I thought it was just an obsession, I was sure I couldn't love him because I love Peter, but I was wrong. I fell in love with him and he never cared. Dispensable.

The Paris fairytale is almost over, and I am so glad. This year has without a doubt been the hardest of my life. And the future scares the shit out of me.

?

What do you think makes us love?

Back on a dark note.

I have no one who understands. I tried to tell my family, I spelt it out to them, and they didn't hear me. I used to read those stories about people telling their parents about their eating disorders and depression and their parents not believing them, and I took comfort in the fact that I knew that mine always would. But I got it all wrong. First I told my sister, she's always been my best friend.

I have panic attacks.

Nothing.

I think I have an anxiety disorder.

Nothing.

I think I need therapy.

Nothing.

Today I told my mum. I never thought she wouldn't understand because she is such a worrier. I always believed that she would do something, all I had to do was tell her.

I know I have an anxiety disorder, I say. I read out the list of symptoms to her and point out the ones I have. I explain to her the difference between sadness and depression, the inability to control yourself when you begin to panic. I say it all, but I'm talking to a wall.

We can't have you on drugs, is all she seems to say. They will make you gain weight.

The minute you said those words I gave up the fight. Because those words say everything to me. I have almost killed myself to make myself the perfect daughter you want, I have starved myself for months, I have thrown up food, I don't remember the last time I ate normally. I don't remember the last time I saw food as simple. There are scars on my body saying how I feel. But it was the same with them. The day you saw them and asked for an explanation, and I suppressing the horror of the truth coming out muttered some lie, you took it. You didn't ask me for more, you never cared to look over my body again. You dismissed it. And I thought mothers carried the truth in their gut, that they always knew when you were lying, that if they saw burns all over your wrists, they would understand that you're not okay, that they would try to save you, instead of not even seeing them. You looked straight at them and you didn't even recognize them. I accidentally leaned onto an ashtray, I say. How could you have believed me? How did you dare to believe me? My wrists say everything.

As I hear you worry about my weight and not about me, I feel my heart disintegrate. I don't know if you're the reason I stopped eating that day, but I sure as hell know that you didn't stop me. Other kids lie, go to great lengths to hide their hungry stomachs from their families, but I say it to you as it is. I'm fat and I won't eat, and you're okay with that. You've never asked me to stop. And now that I'm falling apart, now that I am literally no longer in control of anything, now that the panic attacks have settled in to stay, you remind me to watch my weight. All I hear is that I should give up my mind for the size of my jeans.

You don't know what an eating or an anxiety disorder is. You don't know what depression is either. So when I accidentally brush my scars past you, or when I say it clear and loud over the phone, you don't hear me. I don't know how much louder I can say this - these three things are killing me, yet you still don't see it as serious enough. As long as I lay off the cookies.

Sorry

I'm so sorry for having disappeared. To tell you the truth it's been a complicated few months. And I'm kind of spiraling further and further down into becoming a complete mess. I'll write soon.

Vi