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