inside my head, and a Friday night

So, I haven’t felt very sociable recently. The depression took on a down loop and left me exhausted and courting the feather. So, last night I decided to go out. I wanted to play escapism. I went about this totally the wrong way by drinking. Then to compound the fact, I tried poppers. I have come to the conclusion these poppers are not so bad, and have realised they are legal, so I only feel a little bit shitty about it. And hung-over.

I’ve eaten now, over sweetened Weetabix, and I have made a mug (yes a whole big mug) of espresso. Yummy. So I’ll be waking up about the time to be settling down for the evening. Sounds about right for me. I must write though. I must indulge my mind rather than indulge the depression. It would be easy to catch the feather. So instead I sip my espresso, I smoke my cigarettes, I loosely watch TV, and I write. And I muse. Because sooner or later, but so often sooner, my mind wanders into my heart. Today my heart is smiling, and the feather has been blown away by the morning breeze. To awake to a message sent just to say “hi”, well, bliss. It really is the little things in life, the little things that can mean so much. It took me several hours to reply, as I wasn’t quite awake, and kept fading into a dreamscape. But the dreamscape was interesting. There was poverty, sickness, running, being ignored and at the same time entranced. But the dreams are never as good as reality. I have to let my dreams go where they may. They remind me of what I have experienced, what I am. Not the “who”, rather the ingredients that have gone into me, into my life that have made me who I am. These are important, easy the smallest measures, as anyone who cooks will know - a touch of spice. As anyone who has a heart will know – a message saying hi.

I digress, I do that often. I like to give my mind and heart freedom. These internal freedoms are the only true freedoms we can claim to truly possess.

I will have to move soon to put the lights on. I don’t feel like moving. But that is just lethargy.

Moulin Rouge has got to the sad part where Satine must lie, must hurt him to save him. Love is such a complex emotion, it is never confined to the [we pause to watch Nicole Kidman, oh dear…and now she is going to die…but first she sings, and loves, and radiates…in a very tight white dress…oh, now she’s dying…in her lovers arms…smiling as they say goodbye…sad, but beautiful, as is often the manner of love] two people involved. Love is like war, like death, affecting more than those directly touched. There is always more to be considered than the self, the selves. [When I saw Moulin Rouge at the cinema, I was transfixed. It works better on a big screen, but still it retains the feeling, rather I do. The music as the credits go up, like beating hearts.]

Have received a second message, and now will be going out tomorrow. We are both watching Antz! Again, those little things that make you smile… also, this film goes to demonstrate why I don’t kill anything. Except mozzy insects that bite and spread disease and then die. And even then only when I can’t get them out of the house.

Okay, am feeling perky all of a sudden. Now I know, well, hope that I will be seeing the object of my affections at a social engagement tomorrow. She has such power over me, to make me smile, to keep me awake at night, she even influences my dreams. She is my muse. If you write, you will know just how powerful that is. The great volatility of emotion you encounter on their every word, look, touch. Love is grand.

I should now really relate the past 24 hours. Well, it started with a text message asking if I wanted to go out. I didn’t at first, I was tired. But after copious amounts of espresso, I changed my mind and headed into town. I love Soho. Vespa was fun, found some Gingerbeeries, and then off to the highly reputable club “Motherfucker”. Rocky music that was not very conductive to dancing, which was a shame, but the atmosphere was good. There were games. Well, a game, played by the Gingerbeeries. Simple yet effective. All you need is to be slightly intoxicated and to have ice cubes. You then pass the ice cubes. Simple fun. Never underestimate the value of simple things, little fun things. I know they are meaningless, frivolous, but they are not worthless. The little pleasures are often the hardest to come by.

I managed to get home, although it took until four, maybe almost five am, and a lot of wandering. Had several conversations with strangers around Trafalgar Square, as you do, and on the bus, as you do. It was fun. I feel that it may have been slightly dangerous, but hey, the trouble with me is I am accustomed to difficult situations, and find I am able to endure them, often more happily than with easy situations. This comes in useful when walking from Norbury to Streatham Vale in the early hours of Saturday morning, but gets in the way when in more usual situations, like family gatherings. Of course, there are those who find the latter more dangerous. Maybe my coping mechanisms aren’t so misaligned after all!

Today has been spent talking on the phone, texting, writing, watching bad Saturday television. And Moulin Rouge as I think I mentioned earlier. And drinking coffee, smoking, and I’m sure I’m going to cook some pasta soon. I say cook, when I mean boil water and put in pasta, wait ten minutes, then remove from heat, and eat. The biggest decision is – do I have pasta with pesto (green), with red and yellow pepper, or with a cup-a-soup sauce. Cup-a-soup’s actually make quite good pasta sauces if you mix them a little thickly and stir them through the pasta. I know its cheating, but when feeling a little worse for wear and tired, I find it best not to attempt anything as adventurous as actual cookery. Balancing the lap top on my lap is taking most of my physical prowess right now, and you know, the clue is in the name, these machines are designed for such positioning.

Friends have been asking me to update this journal, as I have been slack. I do write very often, and often write a great deal. I don’t always have internet access though. I now find myself wondering how much I should write here. I like to get feedback from people, and my favoured mode of communication is the written word. I named my laptop Thoth after the Egyptian god of writing (and as is the way with gods, various other things as well).

I don’t think I am ready or willing to share the inner workings of my soul just yet. I doubt if cyber space is ready either. I wonder how many megabytes a soul would take? Ah dear, maybe we’ll find out another time…

XxX Kim XxX

Oh dear...

You know, I've waited twenty three odd years to get these emotion things, and they are proving rather difficult.
And this bad film seems to have Gillian Anderson as a southern drunk with big hair, and is that Meatloaf playing her husband? Oh dear...
Did the world end and no-one told me?!
Anywhoo...I'm sure there, oh yes, there was something I wanted to write...
So, today is apparently easter. That's, erm, nice I'm sure. So I am supposed to be visitng mother today, but I am going to change and see heer tomorrow, as there is well, firstly, I havde the net today as my landlady is out, and second, seeing TOMA later.
Anyway, the first thing is gone as landlady is back, oh well.
Love to all...
X Kim X

Sunday afternoon external monolouge

Just thouhgt I'd pop in a hello. I've been writing for a couple of hours and thought it best to get out for a while, and seeing as it's a little chilly out, cyber space seemed the best bet.
Oh, and it was Gillian Anderson and Meat Loaf in that naff film.
Looks like I am indeed going out later! WooHoo! All the little things...
Hmm. I seem to be teetering between euphoria and dispair again. Managed to fone mother earlier to chnage offset our easter thing until tomorrow, and I spoke to Anna when she called, and replied to a few txts, but I don't feel like leaving this room much. I miss having a pet, which i know is silly because they are not people. especially when your like me and like conversing. but hey. i think I'm going to have to get my beloved fishes from mothers house.
Manic depression sucks. I know that is not the most creative or intense description of the condition, but it sums it up pretty well. it makes me feel physically sick. i just wish i could be selfish for an hour, really self-indulgent, and sob, weep, wail, release all my sorrows, let the singing bird go free. she went mute long ago.
and yes, these are metaphors shoud you choose them to be. read as deeply as you like.

okay, so i was writing my autobiography again today. I started it about a month ago. it is difficult, very difficult. i am used to recording my life in forms and being a statistice, being objective. not here, not any more. i am writing as it shoud be written, subjectively, emotionally, truthfully. and it is difficult. being all grown up now, it is easy to forget just how crushing it all was. i never forget, but sometimes i dont recall everuthing. it is as if it happened to someone else, then i remember that was me. knowing a young girl now (my landladys 11 yesr old daughter) has really brought it home. i can empathise with my mother better. i understand how horrific it is from the outside. it makes me, it has made me, more patient.
i have some to a decision, i would rather no one ever understood me. i really would rather be a freak, an eternal mystery, an outcast, than have anyone know what it has been to be me, to crawl through my life. i hope that the disengagement of self will help me to weep, to get the pollutants out of my system, into the open, to engage my emotions with this child in me.
There is a child in my head
She dies long ago
But I can still hear her cries
Everytime I close my eyes
They give me paroxetine hydrochloride tablets to dull her sobs. why are they trying to hide her pain from me? i still cover my mirrors. i hide from reflections. i would rather see my mind, be judged on the last realm of purity i have that i can call mine.
that girl, who grew up to be me, was hurt. i can cry for her, because she died, she died that i might live. my flesh may be a hand-me-down, but my soul is still my own.
ah dear.

you can always tell when i have been writing. my fingers tingle, needing to write, my mind whirrs, everything flashing though, there is so much to say, so much to do.
is there not somewhere i can go where they will tear me appart? rip me to shreds? crush me to nothingness, so there is nothing but atoms left. destroy them too. free me. sometimes i just don't think i can breath anymore. it hits me. me whole life, all the little horros, the touch, the pain, the fear, above all else the isolation and the fear, and i dont want to share it, i dont want to keep it, like a wild animal in a cage it paces around inside, tearing at me, bleeding from the inside.
and im not crazy. sometimes, actually quite often, i know i would feel better is i was. if these feelings and thoughts were extreme and unatural. but those with the right letters after their names to judge such things, just tell that this is okay, that these feelings and thoughts are perfectly normal, more than normal, remarkable. they love to tell me i am strong.
well, i dont want to be strong. cant they see that? ive been strong my whole fucking life. for once, for one hour, i want to be weak, i want to cry, i want someone to care and to look after me for that hour, to let me cry, not tell me to hush or hoe it'll all be fine, or that they know, i just want to be weak, and not alone. i am tired of being strong and independent. i need someone. do you have any idea how difficult it is to write those words?
but i cannot ask for this. i cannot expect anyone to hear the words or console the sobs. to do so would be futile. and i cannot burden anyone with that. it is hard enough allowing people close enough to be my friend, i feel guilty about that. friends end up knowing things. although, i have managed to, not conceal, rather not reveal, too much.
ah dear. i am actually in a good mood.
i think im going to have a smoke now (ciggys only). even my doctor has told me not to stop because of my stress levels. i know its bad in the long run, but it is the safest short term measure of dealing with stress i have.

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines:
When you look at me, I burn.

I tried to write you a poem,
But the words, they wouldn't come,
I think Shakespeare ate them,
Or perhaps Keats, Shelley, or Donne.

X Kim X