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The truth about the lies

I’m crashing again. This happens all the time. I’m fine and life moves on at a normal average pace, then out of nowhere I can’t see anything besides the walls of my bedroom. I can’t see past the next five minutes and the scariest thing in the world is right outside my window, the world. It takes me on average 9 days to return to a ‘normal’ routine, sometimes more and rarely less. I tell myself it’s okay each time it happens and that this is just a part of my life. It is my life. I have no idea when it will happen and sometimes I can go so long and think it might never happen again. Then, the dark clouds set in and it’s almost as if everything in my brain is replaced with a big black smudge. Things that seem irrational are all of a sudden normal, it becomes acceptable to wake at 3pm and have my breakfast at 7pm and go to sleep at 4am. Sometimes my brain convinces me that there’s nothing wrong with it and that its all okay. Sometimes the guilt of what I am doing takes over me and I can’t get out of bed for new reasons. I can’t tell people about this because they assume I’m suicidal, or that they need to monitor me all the time. They don’t. I know it’s not right, I know it’s unhealthy. I can’t help it, some days it’s anger and some days it’s sadness. It’s always a little bit of everything and most of the time I feel it all at once. There’s always a dominant emotion.

Some people tell me that it’s silly because I’m worrying for nothing and some people tell that it’s silly because people have it worse, I know this. I KNOW ALL OF THIS. I know that people are dying, I know that people are thirsty and I know that people are starving. But my problems exist and they’re mine and they’re awful.

I writing about this because it’s happening now, I haven’t got the mental capability to speak to each person explaining why I’m not replying or why I’m not present. This is an overall explanation. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me and I definitely do NOT want anyone to worry, I am ok. I am taking all the medicine I am supposed to and I do not need phone calls, text messages or anything else. I just need to be a little bit understood. I know it’s hard and I know it’s irrelevant to most of you, but that’s how I like it. Irrelevant. I want everyone to be super happy and super grateful for today and yesterday and tomorrow. I’ll return to the world again shortly. Thanks

blog809-blog

Lying is one of my many illnesses.

I do it all the time, I lie to myself every few minutes, I lie to other people probably every 10 minutes. It’s how I survive, I like to lie to strangers the most, on public transport, sitting on a bench, passing travellers I get to momentarily include them in my life of lies. Who do I want to be today, a starving artist struggling with alcoholism? A 3rd year university student studying palaeontology? Or maybe just me, but it never stays just as it is, to be me is to be a cardboard box, it serves a perfectly substantial purpose and sometimes it’s useful, but it will always be, a brown, plain and undeniably standard cardboard box. It’s not that I don’t know the danger of lying, I do, I always have. It’s just that it’s so much more fun to be everyone else but me. It’s not like I have these elaborate personas planned or anything, they come to me. I’ve always been like this, I can see people getting bored with me. I see it in the conversation, with the click of a finger it dies. It’s just that easy and it’s heart breaking. To never be good enough is just like dropping that card board box into a puddle, it’s useless. It no longer serves a purpose and it no longer has a use, it’s dead. So sometimes when that happens I have no option, right? I have to do this, I have to be someone else. I have to let them know that I’m not this boring half human with no life, even though I am. So I show them all the people in life I have ever wanted to be, I am 1 million people. Yoga guru, vegan, football lover, mother, artist. The only thing i have become out of what I imagined is a fucking mess. I used to read about this beautiful skeleton of a person, she had a war in her mind and I became her, she was always with me, I was always her but she used to stay silent. I discovered I was no longer me and just her when the lies seemed to feel like more of the truth than anything I else I was living. I think I hit rock bottom when I lied about being ready for university, I was living the lie that I was even remotely prepared for real life. The truth, the 100% truth which I have never been good at or admitted too, is that I am in no way special, or interesting, or ready. I’m drowning in a sea of prepared adults who know how to go about their lives without being corrupt by their own minds, I’m pretending I can go about my everyday business without feeling as if I’m taken under by the simplest task. So my biggest lies aren’t the ones that colour my life with adventure and excitement, but rather the ones that colour me with hypocrisy and irony. The lies I tell on purpose to keep my life to appear a mediocre truth, to appear as average, boring and bland as possible. These are the lies that cause the most destruction, the reason for that? They kill me with every letter.

blog809-blog

This ones for you

The first time you cheated on me wasn’t the worst, or that last. It was the second time. It was a Wednesday and you were sleeping. I woke to your phone lit up on the bedside table and as I sat up to check the time you had a text message from your friend Harry. It read “come over after work, my parents aren’t home and we haven’t had sex in a week”. My heart fell out of my open mouth as I started reading back through your secret affair. I had been wondering why Harry had been messaging you so much and why you always had your phone. As I continued to read the real identity was revealed. There she was, from the neck down. In the background I could see the bedroom walls with our photos stuck up. I could see the picture frame I got her for her birthday, I could see the shoes we spent hours shopping for. I could see our friendship, scattered behind her naked body before me on the screen of my whole world. You were still sleeping. I sat there for a moment trying to gather together enough breath to figure out my next move. I love you, we live together, you wouldn’t do this again. Before I knew what was happening you were apologising. Smashing up your phone and promising she doesn’t mean a thing. You cried. I didn’t. You got a new phone the next day. But, for a while you were great, you pretended that you weren’t going to do it again and I pretended to believe you. As much as I tried to forget I would wake in the night and stare at the walls going over all the details I had created in my mind. Like how you’d laugh at me when I wasn’t around, how you would lie with each other in a bed I called my own when I wasn’t their to fill it. This happened a lot. I would torture myself and it left a bitter taste in my mouth that I would spit out at you. Eventually you weren’t to blame anymore. It was all my fault and you told me all the time. How I drove you away and towards her, how I couldn’t give you enough love even though I gave you all the love I had. I tried so hard to be everything you needed and all that you could ever want but it was never enough. I gave away pieces of myself until all that was left of me was the shell. When we finally broke up you cheated on me more times than I will ever know of, each time it got easier and worse all at the same time. I destroyed myself for months while I tried to forget you, I found small bursts of false fulfilment in other people’s beds, I drank away any trace of you then called you when it hurt. By now you really were sorry and I was hurting you, I loved it. I loved punishing you and seeing you cry, sometimes I would tell you about the boys that had explored my body the night before and I would watch as the words that came out of my mouth pierced your lungs. We were at war, hurting each other for sport. Stuck in a disgusting cycle of absolute and total torture. We were young, stupid and crazy for each other like never before. We got back together and this time it was the last time, we did this four more times before another girl finally took you away from me for good. That girl saved my life and I hated her guts. It’s three years later and I think of you often. I love someone else and he loves me back, as do you. I’m happy for you and I’m so thankful for our small life we had together, the life that taught me so much. I still think about whether you think of me. I hope the answer is yes.

blog809-blog

A thousand colours.

I was the other woman. I knew it was wrong, I knew deep down that I was killing another person. I knew that he loved her, but I told myself he loved me. We had so much in common that he didn’t have with her. We would laugh, talk and act so passionately. How could he not love me? He’s going to leave her. I told myself this everyday. Every time saw them together, I could see the fire in her eyes. She knew about me. We had this unspoken connection, he was breaking both our hearts. I would talk myself out of it, tell myself ‘he’s using you’, but each time they would fight, he needed me. I had to. We would spend drunken evenings dancing on the pavements of our city intertwined and oblivious to the world around us. Then he would leave me. He always said how sorry he was, but never what for. He was keeping me sweet so I wouldn’t leave. Each time he chose her I knew he really wanted me, he had to want me… He loves me? He once told me that everything I see looks more beautiful to him because I saw it first and told him what it looked like, he told me that it made him look at the world and see me. He told me that it was easier to look through my eyes than it was his own because through my eyes, he could see colours that haven’t even been discovered yet. He has to love me? Our little black secret was shading my world, you were stealing all my colours. I watched you from a distance get brighter with her and I watched myself get darker, Alone. You took my colours and shared them with her, you left me broken, empty and dark. And the truth is I deserved it I should’ve known better. To the girl with owns my colours, Keep them all. I owe you at least a dozen rainbows.

blog809-blog

A thousand colours.

I was the other woman. I knew it was wrong, I knew deep down that I was killing another person. I knew that he loved her, but I told myself he loved me. We had so much in common that he didn’t have with her. We would laugh, talk and act so passionately. How could he not love me? He’s going to leave her. I told myself this everyday. Every time saw them together, I could see the fire in her eyes. She knew about me. We had this unspoken connection, he was breaking both our hearts. I would talk myself out of it, tell myself ‘he’s using you’, but each time they would fight, he needed me. I had to. We would spend drunken evenings dancing on the pavements of our city intertwined and oblivious to the world around us. Then he would leave me. He always said how sorry he was, but never what for. He was keeping me sweet so I wouldn’t leave. Each time he chose her I knew he really wanted me, he had to want me… He loves me? He once told me that everything I see looks more beautiful to him because I saw it first and told him what it looked like, he told me that it made him look at the world and see me. He told me that it was easier to look through my eyes than it was his own because through my eyes, he could see colours that haven’t even been discovered yet. He has to love me? Our little black secret was shading my world, you were stealing all my colours. I watched you from a distance get brighter with her and I watched myself get darker, Alone. You took my colours and shared them with her, you left me broken, empty and dark. And the truth is I deserved it I should’ve known better. To the girl with owns my colours, Keep them all. I owe you at least a dozen rainbows.

blog809-blog

A thousand colours.

I was the other woman. I knew it was wrong, I knew deep down that I was killing another person. I knew that he loved her, but I told myself he loved me. We had so much in common that he didn’t have with her. We would laugh, talk and act so passionately. How could he not love me? He’s going to leave her. I told myself this everyday. Every time saw them together, I could see the fire in her eyes. She knew about me. We had this unspoken connection, he was breaking both our hearts. I would talk myself out of it, tell myself ‘he’s using you’, but each time they would fight, he needed me. I had to. We would spend drunken evenings dancing on the pavements of our city intertwined and oblivious to the world around us. Then he would leave me. He always said how sorry he was, but never what for. He was keeping me sweet so I wouldn’t leave. Each time he chose her I knew he really wanted me, he had to want me… He loves me? He once told me that everything I see looks more beautiful to him because I saw it first and told him what it looked like, he told me that it made him look at the world and see me. He told me that it was easier to look through my eyes than it was his own because through my eyes, he could see colours that haven’t even been discovered yet. He has to love me? Our little black secret was shading my world, you were stealing all my colours. I watched you from a distance get brighter with her and I watched myself get darker, Alone. You took my colours and shared them with her, you left me broken, empty and dark. And the truth is I deserved it I should’ve known better. To the girl with owns my colours, Keep them all. I owe you at least a dozen rainbows.

blog809-blog

This ones for you

The first time you cheated on me wasn’t the worst, or that last. It was the second time. It was a Wednesday and you were sleeping. I woke to your phone lit up on the bedside table and as I sat up to check the time you had a text message from your friend Harry. It read “come over after work, my parents aren’t home and we haven’t had sex in a week”. My heart fell out of my open mouth as I started reading back through your secret affair. I had been wondering why Harry had been messaging you so much and why you always had your phone. As I continued to read the real identity was revealed. There she was, from the neck down. In the background I could see the bedroom walls with our photos stuck up. I could see the picture frame I got her for her birthday, I could see the shoes we spent hours shopping for. I could see our friendship, scattered behind her naked body before me on the screen of my whole world. You were still sleeping. I sat there for a moment trying to gather together enough breath to figure out my next move. I love you, we live together, you wouldn’t do this again. Before I knew what was happening you were apologising. Smashing up your phone and promising she doesn’t mean a thing. You cried. I didn’t. You got a new phone the next day. But, for a while you were great, you pretended that you weren’t going to do it again and I pretended to believe you. As much as I tried to forget I would wake in the night and stare at the walls going over all the details I had created in my mind. Like how you’d laugh at me when I wasn’t around, how you would lie with each other in a bed I called my own when I wasn’t their to fill it. This happened a lot. I would torture myself and it left a bitter taste in my mouth that I would spit out at you. Eventually you weren’t to blame anymore. It was all my fault and you told me all the time. How I drove you away and towards her, how I couldn’t give you enough love even though I gave you all the love I had. I tried so hard to be everything you needed and all that you could ever want but it was never enough. I gave away pieces of myself until all that was left of me was the shell. When we finally broke up you cheated on me more times than I will ever know of, each time it got easier and worse all at the same time. I destroyed myself for months while I tried to forget you, I found small bursts of false fulfilment in other people’s beds, I drank away any trace of you then called you when it hurt. By now you really were sorry and I was hurting you, I loved it. I loved punishing you and seeing you cry, sometimes I would tell you about the boys that had explored my body the night before and I would watch as the words that came out of my mouth pierced your lungs. We were at war, hurting each other for sport. Stuck in a disgusting cycle of absolute and total torture. We were young, stupid and crazy for each other like never before. We got back together and this time it was the last time, we did this four more times before another girl finally took you away from me for good. That girl saved my life and I hated her guts. It’s three years later and I think of you often. I love someone else and he loves me back, as do you. I’m happy for you and I’m so thankful for our small life we had together, the life that taught me so much. I still think about whether you think of me. I hope the answer is yes.

blog809-blog

This ones for you

The first time you cheated on me wasn’t the worst, or that last. It was the second time. It was a Wednesday and you were sleeping. I woke to your phone lit up on the bedside table and as I sat up to check the time you had a text message from your friend Harry. It read “come over after work, my parents aren’t home and we haven’t had sex in a week”. My heart fell out of my open mouth as I started reading back through your secret affair. I had been wondering why Harry had been messaging you so much and why you always had your phone. As I continued to read the real identity was revealed. There she was, from the neck down. In the background I could see the bedroom walls with our photos stuck up. I could see the picture frame I got her for her birthday, I could see the shoes we spent hours shopping for. I could see our friendship, scattered behind her naked body before me on the screen of my whole world. You were still sleeping. I sat there for a moment trying to gather together enough breath to figure out my next move. I love you, we live together, you wouldn’t do this again. Before I knew what was happening you were apologising. Smashing up your phone and promising she doesn’t mean a thing. You cried. I didn’t. You got a new phone the next day. But, for a while you were great, you pretended that you weren’t going to do it again and I pretended to believe you. As much as I tried to forget I would wake in the night and stare at the walls going over all the details I had created in my mind. Like how you’d laugh at me when I wasn’t around, how you would lie with each other in a bed I called my own when I wasn’t their to fill it. This happened a lot. I would torture myself and it left a bitter taste in my mouth that I would spit out at you. Eventually you weren’t to blame anymore. It was all my fault and you told me all the time. How I drove you away and towards her, how I couldn’t give you enough love even though I gave you all the love I had. I tried so hard to be everything you needed and all that you could ever want but it was never enough. I gave away pieces of myself until all that was left of me was the shell. When we finally broke up you cheated on me more times than I will ever know of, each time it got easier and worse all at the same time. I destroyed myself for months while I tried to forget you, I found small bursts of false fulfilment in other people’s beds, I drank away any trace of you then called you when it hurt. By now you really were sorry and I was hurting you, I loved it. I loved punishing you and seeing you cry, sometimes I would tell you about the boys that had explored my body the night before and I would watch as the words that came out of my mouth pierced your lungs. We were at war, hurting each other for sport. Stuck in a disgusting cycle of absolute and total torture. We were young, stupid and crazy for each other like never before. We got back together and this time it was the last time, we did this four more times before another girl finally took you away from me for good. That girl saved my life and I hated her guts. It’s three years later and I think of you often. I love someone else and he loves me back, as do you. I’m happy for you and I’m so thankful for our small life we had together, the life that taught me so much. I still think about whether you think of me. I hope the answer is yes.

blog809-blog

This ones for you

The first time you cheated on me wasn’t the worst, or that last. It was the second time. It was a Wednesday and you were sleeping. I woke to your phone lit up on the bedside table and as I sat up to check the time you had a text message from your friend Harry. It read “come over after work, my parents aren’t home and we haven’t had sex in a week”. My heart fell out of my open mouth as I started reading back through your secret affair. I had been wondering why Harry had been messaging you so much and why you always had your phone. As I continued to read the real identity was revealed. There she was, from the neck down. In the background I could see the bedroom walls with our photos stuck up. I could see the picture frame I got her for her birthday, I could see the shoes we spent hours shopping for. I could see our friendship, scattered behind her naked body before me on the screen of my whole world. You were still sleeping. I sat there for a moment trying to gather together enough breath to figure out my next move. I love you, we live together, you wouldn’t do this again. Before I knew what was happening you were apologising. Smashing up your phone and promising she doesn’t mean a thing. You cried. I didn’t. You got a new phone the next day. But, for a while you were great, you pretended that you weren’t going to do it again and I pretended to believe you. As much as I tried to forget I would wake in the night and stare at the walls going over all the details I had created in my mind. Like how you’d laugh at me when I wasn’t around, how you would lie with each other in a bed I called my own when I wasn’t their to fill it. This happened a lot. I would torture myself and it left a bitter taste in my mouth that I would spit out at you. Eventually you weren’t to blame anymore. It was all my fault and you told me all the time. How I drove you away and towards her, how I couldn’t give you enough love even though I gave you all the love I had. I tried so hard to be everything you needed and all that you could ever want but it was never enough. I gave away pieces of myself until all that was left of me was the shell. When we finally broke up you cheated on me more times than I will ever know of, each time it got easier and worse all at the same time. I destroyed myself for months while I tried to forget you, I found small bursts of false fulfilment in other people’s beds, I drank away any trace of you then called you when it hurt. By now you really were sorry and I was hurting you, I loved it. I loved punishing you and seeing you cry, sometimes I would tell you about the boys that had explored my body the night before and I would watch as the words that came out of my mouth pierced your lungs. We were at war, hurting each other for sport. Stuck in a disgusting cycle of absolute and total torture. We were young, stupid and crazy for each other like never before. We got back together and this time it was the last time, we did this four more times before another girl finally took you away from me for good. That girl saved my life and I hated her guts. It’s three years later and I think of you often. I love someone else and he loves me back, as do you. I’m happy for you and I’m so thankful for our small life we had together, the life that taught me so much. I still think about whether you think of me. I hope the answer is yes.

blog809-blog

Lying is one of my many illnesses.

I do it all the time, I lie to myself every few minutes, I lie to other people probably every 10 minutes. It’s how I survive, I like to lie to strangers the most, on public transport, sitting on a bench, passing travellers I get to momentarily include them in my life of lies. Who do I want to be today, a starving artist struggling with alcoholism? A 3rd year university student studying palaeontology? Or maybe just me, but it never stays just as it is, to be me is to be a cardboard box, it serves a perfectly substantial purpose and sometimes it’s useful, but it will always be, a brown, plain and undeniably standard cardboard box. It’s not that I don’t know the danger of lying, I do, I always have. It’s just that it’s so much more fun to be everyone else but me. It’s not like I have these elaborate personas planned or anything, they come to me. I’ve always been like this, I can see people getting bored with me. I see it in the conversation, with the click of a finger it dies. It’s just that easy and it’s heart breaking. To never be good enough is just like dropping that card board box into a puddle, it’s useless. It no longer serves a purpose and it no longer has a use, it’s dead. So sometimes when that happens I have no option, right? I have to do this, I have to be someone else. I have to let them know that I’m not this boring half human with no life, even though I am. So I show them all the people in life I have ever wanted to be, I am 1 million people. Yoga guru, vegan, football lover, mother, artist. The only thing i have become out of what I imagined is a fucking mess. I used to read about this beautiful skeleton of a person, she had a war in her mind and I became her, she was always with me, I was always her but she used to stay silent. I discovered I was no longer me and just her when the lies seemed to feel like more of the truth than anything I else I was living. I think I hit rock bottom when I lied about being ready for university, I was living the lie that I was even remotely prepared for real life. The truth, the 100% truth which I have never been good at or admitted too, is that I am in no way special, or interesting, or ready. I’m drowning in a sea of prepared adults who know how to go about their lives without being corrupt by their own minds, I’m pretending I can go about my everyday business without feeling as if I’m taken under by the simplest task. So my biggest lies aren’t the ones that colour my life with adventure and excitement, but rather the ones that colour me with hypocrisy and irony. The lies I tell on purpose to keep my life to appear a mediocre truth, to appear as average, boring and bland as possible. These are the lies that cause the most destruction, the reason for that? They kill me with every letter.

#lying #mental illness #blogger