It’s been forever since I last talked, since I last posted. I’m sorry, but here’s why.
On the 8th of July, I became older. It feels no different, but it feels very different. It feels weird. I’m now 15, halfway to 30. It feels no different, I am not a different person than I was on the 7th of July, but it’s very different. I’m one year away from being able to drive, three from finishing high school. It all feels very surreal and weird. And yet nothing has changed. I’m the same person I’ve always been, have the same sort of tastes, same issues, same everything, and yet, everything feels so different, so NEW, so weird, and I don’t know why that is. But yes, I turned 15.
I Struggled to Form Words
I’ve always had this issue with my confidence in blogging and forming correct and proper words and sentences to fill the pages of this blog, and it became a little bit harder. It became harder to like the content I was writing, making to put out to the world. Even though it was really not that bad, it was really quite good. But I didn’t like it. I still don’t. But I’m posting it none-the-less. I’m posting the works I’m unsure about, because I’m sick of the 147 drafts in my wordpress drafts folder. I’m sick of not being able to post and form the words I so like. I don’t like this piece of work, but I’m still going to post it, because it needs to be done.
I Went Downhill
In my mental health, that is. Everything got boring, sad, empty. I couldn’t do the things I once enjoyed. Everything turned dark, everything I’d once enjoyed. My art, my writing, it all had underlying suicidal tones. I became more anxious, anxiety attacks became more regular, my sleeping became worse, I stopped taking care of myself. Of my body, my brain. I became bored, the muscle cramps became worse, my music became softer, sadder. It all turned into a mess. My art became art, my schoolwork lowered in standard, I became sick. Sick of myself, of the world, of the people I so love. I began snapping at the people who are always there for me, my friends, the people I consider to be my family. I stopped posting on Instagram, taking pictures, blogging. I stopped bullet journalling, then writing, then journalling – taking notes on my day in the evenings, talking and then finally, drawing. I stopped everything. Stopped taking photos to post on my Instagram, talking to the online friends I’d once communicated with daily, even the friends I knew in reality, I stopped talking to. I hid myself in my mind, pulled back from everything, shrouded myself in sarcasm and my phone. Hid myself away from the world. I stopped going to my counselling sessions, started lying more to people. Lying about what I’d eaten, how I was, how much I slept. I told people I’d slept well when I hadn’t slept at all, told people I was full of energy when all I wanted to do was sleep. I slept at the weirdest moments, fell asleep at school, during breaks, when I got home. It was all for no reason. People asked me how I was doing and I said I was good when really, I didn’t know. I felt calm, but panicky, full of emotion, but empty. I felt sad unless I was with few calming people who made me happy.
I stopped doing everything. I lied. I pretended to be alright, when really, I didn’t know how I was. I’d put a pencil to paper and no words would flow, although the voices in my head were telling me what to write. No thoughts could be put into sentences that made any amount of sense. I paid less attention to the lyrics of songs, just listening to the same four songs on repeat. Sad songs, empty songs, soft songs. Not the fun, happy rock anymore, the slow, sad indie now. I hyper-fixated more than ever. I tidied a closet for six hours, taking everything out and putting it all back again, until it was perfect, not stopping once. Ignoring the people who made me smile, made me laugh. I pretended they weren’t there. And focused on this. Until it was done, until it as perfect. And yet, I couldn’t do that with homework. With reading. I couldn’t do that for any more than 10 minutes without being bored and having my brain give up.
My schoolwork was pushed back, my English and Social Studies grades dropped, fell to low marks from the heightened marks I’d worked so hard to reach. My art work began to be forgotten, the work I’d once done so well on left behind, falling with the rest of things. My fashion work became less focused, fell again. The lines, once so perfect, became messy and fast, done in 15 minutes, rather than the required 3 hours. It all became forgotten. Maths became more of a focus, something I spent hours at a time on, numbers became a calming force. The pages in maths textbooks suddenly filled with numbers, scrawled everywhere in pinks and blues and blacks. And yet, when it came to the test, nothing made sense. The graphing lines were confusing, the words floated around the page. It wasn’t the numbers. The numbers made sense. The words didn’t. The words flew about, became as though a spider had crawled across the page, legs covered in black ink. The letters couldn’t form the words I knew they once had. Nothing made sense. Nothing but the equations. Science became a hobby, yet a bore. The class notes had already been taken, the electricity became boring, repetitive. The out of class conversations became interesting, the old notes and definitions became fun. The formulas became second nature. Yet nothing was fun. It was all boring. All known already.
It all became scary. A deep hole of work, words, confusion. Things not understood, not followed. Because I had differing thoughts to others. I read further into the lines than believed, didn’t use methods the teachers enjoyed. It became confusing. It became upsetting, unbearable.
It’s still like that. Boring, slow. It’s the things I cannot remember. I cannot remember things that happened just yesterday. But I can remember things that happened four years ago. School’s over for the next week, but then everything comes back. And nothing can be correctly understood. But I’ll cope. I’ll remember.
I’ll go back to the counselling. Try to sleep. Stop listening to the voices. I’ll paste the words onto the paper, even when they make not an ounce of sense. I’ll draw the girls I once did. Go back to the books currently laying forgotten on the shelves. I’ll leave the sugar addiction in the past, eat the proper foods. The music will stay the same, calm and quiet, soft and slow. The hyper-fixation will continue. Because those things hurt to stop. The anxiety is too hard to slow. The anger spasms should be able to be stopped. Eventually. With help. With work. Maybe one day there will be no more anger spasms, no more tears shed in futile attempts to sleep at 3AM. Maybe. One day. Not now though.
I’ll pick up the bullet journal, now lost under piles of work. Collect a new one. Find new pens, remove the dead and dying. Forget. Renew everything, start a new. Try again. I’ll collect the empty packets of sour lollies littered about the room, throw them out. I’ll pick up the pens, textbooks, visual diaries and try again. Take as much time as needed to collect the words, form the spider mess into sentences, no matter how much time it takes. Try until the grades are picked up from their current low places.
I’ll start again. Try again. Pick all the issues up. Write them in the journals, capture them in everlasting memories, pin them up, draw them. Capture and create memories. Leave the past where it is now, stop dwelling on the things that scare me.
Maybe that’s ambitious. Too ambitious. But it’s a goal. A dream. A hope. It’s something I can aim towards. I can shoot towards. And maybe not reach, but try to reach. I have the ability to try it until I reach it. Or I’ll give up, set new goals. Try again. I don’t know. It’s worth a try.
My Physical State Became Messy
I became sick. My chest became rattly, they put me on medication. I took x-rays, had blood drawn. I missed a week of school, didn’t get out of bed. Ate nothing but fruit without throwing up for a week and a half. Everything became forgotten. I slept for 20 hours a day, but still woke up tired. I began feeling dizzy, woozy, as if I were about to pass out. I was constantly on medication. I wasn’t alright. But then it got better. I began to be able to walk around without wanting to faint. I started eating real food again. Not have to sleep all day. The medication started working, the x-rays came back clear. I felt better. Became better. Everything went back to its old ways. Everything was normal once again.
I stopped running about a year ago. I stopped workouts about two months ago. My physical state, physical well being became equal with my mental. My weight began fluctuating. My skin became a mess, as did my hair. Everything became forgotten. I didn’t look after myself. I began wearing the same clothes over and over and over. Hoodies and leggings. Day in, day out. My bedroom became messy, and then clean. The processes fell into misery, mayhem, mess. They became repetitive. They still are. Still are like that.
But they’re being picked up. I’ll go for a run, work out again. Wash my face, eat better. I’ll change from the clothes I’m habitually pulling on. Clear up the clutter from the floor. Remake the bed. Maybe. Hopefully. I’ll try.
I Gave Up
I gave up on everything I loved. The people, the creative outlets, the creatures. And yet, I continued to collect them. I found new friends, bought more stationery, collected more plants, found a new rabbit. And then I forgot about them. Gave up on them. Hid myself away with the same people I’ve always been with, left the pens in closed drawers, sat the plants on the windowsill, moved the rabbit from one cage to another. I gave up on the blogs, the lifestyle, the words and pictures. I gave up on the organisation I so loved, the stories the world so loved.
Now, it’s the time I pick that up. The time I choose between the friends, let the ones I can’t have the time for go, leave them to their own devices, fallen into the past, yet still there when they need me, leave them with the other friends they have, tell them I can’t hang with them, return to the people who have always been there. The time to pick up the pens and notebooks, fill them with the doodles and words and numbers that clutter my brain, cover the empty pages in colours, open them up to the thoughts and worlds that are hidden away. Maybe there’s nothing much to do with the plants, change their pots into nicer ones, find shelves, cover the walls with them, let them see the world from a different view. It’s time to give the rabbit more attention, let him sit with me at the desks I work, let him out into the open more often, find better food, more grass for him. Restart the other blog, pick up where I left off with this one. Find new content, new recipes, organisational skills, new poems, words, images. It’s time to forgive the things I’ve once forgotten. Time to start a new.
Now, it’s time to restart. Forgive myself for the things that I’ve never let myself forget. Start a new with everything I’ve always hated, always loved. It’s time to bring you on that journey with me. Enjoy the new.