Here We Go

I'm in a thing that I want so badly to be right, but I just don't know if it is. Loving somebody used to be the easiest thing in the world. I want to be Hunt and say to her 'I love you so much it hurts. It hurts to love you.'

Argh and this isn't even what I meant to write this about. I miss being able to write the things I want to say here. Now it's patrolled territory. I think I need to make a new one. A secret one. I'll give you the link. And only you. You're the only one I trust to know what's really in my head. And maybe it's a burden I put on you; if it is I'm sorry. But you're my person.

She's trapping me. She's Addison putting me in a box but I'm not done fighting to stay out of her box yet.
I'm so fucking angry at her. I was happy the way things were, with a helix piercing and a shaved part of my head, and with you as my friend the way we were and writing this petty blog. I don't like to tidy my room. I don't like that she's arranged my dvds. But I can't disarrange them, can I?

I'm so sorry you got caught up in our silliness. You don't need it. And it's driving me potty. She won't drop it.
Enough about her.

Relationships shouldn't be more important. Friends should always come first. You don't have to prove anything, and frankly, neither should I. I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you needed me. And I do need to apologize, this isn't normal human behaviour. I've become a recluse recently. You didn't need me deserting you. It makes me a really shit friend. Listen, I know it's no compensation, but I'm here, whenever, if you ever do need me. And I'll buy dinner at Postsecret? Or drinks, or whatever. And anything you need to get out, you can take it out on me. And we can compile lists of secrets and set them free.

I need my person. And if you need me too, I'm here. I'm sorry I left it so long. I want us to be back how we were and I know I'm the one who ruined it and I'm the one who needs to put it right. Sophie gets so riled because I can tell you anything. It took a long time to build this friendship and it scares me how someone can just reverse into it and destroy it and that's pretty much what I've done. So I need to pick up brick by brick and piece it back together because, and I know I haven't exactly shown it lately, but this isn't something I want to lose. I don't want to lose you because you mean a hell of a lot to me. I don't know what to say because nothing I can say can explain why I became a zombie or excuse it. And you gave me the best advice I've ever had, to say what's on my mind because you could die tomorrow. And I've been trying to do that. I miss you. And I love you. You'll always have a very special place in my heart. And we've always been the sort of people who can talk and talk and talk, then go a week or a month without speaking and then get straight back into the thick of it. I hope we still can.

And I know you can get published. I know it. You are incredible, and incredibly talented. And it'll happen for you.


And I wish I didn't have to delete this at some point because it's the most honest I've been in a long time. Maybe I won't delete it, just move it to the new blog. I need somewhere to vent.




Kristina I'm so sorry. I hate hate hate that I wasn't there for you when you needed me, it makes me shudder with anger. I hate the person I've become. I want to get back to the old days, Frankii and DarkLashes and Taylor. Haha. From now on I'm not letting you down again. And that's a promise I have to keep.


Left Arrow Three. Always.

K

I'll tell you something, in this post, and the following post which doesn't yet exist. Right now, this blog is yours. Yours and mine, for we are the only two who can read it.


I keep crying.
I hate myself for things I have done and things I have not done.
Tomorrow evening, or Wednesday, I will write you something here. Something that has been a long time coming. I'm sorry it's taken me so long. I am a useless human. I feel fourteen again with cuts decorating my wrists and so much in my head that all I can bear to do is sleep.

It's when I read what you have to say that I cry. I feel so guilty.

This post won't last forever. I will have to delete it, and the next one, once I know you've read it.


I am sorry.

I have never meant these words more.

Kindling The Fires Of Hatred

So you can pick up a Kindle now for £59. I still don't want one. I will never want one, nor need one, nor see the point in them. I despise the idea. My new phone (I got a new phone) has Nokia Read, which is effectively the same concept. I have been forced to use it since this week's novel was nowhere to be found in local bookshops. I hate it. I hate having to read everything 'off a bloody screen'. I miss turning pages, instead of swiping. I miss page numbers, and trying my hardest not to see them, so when I do finally notice the digit in the bottom right corner I am surprised, and victorious in my reading speed. I miss marking page numbers down, simply to record the most deft of lines: '"Hope!" he might bellow, "your mother is having a fit of hysteria. It's spectacular!"'. I miss estimating how far I am through, instead of being presented with a percentage. I miss blank pages, and pages cut short at the end of a chapter. I miss setting myself targets before I take my next break. I miss flicking through at speed. Seriously, nobody ever buy me a Kindle. Waste of money, and I can guarantee you I will end up using it as nothing more than a tray to roll cigarettes over.

It's That Simple When I Say Always

Fresh

This time last year it was The Rescues, I stumbled upon them and promptly decided I was upping and leaving for California to see them live in December. Yaz and Elisha were going mental because I wouldn't stop playing the same three songs on repeat. So the same thing happened this year. Except with the Spraggs. Me and Katy are looking to book tickets for the new year and I will definitely cry and suffer palpitations at the same time when she opens her mouth. And if I keep singing along I will have perfected the Sheffield accent in no time at all.

MY NAME IS LUCY SPRAGGAN AND I HAVE TWO THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY EIGHT FRIENDS... ON FACEBOOK.

Oh my god she's so cute.

Closing Curtains

You don't want to see me, you don't want to talk to me. Your head's a mess and in that mess you lost me. It's like you've forgotten I exist. Forgotten I have feelings too. Tonight I'm crying.

Danger

I'm sick of being sick. I have an exam on Monday and I've done nothing for it. I just want to stay in bed and listen to the Chili Peppers. But shit, I start my new job on Saturday. Sort of told her that I'm a master of excel. I'm not. Filing for minimum wage, I don't know why I said yes to be honest. Among the fields of barley. I want time to write, that's all. I want to write something for you. I want to fix whatever is wrong. I don't know what to do.


Here's a secret.

I want to stand between the platforms at the station. The tracks stretch out indefinitely. I want to walk between the rails. Into the horizon.

1 word responses. I feel like I'm trying to keep this ship afloat single-handed.

The SPRAGGAN

I have a girlfriend, but I also have Lucy Spraggan. She's my not so secret love. Seriously, is this not perfection? Me and Katy are going to kidnap her and keep her in the cupboard under the stairs.

Undermyunndermyundermyundermyundermyundermyundermyundermyundermyumbrellaellaeheheheh eh oh, listen what I sayyyy.




Also I have a job interview tomorrow. WHAT? I know. Madness.

Snippets

I want to be in Lisbon. Or just somewhere you are. I want to stand on the windowsill of an eighteen storey building and fly. You shoot me down, but I won't fall. Maybe falling is what it's all about. I want to know that sensation. Do you really want me to remove you from here?

I'm not ready for it to be December. It used to be my favourite month before life entangled itself with death. Snow. Ice skating down hills in trainers. Sledging. Advent calendars and Christmas trees. Now the magic of Christmas is tinged with sadness. I want to hibernate. December makes me want to cry now.

I'd hate to be locked in. I need that freedom. Can't we just skip to pancake day?

This is what I want my memoir to look like: snippets of memory. I want to abandon chronological order entirely.

Lets Relive Everything

I trawled up the stairs and opened the door to my bedroom. It still wasn't a bedroom I was used to walking into, even though I'd been there over three months now. It didn't feel like it belonged to me, even the white of the walls seemed unfamiliar. My clothes didn't feel like my own there, and I just didn't know why. I wondered if it was because I was so used to seeing them strewn on a different carpet. The bed faced the wrong way. I hated it when things were different. I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my book bag down next to me. Another uneventful day at university. I swung my legs round and pulled the duvet up around myself. The December air was even more biting than usual today and I didn't know how to work the heating. At home Mum or Dad always dealt with the heating. But here I was on my own. And I felt too embarrassed to ask one of my housemates; what kind of 18 year old doesn't know how the heating works. Besides, they were all out anyway. They all had boyfriends and girlfriends who occupied them most evenings. But I stayed here in the quiet and cold and wrapped my duvet around my body as tightly as I could. It unnerved me, being alone in the house the majority of the time; the stairs creaked and a breeze with no apparent origin made doors slam unaided. I was constantly worried that there was someone downstairs and I made multiple trips to the top of the stairs to stand as silently and still as I could listening for any signs of movement. That never happened back home,

I always had the knowledge that my Dad was in the next room to frighten off any intruders should anyone break in. And there I was used to the sounds the house made. These sounds were foreign; I hadn't adapted to the rattling of the pipes or odd noises that I still had yet to assign a cause to.

As I opened my laptop to check my emails my phone rang. I fumbled around for it in my bag, sifting through papers trying to find the source of the light glowing through them.

“Hello”

“Hi Dyl”

“Hi Mum, how're you?”

“I'm okay love, how're you getting on?

“Okay thanks. Just a week to go now.”

“Oh yes, goodness, I can't believe you've done a whole semester already. It seems like only yesterday you left!

“I can't believe it either.”

“So which day are you coming home?”

“Saturday night. I haven't actually got that much stuff to bring home, so I'll just get the train.”

“Okay love, how about we go out for a nice meal Saturday night when you get here?”

“Can I pick where we go?” Mum laughed.

“Of course love.”

“How's Dad?” The silence lingered for a moment longer than I was comfortable with.

“Well don't get too worried, but he's in hospital with a nasty chest infection.”

“Really? Did he go in today?”

“Yes, well I didn't want to say anything, but I took him to A&E yesterday and they gave him some medicine, but today he seemed worse so I took him back and they admitted him.”

“Is he okay though?”

“Well he's in the best place. At the moment they're thinking it's pneumonia, but I don't know much about it really.”

“Pneumonia? When Daisy had that in primary school she was off for a whole year!”

“I don't think so love, I think it clears up in a few weeks.” I began to tap furiously at the keyboard of my laptop.

“That's definitely what she had; you know I never forget.”

“Yes Dyl, I know you never forget. But I'm sure it doesn't usually last for that long.” I typed 'pneumonia' into a search engine and loaded up the page.

“I'm looking it up now.”

“Oh Dylan, please don't get yourself worried. He's still his cheery old self, joking with the nurses and laughing about being in a ward called E Bay.” I smiled. But I was worried. I remembered how ill that girl in my class had been in year 3, even her friends weren't allowed to visit her. The page I was looking for online popped up. I read out loud.”

“With treatment, most types of bacterial pneumonia can be cleared within two to four weeks and mortality is very low. In the United States, about 5% of those diagnosed with pneumococcal pneumonia will die.”

“Dylan!”

“I'm interested!” Mum hated it when I looked up fatality percentages. But I'd always done it, since I was 8 or 9, whenever I became unwell I'd get straight on to the computer and look up my chances of survival. It put the illness into perspective for me. Dad had a 95% chance of surviving the pneumonia, and that gave me comfort. He was a strong man, in so many different ways; I knew he'd get through it and be back to his fighting self in no time.

“Well don't read too much into it love, please. He's going to be fine.”

“Okay mum. Just keep me updated, won't you?”

“Everyday dear, of course I will.”

“Thanks Mum.”

“Okay Dyl well I just wanted to let you know. I've got to head off for evening visiting at the hospital now, but I'll give you a call after you finish uni tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Send Dad my love.”

“Will do darling. Take care of yourself.”

“Bye mum.”

“Bye love.” I hung up the phone. I didn't like to think of my Dad in hospital. He was usually so resistant to illness; he went to work everyday regardless of how he felt. I knew he'd been run down in the past few weeks; he'd been working a lot of overtime with all the implementations that his job entailed. But I just hadn't expected him to be taken into hospital. I wasn't used to the image of my Dad being unwell, so much so that I couldn't really picture him lying there in a hospital bed. Throughout my life there had only been a couple of occasions that I could recall him being ill at all. He was your typical Dad, seemingly immune to health problems. But I kept reminding myself that he had a 95% chance of making it through, and that knowledge kept me from reading any more into it on the internet. I closed the window and read through my emails, and on finding nothing interesting, I flicked the television on with the remote and relaxed back into bed.

When I got back from university the next day, I fished my phone out of my pocket to find two missed calls. My stomach instantly harboured an uneasy feeling; Mum never rang me during uni hours. I sat down at the kitchen table and dialled the home phone. It only rang twice before she picked up.

“Hello?” She said.

“Mum, it's Dylan. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, why didn't you answer your phone earlier?”

“I was in a lecture.”

“Oh, sorry love, I thought you finished at three. I just wanted to give you an update.”

“What's the news?”

“Well they're keeping him in another night at least, but he's still in good spirits. He told me today that's he's so bored that he's been making a trip to the toilet last ten minutes each time; taking baby steps on the way there and back, just to pass the time.” I laughed.

“Sounds like Dad.”

“Yeah. He seemed a little better to me today though.”

“Oh that's good.”

“But they have confirmed that's it is pneumonia. It's a type I've not heard of before though, called Lobar Pneumonia. But just because I'm telling you this Dyl doesn't mean you can spend hours trawling the internet and getting yourself worked up.”

“I won't Mum.” I lied. I'd always been interested in the medical side of life, and as with anything, doing a bit of research always eased my mind a little. I hated not being in the know. One of my housemates walked into the kitchen at that moment and I made excuses to end the conversation with my Mum. I put the phone down on the table and Georgia sat down opposite me.

“Long day?” I asked as she took off her coat and scarf.

“The longest.” She smiled. “Been in the library. 2,000 word essay due on Friday.”

“Sucks to be you.” I smiled back.

“How was your day?” She asked.

“Long as well. My Dad's been diagnosed with pneumonia.”

“Oh God, Dyl, I'm sorry.” She got up instantly from her chair and began to root around in her cupboard, taking out a bottle of vodka and pouring me a glass without consulting me. She topped it up with orange juice from the fridge then pushed the glass towards me.

The Wine List

Nineteen - Rich in sweet apricot flavours,
Balanced by sharp, lime rind acidity,
With honey, spice and a crisp, clean finish:
The wine list's a better poet than me.

Family Values

I come from a family of no divorces. The pressure crushes me frequently as I dream of settling down, but know that with the psychiatric diagnoses I've accumulated so far, and the symptoms they boast, no marriage could ever carry me through to the day we'd be parted by death. Unless that death was my own, having been brutally murdered by my spouse. My grandma's horrified face haunts me; I can picture exactly how she'd look on the day I'd announce the end of my marriage, which puts me off the concept altogether. I'm 'prone to impulsive behaviour'; I'll make sure to stay away from Vegas.

I come from a family who comply with social norms. My grandma goes to church on Sunday, my mother only drinks twice a week, and my brother plays for the town's football club. I'm at university, Tom's application is awaiting responses and Robin is an Oxbridge candidate. My mother warns me of the dangers of cancer as I stumble in from the pub after midnight with tobacco smoke clinging to my clothes, though we both know that my great grandfather, who smoked his entire adult life, will see in his 103rd birthday in less than a month.

I come from a family who go away together. We've been staying in the same seaside town in Devon over Whitson week for over 100 years. At one point there'd be 27 of us, Franklins, Davidsons, Eagles and Stokes, made up of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great aunts and uncles, dotted all over the town. We'd meet up on the beach in the afternoons, and bump into each other around the main shopping street in the morning whilst putting together picnic lunches. And when the numbers started to fall, from 27, to 26, to 25, we'd gather on Mill Bay on a Whitson week morning, say a prayer, and wash ashes into the sea. 

Fucking

I invited you over, you stayed the night,
You took all your clothes off and slept in my bed.
That means I can call you my girlfriend, right?

Believe me, that was quite a sight,
I must have seen what lay ahead
When I invited you over to stay the night,

Your face isn't bad; you're a pretty good height,
And I'll turn a blind eye to what your ex said.
That means I can call you my girlfriend, right?

We had a good time, average, alright,
Good enough to have to wash the bedspread...
I invited you over, we stayed up all night.

I kissed your forehead in the morning light,
Went for a piss and you never fled!
That means I can call you my girlfriend, right?

So now that we've done it, I'm filled with delight,
For the signs can no longer be misread
I invited you over, you stayed the night,
I can finally call you my girlfriend, right?

This Is How It Goes

I just don't think I'll last the year,
I've fought this battle to the end,
You're better off without me dear.

Don't book two flights to Latvia,
I shan't be able to attend.
I just don't think I'll last the year.

 Don't stray from our plans, or shed a tear,
 Go alone, or take a friend,
You're better off without me dear.

This world fills me to the brim with fear,
There's only so much one can pretend.
I just don't think I'll last the year.

This is your chance, take it, steer clear,
I don't want you here for my descent.
You're better off without me dear.

As the winter months draw ever near,
The future I can't comprehend,
I'm certain I won't last the year,
You're better off without me dear.

Memories

She slung her bag over her shoulder as the bell rang and made a bee line for the front desk at reception. The staff knew her well; she had weekly doctors appointments which spanned for hours, the receptionists just handed her the sign-out book and a red biro. She smiled sweetly in their direction and let the doors close behind her. The freedom smelt fresh. She had twenty paces to turn back, twenty paces before she was off school property. With each came a fresh moral debate; there was so much more here to consider than just truancy. She hovered over the eighteenth, faltered at the nine teeth, then took the twentieth bravely, embracing the rush that accompanied such behaviour.
At the train station she bolted the toilet door behind her, dropped her full length school skirt and unbuttoned her blouse. She stepped into jeans, pulled on a top too low cut for her years and reapplied her makeup in the mirror. She stuffed her uniform deep into her school bag and made her way across the station. Rule breaking wasn't in her nature; she clutched her child ticket and swung her legs on a bench on platform two. She met him outside TK Maxx; he looked different from his pictures. He took her hand and led her to a part of town she'd not been to before. It was a long walk; they made conversation. Back at his he took her jacket. She'd never been in a council house before, but he didn't show her around downstairs. She caught a glimpse of the living room wallpaper, tangerine and lime green floral print, a room frozen in time. He led her upstairs. His room disturbed her, it was full of gadgets, playstations, television screens and computers, and shelves of games and dvds. He suggested music, signalling to the speaker system, and let her choose from his extensive cd collection. She recognised nothing.
He kissed her. She kissed him back, naively. Somehow they were topless and in his bed. He questioned the ribbons tied around her wrists. 'Those don't come off', she said. He was ill-looking, and thinner than she had imagined him to be. Wisps of dark hair grew from his chest and he hadn't shaved his face in a fortnight. She gritted her teeth, and climbed off, making excuses: she really ought to be getting back to school. He walked her to the bus stop, kissed her goodbye, turned back. She turned on her phone, and tapped a message out to her best friend. 'I am definitely, definitely a lesbian.'

Dylan's First Chapter

She looked him up and down, her perfect little boy all dressed and ready for his first day at school. Personally she thought that four was too young; she was a big believer in freedom and thought children should be allowed to enjoy their youth for as long as possible before being plunged into the educational marathon. But as she tightened his tie she hoped that school would bring a certain level of structure to his life. She didn’t want him to miss out on the opportunities that the other children his age would gain from the schooling environment.

            He was quiet; she wasn’t sure he really understood the concept of school and she worried that it would be too much for him. He depended on her and his father so heavily and she wasn’t sure that even half a day away from them would be a good idea. But she fastened his shoes and checked his pencil case one last time. He was all set. She rose from his feet and stood before him, looking down at his rosy cheeks and worryingly absent expression. She thought about how the other children would treat him and whether or not he’d fit in. She crossed her fingers by her side and hoped to hell that he would. She let her hands fall on his shoulders and his head snapped skywards, as if he’d woken from a trance, just for a second. She patted her hands down his uniform, straightening out invisible creases purely for her own peace of mind. Then she nodded to him, took his hand in hers and they began to walk.

            When they reached the front of the school her worries were causing her to tremble. Was she really doing the right thing sending Dylan to a mainstream school? His hand was clasped in hers and she put on a brave face to put him at ease. They both stopped as they arrived at the gates. There were children running around the playground and mothers looking on amused. Dylan’s eyes followed the other children from one side of the playground to the other but his expression did not show whether or not he wanted to join them. She suspected not. A portly woman in the corner of the playground rang a hand bell causing children to stop in their tracks and parent’s eyes to whip around. Jenna squeezed Dylan’s hand and they hurried into the playground. She bit her bottom lip as they neared the classroom door. Doubts and second thoughts clouded her mind, and all she could do was look into her son’s innocent face and hope this was the right thing for him. A teacher was waiting to greet them, and as she prised his tiny hand out of hers she gave him a light push from behind. The teacher took his hand and he looked back at her as they entered the classroom, a silent tear rolling down his cheek. She smiled encouragingly, but as she turned away a silent tear rolled down hers too.

            She had hoped she might notice a difference when she picked him up, hoped that the first day of school might change him. Normalise him. She winced at the thought of such a word. But he seemed more absent than ever. They walked home together hand in hand but his eyes were focused on the ground at every step. He kicked the occasional pile of dried autumn leaves but scuffed his shoes along the ground for the most part. She asked how his first day had gone; he said it had been fine. How the teacher was? Fine. School Dinner? Fine. Fine fine fine. She opened her mouth to ask if he’d made any friends but bit it back before it escaped her lips. Deep down she knew what his response would be and it saddened her to accept that for Dylan, friends were, and always would be mostly non-existent. More than anything she wanted him to be happy, but in a world where even she, a grown woman, relied heavily on friends and relationships with people other than herself she struggled to see how he’d manage alone. She nodded to herself and decided she’d rather not know.

            It wasn’t a long walk home but it was certainly a quiet one. Every journey was quiet with Dylan. On long drives he would just spend hours gazing at a vacant space beyond the car window or reading his favourite book over and over again, Rainbow Fish. He must have read it thousands of times, but he never got bored. The bright colours had captured him from a young age and he pleaded that she'd read it to him multiple times each night without fail. Fittingly it was about being different but she wasn’t sure he really understood it. It was a beautiful story with an uplifting moral but the number of times she’d read it had driven her to detest the book. It was dog-eared and rather rough around the edges but he loved it more than anything. That morning he’d begged her to let him take it with him to school and she’d had to contend with tears at the refusal. She wiped them away with a corner of her sleeve and promised him she’d be waiting with it for him at the school gates as soon as the day was done.     As she closed the front door behind them he darted up the stairs and sprawled out on his bed with it and read it over and over for hours, stalling on every page to mull over the brightly coloured pictures. She’d grown used to it, taken it as normal behaviour and had even begun to stop wondering what normal four year old boys did with their evenings in this day and age.

            She was buttering the toast for his dinner when the telephone rang. She lay the knife down next to his favourite plate and reached over the kitchen counter for the phone.

“Hello, can I speak to Mrs Parker please?” Came the voice on the other end of the line. It was one she didn’t recognise.

“Speaking..?”

“Oh hi there Mrs Parker, this is Janet Wilson from Easthill Primary here, I’m Dylan’s reception teacher. I was just wondering if you had a few minutes to talk about your son?” Jenna had only seen her briefly in the morning for a quick hello, and wasn’t familiar with her voice but she could sense the apprehension in her voice.

“Oh, of course, what’s wrong?” She gripped the phone tightly with one hand and turned the grill off with the other, leaving the knife on the work surface, but absent-mindedly taking the plate with her. She wandered into the lounge and sat down, resting the fish-patterned plate on her lap

“Nothing’s wrong per say, I was just slightly concerned about his behaviour today. I know they’re young and he wasn’t alone but after you dropped him off he was very upset. A couple of the girls got upset about leaving their mothers too, but they settled down after ten minutes or so. But Dylan was crying for about two hours. I thought about calling you during the day, but after break time he settled down. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do to distract him.”

“I see...” Jenna exhaled heavily.

“Obviously I have thirty children to contend with and I couldn’t spend all my time trying to calm him down but I asked another boy to look after him, called Harry. Harry took him over to the water tray and that’s what I particularly wanted to talk to you about. As soon as he dipped his fingers into the water he calmed down. I was thankful but once his hands were in he wouldn’t take them out. He didn’t want to move from there the whole day, it was like he was mesmerised.”

“Right.” Tears sprung to Jenna’s eyes. She’d hoped for anything but this. She wanted terribly for him to just fit in. She pictured Dylan standing over the water tray splashing around with his contented smile plaguing his lips and the other children staring over at him and laughing. “Well he’s a very special boy. He’s fascinated by water. I did speak to the headmaster before he started; Dylan’s got a high functioning type of autism. He’s a very bright boy, but he becomes transfixed with the things he loves.

“Oh I see. I’m sorry, I had no idea..”

“There’s no need to apologize, I assumed the headmaster would have spoken to you about it.”

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Does it have a specific name that I can look up? I’d like to familiarise myself with the condition before I see him tomorrow.”

“Of course, it’s called Asperger’s Syndrome.” Jenna paused for a moment. “I really appreciate your interest Mrs Wilson.”

“Please, call me Janet. I’m free after school tomorrow if you and Dylan would like to stay behind; we can work out the best possible way for him to fit in with the other kids?” Jenna bit back the tears. It was wonderful to have someone who wanted to accommodate Dylan and not cast him out after a difficult day. Some people could be so ignorant.

“That would be perfect. I do hope tomorrow goes better. It takes him a while to adapt to new situations but I’ll sure he’ll get there as well as he can eventually.”

“I’m sure he will. It’s a daunting situation for children this young, even those without Dylan’s difficulties find it takes them a while to adjust.”

“Yes..” Jenna trailed off.

“Okay, well thank you very much for your time Mrs Parker, and I’ll look forward to our meeting tomorrow.”

“Thank you Janet.” She heard a click on the other end of the phone and replaced it in the cradle. Jenna immediately began to cry. Tears flooded down her face and splashed onto Dylan’s plate. The little blue and green fish sprung to life, appearing as if they were swimming beneath Jenna’s tears. She bit them back and wiped her cheeks. It was never going to be easy. She pictured Dylan standing there, arms submerged in the water tray, splashing around with his beautiful smile lighting up his face. She wished she could see it more often. She’d stood earlier in the playground watching the other children running out of the gates towards their parents, grinning from ear to ear. Then she saw Dylan, walking towards her, with that same vacant expression she knew all too well. She took a corner of her t-shirt and wiped the plate clean whilst standing up and returning to the kitchen. She turned the grill back on and stood back, thinking only of her beautiful little boy. She sighed.

Jenna began to scale the stairs with Dylan’s toast. She stopped outside his bedroom door which was ajar. She curled her fingers around the door and peered in at her beloved son, laying on his front with the book in his hands, tracing a finger over the rainbow fish glittering on the page. She smiled. At least some things brought him the joy that normal children experienced. She winced again. She hated to use the term normal, but really it was the only way to differentiate. It wasn’t that Dylan wasn’t normal, he was healthy, happy and a beautiful little boy. But he was different, and Jenna knew that the differences between him and his classmates would only grow more prominent with age. That was what kept her awake for hours at night. She longed to worry about the same things the other mothers in the playground did, what to put in the lunchbox, when they’d get their first girlfriend, but Jenna had bigger worries. Would Dylan ever make a best friend? Would he ever be able to live on his own? Would she be caring for him for the rest of his life? And would he ever be truly happy the way he was? She scraped her hair away from her face and shook the worries away momentarily. She pushed the door open with her elbow and called her son’s name. He didn’t look up, he never did. She carried the plate towards him and lowered a hand to stroke his arm. He turned to face her instantly, looking at her coldly with empty eyes. She handed him the plate and he began to tuck in, never taking his eyes away from the slice of toast, watching it intently as he moved it closer and closer to his lips. He almost went cross-eyed as he opened his mouth. Jenna smiled at him and picked up the book that he had cast aside on the bed. She began to read. She followed the words with her eyes unnecessarily; she knew them by heart, back to front and upside down. But he smiled as he heard the words he knew so well and that kept her going. It was the only reason she woke up every day to see that smile. It wasn’t cheeky and it was never sarcastic or mocking. Just a genuine happy smile. And it warmed her heart.

            After dinner she handed him back the book and took the empty plate downstairs to wash up. She imagined his classmates collapsed in front of evening television. She told herself over and over that at least reading was educational.. even if Rainbow Fish only had a couple of hundred words, at least it wasn’t poisoning his impressionable young mind. But she wondered about how it would affect his vocabulary with his limited interests, and how enriched his life would be if he continued to spend every waking hour pouring over the same paperback picture book. She sunk down into an armchair and wondered again if they’d made the right decision by sending Dylan to a mainstream school. She questioned whether they should have sent him to somewhere that could cope better and deal with his disability in a positive manner. But they’d discussed it so many times and come to the conclusion that they wanted him to fit in as much as possible, and sending him to a specialist school would hinder that from the word go. She busied her mind watching aimless quiz shows and waited patiently for Kyle to get home. She had a lot to tell him, a lot of worries to share and, she hoped, a lot of support to receive.

            Kyle woke her up with a kiss on the forehead. She hadn’t even heard the door go. A quiz show had lulled her off to sleep, it hadn’t taken much, she was worn to the bone after a day filled with mental anguish. She smiled wearily as she saw him standing before her in his work suit, smart and handsome.

“How’re you?” He asked.

“It’s been a long day. How was work?”

“Also long. I didn’t get much done. My mind was on Dylan. How was his first day?”

“He says fine, his teacher says otherwise.”

“You spoke to his teacher?”

“She spoke to me. She rang up earlier in the evening.”

“What did she say?”

“He cried for two hours after I dropped him off, then spent the rest of the day at the water tray refusing to move or play with the other children.”

“I see.” He sat down on the arm of the chair and draped an arm around her shoulders. “The first day was never going to be easy.”

“I know.” Her voice began to shake. “I… I just thought it might be a step in the right direction, that school might make things easier for him. For all of us. But it just seems to have gone all wrong. And right now he’s too young to understand but it won’t be long before he begins to realise that he’s not the same as the other kids. And the other kids will realise it too, even more worryingly, they'll know it before Dylan does.”

“Hey, it’s just one day. That’s how we have to take it, one day at a time. So today didn’t go brilliantly but there’s always tomorrow. Change is difficult for Dylan, it was always going to take him a while to adjust and he will do that eventually.. it will just take him some time. I promise not every day will be so hard.” He took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly, gazing into her tired eyes.

“Thank you.” She forced a smile and kissed his cheek. “Come up and see him, he needs an early night.” They both rose from the chair and headed upstairs. Kyle peered around the door and turned back to Jenna quickly with a smile identical to Dylan’s.

“Look at him!” He whispered, moving out of the way to let Jenna see. Dylan was fast asleep, his head resting between the pages of his favourite book. They stood there watching him for a while, hand in hand, her head on his chest.

            The following morning was equally challenging, Jenna wondered if the image of her son’s sorrowful eyes as he wandered into the classroom alone would ever leave her. Mrs Wilson was busy, ushering the children inside but she spared a moment to greet Jenna and give Dylan a winning smile, which was, of course, unreturned. Jenna thanked her for her phone call the previous evening and remarked that she was looking forward to their meeting later in the day. And with that she turned and made her way back through the crowd of parents seeing their children off.

            Whilst pregnant she’d had a lot of time to think of all the experiences that were to come when her child arrived. She’d pictured chatting to mums in the playground, making lunch dates and arranging coffee mornings. But that was all before she’d known about Dylan’s difficulties. A child without friends made it all the more difficult for Jenna to make friends of her own. Already parents were standing in groups of three or four, nattering away eagerly, smiling and laughing. Jenna surveyed them, and gulped back her feelings of loneliness. It wasn’t at all easy. After Dylan was born she’d left her job to look after him. She’d envisioned returning to work once he was of school age. There were so many things she had never dreamed of considering before he was born; the thought that things might not be as easy as they could be hadn’t crossed her mind. It’s something you take for granted until you find out that there are complications. Now she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to go back to work and that bothered her terribly. But she knew it was the best for Dylan, and though biting her lip, she knew that it had to be that way. And leaving work had meant leaving most of her friends. Of course you promise that you’ll keep in touch, you’ll phone, you’ll write, but when you’re out of the routine of seeing your friends every day, keeping contact becomes something of a chore. She loved Dylan and Kyle dearly, but sometimes family isn’t enough. So she weaved her way through the crowd of bustling parents and set off for home, alone.

            Jenna wondered whether Dylan’s teacher had stuck to her word and looked up Dylan’s disorder the previous evening. She seemed trustworthy, but nevertheless she logged onto the computer and tapped a series of letters into a search engine. A page popped up with all the information about the syndrome you could possibly want to know. Though Jenna had read through the facts and figures countless times she skimmed through the paragraphs once more, nodding in agreement after every point. Each statistic brought everything home rather painfully, everything that was stated was just so Dylan. Sometimes it seemed to her that Dylan didn’t have Asperger’s, Asperger’s had Dylan. The printer whirred and three pages of crisp white paper crammed full of information dropped into the tray. She tucked the sheets between the pages of Rainbow Fish and slid the book into her handbag.

            She stood a few yards from the door to the reception classroom, between gaggles of mothers making more noise than the children seemed to. Perhaps they weren’t quite at maximum volume age yet. It was a few minutes until school ended, but she wanted to make sure that she was on time for the appointment. The children filed out one by one and her eyes scanned each of them searching for Dylan’s face even though she knew he’d probably still be in the classroom with Mrs Wilson. As the last child left the room she suddenly felt very conscious that she was being watched. Parents were peering at her through nosy eyes, wondering why she was standing so close to the classroom without a child running into her arms. She took a deep breath in and walked away from them. As she neared the door she heard an overly-loud whisper that wasn’t meant for her ears.

“Whose mummy is that?” Jenna didn’t have to turn around; she could feel a finger being pointed in her direction.

“Dunno.” Came the high-pitched reply. Jenna brushed her hair away from her face and tapped three times on the glass of the open door. As she did so she tilted her head slightly to see inside the classroom. Finger paintings were tacked onto the walls along with illustrated alphabets and number lines. Desks were grouped into tables alongside thirty miniature wooden chairs. Twenty-nine empty, and the furthest one occupied by a worried-looking Dylan. Jenna frowned as she saw his face, but really it was refreshing to catch him with something other than that absent look haunting his countenance. She stood there for a moment, admiring how smart he looked in his uniform and gave a silent smile. She was lost in thought, mirroring his usual absent expression when the teacher popped her head around the door and offered out her hand.

“Jenna, I presume?”

“Yes, hello.”

“Do come in.” Jenna took a few steps into the classroom before Dylan looked up. He jumped up from his seat and ran towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Jenna beamed. Mrs Wilson smiled too. “Come over here you two, we’ll sit on the comfy chairs, does that suit you Dylan?” He looked up at her with a blank expression for a second.

“Fine.” He said quietly. Both women laughed. Jenna sat down in a large purple armchair and placed her handbag down on her lap. She fished out Dylan’s book and removed the sheets of paper before handing it to him. His eyes lit up and a smile spread from one cheek to the other. The teacher sat opposite her and Dylan sank down into a bright green bean bag. He crossed his legs one way and then crossed them the other, tilting his head to rest on his shoulder as he gazed lovingly at the front cover. She folded the papers in half whilst she watched her son open the book, a genuinely happy smile dancing on his lips and radiating out across the room. Mrs Wilson reached over to her desk from where she was sitting and pulled an identical bundle of papers out of a filing tray.

“How was he today?” Jenna said quietly, turning back to face the teacher.

“Better.” She smiled reassuringly. “He was definitely better today.”

“That's good to hear. Did you get a chance to look Asperger's up at all?

“I did.” Mrs Wilson flattened out the wad of paper on her lap as she spoke. Jenna felt a pang of guilt instantly for doubting her and bringing her own set of print-outs, wishing she'd left them between the pages of Rainbow Fish. “There are still some things I'd like to discuss with you though.”

“Of course.” Her tone prompted Mrs Wilson to continue.

“I looked it up, and read a lot about the condition. But I gathered that every child with Asperger's has different difficulties. What does Dylan struggle with most?” Jenna smiled, and sank a little deeper into the armchair, trying not to let how impressed she was become apparent from her face. She wondered where to start.

“Well he has trouble with communication. He doesn't understand body language, facial expressions, gestures; it's all a foreign language to him. And he takes things very literally, so jokes are a lost concept on Dylan most of the time. He finds imaginative play a challenge too; he works a lot better with solid objects, things that he can see and touch.” She paused for a moment and watched Mrs Wilson sat across from her, noting down everything she said. “And when he becomes interested in things, he obsesses over them. I mean, right now, that's Rainbow Fish. It's his favourite book. We must have read it together hundreds of times, thousands maybe. He loves it, never goes anywhere without it. You should see the struggle I have in the mornings getting him to part with it. As I said on the phone, he has a fascination with water, and marine creatures. Fish especially.” They both looked over at him where he sat, oblivious to their stares, grinning at the schools of brightly-coloured fish in the illustrations of his favourite book.

“I see. That explains a lot. It's great that he's found something he's so interested in.” Mrs Wilson bobbed her head as she spoke, still looking over at Dylan.

“I suppose you're right. I do worry though, that he isn't developing a broadening range of interests; we try to introduce him to new books at home but he just isn't interested. He loves Rainbow Fish, and only Rainbow Fish.”

“Well, book-wise, we'll try to introduce him slowly to new topics. We have an excellent reading scheme in place that will hopefully help him. Also, I spoke with the headmaster this morning about what we can offer Dylan in terms of early comprehension. We'd like to arrange an assessment for Dylan so we can see how he learns best.”

“And what would that involve exactly?”

“Well a woman would come and sit with Dylan for, perhaps and hour, which you're very welcome to be present for, and she will ask him a few questions do a few simple questionnaires. That way we can determine whether he learns best, for example through music, or computers, or art. If it turns out he learns best through music, we can taper the classroom activities to include activities such as singing to widen the children's vocabulary instead of the more widely used techniques. That's just an example, but does that make sense?”

“That sounds fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. When would you be able to arrange the assessment?”

“I'll speak with the headmaster and arrange for a letter to be sent home when we know but I would assume in the next couple of weeks.”

“That's great. Really. I couldn't ask for more. What did you mean though, when you said it explains a lot?”

“Well today he started out well. He didn't seem very interested in the activities this morning, but after morning break we looked at some numeracy and he was quite engaged with the lesson for the most part. Then after lunch, he wasn't back for registration, so the classroom assistant waited with the class whilst I checked he hadn't been sent home sick and alerted the office. We found him in the library, where he was sprawled out on the cushions chatting eagerly with the Mrs Cox, the librarian. They'd lost track of time talking and watching the fish in the tank. I thought he wouldn't leave, but as soon as Mrs Cox promised they would meet at the same time tomorrow, Dylan said goodbye to each individual fish and then took my hand and came to class. He was as good as gold.” Jenna could feel tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes.

“He works well with routines. How kind of her, it means so much that you're accepting him into the school with such open arms.”

“He's a very special little boy.”

“He is.”

“Listen,” the teacher lowered her voice. “Mrs Cox had an idea earlier. The caretaker is away this weekend, and he usually comes in to feed the fish. She was going to take the tank home for the weekend, but she wondered, if you were okay with it, whether Dylan might like to look after the fish for the weekend?” Mrs Wilson readjusted her glasses.

“Hey Dylan,” Jenna called over to her son. “Dylan?” He looked up. “Dyl, what did you think of the fish in the library?”

“I love them. There's two Goldfish, and three White Clouds, and Ghost Shrimps too, and a big old Dragon fish!”

“Do you want to look after them at the weekend? We can put them in the living room?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Jenna's heart swelled as she saw Dylan's face explode with happiness. She turned back to the teacher.

“You know an awful lot about fish Dylan! I'm impressed!” Mrs Wilson laughed.

“They my favourite.”

“Thank you so much. Really.”Jenna whispered in the direction of the teacher.

“Hey Dylan, it's home time now, run and get your coat from the pegs!” Mrs Wilson said, extending her hand for Jenna to shake. Jenna took the teacher's hand in both of her own and squeezed it.

“Thank you.” She repeated. Dylan darted back to join them with his coat hanging from his head like a cape and Rainbow Fish tucked under his arm. He linked hands with Jenna, and they walked home, both happier than they could remember.

Titanium

I'd been sitting outside by myself for a few minutes, just soaking up my new surroundings and working my way through a bag of tobacco. Between myself and the entrance to the ward was a big tree. I pretended I was invisible. A woman in her early forties crossed the courtyard. She was telling whoever was on the other end of the phone that she was certain, sure beyond sure that as soon as they let her out she could go back to just one glass of wine a week. She exchanged smiles with another middle-aged woman, who peered around the tree and approached me.

'I couldn't leave you sitting out here by yourself.’ She extended an arm. 'Lizzie.'

'Catherine'. She shook my hand then took a small bottle of antiseptic hand gel out of her pocket. I wasn't quick enough to mask my facial expression; she excused her action with three letters.

'OCD.' I nodded. 'You're very young'. She said, rubbing her hands together. 'How old are you?'

'Just turned twenty.'

'Very young. The youngest chick in the cuckoo's nest.' She took a small case out of her pocket and began to roll a cigarette. 'Let's sit in the sun.' We followed the path away from the courtyard and sat down at a bench around the corner. I was grateful for the company but concerned that the nurses might not know where I was. I'd been there merely an hour; I didn't want them to think I was planning my escape already.

'Oh no.' Lizzie smiled. 'They always know where you are. They're watching. You don't notice it at first but there are faces everywhere.' She was right. The curtains seemed alive, the corners twitching; eyes appeared around corners, men with clipboards ticking names off a list. Lizzie started talking to a magpie, perched on the wire fence around the pond. I took a moment to look around. People began to cross the courtyard. They called out to her. She finished her conversation with the magpie first. She introduced me to three women and a man but the names didn't register.

I followed Lizzie through to the dining room; the whole building was a maze. It was smaller than I’d imagined it to be, with just enough table space to cater for the forty residents. The adolescents had their own dining area, and the main room was split down the middle, one side for the eating disorder unit, the other for patients on general ward and the addiction treatment programme. Lizzie gestured towards a round table, where a girl only a year or two older than myself sat alone, staring into her plate.

‘Hi Louise’. Lizzie sat down. Louise looked up briefly, and then wordlessly returned her gaze to her food. She chased little mountains of vegetables from one side of the plate to the other with her fork, and back again. Her hair hung over her face; she was shrunken into herself.

‘Lizzie,’ called out one of the nurses, poking his head around the coffee machine, clipboard in hand. ‘Tea time meds.’

‘Excuse me ladies.’ Lizzie followed the nurse out of the room and I looked over at Louise. Her head still bowed over her plate. We sat in silence for a number of minutes. When my turkey escalope arrived I tried to make conversation.

‘The food’s better than I expected.’ Louise didn’t even look up. I tried once more with no success. We sat in silence for a few more minutes before she got up and left. Lizzie came bounding back into the room.

‘I just had the silent dinner experience. I don’t think she likes me.’

‘Louise? Oh, she’s a selective mute. Hasn’t spoken in two years. She’s very troubled. Don’t take it personally.’ Lizzie stared at her plateful of food. ‘Blergh. Looks like it came out the back of a goat. Let’s get cake.’ She hid two big slices of marble cake under her jacket and smuggled them back out to the courtyard. ‘So good!’. I rolled a cigarette and sipped at my paper cup of hot chocolate.

‘Have you been here long?’ I asked.

‘Three weeks on Tuesday. Most people are here about four weeks. James has been here two months, Louise four months. Some of the EDU girls have been here years.’ I looked around. It was a grand building, in beautiful surroundings. I thought I probably wouldn’t have minded being there for a matter of years. It was safe, and soothing. I knew that this thought was part of the reason I was there. I couldn’t cope with the real world any more. I needed a time out, a break from reality. This was a retreat, a fancy building in an upmarket part of Essex, where finally I didn’t have to cope. I could just be.

The next time I ventured outside for a cigarette it was raining. I made a break for the shelter of the tree. There was a gazebo in the courtyard for smokers to make use of but it was occupied. I flicked the butt of my cigarette across the gravel and pulled the handles of the double doors. They were locked. A sign had been blu-tacked to the glass.

DOORS WILL BE LOCKED AT 8PM DUE TO A HIGH RISK PATIENT.

I shook my head at the flawed security. I had no idea where to find an alternative way back in. Pulling my jacket more tightly around myself I wandered over to the gazebo. A redhead in her twenties ground a cigarette butt into the ash tray. She introduced herself as Kelly. She figured a building of this size must have more than one way in and out. I took her word for it. I followed her, unsure that she actually knew where she was going. We left the courtyard and followed the path around to the main reception: doors locked at 7pm, after dinner. We finally found shelter from the rain through a side door that took us down a glass corridor.

'Have you been here long?' I asked.

'About two hours. What're you in for?'

'Oh, this and that. You know.'

'Come on.. crack? Pills? You're young for an addict.'

'Oh, no, I'm on general.' I don't think she knew what that meant. 'You?' I knew I'd regret asking.

'Booze. Coke. Pills. And sex. Anything I can get really, at any cost.' I made a mental note to keep my distance. But something pushed us together. Maybe it was arriving on the same day. Maybe that she was in her twenties too. We were poles apart, but we shared a title: monumental fuck up. A wrong turn took us to a dimmed room assembled like an old people's home. Lizzie spotted my face at the window and waved us in. She introduced me; I felt like the new girl at school, trying to remember names. She got up and pulled a chair over next to hers. Kelly went and sat in the corner of the room.

'Help yourself to Indian,' grinned Mandy, the alcoholic I'd overheard on the phone earlier. Chris explained to me that most nights they got together and watched a film. They were working their way through every film ever made about psychiatric wards. I understood; the evenings were a source of sanity, and the films were a source of amusement. Yes, we were psychotic, but we weren't in strait jackets yet. We weren't to tell the staff though, if they asked, 'Love Actually really is the ultimate romantic comedy'. I smirked and broke off a section of poppadum.

Progression

I'm writing this on a train. I was thinking about how much things have changed in such a short time. In July I fell apart and you and the people at Stump Lane helped to patch me back together. In August I developed a fear of the outside world. In September I went back to uni, unwillingly, and felt uneasy. I hovered at the student office and avoided people. Then in my first life writing class we were asked to write a piece on how we might introduce ourselves on a social networking site for instance. Mine was so depressing. Only a paragraph but deep stuff. I believe the first line was: 'Frankie, Fuckup, Fatherless and Falling Apart.' I refused to read it out but Vesna made me read the first line. Then I shrunk into myself and said nothing more for the next two hours. I wanted to cry. But last week I read 1,500 words about my life, about Stump Lane. And I didn't hesitate, didn't get embarrassed and didn't want to hide away afterwards. She said it was excellent. I was told it read like a novel, Andrew said he knew I'd be very successful one day. And they didn't judge me. Things have changed for the better. I hope I'm getting better at letting you in, I certainly feel better in myself. In September I never would've been able to read that sort of thing about myself. At first I thought the life writing would hurt me, that it would leave me dwelling on things that could have been, but I think it's helping me. Anyway, I'll upload what I wrote and read out when I get back to Ktown, can't right now as I'm on a train. Change is good.

Stump Lane

It was a strange time. An upside-down time. An uneasy time. But it sure makes for good writing.

‘I just had the silent dinner experience. I don’t think she likes me.’

1000 words to go.

Running On Reserve

I feel horrific. All I want is sleep. I wake up every day feeling exhausted to a new level. I've never been a person who needs early nights like this. I don't know where my energy went.

Poetry To A Beat

Today Mr Next Door knocked on the door, but I was naked so I quickly put some clothes on and went downstairs but by the time I got there he was at the end of the drive. I shut the door again and hid. He was putting all the bin bags sitting out the front of our house into the bin. He did not look impressed. But at least I didn't have to deal with all the rubbish the bin men refused to take. The hiding reminded me of when I was younger and I had a fear of phones and answering the door. I think it must have been when I was off school with shingles or something, in year 8. A man in a white van knocked on the front door. I was in the office. I hid, crouched down by the filing cabinet and hoped he wouldn't see me. I was pretty sure he had though as he just kept knocking, he wouldn't give up. But I was petrified, and I don't even know why. After a while he went away.

I never used to be a person who cried a lot. When I was really depressed at 14/15 I went so far past the point of tears that I only used to cry at gigs. The first time I wrote to Nerina I signed off as 'the girl in the front row who cries a lot'. Back then it was 'Mr King' and 'Idaho', in the 'Fires' era. There was nothing I could do to stop it, the chords rang out and plunged deep into my chest; the tears came silently. The first time I heard 'Coming Home', Dad was in hospital having heart surgery. It's a song about her Dad, and in that moment it became mine. I wasn't expecting it of a song I hadn't heard before,but the tears came thick and fast. After she sang it at his funeral I couldn't listen to it anymore. It came on in Wilkinson's not long ago, which is unusual but they always seem to play songs of hers that were never released as singles. And when I hear one of her songs playing in a shop, I can't leave until its finished. And my opinion of the shop in question goes up dramatically. Anyway, I didn't cry. I just listened. These days it's 'Grace' that gets me, and 'This Will Be Our Year', and an old classic, 'If I Know You'. And if she plays 'Coming Home', it's okay, it's 3 minutes, 42 seconds in which I can think about my Dad, and I have friends holding my hands, handing me tissues, squeezing my arm and thinking of me. Besides 'Coming Home', which to be honest I usually skip these days, I don't cry while listening to these songs at home. It's just something about hearing them live that brings them even more to life than they already were. Perhaps it's the acoustics, perhaps the unpredictability of a live performance that evokes new meanings in the same words. I'm a bit scared about you seeing me at a Nerina concert, mostly because of the uncontrollable crying. And maybe a little because you'll think I'm a massive geek because I turn up 4 hours early, and talk to James and Ricardo and Dr Mike, Becky, Zoe, Toby and Tom, Daz and Tim, Daniel, Lauren, Kerena, and all the others about Nerina and not much else. But I'd love you to come with me. To squeeze my hand in the sad songs and laugh at me for my geekiness. And I want Nerina to meet the person who makes me happy.

I want to stand with you, glass of wine in hand, and take this all in. And if you hate it, if it's not your kind of music, just humour me. Because her words have contributed to the construction of the person I am today.

'Time' Doesn't Look Like A Word Anymore

I love that I can write things here and you find them without me having to say anything. I'm really awake because I slept til 5pm today. I didn't mean to, I kept snoozing the alarm. I had some strange dreams last night. I dreamt that my skin was crawling with these tiny black flies, then I woke up scratching my scalp like mad trying to get them out, I had scratches all over my arms. Took me a while to realise it was a dream; I was in that haze where absurdity bleeds into reality, like oil into water. And Sian the ginger lesbian was in my dream too. It seems like the things you say rattle around my head until they're released as unconscious musings, or put into writing. Here's a question: Why do the clocks go back at 2am? Surely they should go back at 1am, or midnight. I don't understand the clock system. I don't think time is a thing that should be messed with. Time as a concept in itself confuses me. Like, who decided how long a second would be? Also the whole clocks going back or forwards business hurts my brain, I can't get my head around it. So I'm not changing the time on my phone, I'm going to stay in my time, until whenever the clocks go forward(?) again. I like being fifty fifty, half the year in time with the rest of the country and half the year in my time. And the best part of it all is when I wake up on a uni day, see the time is 10am, and think shit, better get ready, then realise that the actual time is only 9am and I can have another hour of sleep. It's strange how your relationship with sleep fluctuates as you age. I never slept well as a child. My parents could never get me to sleep before midnight as a baby, and then I'd be awake again at 4am with copious amounts of energy to cause havoc, and they'd have to get up to entertain me. In primary school I could never get to sleep easily at night; I remembered hearing that the average person takes 7 minutes to get to sleep and thinking that was impossible. But I'd watch my dad fall asleep in front of the television, and my brothers fall asleep on long car journeys so figured it was possible, and that I just wasn't average. I went into my brother's room one night and asked him for tips on how to get to sleep quickly. He said he didn't know how he did it, he just did. In secondary school I used to want to sleep late in the mornings, instead of getting up for breakfast. Then the insomnia happened and I'd never sleep before 4am. At it's worst I would get to sleep at 6.30am, then be up getting ready for school at quarter to eight. At weekends I'd sleep til 4pm, In the Christmas holidays of year 10 I didn't see sunlight for four days. In first year at Kingston I never fell asleep before midnight. And now an early night is my favourite thing. But tonight I can't sleep. I swear this house feels so much colder when you're not here next to me. I have to change. I have to get better at talking to you. I need to learn to let down the guards I've put up. I need to open up. I'm sorry it's not a thing I've realised sooner; I get so wrapped up in my own little dramas. I want to be able to tell you anything and everything, I want you to know what's in my head. So, as of now, I'm blogging again. This is where I start trying.

The Knife In The Oyster

I'm in love with you. I can't promise the future, I can't promise perfection, because we're us, and I'm me and who knows what will happen. But in my heart, I am sure. I'm in love with you Sophie Shirley. And I hope you're in love with me too.

Youth

"The goal of therapy is to make one happy. What is the point of that? Happy people are not interesting. Better to accept the burden of unhappiness and try to turn it into something worthwhile, poetry or music or painting."

Coetzee, you put the thoughts that collide with the walls of my skull into words better than I ever could have done.

Lorraine

LORRAINE

I know that you've known nothing like this pain
And nothing brings you pleasure any more.
The world would be a lesser place Lorraine.

It seems as though all hope went down the drain,
You've taken to just lying on the floor.
I know that you've known nothing like this pain.

I never thought you were one to complain,
But even though each movement feels a chore,
The world would be a lesser place Lorraine.

The way you feel is too hard to explain,
This earth just seemed a simpler place before.
I know that you've known nothing like this pain.

Happiness isn't something you can feign,
But even though you feel you've lost the war,
The world would be a lesser place Lorraine.

And though your valiant effort's been in vain,
I'm begging, put the gun back in the drawer;
I know that you've known nothing like this pain,
But this world would be a lesser place, Lorraine.

Wanted

So I took what I wrote last night, and used it to help me find my words. So.. ta da, my latest poem. Obviously I'm not planning on putting an ad of this nature in the next issue of the Herts and Essex Observer, I just wrote what came at the time.



WANTED

I'm looking for a killer,
A murderer of sorts,
Anyone who's interested
In the most dangerous of sports.

Your dream is to kill someone,
And I just want to die.
We'd be a match made in the afterlife,
Your twisted self and I.

Don't prey on someone innocent,
There's a willing soul right here.
And no, it's not a hoax advert,
I've never been quite so sincere.

I don't mind how you do it,
The choice is yours to make,
Just make sure my life will end
I don't care how long you take.

So pave my route to heaven,
And steer your way to hell.
The sinful secret dies with you
For I shall never tell.

So please, drop me an email,
My address - listed below,
The time has come to live your dream
And it's my time to go.

Watching Paint Dry

"The lows, the nothing. There's nothing left in you. You're beyond tears, you're even beyond thought."

I want my hypomania back. Just got to let it pass. But I'm so impatient.

Wordless

When I wrote in the letter in the blue envelope that I didn't think I could be a writer anymore, that was just because my finesse didn't compare to that of my favourite writers. But now, I think I've actually lost it. I spent all day trying to write. I can't even rhyme anymore. I have ideas, I've just lost my words. They're not my words, I don't know why I call them that. I've lost the words. And that scares me a lot because writing is how I survive. Suffering from chronic boredom. I need new experiences, I need to do things I've never done before. Like the cuckoo's nest. Not that that really provided me with any writing material. I don't know what's gone wrong. Everything's all mixed up, it's all too still. I feel cold, hard, flat. I'm not enjoying this. And I don't even know how to fix it. None of the music is what I want to hear. Everything feels very wrong. That's the only way I can explain it. Everything is wrong without words. Agitated.

Chemical Imbalance

I have a chemical imbalance in the brain. So do lots of people. Trouble is with my chemical imbalance they don't know which chemicals to feed me to put me right. When the chemicals they presume will work don't, they try to alter my diagnosis. Surely with all the money that goes into medical research they could develop a type of blood test that assesses which chemicals in the brain aren't present in the correct amounts, so patients could be given the right chemicals as medication to make them right again. I'm fed up of being a fuck up. I'm fed up of being unfixable. I'm on such a high dose of everything I take that I think it's affecting the way I think. And by that I mean I rarely think. Or I'm rarely aware that I'm thinking. I seem to have no access whatsoever to my thoughts, and I'm sure it never used to be this way. And the knowledge of this leads me to question what it is my brain is so busy doing that it's lost the capacity to think.I don't know how I'm ever supposed to succeed in the creative world without thoughts.



Is it unethical to make a life-changing decision based on the lyrics of a song?

The Hoarder

I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. I’m a hoarder, a magpie; I collect things I don’t need. It started with something I heard on the radio; a familiar voice explained how she was unable to walk past a discarded scratch-card on the ground, just in case it was a winning ticket that had been overlooked. And once I’d mimicked this, triggered the avalanche, I couldn’t stop. I also couldn’t bring myself to throw the scratch-cards away. I pinned them over each other on my noticeboard until the pin wasn’t long enough and I had to start a new pile.

Receipts came next. I didn’t need them, but I couldn’t bin them, just in case they would be of some use some day. Consequently I’ve kept every receipt for everything I’ve bought in the last five years. I have thousands, tens of thousands maybe; more than I could count, I know that. So it escalated, the snow kept falling, until I was keeping and collecting just about everything.

There’s always that temptation, but I’d never outright steal. But when the opportunity is there, I just can’t turn it down. It began on a bus; a woman bent down before me, picked up a shiny silver key and held it out in front of me. She asked me if it was mine, but it wasn’t. My mind said no, but my lips released the affirmative. I had no use for this little key, but I slid it into my pocket after thanking her and later blu-tacked it to my bedroom wall.

In this way I’ve gained a mobile phone, three wallets, four umbrellas and twenty eight train tickets, amongst other obscure objects. Piles of jewellery crowd my bedside table, and I've accumulated enough scarves to wear a different one every day for a month. But I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know and it’s the most prized possession I’ve unearthed in all these years. I found him in a wallet, nestled between bank notes, removed him and sat him behind the transparent window in my purse.

It’s a lonely life as a magpie; everyone knows it's one for sorrow, two for joy. I’ve accumulated many beautiful things but my own beauty remains untouched. I’m well into my thirties, no longer young and promiscuous, and the dreaded question never gets easier to hear. “Have you found yourself a man yet?” Aunties and grannies and long-lost cousins twice removed never tire of asking that one. And I was tired of letting them down. So I lied. It was only an insignificant, tiny white lie to begin with. I said yes, and opened my purse to show him off. He attracted a lot of attention; they told me over and over that I’d caught a good one, reeled in something really tasty. But somehow even the fishing analogies didn’t deter me.

It rocketed out of control, just like the hoarding had done. I named him Ethan, and told my family that he was a soldier in Afghanistan, that we’d met whilst he was on leave but that he was back on the front line now and that was why they couldn’t meet him. Sometimes I’d find myself with a glass of wine in one hand, television remote in the other, scouring the news channels for his face, convincing even myself that he was real.

I became devoted to this imaginary character, writing unsent letters to him, addressed to the army barracks I’d told myself he was serving at. It scared me how attached I was. At times I’d try to remind myself of the reality; I even thought about offering the photograph to strangers on public transport, in the hopes he’d fall into the hands of another hoarder. But I could never bring myself to go through with it.

After an exhausting day at work one Friday evening, I breathed a sigh of relief as my train finally pulled into the platform. I fought my way into the busy carriage, squeezing through a mass of business people to a space by the window. Gripping onto the handrail as the train began to move, I caught sight of my pea-green handbag, lying unaccompanied on the bench I’d sat on for the last half hour. It was too late to get off; it was too late to do anything. I clapped a hand to my mouth as I watched my possessions fade further and further into the distance. My phone, my purse, my umbrella, my train ticket, gone, forever. And the photo of a man whose name I didn’t know.  

Untitled

And so I have to go away,

'A retreat' you've coined, in the nicest way.

'The funny farm', 'mental home' I say.

I wish it didn't have to be this way.

And so I have to go away,

And here, without me, you will stay.

You'll cross your fingers, kneel and pray,

That everything will be okay.

And so I have to go away,

But no magnitude of help will change the way,

You're in my head each single day.

You're mine, regardless, come what may.

Don't Be Worrying

It hasn't felt like this before

 It hasn't felt like home, before you 

And I know it's easy to say but it's harder to feel this way 

And I miss you more than I should 

Than I thought I could 

Can't get my mind off you 

I know you're scared that I'll soon be over it 

That's part of it all 

Part of the beauty of falling in love with you is the fear you won't fall 

 Joshua Radin you're a wise man.

Dear Sophie

Hi. It's half 2 in the morning and I'm still awake. I was knackered hours ago when I said that I was and now I'm running out of energy. I want a relentless. Anyway the reason that I'm still awake is because I just had to read through every blog post on here before I let you read them all. At first I was going to delete all the posts where you were mentioned because I get really embarrased when you know what I think about you. But now I've read through all of them I've decided not to delete a single one. Because I think this might help you to understand me more and know more about the way I think that I know you don't get. And I'm going to be away for a while, and maybe it will make it easier for you if you have access to this silly little blog. So until I re-emerge from Chelmsford you are the only one with access to this blog. It's all yours.

Here are some things I'm thinking at the moment in a list because I like lists a lot.

1. I'm really tired.
2. Water is the most amazing drink. How can something that tastes of nothing be so good?
3. Kristina is my best best best friend in the world and all the posts that say something about 'left arrow three' are directed to her. We have a weird relationship, but she's amazing. And I'm really really scared to tell her about the priory because I know how much it will make her worry and that makes me sad because she lives far away and she can't come and see me.
4. I think this blog makes me seem like an absolute sap.
5. Reading through this blog has made me realise how much I go on about Grey's Anatomy. Does it bore you? I never realised quite how repetitive I am.
6. I'm wearing your bracelet again now. I shouldn't have taken it off. I love it.
7. I am going to miss you a silly amount. And I know you think I should go there and not think about you but that's not going to happen because erm you're in my head.
8. Out of all the numbers between 0-10, 8 is my favourite.
9. I can't stop yawning and my eyes have gone all watery.
10. I wish I was better at talking out loud. I really really suck at it. But when I'm writing things down it's different. It's like when I'm talking there's a little man in my mouth and he has my access code so he knows what's going on in my brain and then when I try to make the words come out of my mouth he stops them and no words come out, just a noise that bears no resemblence to English. But when I'm writing things down I can say anything. It's like I don't have access to my thoughts when I'm talking. Like when you ask me what I'm thinking I really have to think about what I'm thinking or if I am thinking anything at all. But when I'm writing the thoughts just come out. I don't think that's normal. It's like my brain is connected to my fingers so I can type and write just fine but it's not connected to my mouth so my words out loud are just wrong.
11. I'm now not being admitted til first thing Friday morning. I'm going to have to get up so early because I think I need to be there for 8.30 and bearing in mind my mother's belief that it takes an hour to get to Chelmsford, that means we'll have to leave at half 7, so I'll have to probably be up at 6ish which is a horrific hour. I hate mornings!
12. What if none of the crazies like me and nobody talks to me for the whole time I'm there?
13. I haven't done the bad thing tonight because I'm not angry. And because I'm really really really trying to keep my promise to you. And if I do break it I will be really sorry and it will only be because I get swept up in my craziness and the anger takes me over. But trust me, I'm trying. I don't like breaking promises so I really am going to try to not hurt myself. Because I see that when I hurt myself I hurt you too. And the last thing I want in the world is to hurt you.
14. I really don't want another stump dream because in my dream it was just so inconvenient not having hands. Hands are very very useful.
15. Do you own a bike? I still want to go to the pond at sunrise. But its quite far to walk so I usually cycle. But you like to walk. So it doesn't matter if you don't have a bike.
16. Talking to my mum about money makes me more uncomfortable than anything. It's so awkward. I hate borrowing money from her. And I really hate how much this whole priory thing is going to cost but I don't want to ask her because a) I don't think she'll tell me and b) once I know I think I'll wish I didn't know.
17. I never got around to watching my Sean Lock Live DVD tonight because I was so busy reading this entire blog. So I'm going to watch it tomorrow night instead. Sean Lock is hilarious, I think he's my favourite comedian, he makes me laugh out loud which isn't usually a thing I do when I watch tv; usually I just stare at the screen with a blank expression regardless of whether I'm watching something funny or something informative. Unless it's one born every minute because as soon as the mum gets to hold the baby my eyes just start leaking.
18. I hope you have a nice couple of weeks while I'm away. It will probably do you good to get away from all my silliness. I wish I could get away from my silliness. Trouble is my silliness is attached to me, so it follows me around like a dog's tail.
19. I wish I could play the piano. I tried to teach myself but the only song I could teach myself was Mad World. I'm such a one trick pony. We have an organ in our house that my parents got given by some distant relatives who didn't want it anymore. My mum will never say no to something free, so she accepted the giant eyesore even though none of us can actually play it. It's in the dining room gathering dust but occasionally I sit at the little stool and pretend to myself that I'm a piano pro as I play Mad World.
20. I'm really scared that my mum will tidy my room whilst I'm away. There is nothing I hate more than someone else tidying up my stuff because then I don't know where it is and I know from the outside it looks a mess but I actually do know where everything is. One time she put everything in big blue boxes in my en-suite and I flipped out majorly. Secretly I've never forgiven her for that which makes me sound like an absolute tard but it really got to me. If I'm going to tidy I'll do it myself. Another reason I'd be pissed if she tidied my room while I'm in Chelmsford is that the rest of the house needs tidying and she really ought to be getting on with that instead. It's far more important than my room where only I have to go. I'm sick of the piles of clothes and junk everywhere and not being able to walk in straight line in my own house.

So there you go, 20 things that I was thinking right now. I hope it helps.

Also, I apologize if me letting you read this blog got your hopes up that it might actually be interesting, because after spending the last 3+ hours reading through it all I have concurred that it's really fucking dull.


Anyway,, it's now gone 3am and I've got to be up at 10ish which is really early for me ;) Sleep is so good, I don't know why you don't get more of it. I hope this blog doesn't bore you sick, I hope it doesn't annoy you, and I hope it doesn't make you think any less of me. You are amazing. Sorry about being a bit of a fuck up. But I've changed my twitter bio now. Anyway. Going to stop rambling on. Welcome to my blog. <3