For who would bear the whips and scorns of time...

I don't understand the human instinct to survive.
I don't know why I run across the road before the bus hits me... when I wish it would hit me.
I don't know why I refuse to give in when I have witnessed over and over again that my dreams will never come true.
There are people with worse lives than me.
One of my mum's friends - consumed by cancer, knowing the time is so short and will only be full of pain.
A colleague at work - married and divorced after a hellish marriage of one year - 30 years old.
A friend of a friend - told by her husband that he just doesn't love her anymore - her financial support and life, all gone.
When you have children, dependents, I believe it is different. I would never kill myself if I knew there were people in the world who needed me. But I, like the people above, have nothing. No children, now no lover, perhaps no future.
I have no reason to bear my pain. And yet others with perhaps even less reason can still bear it. I look at my colleague at work and feel ashamed. For if it had been me, married, committed, in love, put through hell and divorced... no, I could never be so strong and brave as her. She is incredibly successful and brilliant at her job. She does not spend days crying underneath her duvet in a locked bedroom.

Time heals; I cry less now than I did. I nearly went a whole day without crying this week... just two tears brimmed at the corners of my eyes before I wiped them away.
I saw Alex two weeks ago. He was back in London so I made him meet me and talk to me. I hadn't seen him since our weekend away in The Cotswolds.
I don't really know what to write here. I should probably record every word , so I never forget, but I don't want to. My heart is drained, he is just a boy, there is nothing there. He feels nothing; he is hollow and empty - happy.
Perhaps I just can't take the tears.
My eyes well up again.
Why put myself through the pain and cry and cry as I write everything. Just leave it, it is nothing anyway.


I've been asked if I want to "meet up" by six guys since news spread that I was single. It makes me... sad.
I'm back to being a piece of meat.
Some more serious than others perhaps but still seeing me as a body, an object, a purely visual, sexual thing. I went on one date... because he was an Officer in the Marines. I thought it would make Alex jealous if he found out. It just made me sad. And I ate pasta, cheese and chocolate and drank cocktails. Fat and sugar. But at least he paid... that's more like it.
I had to turn down another dinner date... I thought he was being nice, a good friend, cheering me up when he asked me to join him on a day out with some friends. I was sad when I realised he wasn't trying to be a good friend at all; he just wanted to get in my knickers. At the end of the evening, he cornered me and asked, "Would you like to go to dinner sometime?" I said yes. How could I say anything else? I have put it off since then. That was over a month ago. He keeps asking.
And another, I don't know why, why do they do this?  sent endless messages and finally... "shall we meet up one evening next week." I haven't replied. I know it's rude. But. I just don't need this.
The others are just whores by nature, so I don't take them seriously. But I think they think I'd sleep with them. Men always seem to think that. I talk to them and am friendly and chatty. I don't understand why this makes them decide to hunt me like a frightened animal.

I don't get how people can be so shallow with their feelings - even women these days. I went out for lunch with some girls at work the day after my date with the Marine, and they didn't understand why I hated it. They encouraged me to go on as many dates as possible, meet as many men as I could, get as many nights out paid for me as possible.
"But I can't do it," I said. "I'm either single or I'm in a relationship. I can't do dating, I can't do all the shit, all the messing, all the playing of games. It's all or nothing." In other words, I know if I can love someone or not. I knew I would love Alex from the night we sat at that bus stop at 3am one Monday in March. I will die for someone I love, but I will not suffer a single bruise for anyone who I feel anything less for.
These guys are interested in a fucking image. not me. and I am not interested.
That's the mistake I made with Alex. He was in love with an image, a schoolboy crush. He didn't even know me. His heart is empty, incapable of feeling - and so, he could never feel me.

When I'm alone, no one can hurt me. I had learnt that lesson already. I had affirmed it a thousand times in this blog. Alex proved that I never learn.
He moves on, unblemished, immovable, facing a whole, wonderful world at his feet. I lie trodden; rotten and wasted - for he wasted me and I wasted for him.

"He wore me like a silken knot,
He changed me like a glove;
So now I moan, an unclean thing,
Who might have been a dove...
Even so I sit and howl in dust,
You sit in gold and sing:
Now which of us has tenderer heart?
You had the stronger wing."

I wish I could say I didn't really love him. But I did - I loved him far too much. I loved him for being the one good thing in my life, my one piece of hope, my one ray of sunshine. And now I hate him, for giving me that hope, giving me glimpses of happiness, giving me something to believe in, giving me a future to face. I hate him because those things were untrue. It was a terrible dream.

I turned to my eating disorder long ago to make me beautiful and desired. I forgot about love. I am desired, but I am not, never was, and never will be loved. Who could ever love someone so sick?

I'm not just sick, I'm disgusting, vile and putrid. It starts to show now, in my lifeless skin and dry hair. The one red knuckle on my right hand, the hideous scratches on my arm that bulge purple in the cold. The teeth that mean I never smile.

I am so ugly when I smile.


I was supposed to be moving out, living in a house with two guys from the Club - two mutual friends of mine and Alex. So I'd be nearer him, spend time with him at weekends. I've paid the deposit and the first month rent now. But I'm still in the house of my mother. She forbids me to go. And I might agree.
I dreamt of keeping up my social masquerade. A wardrobe full of beautiful dresses, parading around the dance floor in expensive heels, dancing with guys, knowing they wanted me but couldn't have me.
Putting on a great big, glamorous show.
But the pain. That's the cause of all the pain. When I'm looking in the mirror and feel too fat and ugly to put on the show. When I've drank juice and eaten laxatives for a week so I look good for one evening. When I get rejected. When I'm not admired. When I see him, Alex, with another girl. I drink, and drink, I cry and I cry, and I eat and eat and am sick sick. Sick until I'm screaming into the bottom of the toilet bowl.

So I think I should stay. Safe in a dull house in a dull life. With no one, just my books and my bed. No nothing. No men, no shows, no need for beauty. No make up, no need to starve. Maybe I'll be safe here. Maybe I'll get better. Maybe I'll stop craving the bright lights and buzz of desire.
Maybe I'll forget.

Do I stay or do I go. Which dream do I chase? Which path will make me happy?