I don't remember who I was. Who I was before I started the medical treatment. Before I was on pills 24/7. Is this what a drug addict feels like? Only in his or her comfort zone when on pills? (This making the person an addict, considering their happiness depends on the pills. They, themselves, depend on the pills.) Just like me. Just like me.
I'm not used to not having pain, even whilst being in my comfort zone. Somehow, there has never been a conscious moment without any pain, fear or even without doubt.
So now what? Who am I now, in terms of who I was before the pills?
I'm supposed to be fearless and pain free;
I'm supposed not to harm myself anymore.
But these aren't mutually exclusive. I'm scared. Scared of forgetting (or, better even, having forgotten) who I was and who I'm turning into. The only thing I have received, throughout my entire life, is pain.
Whether it had to do with what others did to me or whether it was self-inflicted, it hurt. And boy did it hurt badly.
For some reason I still want to feel a bit of that pain. Not because I'm "emo" or whatever, but because it's the only recognisable, characteristic, vice I still remember from, well.. "Before."
I still cut myself occasionally, for the sake of feeling something; anything. Or press cigarette ends against naked flesh, until it's unbearable to hear the sizzling and to feel the boiling of my flesh. Yes, I still pull my hair under the shower, till the tears start flowing and, yes, I scratch my palms when I'm nervous.
But I am seeing colours again. I see colours around me, now, whenever I look around. It's not easy, believe me- every day is a definite struggle that is (not?) worth writing home about. But at least I know that there are colours outside of a colourless person. Or maybe all the colours I am seeing, are the colours that are coming from my own person.. From the inside. Maybe the pills help me find myself.
I don't know.
I guess it's one of the great mysteries in life that one should not want to know the answer of.
A mystery is a mystery, like a rose is a rose; its thorns don't make it lose its breathtaking smell.
28.5.09
NEVERDOUBTILOVE
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
doubt that the sun doth move;
doubt truth to be a liar;
but never doubt I love.
O dear Ophelia,
I have not art to reckon my groans;
but that I love thee best,
o most best...
Believe it. Adieu.
It was a quote from Hamlet in the eighth episode in the second season of Joan of Arcadia, after the character named Judith died, due to a stabbing attack. He was in love with her and she made the deal with him that if he knew all of Hamlet off by heart, she would go on a date with him. She considered it to be more of a joke, a goof, but he took it seriously, because he really liked her. After she died, he recites this bit of Hamlet, which proves that he knew the entire play, completely off by heart, just for her.
Bring in the kleenex.
27.5.09
- Life gets me living -
I wanted to write something deep and meaningful here.
Then I realised I'm nothing but flesh, bones and a mind that thinks it thinks for itself.
Ok. So here comes the deep and meaningful stuff:
There is absolutely no fucking meaning to life.
That's all there is to know, so now go.
Go and live it.
24.5.09
FRAGILE
I have only seen the movie 'Prozac Nation', but not read the book(s) yet.
They're very high on my list, though.
I'm trying to write more, to get stuff out of my mind, on paper/screen so I can see it outlined and in order. Failing from time to time, though, and it's tiring.
But I try. At least I try.
The pressure about next year is building up and up and UP and today there was a humongous outburst; it was horrible.
Ah well, we talked things out and it's better now. My parents think I'm sleeping now, but I'm actually trying to figure out what the right words are to put to paper. I felt the need to write something. And that's when I thought: where else but on my blog, eh? Heheh.
My best friend in Holland (Roel) is going to graduate from Secondary School soon.
I miss him so much, it's crazy. I really, REALLY, hope I can be there at the graduation party (as a surprise), which I asked my parents to be my birthday present for my 19th birthday (expensive present, but totes worth it, non?), but if not, then... Not.
I don't know. I just wish he was here, or I were there.
No wait.
I wish we were together. But not at either place.
Maybe on the moon or something. Or at a deserted beach, at some deserted place in Portugal. Or on a ship, on a plane, WHEREVER.
As long as we'd be together, it'd do.
But we're not.
And it pains me to think that my best friend is so far away, especially at times like this.
And my other 'best friend' so close, but unapproachable and unreachable.
Looks like I'm going to have to figure it out on my own.
Me and the rest of the prozac nation.
They're very high on my list, though.
I'm trying to write more, to get stuff out of my mind, on paper/screen so I can see it outlined and in order. Failing from time to time, though, and it's tiring.
But I try. At least I try.
The pressure about next year is building up and up and UP and today there was a humongous outburst; it was horrible.
Ah well, we talked things out and it's better now. My parents think I'm sleeping now, but I'm actually trying to figure out what the right words are to put to paper. I felt the need to write something. And that's when I thought: where else but on my blog, eh? Heheh.
My best friend in Holland (Roel) is going to graduate from Secondary School soon.
I miss him so much, it's crazy. I really, REALLY, hope I can be there at the graduation party (as a surprise), which I asked my parents to be my birthday present for my 19th birthday (expensive present, but totes worth it, non?), but if not, then... Not.
I don't know. I just wish he was here, or I were there.
No wait.
I wish we were together. But not at either place.
Maybe on the moon or something. Or at a deserted beach, at some deserted place in Portugal. Or on a ship, on a plane, WHEREVER.
As long as we'd be together, it'd do.
But we're not.
And it pains me to think that my best friend is so far away, especially at times like this.
And my other 'best friend' so close, but unapproachable and unreachable.
Looks like I'm going to have to figure it out on my own.
Me and the rest of the prozac nation.
DEARGOD,
I have never known what to say in prayers.
It asks for answers and to me it seems... Unfair- only to ask for solutions, outcomes.
But in the end, no matter what situation I'm in, I ask God for 3 things:
Dear God,
Please give me hope, strength and blessings.
And I will give you my devotion,- I will give you myself.
Camila
"What does your heart tell you to say?"It doesn't tell me anything; it only asks.
It asks for answers and to me it seems... Unfair- only to ask for solutions, outcomes.
But in the end, no matter what situation I'm in, I ask God for 3 things:
- Hope;
- Strength; and
- Blessings- for the people who need them, but don't seem to be able to find them in the darkness of their own despair; and for the people who don't even know they need them, but do anyway.
Dear God,
Please give me hope, strength and blessings.
And I will give you my devotion,- I will give you myself.
Camila
15.5.09
It's What You Do To Me
My dad stormed into my room and pushed the knife in my hand. "There you go. With permission and everything." I stared at him questioningly. He sighed and said: "Alright, let's see if this works, then," and with those words, he started to pull up the left sleeve of his blue smart-casual shirt. "Do it. Come one, do it. Or I'll do it myself," he threatened. I looked him in the eye and then to his bare left underarm, with his right hand still clasping the sleeve of the shirt at the heighth of the elbow, in order for it not to roll back down.
I felt the pocket knife gain more and more weight in my hand as seconds were ticking by and finally, I clicked the knife in its grip and as I wanted to lay it away, my father grasped it out of my hand. "No! You do it. Now. Or else I will," he threatened again. His sleeve had rolled down a bit, with the sudden movement and as my father saw that, his eyes widened. I stole the moment to hastily leave my room and go downstairs, where my mother was cooking dinner, but he was too quick.
"Sit-down-now," he hissed. I did.
"Open the clasp knife," he continued. I did.
"Now take a look at it, slowly. Take the time to look at how beautifully it shines. Except for those times you used the tip of it, it hasn't been used, has it? So just look at it. Look at how.. Clean it is." He spoke slowly now and seemed to stretch the word 'clean', but that might as well have been my imagination. It was as if he got me into some sort of trance, because when he said the following, I made a little jump on my bed.
"Give me the knife," he said harshly.
I turned the knife- I pointed the knife towards me and handed him the side with the grip. In the slow movement of handing him the pocket knife, the tip of it crossed right palm. It stung and I saw a drop of blood fall on my yellow skirt. My dad saw it too and he smiled, "Sharp, isn't it?"
Then he put the tip of the pocket knife to his left wrist and drew a hardly noticeable line from the left to the right. All you could see, was a thin, light red line, and only if you'd look closely you could see it. My eyes were wide as plates and my mouth was wide open.
My dad looked at me. "Hurts doesn't it?"
I noticed my eyes were wide and my mouths was open, stupidly. I didn't want to look affected by his trick, so I acted coolly: "Only if you want it to. Isn't that the point?"
He pulled up his left sleeve higher this time, till just above his elbow, and drew another line with the point of the knife. This time vertical. And deeper.
As a reaction, I gasped and held my hand in front of my mouth, that was open again. I looked at his eyes, that were focused on me, rather than on his arm, surprisingly enough. He kept looking me in the eye, but I couldn't look at him. I kept looking at his mouth, how it was twitching. I kept looking at the carve in his lower arm, how the blood sippled out of it.
"D-dad.." I muttered.
Within one movement of his hand, he closed the pocket knife and he threw it on my bed. He then rolled his sleeve down and wanted to walk away.
"D-d-dad..." I stuttered again. He fiercely turned around and started screaming.
"Did you like that? Did that ease your pain?! Did it make it easier for you? Are your problems gone now?"
"What.. What are you talking about..?" My voice was hardly audible for myself, I don't understand how he could've understood it.
"THIS. I am talking about THIS. Every single time you bring that knife to yourself, whatever part of your body, you bring it to me too. Every time you cut yourself, you cut me too." He held out his arm, showed how the blood was soaking the fabrics of his earlier blue shirt. He rolled it up, grabbed my hand and made me touch his wounds.
"YOU did this. YOU are the one that is not only causing yourself terrible pain and scars, but also us. Do you think we want to see you hurt yourself? Do you not think we are hurt by your pain?"
My fingers slowly followed the lines on his lower arm. My index finger felt as if it had been numb and was regaining its feel to it- it tingled. It hurt.
I looked up, in the light blue eyes of my father. He was ageing, but not yet old. His hair was gray, but not yet falling out. He was desperate, but not yet giving up.
A tear found its way down my cheek and somehow it fell on the bare skin, close to my dad's elbow. I sniffed and and followed the lines on his lower arm again, with a finger that was wet by the salty tear that had fallen down. He pulled away as a reflex to the stinging, but I held his hand with my free hand, so he wouldn't pull away entirely.
When I looked up, I saw my dad had tears in his eyes as well.. I said I was sorry. And he gave me the tightest hug ever. My chin rested in the hole between his right colar bone and his neck. I heard him sniff. And for the slightest of moments, I thought I heard him say he loved me.
"Your pain is our pain. You do not only do this to yourself; you're doing it to us. And it hurts, it really does." He held my shoulders and gave a little squeeze. "It's our pain too. We love you."
And with that, he walked away.
I felt the pocket knife gain more and more weight in my hand as seconds were ticking by and finally, I clicked the knife in its grip and as I wanted to lay it away, my father grasped it out of my hand. "No! You do it. Now. Or else I will," he threatened again. His sleeve had rolled down a bit, with the sudden movement and as my father saw that, his eyes widened. I stole the moment to hastily leave my room and go downstairs, where my mother was cooking dinner, but he was too quick.
"Sit-down-now," he hissed. I did.
"Open the clasp knife," he continued. I did.
"Now take a look at it, slowly. Take the time to look at how beautifully it shines. Except for those times you used the tip of it, it hasn't been used, has it? So just look at it. Look at how.. Clean it is." He spoke slowly now and seemed to stretch the word 'clean', but that might as well have been my imagination. It was as if he got me into some sort of trance, because when he said the following, I made a little jump on my bed.
"Give me the knife," he said harshly.
I turned the knife- I pointed the knife towards me and handed him the side with the grip. In the slow movement of handing him the pocket knife, the tip of it crossed right palm. It stung and I saw a drop of blood fall on my yellow skirt. My dad saw it too and he smiled, "Sharp, isn't it?"
Then he put the tip of the pocket knife to his left wrist and drew a hardly noticeable line from the left to the right. All you could see, was a thin, light red line, and only if you'd look closely you could see it. My eyes were wide as plates and my mouth was wide open.
My dad looked at me. "Hurts doesn't it?"
I noticed my eyes were wide and my mouths was open, stupidly. I didn't want to look affected by his trick, so I acted coolly: "Only if you want it to. Isn't that the point?"
He pulled up his left sleeve higher this time, till just above his elbow, and drew another line with the point of the knife. This time vertical. And deeper.
As a reaction, I gasped and held my hand in front of my mouth, that was open again. I looked at his eyes, that were focused on me, rather than on his arm, surprisingly enough. He kept looking me in the eye, but I couldn't look at him. I kept looking at his mouth, how it was twitching. I kept looking at the carve in his lower arm, how the blood sippled out of it.
"D-dad.." I muttered.
Within one movement of his hand, he closed the pocket knife and he threw it on my bed. He then rolled his sleeve down and wanted to walk away.
"D-d-dad..." I stuttered again. He fiercely turned around and started screaming.
"Did you like that? Did that ease your pain?! Did it make it easier for you? Are your problems gone now?"
"What.. What are you talking about..?" My voice was hardly audible for myself, I don't understand how he could've understood it.
"THIS. I am talking about THIS. Every single time you bring that knife to yourself, whatever part of your body, you bring it to me too. Every time you cut yourself, you cut me too." He held out his arm, showed how the blood was soaking the fabrics of his earlier blue shirt. He rolled it up, grabbed my hand and made me touch his wounds.
"YOU did this. YOU are the one that is not only causing yourself terrible pain and scars, but also us. Do you think we want to see you hurt yourself? Do you not think we are hurt by your pain?"
My fingers slowly followed the lines on his lower arm. My index finger felt as if it had been numb and was regaining its feel to it- it tingled. It hurt.
I looked up, in the light blue eyes of my father. He was ageing, but not yet old. His hair was gray, but not yet falling out. He was desperate, but not yet giving up.
A tear found its way down my cheek and somehow it fell on the bare skin, close to my dad's elbow. I sniffed and and followed the lines on his lower arm again, with a finger that was wet by the salty tear that had fallen down. He pulled away as a reflex to the stinging, but I held his hand with my free hand, so he wouldn't pull away entirely.
When I looked up, I saw my dad had tears in his eyes as well.. I said I was sorry. And he gave me the tightest hug ever. My chin rested in the hole between his right colar bone and his neck. I heard him sniff. And for the slightest of moments, I thought I heard him say he loved me.
"Your pain is our pain. You do not only do this to yourself; you're doing it to us. And it hurts, it really does." He held my shoulders and gave a little squeeze. "It's our pain too. We love you."
And with that, he walked away.
10.5.09
ALONEAGAIN
I think I need to believe that it works; love, couplehood, partnerships..-Ally McBeal.
The idea that when people come together, they stay together.
I have to take that with me when I go to bed at night, even if I go to bed alone.
7.5.09
NICOLEDAINTON
This is the lovely Nicole Dainton. Support her music; she's amazingly talented!
(My favourites are this one and the piano music 'Seasons')
Love always..
6.5.09
INSANITY
What does insanity feel like?
I am so out of it right now. I feel like running away from everything, but I can hardly walk. I feel like puking, but I can hardly get on my knees to do so. I feel like hurting myself severely, by pounding my head against a wall, just for the sake of feeling something,- anything.
But whenever I move, it feels awkward and.. Not in place. Whatever I say, doesn't sound sensible or plausible and it doesn't fit together. There is a piece missing in everything I do and say,- even in everything I think. It feels as if there is literally a piece of me that is not here to make me who I was before.
Actually, I don't even remember who I was before I felt this way. I only know who I am now and that I don't like the direction I'm going in.
I want to be myself again. I was so sure I was going for what I wanted, for who I was, but now.. All that security in knowing something for sure, is just gone. I hope I'll find it again soon.
SCREWIGNORANCE
Mark Hunter: Feeling screwed up at a screwed up time in a screwed up place does not necessarily make you screwed up. -- From the movie Pump Up The Volume.
5.5.09
EXAGGERATION
And they say that there are people that exaggerate. They exaggerate their emotions, their feelings and, in particular, their expressions that follow. But how can they not see that they don't? At least 96% doesn't: the emotions are there, the feelings are real and the expressions that follow seem relatively plausible to me. Why doesn't anyone take the time to understand others? Why is it so difficult for people to be.. Good?
Why can't they see that they are the exaggerating ones? They pretend to know everything about everyone, but that is merely a claim, made by the mammals themselves.. If they would, would they still be as judgmental as they are?
PROZACNATION
It is 6am and I have decided to give you all an update on life.
It is kind of starting to feel pressuring again. It's like a growing peanut inside its little peanut shell; at a certain point, the peanut shell will, in fact, break. I'm guessing we all know what it feels like.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with my neurologist. He's great; best doctor I've been to in my life. I told him about not sleeping and I told him about feeling paranoid, nervous and anxious every single day. I told him in big lines what happened at school, what impact it had on me and what it still has. It felt weird, telling someone the stuff that had happened in a summary that was around 2 minutes long (/short). It felt so futile, unimportant,- silly. But truth be told that this might have been the worst thing that has happened in my life, considering I told my doctor a little more than just 'not sleeping' and 'paranoia, nervosity and fear.' I told him about the purging (not, I repeat: NOT, self-induced), the falling asleep during exams, the non-characteristic personas that seem to master themselves over me from time to time. I told him about being hyper the one moment, because of being over-tired, and being completely wrecked the next. And then he asked me if I had any suicidal thoughts, which is a question that makes you powerful. Because if you do have those thoughts, you can do two things: swallow them or spit them out. I spat them out. But like I said: he's a great man in his profession. Once again, this is proven when he asks me the next question: "Do you make any plans?" He did not look at me (he's Chinese), but I knew what he meant: you can have the symptoms, but not the disease. I have the thoughts, but not the plans. I have suicidal thoughts, but am not suicidal. Come on people, really? Pain inflicted on oneself is more effective; it punishes me, puts me in place, reminds me of things, whereas bring a cold ending to it would just be easy, frankly enough. If there is a reason I shouldn't be on this planet, if my reason of existence had been fulfilled already.. Would I still be here? I'd have been hit by a truck by now, don't you think? I love my doctor. He suggested that I went to a psychiatrist, because the lack of sleep can result in character-unlike actions/feelings/emotions and paranoia. My parents are fully backing the idea of seeing this.. Person. I'm not sure how I feel about it. The thing is that every time I watch a raw, realistic movie, it is negative. Or at least for most people.. Movies like 'Prozac Nation' and 'Girl, Interrupted' aren't 2 of the best movies I have seen, but they are 2 of my favourite movies I've seen, just because of the pureness of them. And they make me wonder what is wrong with me: Why do I relate to the 'crazy' main characters so well? And why isn't my situation bad enough to go to an institute? Am I expected to behave as if nothing is wrong?! My mom says I don't have to,- I shouldn't. But to walk around as if I'm "not trying" (literal quote by mom self), which results in worrying my parents even worse, won't help either. I'm just not faking anything right now. I wasn't before, but before I would try to be numb,- not angry, not sad, not 'depressed' and not even happy. Now I'm quite frank about it. Seeing movies like 'Prozac Nation' and 'Girl, Interrupted' make me wonder why my situation is not bad enough, but I still feel as if I belong in one of those institutes (institutes relating to 'Girl, Interrupted,' particularly. I think I relate to 'Prozac Nation' because it is the real story of a smart girl who wants to become a writer and completely loses it, when she studies at Harvard). I don't want to go there, I just keep wondering. Pretty stupid. At least there is one point of comparison: the drugs prescribed. My neurologist suggested a psychiatrist. Let's see how that goes.
My dad told me he and my mom loved me, for the first time in a long, long time. He seemed so.. Understanding. I don't know why, but I cry as I type this out. I'm not used to hearing it, I guess, especially from him. I don't think he really has an idea what it meant when he said it yesterday.
Today, I am going to the University of Hong Kong (HKU) with BFF Tiffany, because she got accepted (and it's very competitive!! So I'm very proud of her!)(This 'being proud' results in crying when the letter is shown to me. Says enough, non?). She does not know if she's going yet, but I'm supporting her, no matter what decision she'll make,- as long as she opens eyes, ears and mouth and makes the decision for the right motives.
I'll update soon to let you know if it's going any better :) Also, I have realised that I should post new pictures. And new stories. Give me a story and I'll write it for you, because I'm not the one that has to endure it.
Love always,
Camilla
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