Made up Truth

And now that it’s over, completely over, I don’t know what to feel anymore. At first, it was relief. Second, regret. Then followed by anger and pain, it left an emptiness in me behind. What do you do when the longing and wishing and hoping is gone? What do you hold onto? What truths do you believe in?
All these emotions that I felt for you, because of you, towards you, and spite you, are now lingering on a surface I cannot see. Because you don’t evoke them anymore. So what happens to them - those emotions? Do they fade? Or just simply get transferred to a different subject?
My head hurts. I can breathe in and feel the emptiness in my heart beating against my chest case.
I used to love you, love you, and now that’s over. So was that love a lie, an imagined, made up truth? Do we love, fall in love? Or is it all an object of our imagination and are we just a little confused?

LASTGLASS

“Last glass goes to you,” I say as I look at you from across the table. Letters on your cover scream an origin, a past history, I do not know, nor care about. A cup of vodka begs, pleads, for me to drink it. I do not.
I pick you up, open you up, light you up. And I inhale. Burning intoxication hits my lungs. I inhale deeper.
The fingers in between which I hold you near me for another drag tremble, too steadily for anyone to notice, too heavily for me to ignore. I exhale, and as my mind tells my body to sigh down and do so, the nicotine rush goes up, up, up, to my head.
I close my eyes and let it hit me, and try to focus on my hand again, by taking that second drag, inhaling, and ashing in the cup in front of me, all in the slowest motion you can possibly imagine.
My first cigarette in ten hours and thirty-seven minutes. I haven’t been counting.
My last glass of vodka. Not that I’m counting.

VAMPiRES.

A High Class Werewolf

To Daniel. Because the verb ‘hopen’ in Dutch means ‘to hope’.

A High Class Werewolf -
Withstanding, loyal, and always right there
To let lost souls into his Fortress of Caring,
Or maybe just me, into his throne that we would share.

Maybe I just wanted to talk,
But I don’t remember.
Maybe I just wanted hot, steamy sex,
After a long and cold December.

As you said, the table laughed at your scraped knees,
Just the way we laughed at the ridicule of that fleeting procrastinated night.
But even though most would,
You never let me out of sight.

You don’t think I’m beautiful enough,
But that’s fine -
Because for the slightest glimpse of a moment,
You were mine -
And I am yours.

Falling asleep in your arms, or right next to you,
Made the nightmares, the screaming pain, go away.
But now I’m home, and maybe this is where I belong;
Maybe this is the price I have to pay.

The price of feeling too much.
The price of wanting too much.
The price of needing too much.
Being left alone, naked, stumbling in the dark, as such

Price I cannot pay.
And so I pray

That one day we’ll meet again,
And I can’t remember what I saw.
That one day I’ll look at you,
And the feelings won’t be as raw.

Because, boy, it’s beautiful when you smile
And it’s beautiful when you say, “Oh, I don’t know.”
Because, God, don’t we all have those times when we don’t?
But you’re the only one for whom I don’t have to put up a show.

So grab a sharpie,
And take another shot.
Take another little pill,
Especially if it’s all your imagination’s got.

Intoxicated words are sober thoughts,
As many people may believe.
But after all is said and done,
That’s no longer how I perceive.

IM.

Because you’re the rock my waves crash upon

Branded by Past,
Crafted by Personality;
Worlds apart,
Put in the same room.

Heels versus snake bites,
Impulse versus logic;
Worlds apart;
Yet hearts intertwined.

I’ve heard it said,
‘Best friends 24/7 brings the Devil to Heaven;’
But we, we are not friends, we are roommates,
We, we are not just roommates, we are Friends.

Not the one, nor the other,
We, we are both - at the same time;
Bringing a non-existent god to life,
Bringing our God into our Hell.

Laughing Jinxing,
Consoling Crying;
Both praying to our God in our Hell,
For tomorrow to come soon and bring clean toilet paper.

Branded by Past,
Crafted by what-yet-to-Come;
Worlds apart,
Put in the same room again.

Flip-flops during winter,
Versus unused bed sheets;
Worlds apart,
Yet our Hearts intertwined.

POSTSECRET.BLOGSPOT.COM

PostSecret: Confessions on Life, Death and God from Frank Warren on Vimeo.

APOEM

orange

I
cinemas. clubs. parks.
beaches. cafeterias. college libraries.

pain, sadness. depression.
why all of This -

why Now?
why hear the voices you hear?

why Here?


there. there you go.
love, death. love, death, love death love, Love
stop. -

I want you inside of me
I want you -

I want your misery, your depression, your

pain,
come Here.

there. there you go.
in a room once Orange

you love me? sure

I Love you too.

will you still want to hold me Tomorrow?
will you still want to kiss me, caress me, fuck
me?

Fuck
there I go -

in a room once Orange


II
you love me?
in a room once Orange?
how about Real life -

will you still Love me tomorrow?


I have never made love in a bed before.
in fact, I have never made Love

before

cinemas. clubs. parks.
beaches. cafeterias. college libraries.

pain, sadness. depression.
loneliness -

why Now?
why hear the voices that you hear?

why Here -


in a room once Orange

WAKEUP

My fingers bleed from scratching the walls in the middle of the night. I have woken up, screaming, in pain. I look at my fingertips and suck the blood off of them.

It is 5:24 in the morning. I watch the cigarette smoke of my last cigarette dissolve in the air of my apartment that once must have been untainted and innocent.
I take a deep breath and inhale the toxic smoke, mixed with the hot, humid damp of the cup of green tea that is in front of me.

It is 5:25 in the morning. Maybe I should sleep.
Is this what it has come to be? Screaming nightmares, bleeding fingertips, alcohol, drugs, sex, shit, fuck, stop.

People will always come and people will always leave. I have never left anyone; I guess I was too scared to. I've always stuck around, waiting for people to leave me, waiting to be left. Alone. I realise now that, all this time, I've carefully been creating my own private hell. So this time, I left. But you know what? It doesn't feel any better.

Screaming nightmares, bleeding fingertips, depression, rape, violence, alcohol, depression, fingertips, medication, drugs, parks, shit, fuck, FUCK, stop.

I fell from one hell, one nightmare, right into another.
Maybe I should sleep. The ashed head of my cigarette has given up on me and is now lying on the table. I stare at it.
I do not notice how much time passes. It might be 2 minutes, it might be 3. It might be a century, or maybe one and a half. Who knows?
The thing is, I can't sleep. Not until I've figured out which is the real hell, the real nightmare. You know, living and dreaming are pretty much the same thing, for one the stakes are just a little higher. The fun part is,- or well, 'fun'- The interesting part is figuring out which one is real.
Why did I leave you? You never asked me to. Maybe I should sleep.

Yes, I should sleep. I will, in fact, get some sleep tonight.
And as I lay my pen down, because my fucking fingertips have started bleeding again, I decide that tomorrow...

Tomorrow I will ask you to leave me.


For the last time.

TYPEWRiTERS

I don't know, man.
I just know that I want you. I want to hold you, feel your sweet breath in my neck, while you read what I am typing out on your suitemate's typewriter.
I want you to hold me, to feel my breath in the morning, when I wake you up with one of my sweetest kisses ever given out to anyone lucky enough to even get one.
They are rare.
Just like you. Don't you see?
You are rare, man.
Oh, I don't know.
I just know that I want this, whatever this is, this thing that we have, you and me - when we hold each other in the dark and whisper things that no one should ever say in the first place,
I want this chemical, toxic love to continue.

Love?

Oh man, I don't know.. You said it.
You said it first - those softly spoken words, coming from those moist lips, carried on a sweet breath at 4 in the morning.

In a room that was once orange.


I want you.
Now. Forever. - you and me.

Oh man, I don't know.

FiTFORADViCE.

I decide it is time. I look in the mirror in the bathroom of my college dorm and decide that it is time.
I am a novelty, even to myself. And as I try to avoid the stars that are flickering in front of my eyes, I realise that there is no way around the dizziness and pain anymore. Yes, this is what it has come to be; this is what my reflection is now - no reflection at all. It has become a more and more frequent thing, not seeing myself and having to rely on other people's perception of how I look and how I'm doing. People say I'm anorexic, but that's not true - in fact, I eat too much.
I plant my long, bony fingers on my cheekbones, and stretch back the fleshy skin that is covering them. I move my hands to my collarbones, and dig my fingernails into my skin, as if holding a steering wheel. I close my eyes; it feels so good. My mind and hands travel further down, till they reach my hips. I make two fists and pound on the pointiness of my hipbones. I swallow. I feel so proud, yet so disgusted. I feel my bones sticking out, poking through my skin, but have gotten used to that feeling and so I dismiss it; I can always be thinner; I can never be too thin. But as with everything else, I dismiss it before I get too much into it.
I take a seat on the rug on the floor and think about Angelina Jolie and Keira Knightley; did/do they ever go through what I'm going through? I'm not nearly as skinny as they are, not nearly as beautiful. Maybe my body is still getting used to this feeling of emptiness.
My head starts spinning again. Or is it the room?
I still sit on the bathroom floor, with my head between my knees now. Is this what it is like to grow up? I wonder. I think I know the answer already.
I lift my head, call out for my roommate. She's not there again. I sigh and call out for my suitemate. I hear her rush to the bathroom. She opens the door and stares at me and my repulsive, naked body, and says: Oh dear, I never thought it was this bad... She sits next to me and holds my massive tininess. What happened? she asks carefully. And for the first time in months, I cry. I tell her - I tell her everything. I tell her about the hiding, the sneaking, the lying. She makes it seem alright; she doesn't seem to blame me at all. It's okay, she assures me. But I can't stop crying. All the way to Health Services, I cry. All the way to the hospital, I cry. All the way to the Eating Disorder Clinic, I cry. But it is time. It is time to radically change.
In Middle School, I started to split my cookies in half. I said no -NO!- to seconds; hardly ever finished my firsts.
In High School, I had an appetite to act, dance, sing, make love, and taste, always saying no -NO!- to the latter.
The food in front of me turned into an altar of resistance, of discipline. I was so lonely, so anxious. It was easy not to eat. A lot easier than feeling all these difficult and complicated emotions, at least.
After weeks, months, years, I allow myself to eat. After all this time of calculated portions and predetermined meal planning, I do finally allow myself to eat.
I feel sick to my stomach. I go outside to get some fresh air. I then realise that it wasn't the taste of the food, nor the action of eating, that made me go where I went; I realise it was the action of not eating, and the combined feeling of emptiness and numbness that pushed me over the line. I am heartbroken.
I go back inside and feel everyone's gaze on my growing stomach, arms and legs. I feel like I'm about to...
I purge. Not voluntarily, but I purge. I am confused, heartbroken.
What, what am I doing? What have I done to myself? And as I think these things, my body spasms forward, I collapse to the ground, and I purge again. In all my sins, I purge.
Is this what it means, to grow up? Losing passions, friends, energy, life? Ourselves? Can we grow down? If so, then what defines us? The empty pit in our stomachs? Our attitudes, our lifestyles, our destinies? Our hurt? Our disease? My disease?! I don't know.
I only know that I don't feel a lot more than before, but what I do feel more, is happiness. I look in the mirror in the bathroom of the eating disorder clinic, and I see myself. I actually see myself, and with that, I see a happier person than ever before.
Mirrors may not be fit for advice, but feelings; true, pure and unpolished feelings.. Those definitely are.

GROWiNG UP, GROWiNG DOWN?

I decide it is time. I look in the mirror in the bathroom of my college dorm, and decide it is time.
I am a novelty, even to myself. As I try to avoid the stars that are flickering in front of my eyes, I come to the conclusion that there is no way around the dizziness and pain anymore. Yes, this is what it has come to be; this is what my reflection is now - no reflection at all. It has become a more and more frequent thing; not seeing myself and having to listen to other people telling me what they see.
I plant my long, bony fingers on my cheekbones, and stretch back the fleshy skin that's covering them. I move my hands to my collarbones, and dig my fingernails into my skin, as if holding a steering wheel. I close my eyes; it feels so good. My mind and my hands travel down to my hips. I make two fists and pound on the pointiness of my hipbones. I swallow. I feel so proud, yet so disgusted. I feel my bones sticking out, poking through my skin, but have gotten used to that feeling, and so I dismiss it; I can always be thinner, I can never be too thin. But as with everything else, I dismiss the thoughts before I get too much into them. I think I know the answer already.

I sit on the floor, thinking of Angelina Jolie and Keira Knightley; did/do they never go through what I'm going through? I'm not nearly as skinny as they are, not nearly as beautiful. Maybe my body is still getting used to this feeling of emptiness.

I still sit on the bathroom floor, with my head between my knees now. Is this what it is like to grow up? I wonder. I think I know the answer already.

I lift my head, call my roommate. She's not there. I sigh and call out for my suitemate, and hear her rush to the bathroom. She opens the door and stares at my naked, repulsive body, and says:Ohh... Dear, I never thought it was this bad. She sits down and holds my massive tininess. What happened? she asks carefully. And for the first time in months, I cry. I tell her,- I tell her about the hiding, the sneaking, the lying. She makes it seem alright; she doesn't seem to blame me at all. It's okay, she says. But I can't stop crying. All the way to the hospital, I cry. All the way to the eating disorder clinic, I cry. But it is time. It is time for me to radically change.

In Middle School, I started to split my cookies in half. I said no -NO!- to seconds; didn't finish my firsts.
In High School, I had an appetite to act, dance, sing, make love, and taste, always saying no -NO!- to the latter.
The food in front of me, all food, but especially the food that was prepared by me, turned into an altar of resistance, of discipline. It didn't last long for me not to feel anything anymore. I was so lonely and anxious. It was easy not to eat. It was at least a lot easier to feel hungry than to feel any of the painful emotions that I would feel if I would eat.

After weeks, months, years, I allow myself to eat. After all this time, probably even longer than I am now semi-willing to recognise, of calculated portions and predetermined meal planning, I do finally allow myself to eat. And it tastes. Unbearably bad.

I realise that this is why I stopped eating. I realise that my tastebuds didn't want to go through the strenuous pain of the action of eating anymore. I realise that this is why I purged to begin with: my stomach couldn't tolerate something this gross and repulsive any longer., And then I stop. I stop my thoughts and think to myself: Really, Ed? Are you really trying to manipulate me now? Are you really trying with all you have to convince me that that is where you came from? Really?
I feel sick to my stomach.

I go outside to get some fresh air. I realise that it wasn't the taste of the food, nor the action of eating - it was the action of not eating, and the combined feeling of emptiness and numbness, that made Ed come to life.
I am heartbroken.

I go back inside and feel everyone's gaze on my growing stomach, arms, and legs. I feel like I'm about to...
I purge. Not voluntarily, but I purge. I am confused, heartbroken.
My body should love me for getting renourished, I think. But instead, it hates me, just like how Ed hates me and has hated me, for all of his existence. Just like how I hate myself.

What, what am I doing? What have I done to myself? And as I think these things, my body spasms forward, "I collapse to the ground, and I purge again. In all my sins, I purge.
Is this what it means to grow up? Being on the brink of breaking up with yourself by obsessing over yourself? By buying clothes 2 sizes too small as a motivator to lose weight? What does it mean, to grow up? Losing passions, energy, life, friends? Oneself? Can we grow down?
If yes, then what defines us? The empty pit in our stomachs? Our attitudes, our lifestyles, our destinies? Our pain? Our disease? My disease? I don't know.

I only know that I can't feel much more now, but what I feel more, is what 'normal' people would call 'happiness', I think. I look in the mirror in the bathroom at the ED clinic, and I see myself. I see myself, and with that, I see a happier person than ever before.

A MiRROR, DARKLY

Living is dreaming. The stakes are just a little higher.

-Chris Lazariuk

A MiRROR, DARKLY

The only difference between reality and fantasy is that we get to wake up from one of them. The fun part is choosing which to wake up from.

-Chris Lazariuk

MY JOURNEY iN THE SUN.

I see myself on a road. I keep going and going. And going. The road I was taking before, I found steady, safe.. Helpful. It was like sledding down a hill; the adrenaline rush one of the greatest I've ever had. I went faster and faster as time progressed and I seemed unaware that every slope has to stop at some point.
But it did. It stopped and I crashed and burned. I realised I was sledding, but it would be safer to walk, maybe. So I walked. And walked and walked. And walked. Then I started to walk a little faster, I started to run. I got out of breath and stopped running, stopped walking, stopped with everything altogether. I wasn't going anywhere anymore; I didn't move at all from my safety spot; it had never felt SO good to just... Stop. And not do anything.
One day I woke up and decided that my journey couldn't have 'just ended'. I realised that nobody's journey should 'just end', so that counts mine as well. I picked myself up and made it; the longest journey I'd ever made, and am still making. I made it to a place where I didn't have to move, wasn't allowed to move even, to continue my journey. Klarman.
It allowed me to make connections between myself, my eating disorders, my treatment, my RECOVERY, and the road I have been on for all of my life.
It's NOT just a road, it's also a change of seasons, a change of heart. It's winter now, the road is slippery. But one day, spring will come, and the ice under my feet will melt under the sun.
It might become slippery again as winter settles back in, but that sun, that warm, comforting sun, will always - ALWAYS - come back out.
Here comes the sun!

i LOVE YOU AS MUCH AS i CAN

There are things in life that we do not foresee. Things we do not wish upon anybody - even the thought of them merely knowing that you went through one of those things is something that you do not want the other person to experience, so you keep it a secret. A deep, dark secret, that becomes harder and harder to delve up as time progresses.

I have been through various of these things. And I know that I am not the only one who went through these things, but that doesn't make me feel any less guilty, ashamed or disgusted.

Several times now have I heard that you have to love yourself in order to love those around you - those who try to love you, over and over again. Is this true? I kept asking myself that question on a day-to-day basis. Well, I thought a few days back, it might not be. But it might as well be very true after all. So why not at least try to love oneself?

Being in an eating disorder clinic in Massachusetts has taught me a lot over the course of the past month and a half. I feel like I already like myself a lot better than I did before, even though I can't quite say that I love myself yet. I am in the process of loving myself, for the sake of being able to return the love that I receive from those around me. The love that I couldn't see (hence, accept) all this time.
The fact that I realise all of this, already says a lot, I think.

I try to look at this process on a day-to-day basis, just like I asked myself if the aforementioned statement was true on a day-to-day basis.
And you know what?

It might be true.
It might absolutely be true.

DEPRESSiON

Being depressed is all about the inner self; about searching for it, finding it and then loosing it. It is an endless circle and by the time the common people figure that out, it's too late for suicide and they die of age.

You don't know what depressed is. You may have read about it or seen a couple of movies or known someone that was/is depressed, but you don't know what it is.



Being depressed is not sleeping the right amount of nights, long enough to forget how many nights you skipped in the first place. It is not being able to walk a straight line without falling sideways. It is forgetting who you are, what you do and why. It is why. One, big, W H Y ?
Why are you spacing out? Why do you hear voices? Why do people keep looking at you? Why are you here? Why life? Why not choose death instead?
You don't deserve anything. Not even to be happy. So why are you here, wasting space, money, water and food?

You stop eating, because you forget to. Then you continue with not eating, because it just feels so good. And once it doesn't feel good enough anymore, you can't stop yourself.
All you can think about, is yourself, even though you're the last person you'd take care of. Your thoughts mess with your head, body and soul.
You're dying.

And even though you want to die, you don't even see it's happening already. You'd be a lot happier if you'd realise your dying wish was literally coming true.
You make yourself so important by always thinking everything is about you; people looking, talking, not doing anything... It's all somehow related to your tiny spot in this universe. Stop making the world revolve around you; it doesn't, and it never will.
So you don't tell anyone you got raped, because you don't think you're pretty enough for them to believe you. You're anorexic. Bulimic. You have an abortion. You're alone. All alone.

The pain you feel is real. The fact that you hide from it behind not eating or binging, or purging even, doesn't make it less real.
You're depressed; searching for the inner you.

I don't believe in happiness. No, I believe in the moments in between the moments of unhappiness and depression.
You're searching for yourself, which leaves you with the big W H Y ?'s. You find yourself, which some people might want to call 'happiness', just for the sake of it. But then you loose yourself, which makes you unhappy again and the start for the search of the inner you starts all over again.

This is how everything about yourself, except for one thing, always changes. What remains the same, is the fact that you're always changing.

iDAREYOU.

Sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down. You know it's not a good idea to get involved, but it's love, so you do it anyway. You know something bad will come out of it, but hey, it's love, so you do it anyway. You're not meant to be, but you want to be; you just happened. You never know what can come out of it, except for the bad. But when it's love, you get a kick out of it anyway. It doesn't matter how long it lasts, because memories last forever.
I know I'm not one to preach, especially not when it comes to love. But let me ask you one thing: if you knew you would die tomorrow, what would you do today? If you don't enjoy things as long as they're there, then how are you going to enjoy the memories afterwards? We're all waiting for the One, but what do we do in the meantime? We have to be in our prime for the One, and the thing that most gets us in our prime, is loving. So stop waiting in the rain, telling everyone that passes by you're waiting for the One. And go out. Find people you can love. People that will knock you down, and people that will help you to get back up again.
One of them will be the One. And you will be in your prime.
Now go on, I dare you. Love me.

ONEDAY..

He put a leaf in the booklet she was writing in, and said:´Now write a story about that, that starts with "And he put a leaf in her booklet."´ She said she couldn´t,- it would reveal too much, because it would be too personal. She wrote stories about everything and nothing, but never about him. She always had him on her mind, though.
She translated one of her stories for him and showed it to him. He didn´t have a reply for anything,- he was struck wordless..by only words.
This girl had his heart and soul, and made him fall in love with her within only days. For some reason, he had a feeling that it would only get stronger as time would go by. She was special, this girl. She could see right through him, without trying very hard. At least that was what it seemed like.
In reality, she needed a lot of energy and patience to see through those beautiful blue eyes of his. She knew things about him that most people didn´t know, nor himself.
But one day, she promised herself, she would tell him everything. And one day, he promised himself, he would find the words to say. He would know how to say ´I love you.´

TIMELEFT.

And we lose ourselves in each other´s arms. We go to the beach, have a picnik, smoke up, and lie in each other´s embrace. His red skin burns agains my pale skin, as he lies in my lap, and when he turns his head, his blue-green eyes ask me questions about life, death, God, time, sex, and the world. His body wants me, but his head protests.
-What´s the use of falling in love and give your heart and soul to someone who you know you won´t end up with?
But it´s too late now, Romeo and Juliet, it´s too late. You got yourself and the other person in a situation you would rather not be in, trust me.
But for now, let us enjoy our joint on the beach. Let us enjoy the sun, and each other´s embrace.
The little time we have left. My darling, my love.

EVERYTIMEHESMILES.

There are those little things we love in life. Clean bathrooms, babies, the cherry on top of the whip cream, watching our lovers comb their hair. And watch them smile.
Have you ever watched the horizon right after the sun has set? It reminds me of what his eyes look like when that same sun shines upon his lovely face. He smiles and the world opens up. He smiles and his book opens up,- he tells me stories. He smiles and he makes me smile.
There is a little part between his teeth that´s open,- it makes me want to giggle everytime I see it. Everytime he smiles.
I don´t know what it is that hits me everytime he smiles, but something does.
It´s not love, it´s deeper than that.
I know I fuck up time and time again, but one day I´ll make him mine. I will be right up there in his league, or he will be right down here in mine. I know this, because his smile tells me that whatever happens, he will be there, and won´t let me go.
It´s the wrinkles in the skin around his eyes that tell me that.
Everytime he smiles.