‘Explain this to me. What the fuck happened?’
It’s 03:32am and we’re doing sixty down a forty. The roads are mostly empty, but I know this means we’ll be hearing police sirens any second now, and I don’t know how shady it’ll look when they open the door of a blacked out A3 to see two brown twenty-somethings with blood on the passenger seat. But I don’t tell Adam about the last part, because I want him to make it to the hospital alive without flipping the car.
I wouldn’t normally see a doctor for a cut, but I haven’t been able to move my hand for a while without fear of painting his seats red. I can’t feel my arm anymore and I think my fingers are about to fall off.
‘I don’t know, man,’ I sigh, too exhausted to even try to think about what happened. These days I just give myself a migraine trying to fill in the gaps; I can’t remember something I wasn’t there for. But I saw the marks on her neck, and what I do know is I did it again. I don’t know what else happened; we made up and fell asleep, we had sex, I think. She fell asleep again. I stayed up. Everything was fine. Then there was blood.
The lights outside are a blur.
Adam quickly looks down at the blood-soaked cloth I’m holding against my left palm, and his eyes keep darting to his seats, occasionally checking that I haven’t spilled any. I have.
‘Why the fuck…’ he mutters under his breath as he pushes his foot down on the accelerator, the engine growling. Read more
Earlier. Around 8pm.
‘Please, just fucking let me go,’ she said slowly, trembling, and making sure I heard every single word.
I didn’t want her to go and she knew it wasn’t me, I just wanted to calm her down. I – whoever that was – probably hurt her, but that wasn’t me. It was not me.
Still, she could’ve screamed. She could have shouted, banged on the walls so people heard her; she knew how thin these walls were. She could have had someone running to rescue the damsel in distress, but she didn’t want to be saved. Because she enjoyed this. She would always come back to me because she loves me. I barricaded the door and that was the last thing I remembered when I was there.
‘Please,’ I heard her whimpering. I blinked and I was no longer by the front door; I looked down and saw myself holding her against the wall by the bathroom, my hand wrapped around her throat. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face looked slightly swollen. Her body was stiff and unmoving, the way it is when you’ve given up fighting and you’re bracing yourself for the worst. It took me four seconds to register what my hands were doing and I immediately removed them from her neck, allowing her to scurry to the corner of the bed.
‘Fuck,’ I whispered, looking down at my hands.
‘Tell me what just happened, what did I do to you?’
They keep telling me that if I fall asleep, she’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave me.
I’ve already noticed how she keeps her shoes and bag strategically by the door so she can run out as fast as possible and leave me here all on my own, which is why I always move them back by the foot of the bed. The table against the far wall is scattered with… things. Rolling papers, lighters, her phone, my wallet. I tap her phone to wake it up; a photo of us, smiling, lights up the screen. I laugh to myself as I remember how she begrudgingly replaced the picture of her favourite band. No notifications. That’s what I like to see. I swipe and enter the passcode anyway and open up messages to see the most recent ones.
Give me ten minutes. Make sure nobody sees you, and cover yourself.
LOOOOL slut. I’m gna tell them where u really are xx
Weariness starts to sting my eyes, so I lock her phone and walk into the bathroom to wash my face; the light is bright and harsh, so I push the door closed slightly so as to not disturb her. The lock is broken from where I kicked it in last week; she was crying and wouldn’t let me in. I run the tap and look up into the mirror, leaning on the counter with both hands.
I study my face. I had everybody after me. I had women dropping everything for me at the click of a finger, I had them whenever and wherever I wanted. Anybody I wanted would be mine, anything I wanted would be mine. I had money, I had looks, I had charm. I have had women fighting over me; I have had them betray their own friends for me. Women wanted me; men wanted me and wanted to be me. I run my finger across the scar on my left cheek; even my brothers were jealous of me. But she didn’t want me. She had no desire to know me, and I didn’t turn her head… so I had to have her. Nobody could say no to me, and I had to know why she was immune to my presence.
But I didn’t think I’d fall in love.
“Hate is the complement of fear and narcissists like being feared. It imbues them with an intoxicating sensation of omnipotence.”
― Sam Vaknin, Malignant Self-Love: Narcissism Revisited
selfishness, involving a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy, and a need for admiration, as characterizing a personality type.
This post has been sitting in my drafts for about a month and I no longer care about it, which is why I haven’t posted it… but I think I’m the guinea pig of the dating world. Apparently having ‘I am your mother’ plastered on my forehead, I somehow always found myself associating with the worst of the worst, so it’s only right that I use that for the greater good and teach you what I’ve learnt. And what I have learnt since then is the difference between a bitch boy and a man. I know the gender-is-a-social-construct brigade will get at me for that, but what can I say? There are men and there are men. We’re always categorising women, it’s only fair to do the same. When you’ve gone from dealing with boys who throw their toys out the pram for not buying them food to men who actually have their shit together and act like men, it’s hard not to talk about it.
But this post isn’t about the men, it’s about the bitch boys. I include the definition of narcissism because all sociopaths are narcissists. But not all narcissists are sociopaths.
The difference? Intention.
Both have extreme adoration for themselves, both will always put themselves first, both feel no genuine sense of guilt. Both are undeniably and unhealthily in love with themselves. Both are practically the same, bar one major difference.
A narcissist loves himself and will accidentally hurt you in the process because he’ll always put himself first. He cares about you, but he cares about himself more.
A sociopath loves himself and will at points intend to hurt you because he wants you to be hurt, and he’ll do anything to achieve that.
I just wanna let you guys know that I fulfilled a big fat dream I’ve had since I was about 14. That’s an almost 10 year old dream that I’ve FINALLY fulfilled.
I saw Poets of the Fall.
Yeah. Anyway, now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, did I tell you I finally saw Poets of the Fall?
Let’s begin. P.S I’m like a giddy little girl who finally saw her favourite band ever. (Yeah, don’t talk about HIM unless you want me to cry).
So world mental health day was the other day, and I’m always a bit iffy when it comes to the ‘narrative’ on mental health. Said narrative nowadays is always surrounding the ‘destigmatisation’ of mental illness, and I don’t agree with it. I’ve spoken about this time and time again, I’m always thinking about it, I wrote my dissertation on it; destigmatising mental illness is a bad thing. I think it’s a horrible, dangerous, erasing thing. Destigmatising mental illness essentially means to make it “normal”, and mental illness is anything BUT normal. The idea is good – make it easier to talk about. But it’s all gone in the wrong direction; making it ‘normal’, making it something that everyone and anyone has, makes it harder for people who are actually suffering to speak up. There is nothing normal about a mental illness, the same way there’s nothing normal about tuberculosis or gangrene.
Social media sites make it even worse. I get that we’re a generation of self depreciating folk. I get it. Teenagers are depressed and this economy makes them want to kill themselves; we’re all anxious and we’re all a mess. But the schizophrenic kid reading all these memes about depression isn’t going to feel comfortable getting help, because even in a world where everyone is mentally ill, they’re still psycho.
I guess I’ve always had this thing about psychotic illnesses being left out of every single narrative on mental health, and therefore the narrative cannot be complete. You can’t just romanticise the mental illnesses that are easier to have and deal with. Don’t fucking romanticise any at all. Anxiety isn’t cute, depression isn’t edgy, bipolar disorder isn’t something you can switch on and off whenever you feel like it. Not in reality, anyway.
So yeah, I once again have a few not-so-little things to say about Mental Health and here they are.
Here’s a long post, read it if you have time. Like 5 minutes, realistically.
Also: If you can figure out what’s written on that notepad, I’ll dedicate a post to you.
What am I doing these days.
First of all, I’m going to try my hardest not to incorporate my infamous self depreciating humour into this post, even though that is my biggest coping mechanism.
These days I’m reading, writing, researching, and listening to a lot of James Bay.
And I’m thinking.
I’m doing a lot of thinking, but I’m also doing a lot of …just … not thinking.
In other words: I’m keeping myself busy.
I try not to write about mental health, even though I should, because almost every blog I visit has posts about ‘dealing with depression’ or ‘dealing with anxiety’ or just ‘mental health’. And it makes me wonder how many of these people really do suffer from these issues, or if they’re just self diagnosed. As someone who has had doctors referring them to therapists and pestering them to take anti-depressants, it’s a bit … I don’t know. Annoying. It’s the reason I don’t enjoy speaking about my own mental health. I’m fine, but I’ll never deny that anxiety is my biggest enemy.