It was the night when the sky was dappled blue with clouds. I remember it had a pale pink glow towards the east like the clouds were ripped pieces of trace paper in front of a drying watercolour. And it was nights like these where I wished I owned a compass. So that in all the uncertainty, and for when you cannot see the moon or the stars, you will always know one thing for sure. Which way is north. And this also the night when I realised that it’s not as easy to crawl into your parents bed as it used to be. I’d been crying, making the duvet salty with every gasp for air that came rushing from my throat. And this was a rare night because I don’t cry much. The sadness is buried so deep into my bones that it cannot flow with the tears any more so I have no choice but to surrender to the empty void of bleeding lips and forked tongues. I could see the blade that was glinting in the dying light but, although every voice in my head was screaming for blood, I did not reach for it. And then my heartbeat was so loud in my ears that it overcame the whispers of my ghosts and all that was left was the stinging in my bloodshot eyes and the rhythmic beat of my heart against the cages of my ribs. So it was the night I counted to four with each quivering breath and tiptoed out of bed into my parents’ bedroom. I guess I should have known that it would not be like it was when I was little. The last time I’d done this was when I was six and had had a nightmare and was too scared to sleep again. I suppose the only difference, 10 years later, is that the nightmare is this life and that I am now more scared of the monsters in my head than the ones under my bed. This was the night that I stepped over my fathers’ cold feet until I was crouched in a space between him and our dog and, after swinging my lefts over the bedpost into the cool air, sat for a while, the dog sleepily nuzzling my hand with his warm nose. And that was the night when I realised that I could no longer fall asleep safe in the arms of my father and instead I would simply have to return to my own cell of white walls and shredded memories. And so I did and as I did so, I let the water drag my head into the current, leaving my consciousness with the waves.

Coffins behind the velvet.


I think about dying quite a lot. Not necessarily the suicide kind of dying, though that creeps in too sometimes, but it’s never serious… Just thoughts about pain and how much easier one way would be than another. But the kind of dying that has no real meaning; no ending note. No crying, or screaming for the pain to stop. Simply slipping quietly into a peaceful state of non-existance and tranquility. And it seems so appealing. Dressed in white, or maybe black, alone to sleep the hurt away.
And that is how we see it.
But I think that maybe the peace is a facade and that we never really get peace, do we, because of everyone left behind. And death is never easy. There are never the slow, lapping waves of calm washing over you, and instead a dark tidal wave of the regrets of the dead. No memories here. Just our stale hearts as they rest in the cages of our ribs, slowly pumping your remaining sadness round your veins before it finally gives in to the velvet curtain of darkness and it drops to shield your coffin from the tears on the pews, rotted by words of our choking throats.
If peace is the ultimate desire, then surely the nails of the coffin is no place to rest our sorry souls.

She still exists?

This was supposed to be published last night, but I ended up finishing it at 1am and my wifi was non-existent. Damn.

Yeeees, I do.


I have been meaning to write at least something but I have simply come to the conclusion that my creative instinct has just evaporated or gone for a long holiday to Mexico.


So, how about a mid-year review kind of thing? oh this will be depressing

So, at the start of this year, I did that… *whispers* New Year Plan and as far as you and I are concerned, it never… happened. Okay?


See, thing is, nothing has been done about that.

And this is why I don’t make resolutions.

…So… in a moment of desperation, let’s take a look at this… plan.

Blog reflections ~ Considering I started this blog on Christmas Eve 2012, I may as well look back on some of my worst posts ever and laugh and cringe at how badly worded they are and at my failed attempts to make jokes. And just muse over how awesome you all are and wonder about how you don’t realise how much I suck.
Reflections on the past year ~ Basically where I remember all the really bad/awkward/stupid/idiotic things that have happened over the past year and cry about them whilst armed with a pot of Ben and Jerry’s.
Resolutions (and what happened to last year’s) ~ Oh dear.
2014 Bucket List ~ Bucket lists are good, right?
Hopes for 2014 ~ Probably trying to be deep and failing.
Blog ideas and series that I may or may not keep up ~ I have so many ideas lying around so I may as well list them all and have this list as a constant reminder of my decreasing blogging abilities.

Oh god.

Have I done any of these things?

No, no aaaaaand oh look! No!

So, swiftly moving on from that.

What have I done?

Well, are you sitting comfortably?

…Yeah I got nothing.

Is an existential crisis an appropriate reaction to the moment you realise that you have literally done nothing but eat pizza and cry for half a year?

Maybe talking about my current state of affairs would be a better idea. you wish, don’t even pretend you’re doing something with your life

Currently, I am a pizza-devouring, guitar-playing, peach tea-drinking almost-sixteen year old on the brink of crisis. I’m constantly torn between the lust of having electric blue hair and keeping it dragon-scale blonde, as one of my best friends once described it. I long to be a mermaid in a sea of fairy lights but also a shadow, writing dark poetry in the moonlit corner of a room. I watch Supernatural too much and I cry when Dean gets hurt, but I can’t say I care so much about Sam. I eat a lot of pizza and Oreo chocolate and I thank God for fast metabolism. I have the best friends in the universe and am ever so slightly in love with them. I want floral skateboards and snakebites and black and white dresses and books and an endless supply of Ryden fanfic and films and bottles of Jack Daniels and I want 50s swing dresses and Alex Turner and to kiss Andrew Garfield on the cheek and I want tickets to see Arctic Monkeys and to travel the world and I want to feel intoxicated.

But also?

I’m average. I’m fifteen and working at a little garden centre on Saturdays to pay for my music addiction. I’ve talked four people out of suicide and I would be lying if I said I can cope with that. I’ve been advised by a doctor to see a councillor, which isn’t possible for me until next term at least. I’m in a constant battle with my mind and I have a few too many scars to prove it. I’m scared to let people down and I’m scared to see myself get any worse. I don’t know where my relationship is going; I don’t know where I want it to go. I don’t like to admit that I get jealous, or paranoid. I don’t like to admit that I still want to die. Or that I still want to see blood. And I’m sorry we don’t talk as much as we used to. And that I ignore you sometimes. It’s just so loud in my head that I can’t string two words together to tell you that I love you. But I am okay.

And I was not the girl who listened to The Smiths before she heard Asleep in Perks. And sometimes I don’t read the books before I see the films. And I don’t have a fake ID and I’ve never even properly got drunk. I get nervous putting my hand up in class, but I’m good at small talk. My idol appears naked on her album cover and is known to be one of the most reckless females in the rock industry but I’m self-conscious and I’ve never had a detention. And I would like to say I don’t care about anything but I have to please people. And sometimes I like to talk to people just because they try. And I’m prone to mood swings and sometimes I hurt people and say the wrong things. My sister is one of my closest friends and I rely on her a lot. I’d like to say that the only person I rely on is myself but I need certain people to stay alive.

And I would say that I am rather quite unextraordinary.


Mid-year review?

Ordinary. But okay.



An existence. One filled with a ‘feeling’ so hard to comprehend, and consequently, inexplicably hard to define.

Being empty is when you are running on only the most necessary state of mind needed for the simplest survival; you carry out day-to-day tasks without realising. You walk, you eat, you drink, you sit down, you lie down, you stare, you disappear. You don’t realise.

Being empty is when you see your reflection and see it as just a reflection of a person whom you do not recognise. It is when you stand and stare at the person in the mirror for endless minutes, thinking nothing, seeing nothing. You do not see the emotions or the history behind the skin. You see only a person, it is not you, is it even a reflection any more?

Being empty is when you hit things, punch walls, cut deep, without a second thought. It is when you wait for the pain to set in because you need it so badly to remind you that you are still alive, not just in a limbo of confused existence. It is when you don’t even realise you needed the pain, you just do it as a reflex.

Being empty is being physically unable to move or talk or listen. You cannot move from your state of paralysis in front of the mirror or in the corner of your room. You cannot move the fingers that you have so intricately entwined with a blade away from your wrist. You cannot answer the question you were just asked. You cannot recognise the words that are being spoken.

Being empty is where you see only denotation. The connotations you automatically think have disappeared and you are left with nothing but ‘ceiling’, ‘rain’, ‘blood’.

Being empty is where you are not sad, nor happy, nor angry. You feel them all at once, in a rush so strong that you cannot feel them at all. Perhaps it could be said that there is so much emotion that there is none.

Being empty is where you do not know which is worse; the emotion or the state of numbness.

Being empty is when you do not feel. Being empty is when you cannot feel. Being empty is being a ghost.

Being empty is feeling nothing when your lover kisses you or wraps his arms around you and holds you tight. It is feeling nothing when she strokes your face and tells you that it is going to be alright.

Being empty is when you cannot cry because there is nothing to bring the tears, despite the millions of thoughts that circled in your mind just ten minutes ago.

Being empty is not living.

Being empty is existing.

Being empty is being hopeless.

Today I’m… Okay.

Funny thing is, ‘okay’ sounds like something that’s just, well, okay. Nothing particularly uplifting or special, just okay. But now… Now I’ve found that ‘okay’ is a luxury, a rarity that is worth more right now than I ever thought it would. To be ‘okay’ is to feel some happiness, and happiness is a virtue that I appreciate more than ever now I’ve experienced how it feels to be without happiness for such a length of time that all hope seems to disappear.

Recently, things have gone downhill; a never-ending fog of internal darkness that just doesn’t go away.

But today… Today I’m okay.

I hope you are too, don’t give up.


Reasons To Carry On 1-50

A few nights ago, or sometime last week, I was having one of my worst days. Not because anything had happened, not particularly, it was just one of those nights where I’d just lie in the darkness doing everything to hold myself together. It was one of the Tidal Wave nights (I wrote a post on it in July which you can read here but it’s really bad and probably not worth reading) and I suddenly had a thought that kind of scared me.

Why am I still alive?

The scary thing was, it was a real, genuine question. I realised how ready I was to give up. Not that I was suicidal, not quite, just so close to losing every hope in myself and in life.

And so, I decided to finally do something that I’d been thinking about for a while; I began a list of reasons to carry on, reasons to be alive.

It was surprisingly hard just to think of one hundred reasons, however I’m determined to build it until it hits one thousand. Currently I have 104. Right now, I’m going to give you 50 of these, then another 50 in another post, etc, and this will become a series in the hope that someone, somewhere, will find some hope in it and will find something they can relate to whatever they’re going through.

So I’ll stop talking and copy out my list, bearing in mind, this is my list, so I have some more personal things on there (e.g. specific friends and people) but I’ll just work around those. I hope this can help someone remember why they’re still here.

  1. For __________ (my best friend).
  2. For __________.
  3. For friends.
  4. For my sister.
  5. For everyone who loves you.
  6. For __________.
  7. For my dog.
  8. For the summer.
  9. For the winter.
  10. For the autumn…
  11. And for the spring.
  12. For the night sky.
  13. For the moon at every beautiful phase.
  14. For all the stars.
  15. For everyone who hasn’t given up.
  16. For the stage.
  17. For the rain.
  18. For the storms.
  19. For the sunny days.
  20. For the dreams.
  21. For the guitar.
  22. For ___________.
  23. For ___________.
  24. For the bloggers.
  25. For the amazing eyeliner days. :’)
  26. For Panic!
  27. For the gigs.
  28. For the music.
  29. For the bands.
  30. For the good days.
  31. For the novels.
  32. For the laughs,
  33. For the inside jokes.
  34. For the smiles.
  35. For the ability to start again.
  36. For the sunsets.
  37. For the sunrises.
  38. For __________.
  39. For the amazing clothes.
  40. For the relationships.
  41. For the friendships.
  42. For the new, exciting crushes (shush, you have to love them!)
  43. For the adventure.
  44. For travelling the world.
  45. For the cuddles.
  46. For the hugs. (And yes, I believe that they are two different things.)
  47. For the kisses.
  48. For the TV shows.
  49. For the new albums.
  50. For the possibility of it getting better.

Just keep going.