There’s a man in Camden Town

There’s a man in Camden Town
he did some coke on Friday
Yeah, there’s a man in Camden Town
he did some coke on Friday

He’s a business man, with no girl at hand
he roams the streets of London
Wanders aimlessly, on troubled feet
hw watches the world fly by

There’s a warthog in a mausoleum
there’a a princess washing floors
yeah that rightwing man will vote for the Labours
and the fire will be cold

There’s a man in Camden Town
he went to work on Monday
There’s a man in Camden Town
he went to work on Monday

He’s a worried guy, but he gets by
he loves to make it thunder
Dances flawlessly, on troubled feet
and he watches the world fly by

There’s a warthog in a mausoleum
yeah there’s a princess washing floors
that rightwing man will vote for the Labours
and the fire, the fire will be cold

Coming out of the closet

Looking up the definition of coming out of the closet, it says that it’s about coming out as gay, admitting that you’re interested in the opposite gender. But really, couldn’t I just as well use it for coming out about my horseaddiction (not true!), or being secretly really into gingers? I mean there’s like closet-nerd, closet-politicians, closet-anything! So, hey, it’s not the gay closet I’m coming out of. (You should’ve listened to the digression that went on in my head right now, wow, can’t keep my thoughts straight.)  This is something else, that I’m keeping secret.

There are big things in my life, that practically takes up almost my entire life that I don’t like to talk to people about, like depression, and anxiety and that kinda stuff. It’s always there in my life, it’s not my life, but it’s always there. This isn’t something I’m keeping secret anymore though. I never speak about it really, but I won’t really hush it up either. But this thing that I’m keeping secret only my family knows and one of my friends. And even on anonymous forums I won’t really disclose it, or write about it, though I think a lot about it.

I guess some people will get offended because I think this is something I have to keep a secret, as if it is something terrible, or something to be ashamed of. It’s not something to be ashamed of, and in and of itself it’s not something terrible, not at all. Still, I’ve made an effort for it not to come out, told my parents and my one friend not to tell anyone. I will never speak up when someone I know is talking about this, even though I know a lot more about it than they obviously do. I’ve asked myself if this is the right decision, hiding something, that in reality is a part of what defines me.

When I first knew, I detested knowing. I hated that this was me. I wasn’t socially retarded, I wasn’t stupid in any way! I wasn’t some kinda freak that couldn’t understand social cues or read body language. I was just me, and not socially retarded, not socially retarded. It went on and on in my head that this wasn’t me. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with those who are socially retarded, we are all worth the same, and we were all given a life. My problem was that what I associated with this wasn’t me at all. What I thought this said about me, didn’t fit at all. But I had it all wrong. What I thought I knew about this was in fact not even right. And that’s part of the reason I’m keeping it a secret. Because why should others know more about this than what I did?

Even if people knew the right things, this is something that’s not that normal, and I know that people would look at me differently if they knew. Maybe in a better light, maybe in a worse. But I want people to know me through the things I do when I’m with then. I don’t want them to expect or make up their minds about me from something they don’t know anything about, which is the case of most people. At the same time, I’ve been wondering if my life had been easier if my friends could know. If I could tell them a little about how this affects me, and how things would be easier for me. I don’t know. What do you think?

Truth is, I hated it, and wanted it to go away for so long. I do think it’s terrible … in my life. It’s terrible because I’m different, and I’m the one there’s something wrong with (not because it’s true, but because normalcy is the same as majority). But maybe also it’s terrible because I’m still pretending this isn’t me. I’m pretending I don’t perceive the world differently. Because when I’m not telling, or being honest about it, isn’t that the same as pretending it isn’t so? Maybe that is why it’s terrible in my life. Not because of it.

I’m not gonna say that this is something I have, because then it sounds like a disease, or some injury, the way you have a cold, or the way you have cancer, implying it’s something temporary or something I don’t want. Even if I don’t sometimes (plenty of times, since I haven’t really come to terms with it yet), I can’t not want it. It can’t go away. This is something I am living with. I think coming out of the closet means I’m getting there, I’m reconciling with myself and being this way. Coming out to maybe one stranger on the web is not much, but it’s something.

Perceiving the world differently, understanding it differently. It doesn’t make sense at times, because I wasn’t brought up based on living my life on these terms. I was brought up to be normal, and I’m not. Whether I like it or not.

I am an Aspergirl.

But still, most of all, I am me. 

I took an overdose

I don’t know what to fucking say.
But all that stupid psychiatrist could say was that I obviously hadn’t tried everything, or that it had to be hard with someone with ‘my condition’ to cope … and ask me what I wanted them to do? If I knew, wouldn’t I have said?! Wouldn’t I have done it already. It hurts so much already, and then for someone who has spoken to me for 10 minutes to say that I haven’t tried hard enough, and I haven’t wanted it enough?
Yeah sure, I gave up sometimes, but every second of every hour of every day, I’ve fought. Even when I gave up I fought. I’ve wanted to lie down in my bed, and just sleep and rot, and die, but I’ve gotten out of bed. Sometimes I’ve almost wet myself, because I don’t give a shit … But I’ve never because I want to get better. I want my life.
… And I don’t want my life. Because I’m so tired of fighting. I’m so tired of fighting. I’m so tired of fighting a battle I don’t understand, and that I can’t seem to win.
As I lied there in the ICU I hated them for not healing me. Why couldn’t they just fix me. Fix me.
I’m lying here crying. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to keep breathing. I know: in … out … in … out. It’s simple, but it’s not easy. Take it all away. Just take it all away.
I know those people who say that it’s selfish of me being depressed or sad or suicidal, ‘look at others’, ‘don’t be so self-centered’ … wtf? I don’t choose to feel this way.
I don’t know what to fucking say.
I wanna win, I wanna get better. Fix me, I can’t take it anymore.

I’ve lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Help, I have done it again 
I have been here many times before 
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there’s no-one else to blame

How can Sia’s words be so much more fitting than my own. I can put those words out there, because I know it wasn’t I (!) who wrote them. No matter how much they apply to me right now, the help word is not my own. Because it’s scary. But when it’s hers it’s okay to let it show. 

Be my friend 
Hold me, wrap me up 
Unfold me 
I am small 
And needy 
Warm me up 
And breathe me

I don’t know how to try anymore.
Even if I did say it myself (help) … I don’t know how.
Help. me. breathe? 

Ouch I have lost myself again 
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found, 
Yeah I think that I might break 
I’ve lost myself again and I feel unsafe

God. Please.