I can’t think of a suitably momentous title but heeeere’s Suzy…

Because I’m a sucker for flattery I’m back! Briefly! Well, not so briefly, actually; I intended to be brief but it turns out I had more to say than I thought I did, so this isn’t really that brief at all… as you can see, instead of collapsing hard drives across the globe I split it into chunks and put the chunks on pages, and this way it’s like an entire year’s worth of blogging in one post! You’ve got all the ingredients:

1. The post where there are several dramatic descriptions of the current state of me
2. The charmingly irrelevant anecdote post
3. The ‘because no mini-blog is complete without a crappy little bit of self-indulgence…’ post
4. The climactic and eagerly anticipated finale post

It’s all there! Contain your excitement!

Anyway, I get the feeling that some people may have given up on the idea that poor old DBAH would ever have another post on it (pessimists! Whatever would have given them that impression?), so tell your friends, tell your mother, tell your ex, rickroll it, spread the word like a Jehovah’s missionary, make the relentless spamming of this post around the internet your New Year’s resolution! It is also an excellent way to improve your karma. Seriously.

Not saying I’m the Son of God, but…

I made a big post. I may yet post the big post. But as, at the moment, that famous capacity for unstable interpersonal relationships is being displayed to its fullest extent, the sitch is somewhat tricky. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, and unfortunately nor does anybody else I speak to. The only person who appears to be getting through this unscathed is Danny, and it’s strange – I have a screaming fit at somebody and am leaping round yelling, and Danny walks in, and I sit at her feet, and I can see them staring at me in confusion because all of a sudden I’m calm as Jesus ever was. All the charm I’m so infamous for is all being saved up and used on her. She doesn’t mind. I’ve never argued with her, not in six years of being friends. She sees nothing unusual in my being friendly and chatty, because for her, it’s not. She doesn’t even notice Rhiannon et al. staring at her in amazement: what’s she got that I don’t? How does she get off like that without even trying? And it’s so odd. Danny is now garnering the same respect a natural-born lion tamer might.

In related news, Rhiannon is starting to grow a backbone: sixteen years overdue, but hey. I feel absurdly maternal. I was having a fairly justified go at New Kid Katie and Rhiannon was there so she got some of it too, and she started yelling back at me that she was nothing to do with it, she’d never said that, what new shit was I chatting now, eh?

Then Danny came in.

Jeez, I love school. (I am sincere. I do.)

Searches in verses… for hearses… um?

Nicking la’s idea, I present you with Finding DBAH: The Dada Way. I’m honestly not a poet.

Verse 1

classy death

classy quotes

“classy quotes”

quotes about classy

quotes (being classy)

classy the bear

You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline…

I guess you know things are getting interesting, mental health-wise (or not so healthy-wise) when you see ‘-ersonality disor-’ on your GP’s screen when she thinks you’re not looking.

OK, I know I occasionally sound very crazy in my posts. I don’t do it intentionally, but when I notice I’ve done it I don’t try to cover it up. I mean, that’s me. That’s me who wrote that, and if it’s what I think, then there’s not much point trying to hide it. I post one day about how glorious life is and just how amazing I am and you are and life is and I am and life is, and the next day it’s some disturbing post about my deep, deep hatred for Rhiannon, and how I know everybody is talking about me and how I can’t help but imagine killing them. I do believe that people talk about me; I do believe that they plan together to alienate me; I do believe, on an unconscious level, that there are cameras. It’s one of those things I never question because I know it’s true, because I’ve always had to believe it – like the existence of God. I grew up being told He was there, so I don’t question it. I grew up terrified of the constant surveillance I was under, so I still am. I know it’s there, on that fundamental level; while at the same time I know it’s ridiculous. I read an amazing post on AbysmalMusings the other day about insight; about how being aware you’re hallucinating doesn’t mean you’re not actually hallucinating. He’s an excellent writer. Read the post.

Warning: epiphany in process

Well. Without meaning to give more ammo to my lovely borderline shippers, I’ve got to say that the only war cry that springs to mind lately, the only phrase I think I could sincerely apply, is that infamous I love I hate you don’t leave me. But, of course, the fact I notice this rules out the possibility of BPD. Self-awareness is not part of the package.

Anyway, I’m not here to argue that today. I’m here to complain about the close friend of mine who’s recently buggered off to Canada. Things aren’t the same without her around at school. Because I knew she was leaving, she was amazing. She was wonderful. It wasn’t fair she was leaving. She was leaving me. How dare she leave me? She was leaving me and I was going to be on my own? And so I wouldn’t say her name and I hated her and I bitched about her and I spread rumours and now I’m over it a bit and I am so scared everybody else is going to leave me that I am going to leave them first. They’re not going to get a chance. It really seems to be the most logical option. I don’t want to be ditched. People are going to alienate me; they’re going to talk about me; they’re going to hate me how I’ve hated them and if they don’t, I’ll drag them down, and I don’t really think that the girls who are my friends particularly deserve to have to spend time with someone who is going to be looking at them and seeing their organs and bones and the blood in their veins, or involuntarily imagining how they would scream if that pen went into that eyeball at that angle – because I can’t help that, it’s a reflexive action – an immensely troubling one and one that is worsened whenever I read something like The Silence of the Lambs or The Regulators, which maybe I should avoid but seeing as those are two of my favourite books, I don’t and don’t even want to – I don’t mind feeling that way, which scares me -

Deep breath. New sentence.

A classic fairytale ending

It’s not everyone who can wonder whether they hallucinated their hallucinations in the first place. I lie. I lie to others and I lie to myself; I lie so convincingly to myself that there are very many things I’ve still got no idea whether they actually happened or not, and if they did, whether they happened the way I think they did. I think I heard voices. I know I heard voices. But I don’t know whether I heard them because of my lies and my obsessions and my tangled wishes or because of something else; something vaguely more acceptable, like honest-to-God psychosis.

Then again, maybe Rhiannon can win

‘Me and Rhi had the classiest time on the train, taking embarrassing photos on her digital camera and going on about her cat (boring, I also have cats, I know what they do, but endurable). We’ve been friends for six years now and besties for two of them when I fell out of love with Danny, and maybe I spent a year or so hating Rhi’s guts too but I’m way over that now, and face it, kiddo, she’s a gem. An attention-seeking gem who thinks the world of herself. I get to wondering what I ever saw in Danny and frankly I don’t know. Rhi is there for me.’

 

The dictionary says I’m not Welsh

I felt like writing but I think something’s clogging the place where inspiration usually flows from. So what I did, I opened my dictionary and took the first word as a topic. Like in public speaking – ten minutes to prepare your speech on ‘The Devil’s Own Work’, kind of thing.

 

And what did I get? Well, first I got ‘solenoid’, which is a physics thing (whoo!), and I did my last ever Physics exam this Wednesday, and I don’t think even I can spend a few hundred words reinterpreting ‘a coil of wire which becomes magnetised when an electric current is passed through it’ – and even if I could I wouldn’t want to. So. Ever onwards, I suppose. And thankfully, ‘solenoid’ was directly followed by ‘accent’. Phew…