My background, my history – which nobody exists in but me. The sleepless nights and shredded skin no-one ever knew about; the silent observations, anger and obsession which existed in my head alone. Sometimes I forget who I am. Too many late nights and an excess of alcohol tend to blur the edges and dilute the essence of a person and the life they lead. I feel ill, unstable, low. Anxious. Scared to acknowledge yet terrified to ignore.
I remember the persistent icy coldness of my old school. I remember the way I would sit in every lesson: my legs knotted together with my hands sandwiched inbetween to try and keep in the little warmth my body held. I remember the route I would walk to the bus stop at the end of the day, always walking around the very edges of pavement corners to burn as many calories as possible on the walk home. I remember feeling so lost and angry. Helpless and murderous and bitter. Stupid, really. Sometimes I’d have to travel home with earplugs in because the repetitive sound of my bag creaking made me angry enough to smash it against the pavement. If my mother had left the front door on the latch, it would take me at least ten minutes to get over the frustration of not hearing the satisfying click of the lock and the squelch of the handle as the door opened.
Chapters of life which are completed, finished, irrevocable. Too much feeling, too many memories. Too much of a fuck up to be able to let them go.