The Hell Butterfly

Rantings

Conflict is the Bane of My Existence

I hate conflict.

I don’t use the word lightly. Hate is a strong word. There are many things I dislike, some with a passion, but hate is reserved for a select few things. One of these is conflict. I can’t stand it. Some people get twitchy at nails on a blackboard, I get it when an argument ensues. It’s just not in my nature to fight.

Conflict ranges from minor incidents to a full-on brawl. Weirdly I enjoy watching anime, which often involves blood and injury, but that I have a different opinion on. I hate the constant need to fight, that people can’t get along, and that characters are always seemingly angry at someone. But the actual fights themselves are often beautifully drawn and so, if they must fight, I can at least enjoy the art of it.

Physical altercations are, however, only one end of the spectrum. To some extent I find myself actually less affected by them than I do the arguments, the debate, the shouting in peoples’ faces. I can’t even watch Jeremy Kyle if there is more than one minute of consecutive shouting. I’m a turtle. When something happens I don’t like, I retreat. It’s almost physical, I actually feel my neck recede into my chest and my chin become one with my collarbone. Shouting just grates at me.

What’s worse is I can’t even listen to a passionate debate without thinking they’re angry. I stress over the smallest of tension in a voice, so even if what I hear is merely a discussion, if voices are stern I get tense. I have an anxiety over conflict. Any form of yelling or anger in normal conversation sets me on edge. It makes it hard when I’m with people who have naturally loud voices – I always feel they’re shouting.

My intense hatred of conflict has been fired up with the recent General Election. My boyfriend voted Green, my dad voted Conservative and I almost voted Labour. No matter what happened, one of us was going to be in the wrong. As it happens, Conservative won. In the few hours that followed this announcement more hatred and animosity than I’ve seen in a long time came flooding out in news and media: “The Conservatives only love themselves”, “The Tories don’t care about people”, “All they want is more money”, “Fuck the Tory scum”. I hate it. I really fucking hate it. The people who voted Conservative had a reason to do so, just like the people who voted Green, or god forbid even UKIP, had a reason to do so. It’s just the way it went. You all had a chance to vote, you cast your vote, the results came in. It’s that simple. The procedure is fair, couldn’t in fact be much fairer. You ticked a box, they counted them. This time around the Blues won.

Now get over it.

We have to live with certain things. Why get angry about something you can’t change? I hear it all the time, people give me advice and tell me not to let the things that I can’t do anything about affect me. And yet here are half the country complaining about a fair judgement that is no longer in their hands. Stop the conflict. Just stop it. It’s done.

I really fucking hate conflict.

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Because ‘Twisted’ is my Middle Name

Why do we feel we have to censor our writing in order to please the general public? The same old stories with their same old characters and same old plot-lines keep coming back over and over again onto our shelves. The same archetypes that have circulated the literary globe since the dawning of time. I can’t help but wonder, where are the real gruesome stories? Where is the blood, the incest, the fucked-up catastrophes that, let’s not forget, exist in real life.

Why is it socially unacceptable to write stories/poetry/lyrics about the topics that are a litle bit too ‘out there’ for a select few over-sensitive people? For some reason, there are a great number of people in the world who refuse to acknowledge that shit happens. Some people acknowledge it, but refuse to accept it. And what then for those of us that do both? I know there is some messed up stuff in the world, and I accept that. So why should it be considered ‘wrong’ or ‘taboo’ to stay quiet on the subject in literature?

I admit, I am not a great writer. I was under the impression for years I was great, but honestly I just know how to manipulate the English language in a mediocre way. But this aside, every story I come up with has some form of fucked-up shit happening either behind closed doors, or bang in the centre of a public place. For example, I just wrote a six word story for my university coursework:

Pale, cold, naked; Daddy’s Little Girl.

To many people the twisted suggestion of this will be too much to bear and in their heads they will be screaming why has something so vulgar been written? But I say to you, why not? Why shouldn’t it be written? Allow me to explain the meaning behind this story. On the face of it, it is a young girl loved by her father – maybe too much, and in the wrong way. The initial impression is perhaps some form of abuse. The point of the semi-colon is to split the physical attributes with the suggested context. But this can be read another way. Pale and cold, both applicable to the living and dead is it not? The other possible scenario here is a dead girl, treasured by her father. We don’t know why she is naked, but she is ‘pale and cold’, dead. In either case, the impact hits you like a truck on the highway.

This is why I love twisted literature.

What is the point of having one thousand books that all have similar characters, end happily and never have a single catastrophe, when you can have one book that smacks you in the chest with the iron fist of transgression? Dark writing is what I do best, and it is what I love to read. Shit goes wrong; death, disaster, sex drugs and tuck-and-rolling from speeding vehicles. Okay, so maybe the last one is a little unreaslistic, but why is it so wrong to use this unrealistic scenario to imply something much more sinister?

Basically, what I’m trying to say, is that vulgarity can make a much more moving piece of writing than a boring same-old-same-old mass produced pile of garbage mainstream literature. If you aren’t made to feel something when you read it, what is the God-damned point?


Thank God For The Manga

So it’s that time of year again: the weather is turning; uni is starting up; and yep, you guessed it, illness is in the air.

I’m usually the kind of person who rarely gets ill, but when I do, even the simplest illness can be hard to shake. I have had a cold (mild, I thought, until today) for 4 and a half days. This is probably average, but the fact most people will probably shake it in a week makes me nervous, as it’s nearing day 5 and it’s getting worse. It went from sore throat, to no sore throat but sniffly nose, to no sniffly nose but headache and temperature fluctuations, to no headache but a constantly changing temperature and pain when I breathe, to today. My temperature is all over the shop, my throat is hurting again, the nose won’t stop and my head hurts a bunch. The last time I felt like this I passed out. That was last December.

Don’t worry, I don’t plan on passing out today. Slow movements, lots of water and – if I can force myself into it – food. I’ve heard sugar is good in these situations. Maybe I’ll have a sugary tea in a bit, liquid sweetness. Lush.

Until then, I will be sitting here doing not much in particular. I have just this morning received an email about an induction for the International Book Festival happening in Plymouth in late October. I applied last week for a position as a Festival Steward. It’s a voluntary position and would look good on a CV. They just got back to me saying I’d passed the first stage and now have an induction session next week. Woohoo! I may feel like crap, but with a boyfriend who says he’d happily take care of me even if he got ill himself, and a position almost confirmed for the Book Festival, not all looks dire.

I mean, sure the online magazine I write for hasn’t published any of my articles in a month, and yeah so I haven’t gotten over my crippling inability to cook in front of my housemates, and yes I did just finish all 102 episodes of D.Gray Man and the post-series blues are kicking in. But at least I can walk around knowing I have a mini job and a very kind young man to look after me. It’s odd to me, looking at the positives in a negative situation, but I’ll take it. What’s the use of wallowing in my illness? It’s not like it’ll make it go away. Why get hung up over the lack of updates on the magazine? I can’t control it. Why get upset over no more D.Gray Man? I can always watch it again. And besides, there’s always the manga.


In Which the Blind Leads the Blind

As the months go by, and Summer makes her dreary way towards Autumn, I find myself spending more of my time trying not to cry, and more still actually crying. Like the clouds that appear to be growing in multitude above the city, so too have my anxieties one by one accumulated to elevate my stress levels. It hurts. Physically hurts. My head feels almost thick, like there’s not enough space in there for all the negativity, and it’s trying to burrow it’s way out of my via my temples. and what doesn’t make it to the brain to start cranial hammering, makes its way behind the eyes, pushing at the back of them, and to the tear ducts, straining them against their boundaries trying to make them burst.

I’ve been trying very hard recently to do things out of the ordinary. Three examples I could pull up here are 1. starting up The Hell Butterfly’s sister website, Stop The Silent Killer, a blog for mental health awareness, 2. joining an online magazine as a writer, for which I have not only had my first article published but have been asked to write a monthly piece about depression and mental health, and 3. talking to, and meeting up with, Bambi who you may remember me having mentioned in my PoF posts (Hi, Bambi). None of these things are part of my normal routine: sitting on my arse watching television, playing video games, wasting my life away in a puddle of self-loathing while I wonder how I’m going to make it out of bed the next day. Sometimes I won’t even know if I’ll be able to make it to the next day to figure out how to get out of said bed. But thinking in the last month or so that my head has been clearer, and my mood on a general high, I decided to break that destructive routine and get out into the world.

I won’t lie to you, it’s been fucking hard. It’s been so hard. Not knowing how to do things, simple things, that the rest of the world seems to be able to do. Getting out of bed in the morning. Getting dressed instead of slumming it in my pajamas all day. Applying for a job. Eating proper meals. Stepping outside the house. Getting that job. Getting my life on track. Telling myself I deserve it. None of it has been easy for me, and yet I somehow managed it. Okay, maybe not the last one, but the fact I’ve managed to function like a proper human being the last few weeks is cause enough for celebration.

But before I get carried away, I should follow this up by saying that, in my desperation to maintain this positivity, I have failed to notice the signs of the downfall. At least, the ones I may usually have picked up on sooner. Where normally my eating habits, or my sensitivity to certain films, may be an indicator of a mood drop, I failed to pick up on the downslide until the headaches, tiredness and stress crying came upon me. Maybe I just took on too much and didn’t know how to handle it. Maybe it was just time, time for that downswing of the pendulum. because no matter how high it goes, it always must come down again.

And boy have I come down.

I have suffered with travel sickness for as long as I can remember. Over the years I’ve developed methods to help combat it: don’t consume dairy products; don’t have fizzy drinks; watch the road; don’t read, or use your phone; listen to music and sing along. All of this has helped me get to a point where I barely notice the travel sickness, or if I do, I’m able to get past it fairly easily. Yesterday was the first time in at least three years that travel sickness made me vomit. Twice. Now, maybe it was just a case of, “it had to happen sometime”. But I don’t think so. That’s too much of an easy solution. I’m a firm believer that stress can manifest in physical ways. For me it’s often headaches, and more often still stress crying. This is the first time I’ve been so stressed it’s triggered physical nausea.

I’ve also, I think, been having several minor panic attacks lately. I’ve felt a panic attack, I know the feeling. The hyperventilating, terror, hopelessness. There’s a frantic feel about them. They’re gut wrenching, and at their worst they can make you feel like you’re dying. I didn’t believe this last until I had my first attack. Then I believed it. But lately I’ve been having these brief spells, just a moment or two, where suddenly I’m blind, I can’t think, all I want to do is cry because, in that moment, I let my life get on top of me. I let it take control, and I let it scare me. And then, as soon as they come, they go, for no apparent reason.

Looking at it now, how my condition is right this second, I can tell how bad it’s gotten. I don’t want to eat, in fact I detest the idea. My head is killing me. I’m trying hard to give a satisfying response in conversation and apologising for everything I say. I don’t seem to be able to understand even the simplest of things. It makes me angry. Every now and then I want to burst into tears but when I try my head protests and I’m stuck without that relief, and with a bigger headache than before. I’m also, despite sleeping a solid 10-11 hours, exhausted. My body doesn’t want to move.

Take into account my current condition, and we get to the main point of this post. If you’ve stuck with me this far, I commend you, and assure you I’m about to get to the point. A good friend of mine is struggling, really struggling, with depression. I know the symptoms, I can see he’s in pain, and I want to help. I know some of the ways to get out of this godforsaken shit-hole, even if I can’t take my own advice. But that is where the problem comes in.

Compare: a blind man who cannot see his way, will not know how to direct another blind man around. In this same way, I am not fit to tell another human being how to deal with depression. I want to help him, and I can’t stand the thought of him getting to a point as low as I’ve been. I’ve tasted the darkness. It tastes like metal. I don’t want him to have to experience that. But how can I, of all people, possibly give advice? Given my recent ventures into the world of mental health, you’d think I’d have more confidence in my ability to talk about the subject, to give a good pep talk, to find the right advice and help for a person.

But underneath it all, I’m just a girl with depression, scars, and the worst headache of the century, trying not to reach for that piece of metal, or find that tie and a high place.

I’ll probably survive this. I always seem to. But it hurts, and it’s hard, and I can only hope for the energy to get out of bed every morning. To write an article for the magazine. To write a post for The Hell Butterfly, and search for inspiration for her sister website. To talk to my friends, and make it convincing. To put food in my mouth, chew, swallow.

But like I always say: the pendulum always has to swing the other way.

Better days are coming.


Four Down, Ten to Go

My parents have gone away to Tenerife for two weeks. They left four days ago, leaving myself and my younger (18) sister to our own devices. And I already want them to come home.

Being 3 years older than my sister, I’m supposed to be the responsible adult. I delegate the chores, make sure the sister’s fed an watered – though she’s old enough to do it herself – and I’m supposed to be the protector. If something goes wrong, I’m meant to fix it. If she gets scared or feels upset, I’m supposed to make it better. And normally, I’d have no problem. But not this time. Not this time.

When you look at the facts, the things that have tipped me over the edge are minor. To be specific there have been two minor issues. Spiders. Large ones. The first I drowned in the sink and, after some dry heaving and tears, I removed the body. The second ran across the front room last night, and I had a panic attack before I could kill it. As the responsible adult out of two people scared of spiders, it was supposed to be my job to deal with the situation. I stayed calm while she cried, I told her what to do to get her out of the situation, but when it came to the final step, I couldn’t do it.

I don’t remember the last time I was that scared.

It was my job to handle it and yet it was my sister wrapping her arms around me as I had a breakdown. And I don’t mean the kind of crying where tears fall from my eyes. I mean the kind of crying where I felt my insides cracking and the sobs were audible. It was suited more to someone grieving than to someone looking at a palm-sized spider. But I fell apart and I failed at my job.

It ran under the sofa – a large sofa so it could be anywhere – and in the panic I only just managed to communicate that I didn’t want to be downstairs. We went upstairs and shut ourselves in my sister’s bedroom, where I stayed all night until morning. I was too paranoid to even go to the toilet. It was sweltering, I slept in the clothes from the day before, but despite how uncomfortable I was I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Instead, I slept in her make-shift armchair and prayed for day.

Well, I say I slept. I didn’t, not really. We watched some tv and went to bed at about midnight. Two minutes after I turned the light out, I fell apart. I kept quiet enough for her not to notice, but I couldn’t stop. I cried for an hour and a half. It was the biggest panic attack I’ve had in almost two years. I didn’t feel safe in my own home. I wish I could convey to you all just how terrified I was to be in the house. The only thing that kept me from getting my cash and some clothes, and jumping on a train to Plymouth was the knowledge that her bedroom door was almost completely sealed all around. The spider from downstairs may have been able to climb stairs, but it couldn’t get in. I spent most of that hour and a half freaking out. I could barely breathe, the duvet was drenched with my tears and it seemed every time I thought I’d calmed down, something struck in the back of my mind and the paranoia would send me straight back to terrified.

As I said earlier, I don’t remember the last time I was that scared.

I wanted my parents back. It took everything to not call them in the middle of the night and beg for them to come back early. It’s only another 10 days, but it’s still another 10 days. I can’t call them. I knew it and I still know it. I won’t ruin their holiday. I won’t tell them how scared I am just being in the house. I won’t tell them I want them to come home. I won’t ruin it for them. It’s not like it’ll help. I call them, they get on an early plane and lose their holiday time and money. I feel guilty. I call and they stay the full length but my Mum worries the whole time and can’t enjoy herself. The holiday is ruined anyway. I feel guilty. I can’t do it to them.

Yet saying that, I was tempted to up and leave in the middle of the night, leaving her alone. I could have taken her with me if we didn’t have the guinea pigs. We can’t transport them anywhere. The only option left is to get my other, older, sister to drive over, take the animals, and me and the younger one go to my place in Plymouth. I’m considering asking my sister how her boyfriend feels about spiders, because if he doesn’t mind them, I want them to stay here this weekend. They work during the week, but I don’t want to be alone. I’m not, but in terms of the responsible adult, I feel so isolated.

Right now, I’m sitting across the room in my new desk chair, not the sofa, with my feet up on the coffee table. I want to be as far away from the sofa as I can. It may not be there anymore, but I’m not taking that chance. All doors were shut overnight, so it must still be in the house. I’ve felt sick and overheated since last night. My skin is crazy hot, and my stomach is in knots. I keep looking towards the last known sighting area and I’m on edge, expecting any moment for it to run out. If I couldn’t deal with it last night, how can I do it today? I know my sister won’t do it. We’re equally scared of spiders but she wouldn’t do it. I’m in a mixed mind about this – yes I said I’m the responsible adult, but I would also appreciate some assistance in difficult situations.

Last night the only thing I could think about was what excuse I could give to leave the house today. Leave all day and not come back until I really had to. I thought of asking a friend out for coffee that I haven’t seen in years – and I don’t drink coffee. I thought about walking the 3 miles into town to window shop for hours – and I’m uncomfortable in crowded places. I thought about how many people I could call and have a panic attack over the phone to, but concluded I could call everyone on my contacts list and I would not feel any better for one reason: they wouldn’t come to the house. As I say, I don’t feel safe in my own home, and only another adult can change that.

It seems pathetic to be so shaken by such a small thing. But it’s happened. I’m rattled, I’m on edge and I’m so scared of being here I want to vomit. I’m trying to put on a brave face for my sister, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she can see through it. I don’t think she’s ever seen me break down quite like I did last night. I’m just trying my best to stay calm. It’s very hard. I just want my parents.

Ten days to go. I hope the spider’s gone, and stays gone. I hope no more show up. And I hope beyond anything else that I can hold it together until they get back from Tenerife.


I Regret This

My head is heavy because of PoF. Who’d have thought it? Online dating is bringing back my depression. Fuck it. Fuck being too nice for my own good. Fuck wanting to be so polite I end up in bad situations I can’t get out of. Fuck having to try so hard. Fuck dating. Fuck pretending to date. Fuck pretending to want to. Fuck keeping up 6 different conversations with different topics and different tones. Fuck everything.

I did this for fun. I did this so I could have something interesting to talk about on my blog and all it’s doing is winding me up, creeping me out, and dragging myself through shit for the sake of this piece of shit website. I’m done. I regret it so, fucking much. I have people wanting to read my blog, when I’ve mentioned them in posts. I have people assuming I’m going to trust them enough after 2 days to go over to their fucking house and jump into a relationship with them. I don’t need this bullshit.

Fuck you, Plenty of Fish. You suck so hard.


Music May #20: Young Guns – You Are Not (Basingstoke Week)

It’s been a while since I was so upset it felt like something was cracking inside my chest. The kind of upset where your every fibre is tensed to the point that any slight movement could shatter everything. The kind of upset where the only thing holding you together as you fall apart inside are your own arms cementing your body into place while the sobs threaten to break the foundations you’ve laid.

I have no right to be this upset over it, but I am. I’m angry, I’m upset and I’m confused. This is partly the reason I didn’t post yesterday. I’ll put a Young Guns track at the end of today’s post to make up for it, but for the moment I just need to talk. I’ve already said this to my best friend and to my webcam as I tried my hand at vlogging (probably not going to happen again). But it’s not enough. I didn’t want to whine too much to my friend so didn’t go into detail and elaborate on what’s getting to me, and I lost track of my own thoughts in trying to explain it out loud to a camera. But here, where time and words are my friends, and you the reader on the receiving end to read all the way to the end – I’d hope – I can finally try and explain why this small thing that I have no right to be so distraught over has gotten me so worked up.

Remember the post I put a few days ago about the text message I received from M24?  The one that said “I really wanted to kiss you when I was saying bye to you at the station but got scared … Just thought I’d tell you”. Well, you may remember I was conflicted over this. Firstly, shock. I never saw it coming. Relief that he hadn’t tried on the day as I know I’d have flinched and accidentally offended him. Appreciative that he didn’t make a move but had chosen to tell me afterwards. Confused as to why he’d want to and whether I thought I wanted to myself. After this message we exchanged texts for a short while, then at half midnight he didn’t reply to my message. I put this down to his having fallen asleep.

The next day, having worked myself up by scaring myself into thinking I was going to mess everything up, I still hadn’t heard back from him. Eventually I messaged, we talked for a bit, and I was actually quite angry that day. I was still a little upset from the night before as well as still being confused, and then on top of that my sister wound me up so much I could have cried out of frustration. I wanted to speak to M24. A few texts later it hit 8pm, and once again he didn’t respond. Mid conversation he simply vanished. It was unlikely he had fallen asleep that early, but I assumed he’d been busy.

This was Thursday night. It is now Tuesday afternoon and he has not text me once.

He recently added me on Facebook, and therefore when I am online I can see if he is. On more than one occasion he was online at the same time as me. He posted pictures and statuses while I was online, so he was obviously around this week. He even Liked my status about the cake I made yesterday. And yet not once did he text or Facebook message me so much as a smiley face.

I don’t want to be the one who always says hello first. I don’t want to always be the one starting the conversation. If somebody wants to speak to me, is it not only fair that they start the conversation every now and then? I’ve been that person all my life and I’m sick of it. I give and I give and I never get back. This time I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want M24 to think that if he doesn’t speak to me in 5 days it’s okay because I’ll still talk to him. But at the same time, I don’t want him to think I don’t want to talk to him. I do. I do want to talk to him. I feel like he doesn’t want to talk to me because otherwise, if he did, he’d have text, right? Yet at the same time, maybe he’s thinking the exact same thing. I haven’t text him since Thursday and I haven’t messaged him on Facebook either. So maybe he’s thinking I don’t want to talk to him and is therefore choosing not to bother texting. Maybe he’s thinking, just like me, that if he texts first he’ll seem desperate or pushy or clingy.

In all fairness though, he has no reason to think I don’t want to talk to him, yet I have every reason to think he doesn’t want to speak to me. This isn’t the first time he’s dropped out mid conversation, or neglected to text in a couple of days. It has never been as long as this before, but it has happened in a similar fashion. I always respond to every text of his. Even if it comes with an apology for not responding sooner or one for not being able to text again. He often leaves me hanging. I hate it.

Here is my dilemma. It’s not like we’re an item. He’s not my boyfriend and therefore had no obligations to respond to me. And even if he was, there is no law stating that going a few days without a text is unforgivable. But I’m so mad. How can he go from telling me he wanted to kiss me, to not speaking to me for 5 days? Why, when at the start he used to text me during work and always let me know when he was leaving so I wasn’t waiting for a response, can he not even send me a ‘hello’ when we’re both online? It’s a simple thing, yet so infuriating. There’s nothing stopping him from dropping me a line, seeing as he never responded to me and so is by default his turn to text. But at the same time it makes me mad that I’m so mad about it. What gives me the right to demand a message from him? It’s only been 5 days. It’s not like he’s been gone for months. And yet I can’t help but be upset by it. I’m mad at him and mad at myself and mad at the whole situation.

I’ve just started getting my head around the whole ‘he wants to kiss me’ thing. It’s beginning to be a less terrifying concept and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that wanted it to happen. I know that during that conversation I got so involved in my own problems that I glossed over the part where he said he was scared. I’m aware of this now. I should have asked him why he was scared. I shouldn’t have focused on me, especially as the resulting conversation basically said “thanks for being a wimp as it got me off the hook”. I promise, that was not my intention. This is something I want to talk to him about. I want to apologise for not taking it into account before and see if he’s willing to elaborate for me, let me in a bit. But like I said earlier, I don’t want to have to be the one that starts every conversation. It’s hard work. Some may not see it that way, but as fellow introverts will understand, it’s exhausting. I want to see him again, I want to speak to him so badly, and yes I will admit I’m warming to the idea of kissing him. It’s weird to admit to myself, and weirder still to admit it to you, but it’s true. But must I be the one to start that ball rolling every time? Is it too much to ask that he does his fair share of pushing?

As I sit here, typing this, I can see my phone in my peripherals. I’m itching to grab it and text, but you know why I don’t want to. But at the same time, if he really is thinking I don’t want to speak to him, would delaying any longer actually do further damage? Do I joke around with him or tell him outright I wish he’d have spoken to me sooner? It’s his day off today and has been online today. Online on his phone. So he could easily have text. But he didn’t.

It’s an endless cycle:

He doesn’t text me.
I get mad a him.
I get mad at myself for getting mad at him.
I think about texting.
I remember the feeling of always being the giver and don’t text him.
I manage to ignore it for a while.
I stare at my phone wanting to talk to him.
I worry he doesn’t want to talk to me and hope he’ll text soon.
He doesn’t text me.

And so it continues.

I’m currently leaning towards texting him. I know I said I don’t want to be the one who does it all the time, but if I don’t say something who knows when – or even if – he’ll speak to me again? I have no right to get angry at him for not talking to me, and I have no rational reason to get so upset over the thought that he doesn’t want to speak to me that I spend my night switching between tears and failed attempts at sleep. Last night I stayed downstairs to watch tv, and cried at least three times. I was too exhausted to go upstairs so I stayed on the sofa and tried to sleep. I finally managed 90 minutes between half 5 and 7am. My Mum asked me this morning why I couldn’t sleep. I said my sleep pattern was off (which it was). She then asked if there was anything on my mind keeping me awake. There was – there was this post. Everything I’ve said so far was going through my head all night. But I couldn’t tell her that. It seemed so lame, so petty. Not something I should be losing sleep over.

I’ve put questions on this blog before and nobody has ever responded with an answer, but this time if someone is reading this and has any advice, I’d be glad for another opinion. Am I being stupid? Am I getting worked up over nothing? Should I wait and see if he says something, or bite the bullet and cave myself? I’ve never had such a close relationship with a guy before. I know what we have – if I can say we have anything at all – is minimal at best, but it’s more than I’ve ever had. I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose him. What I do want is for him to say hello and ask how I am. I want to ask him about work and if his weather is better or worse than mine. I want to know when he’ll see his nieces next and tell him about my day. I want to ask why he was scared to kiss me that day and if he’d ever consider trying if I told him I’d be comfortable with it. I don’t want to watch a couple holding hands on tv and yearn for him to hold mine. I don’t want to be in pain worrying whether I’m blowing it by being stubborn or whether I’ve already blown it by not considering his feelings sooner. I know some people will see this and think this is just young love making me do the wacky, and perhaps those people are right, but I’m just a girl having never experienced anything close to a relationship and wishing so hard that it’ll work out.

I’d hoped there’d be an easier transition into today’s nightcore video, but there isn’t. So here it is, Young Guns with You Are Not (Lonely). This is one of my favourite Young Guns tracks, even if the video is a little confusing.