a folder full of heartache

Yesterday I took a trip down memory lane. It was kind of unintentional, in that my purpose wasn’t to reminisce and get painfully nostalgic; my purpose was to finally sort through the videos that have been in the folder named ‘VIDEOS TO SORT’ for the past three years or so. I’ve been in a file-organising ‘mood’, which roughly translated probably means I know my life’s a mess, but forget that and just look how tidy my file system is! Or something.

Anyway. Happy moments we captured on our phones, stored on my hard-drive forever. Notice that I said ‘organising’ and not ‘deleting’. I can’t, and won’t, delete traces of him from my computer to symbolise the end of our relationship, or so that I can move on, or because that’s what the advice columns tell us we should do after a break-up. This isn’t Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, and even then, deleting memories turned out to be a waste of time.

Memories are all we’re left with at the end of the day. When all else is said and done, they are the only things that are truly ours, that we take with us to the grave. But memories have a habit of fading over time… until something – it could be a song, a photograph, a smell, a video – triggers it and we’re right back in that moment again.

Most of the videos I organised were footage of gigs we went to, but it’s not just the gigs I remember (although some of them were AWESOME). With the help of several exchanges between us that I overheard in the recordings, I remember what happened before and after those gigs. I remember how good I felt in those moments. I remember what my life was like then – not only the good, but the bad as well. But mostly, I remember an important part of my life, and the person who played such an important part in it.

So I won’t be deleting those videos. Just in case I get senile dementia, or just plain sentimental, I’ll be putting them into a folder with his name it, and filing them away somewhere safe. At least if I look at them again, it will be intentional, and maybe I will be prepared for the heartache.


in the end

The weekend is almost upon us, again. I do hope it’s not a repeat of last weekend.

Last weekend I did nothing, except listen to Linkin Park, wallow in unbearable emotional pain, and cry. Yes, I know I’m pathetic. But at least I have exceptional taste in music. Hybrid Theory and Meteora (played in that order) are the perfect break-up/fuck you/fuck everything albums. And if there’s another album in the history of popular music that I identify with more than I do Hybrid Theory, I certainly haven’t heard it yet.

So yes. Self-absorbed.

Then he rang. Sunday evenings are his favourite time to call – on the back of a two day drunken bender. Excellent. I was completely sober. It was such an absolutely pointless and utterly ridiculous ‘conversation’ (I use the term loosely), that I hung up on him. I just couldn’t be bothered any more. What was I crying about? A thoughtless, selfish, drunken idiot who can’t act appropriately or with any respect? Apparently, the answer to that was yes.

I haven’t cried over him since that phone call. If there’s another call this weekend, I won’t answer it. There is no point, anymore.

“I tried so hard, and got so far, but in the end it doesn’t even matter.”

so this is help

So. I went to the doctors, and said ‘help’. Every time this has happened, I’ve left with anti-depressants. This time was no different. What I hope will be different this time, is my honesty. I have to be honest if I want the right help. I know it isn’t going to be easy, and I feel sick just thinking about it, but it has to be done. I cannot carry on like this.

I don’t think it’s depression. I think it’s a depressive episode within another, as yet undiagnosed, mental health condition. I’ve gone to the doctor because I’m going through a ‘bad patch’, but really it’s an ‘even worse than usual patch’, because my whole life is a bad patch. This bit is just particularly bad.  And I think the reason my life is such a bad patch is because there’s something fundamentally wrong with me.

There’s a reason all my relationships are either unstable or toxic. There’s a reason I’m so self-destructive. There’s a reason I’ve done nothing with my life. There’s a reason I’m a glutton for addiction. There’s a reason I’m so scared and confused and angry at myself and the world around me. It’s been like this for most of my life, and I don’t believe in ‘fate’, so there has to be a reason.

Whatever the reason is, these tablets aren’t going to solve it. They aren’t going to organise the chaos in my head, or undo the mess I’ve made of my life. But they will bring a degree of numbness to it, and that’s better than nothing – for now.

i wonder

I wonder if you wish that I was with you, or if you’re glad that I’ve gone.

I wonder if you feel the same loss that I do, or if you feel that you’ve won.

I wonder if you would change anything,  try to undo the wrong.

I wonder if you even realise what it is that you done.

I wonder so much about you.

It takes so much of my time.

It leaves me feeling broken,

And going out of my mind.

I wonder if you wonder about me. I wonder what you think.

I wonder if you’d love me if you didn’t have a drink.

good enough

I am not proud of anything I’ve written here so far. It reads to me like an angsty teenager’s diary; personal, self absorbed drivel. I almost deleted the lot last night, because I’m very good at giving up on myself, and I’m even better at deleting things.

Its not good enough.

I’m not good enough.

What is the point?

You have no idea how often I hear those three statements in my head. Not just when I look at my blog, but ALL OF THE TIME.  I don’t even know what ‘good enough’ means. What is good, and how much of it is enough? And good enough for what, exactly? I do not have the answers to these questions. All I know is that’s why my index finger was poised over the delete button. Again.

But I want to write. I don’t necessarily want to write about how shit my life is, but maybe I need to. Maybe I need to peel the layers back to get to the heart of my writing. I have to learn how to think like a writer again. I have to learn how to open up again. Maybe this is the first step in achieving that; in somehow being good enough.

So, I’m not going to delete anything. One day I might look back on this crap and be glad that for once, I didn’t give up.


It’s December. My least favourite month of the year. It might be the season to be jolly, but I traditionally spend more time crying in bed than I do at any other time of year. Even when my life was okayish, December never was, so I don’t expect anything to be better this year. Ho ho ho.

On top of it being December, I’m really struggling with this break-up. I’m struggling to accept that we’ve broken up, even though I’m the one who ended it. My heart just won’t let him go. One minute I’m in floods of tears about us breaking up, the next I’m thinking about how we can be together. It’s fair to say I’m all over the place right now.

I just need it to snow, and everything will be fucking perfect.


Reading over what I’ve written in the past few weeks wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. This isn’t what I wanted my blog to be. This isn’t how I want to be. I have to grow out of it one day, surely? One day, I have to stop being so bloody pathetic. One day, apparently, I should also stop being so hard on myself.

Erm. How?

How do I learn this ‘self-love’ that I hear about? Does it actually exist in people? Like, really? It doesn’t exist in me. All that exists in me is self-loathing. I even hate myself for hating myself, and I don’t know how to stop. It would probably help if I could see something to love, but that eludes me as well.

I’ve worked hard over the years to learn forgiveness. Or at least, I thought I had. But thinking about it now, maybe I just shifted the blame. I had to stop blaming them so that I could forgive them, and at the same time, I had to take responsibility for the mistakes I’ve made. So, I stopped blaming them and started blaming me instead. If life is what we make it, I can’t blame anyone but myself for making such a fucking mess of it. And I don’t know how to forgive myself for that. I’m not really sure why I would?

So I just keep on with the sabotage. I’ve done it for so long, it’s as natural as breathing. I’ve done it for so long, there isn’t much of anything left. Still, at least I’m good at something.

I think I need help.

I can see how toxic it is. I can see how it’s grown – mutated – over the years into this big ugly… thing. Like a cancer, eating away at my soul. At my life. At everything. I want to get rid of it. I want to be better. But where do I fucking start, eh?