Untitled (Suggestions welcome)

Time changes us. Or so they say. We learn from our past experiences, shaping our futures.

It hasn’t always been like this. I used to think she liked me. Maybe she did, once. But I’d be fooling myself, if I believed that. Fantasy – it’s a dangerous thing. Sometimes I like to live in it; it’s better there, you can be free, but things never last.

That was before I gave up. Gave up trying. Gave up life. Or tried to. They found me, before I got that far.

I don’t know why. Or how. I just know that’s what I was doing when they found me.

It’s torture, sometimes. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t control it. It consumes me. Paralyses me.

Often, I lose myself. Endless hours staring absently at a blank screen. Trying to write what I feel, but never quite finding the right words. When I do, fear floods my heart. I can’t bring myself to write them down. To me, it’s a jumble of letters.

You know that feeling, when you just need to say something? The desire to spill your heart out? It’s something that I find myself thinking a lot. I mean, is ‘abler’ even a word? I’ve always used ‘more able’. It is ‘more able’ – ‘abler’ just doesn’t sound right.

So anyway, I’m delaying what I meant to say. Need to say.

My mind is wandering again; I’m lapsing into another world. My world. My head is spinning, an endless torment. I like to think of it as a battle. Maybe, one day, I’ll win. But right now, I’m losing. Sinking further into the scars of my past. My past. The phrase lingers. No. Time lingers. My memory clings to the things I want to forget. Like me, they’re a burden. I don’t want to believe them, but I can’t deny what happened. I don’t have a choice.

I never did.

Things are different now. Better.

That’s a lie; they’re not. It’s a daily struggle just to keep my head above the water. Sometimes, it’s a struggle to do anything at all. To face the truth. Sometimes, I find myself thinking: ‘Is this really how I feel? Is the really the truth? It can’t be.’. Mostly, it is, though, and that scares me.

It scares me.

Writing this is hard. There are only so many people I trust to read it. But I need those people more than ever – their love, their guidance, their reassurance. They’re the only ones who understand.

She did too, once. Maybe she still does – I can dream, can’t I? It’s her I need most – I struggle without her. Part of me wishes that wasn’t true, but it is. And I’ve started accepting that now. I need to move on, leave my past behind me; I can’t wear my past forever. Can I? No…

I’m drifting again. I’m in ‘La La Land’ – ‘here’s to the ones who dream, foolish as they may seem’. Dreams. They come in all shapes and sizes. Big dreams. Little dreams. Crazy dreams…well…let’s just say crazy dreams are the best dreams. When I was six, I aspired to be a princess all pretty in pink, with a castle. As I grew up, I realised I may not be able to have the castle, but there was nothing preventing me from being a princess. Aged nine, I wanted to be a vet. Or a singer. Or a famous horse rider. Or maybe an author. I now realise my heart is set on a career in English (with Creative Writing) – becoming an English teacher; people have said I’d make a good teacher. I got through my GCSEs, and I’m now studying English at A Level, with the desire to do English and Creative Writing at university. So whatever your dreams, believe in yourself. Anyone can be that princess they dreamt of being when they were six. Don’t let anyone tell you can’t. Because they’re wrong. You CAN - wear that crown with pride!

I don’t know how much longer I can hide everything. A few people know. A few.

I’m living in fear, though; I don’t even know my own intent, and I think it’s that, more than anything else, which scares me most. Not knowing what might happen – or when; or how; or why.

I want to confide. I want to change. Mostly, I want to forget. I’m not ready, yet, though; it’s too soon. I’m not ready to let go of everything. Of her.

I’ve realised, I’m scared of the truth. This. All of this is truth. And the only way I can express that, is through writing.

I need to distract myself. My mind keeps drifting back. To her. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Attach yourself to your surroundings. Five things you can see: pink nail varnish, headphones, owls, food, kettle. Four things you can hear: orchestral music, the tapping of keyboard keys, a computer fan, breathing. Three things you can touch: paper towels, the desk, silicon bracelet. Two things you can smell: nail varnish, coffee. One thing you can taste: orange.

That feeling when you can’t stop thinking, you’re mind doesn’t – won’t – switch off. Eleanor. Her. Her. Rachel. Rachel… The Girl on the Train. Maybe we’re not that different, her and me. No. It doesn’t bare thinking about. I’ve felt the way my heart races, just before I speak to someone. The nail biting; the thumb twiddling; the dizziness; chapped lips. It doesn’t feel like me; it isn’t me. Not the real me - I don’t think I know the real me, anymore.  Not now. I bite my lip, hard. Pick at my nails. When did things go so wrong, for me? I messed up her life as well. Her life.

Even the slightest sounds are making my head spin. Alert. What if…? The question repeats itself, taunting me. Trying to catch me out. My eyes drift across the room to the door – closed. I want, desperately, to get out. Escape. But my mind won’t allow that; I can feel it closing in on me. Trapped. I want to escape.

I’m trying to make amends. I really am. All I seem to do, though, is make things worse. This is making things worse, I know. I need to get away from the truth. But I have to face the truth, first. I have to face myself. Maybe that’s what all of this is about. Facing myself.

You need to stop doing this. You need to stop. Take a step back from it all. Breathe.

No one is taking you seriously anymore. But you need them to. You know it’s more than falling in love. It borders on obsession, whether they agree, or not. You know it does.

The thing is, it’s not just because of her. That’s just one thing. And you need to stop that.

What about all the pressure? The self-imposed pressure.

What about the lack of sleep? Tossing and turning all night because you can’t stop thinking; can’t switch your mind off. You’re doing too much. No, you’re not. You need to spend half term revising, spend three hours on each essay. Model answers, that’s what you call them. They’re not that good though. Not really.

It’s draining.