I miss my gynaecologist, dermatologist, urologist, and general practitioner. They are the only men that can save me from falling apart.
Some physical examination.
And no, I’m not a hypochondriac. I think the doctors in the U.K. aren’t competent. Only when you’re seriously sick will they transfer you to a specialist. What does seriously sick even mean? Life-threatening?
I thought I had seasonal asthma for the past month, but it has been an on-going panic attack like never before in my life. Now possible rosacea on my face and again a sensitive kidney. How did that happen? Or did I have it coming? I can’t even leave my room without tons of make-up. I don’t know what the doctor has just prescribed me. But it will be the first time to take oral medication for skin treatment. If it got this bad now, I wonder what my skin will look like in ten years?
I can smell autumn; it’s been a year since I’ve felt these shivers. And they feel good.
People still won’t shut the fuck up: How are you—how are you—how are you—how the fuck are you?
God, I don’t want to lie to you; I wish I could. Devil, I wish I could. I shall keep my mouth shut instead and wear a paper bag over my head.
It’s so typical for the Brits to apologise for every fucking thing. Or maybe I don’t understand the word “sorry,” but to me, it has only one meaning in this country, and that’s pity.
“Sorry” is usually one of the hardest things to say (among “I love you” or “help me” or “thank you”). Here, “sorry” is used to express pity and sympathy. Who wants that?
Whenever someone pities me, I want to smack their gob, especially if I know they don’t genuinely care, or they might just feel lucky they’re not on the same boat.
Germans would say “Tja” as in “get over it.” I hate that one too, but it’s much more effective; it’s like a slap in the face, no pretense. Germans never pretend; they’re blunt as hell.
Wow, the last time I remember feeling this way was January 1st. And then, I got absorbed in writing. I could continue doing the same now if it wasn’t the future I had to think about. I’ve been putting the future on hold for a year, and now, it’s seeking attention more than ever.
Some creative people don’t know what to do with their lives. If their artistic abilities are required in marketing or advertising, the artist’s art becomes a victim of exploitation. Their art persuades the audience to waste money on things they don’t need. Moreover, the artist won’t see the money because he has already sold his soul to the firm.
But isn’t it inevitable nowadays? Mr. Hicks, please come and save us!
I think we’re in the same era again, like in Dos Passos’s book, except I’d call it “London City Transfer.” I remember that man saying on the bridge, “What’s the point?”
There are a lot of points. And I haven’t run out of them yet.
You see, I’m stupid. All I’ve got is a creative mind that keeps me going. I think my I.Q. is just a little over 110, which is low, right? And I don’t know about my E.I. But then, I’ve always wished to be free of emotions. At least I got my anger management somewhat under control.
I can read body language, like the twitch at the corner of your mouth, the fake smile, and your dilated pupils. I can sense almost everything that your body emits. It makes me sick most of the time because I understand you too much; your emotions become a part of me, except that you’re not expressing it to me. I can even tell whether or not you need a therapist.
Many people can’t think for themselves.
I’ve also realised that you can’t always rely on friends. You always have to be prepared to rely solely on yourself; your friends have their own problems. However, people know they can rely on me, which is my greatest burden, a weakness that too many have discovered. Besides, I think about everyone every day, but many people only think about you when they need something. Once you’ve helped out, they forget to be grateful. I was expecting new logos from two people – nothing ever came back. I also expected a drawing for my novel – not done in time.
I personally never ask for favours, no major ones anyway. There’s just no one to rely on.
I also realised that I need to make another significant change, health-wise. Three years ago, I replaced my actual breakfast (cereal, bread) with fruits, and I noticed a positive change. I’ve been eating fruits for breakfast ever since. I haven’t drunk cola for two years, and generally, I avoid soda drinks. I haven’t chewed gum for years, either, because the idea of aspartame turning into scum that settles in my body is off-putting. Scum is harder to get rid of, whereas fat you can burn.
Coffee and black tea have been deteriorating my skin, so I’ve replaced them with green tea, just one cup a day, because one cup of green tea can, in a worst-case scenario, keep me up all night. I will stay away from contaminated Chinese snacks (they ALL include glutamate).
Do you think I’m exaggerating? You don’t even know that your metabolism’s fucked up and that your body’s full of toxins. You’ll see it soon enough.
I’m teaching myself patience; it’s all coming too soon – the illness.
When I first had eczema at the age of 13, I didn’t understand what it was. How stressed was I at that age? It went away a year later. Then, at 16, seborrhoeic eczema developed on my scalp – I still have it. In my early twenties, facial eczema returned along with panic attacks, etc. I remember going to the G.P. twice to make sure I didn’t have asthma. Of course, I didn’t. Shortness of breath is a sign of a panic attack.
Yes, it was all stress-induced. Lovesickness-induced deadline pressure…
There was a lot more to it: gluttony, weight gain, and weak immune system leading to flu, migraines and mid-ear infection. But those times are over.
Then, stress got creative…
It would make my body forget that it’s thirsty, so my kidney got inflamed.
Over the years, I’ve learned to control my emotions better, and sometimes they aren’t even there. I find it hard to control anger sometimes. Though, it’s energy advantageous for creative purposes. There are so many people to be angry with. They are ruining your life, as simple as.
Do you think I have loved? I can assure you I haven’t.
I only realised a while ago that I’ve never loved my ex. Throughout the years of dating (on/off), it was just the idea of being in love, the “idea” of first love being precious–apparently. The truth was that I hadn’t been happy, not for a minute. There was never a sense of security, trust or whatever, but the “idea” and imagination of it. I started lying to myself, which wasn’t fun since I never lied to myself.
In the end, I was just used to being with him. He still stalks me on social media. On my blog, he is my top visitor. Every time he visits this site, he looks for a hint of him in my words. Here are the words–empty words.
There’s nothing left but paralysis, numbness, nausea and a bitter taste in my mouth whenever I waste a thought about the past. Other guys have left a sweeter taste on my tongue, but that’s because they care about health. I think that says a lot.
Now I understand why I’ve been dreading love so much – that chemical reaction. Even my feelings for Nick were stronger; they are still vivid because nothing ever happened. I’ve kept the sentiments in my Jil Sander bottle. If you ever smell Jil Sander on me, it’s because I like you. I still have that bottle. Even if you ever detect the vinegar, I’ll always smell the unrequited love in that bottle.
That chemical reaction is fictional – that’s the saddest thing about love. I wouldn’t recommend anyone to think that way. I’m too Houellebecq-ian and Cioran-ian, except that I believe in hope. (Contradictory, I know.)
Well, there was no second I didn’t suspect my ex of cheating. First of all, that triggered me to start lying to myself, which was worse than his lies. It explains why I still lie to myself today. What does this say about me? That I have become an “obsessive dick” myself?
I thought that because my protagonist (OCD, Narcissistic Personality Disorder and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder) sees a link between her and her obsessive admirer. At least that obsessive admirer can make decisions, think for himself, and be ready to let go in the end.
For four years, I had cherished an “idea” that later unfolded in self-destruction, and it’s still in progress, but I’m making my protagonist the victim.
…because I’m selfish.
In German, we say that if you dig a grave for someone, you’ll fall in it yourself. Yes, I know.
Anyway, my feelings for Nick will remain in my Jil Sander bottle.
If you can help me love, please do, before I fall into that hole and crumble away.