Wednesday, 28 July 2010


I'm sorry.
But my Formspring abusers were right. 
I'm going to delete my blog. 
I might start a new one,
A happy one. One less 'dramatic' and 'self-centred', and one where I'm not 'seeking attention'. 
But this one is going, one way or another.
I can't take it anymore, I read this thing and it actually does make me cringe.
Bye bye old me.
Hello happy me? 
Once I stop arguing with my best friend.
-D. xx

Saturday, 10 July 2010


My eighteenth velvet box, opened.
Its like opening Pandora's box with this one.
Demons galore await inside.
I'll be honest. I don't want to write this one. People close to me read this blog, and I'm scared that they will not think of me in the same, angelic way. They might pull me up on it, want the full story, think of me as a psychologically unstable. 
I have a feeling that my aunt reads this from time to time, and should she happen across this one, she would not be all that pleased; she would report it to my mother, and in turn, that would not only get me pulled out of Sylvia's by her, but would also probably get me sectioned.
I don't want to look into it, and I don't want it to be involved with my life, nor do I want it to take over.
Unfortunately, it plays a part in my life still. And it always manages to take over.
Drops of blood line the walls of this box. My blood. Caused by me. Razorblades and plasters, blood and more blood. Inside, is every reason I choose to let out my pain in such a physical way. Its not something I'm proud of, and not something I splash into every single conversation. I'm not comfortable talking about it. Its such a strange way of expression, such a melancholy way of trying to stay sane. And its not perfect. When I cut, the world gets better - the world is better. And then it's not anymore. And I have to do it again. Its frustrating, and for a few days, the pain rules my life. Because its never on my arms (tried that one once - ended in complete disaster; a shouting match and my relationship with my mother thrown into complete jeopardy), it is subject to vast amounts of friction from various layers of clothing, not to mention soap in the shower when they're fresh, sometimes causing bleeding all over again. Hips. Always the hips. They bleed nicely, but not too much, and its a place no one but me ever sees. Besides my ballet class. But under tights, they're unnoticeable unless you're looking for them. And no one ever is. No one thinks to. I'm the girl who lives in a world of rainbows, where nothing ever goes wrong - 
If only they knew.
Why do I do it, you ask? The world gets on top of me, and I can't cope. When I get left by someone who means the world to me, it causes a trigger. While the world lies in peace, I am left crying silently to myself, but I never know why. These are a few, and the rest not even I know fully.
I hate what I've become because of my addiction - the girl on the outside who is loved by few and used by all. As soon as someone 'better' comes along, I'm left in the dust. Of course, it happens always - why have something broken when you can have something whole? That's what SI did to me - it broke me. It makes me feel, self-conscious, worthless, battered, belittled, and like I don't matter. I'm constantly worried that someone will notice the lines under my ballet tights, or will question me as to why I wince when they touch my hips. I get scared when I get into the shower and they get hit by jets of water. Its an awful thing to live with for two weeks, but yet I keep going back to it.
Not anymore. 
It is no longer a concern of mine. And no matter how much I want to do it again, I will not.
For my family's sake. For my friends. 
For myself.
I'm sorry to you all, if reading this post has changed your view of me. No one is perfect, and I am certainly no exception. If you can find in within yourself to still love me and accept me, scars and all, I will be the happiest person in the world.
Because I would have the support of those I love.
With that, 
there is no need for this box anymore.
Eighteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Sunday, 4 July 2010


My seventeenth velvet box, opened.
Every single day passed the same.
Six months went by,
And I was nothing.
I remember nothing.
Every night, I would cry myself to sleep. Over and over.
For the first eleven days without him, I cried. I didn't eat, or sleep, and I couldn't even begin to comprehend moving on. I lived in a funny kind of existence, barely surviving. Every day was the same. It hadn't sunk in. Not for those first six months. I was in complete denial. The most awful part was that I seemed to be the only one so crushed by his disappearance. Everyone else had forgotten, yet, here I was, delusional, thinking that he would come back, believing that it was possible.
Of course, it was not.
I missed him, so much. I still do. The tears still sometimes fall, the blood sometimes does too, the scars will fade, the tracks my tears make in my cheeks become less each day, but I can't help but cry over Piers. I'm not sure why... perhaps because I lost him. Perhaps because I let him go, or maybe a mix of the two. He slipped away so effortlessly, it was painful to feel. Its still painful to feel. And that pain won't ever go away, but it gets less and less each day I allow to go by without thinking of him.
Seventeen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x