That One Night

Okay... so this is a little bit weird. There's a large part of me that tells me not to share this with you, but a large part of me that totally has to.

So, apparently I have Histrionic Personality Disorder. They call it a "trait" now though, rather than a disorder. I think in this case, disorder is a perfectly good word to describe it.

So... when I was 16 I went to a psychiatric hospital in Plymouth for six weeks before I escaped and bunked a bunch of trains back to Sussex. I wanted to get back to my boyfriend of a year or so from Worthing. I ended up in Salisbury at 2am with nowhere to go. A 36 year old guy said I could sleep on his hotel room floor, and laid out a little bed for me. I chose to sleep in the bed, and sleep with him.

I made it back to Worthing, slept in a car park for two weeks whilst working as a waitress to make enough money for somewhere to live. Social Services kept offering me somewhere, but I refused.

Eventually though, I got angry at work and threw some cutlery at someones head, so I left. I took Social Services' help and moved into a tiny box room in a bed and breakfast. I started smoking soap bar - the most delicious, oily, plastic bag filled hash in the world. I bought it off homeless people, and then we hung out because I was lonely.

So, I got high one day and went to see my Social Worker. On the way home, I met two guys, around 17, in a park. They invited me to a party. So, that night I maintained my standard level of being completely fucked on the lowest quality hash and went to the party. While I was there... I met a guy. He said, "Don't worry,,, I'll take care of you." Then he convinced me to let him fuck my arse in the street in a quiet corner.

Then he walked away. I went back to the house party and he came out of the front door. "What happened?" I asked. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. "Don't talk shit about me or I'll stab you. I should fucking kill you just for being here..."

I ran away. Halfway down the road I met another group of guys - the ones I had walked to the party with. I told them what happened. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you," one of them said, and then pushed me down on the floor and pulled his trousers down trying to push his cock into my mouth.

I ran away.

I made it to an alleyway where I met three guys... all about 20. I can't remember what I said, or what I did to get myself into the situation but after five minutes I was on the floor, backed up against a fence whilst two of them pushed their cocks into my mouth. One of them was telling them to stop, to leave me alone and just go home.

They stopped, and started walking away... but the one guy that told them to stop... I followed him.

I followed him, begging for him to talk to me. He told me to leave him alone, but I couldn't stop following him. He was so nice, not to fuck my face. He was my hero that night and I wanted to fuck him so that he knew that... I wanted him to like me. Why didn't he fuck me? Wasn't I good enough for him? But he shouted at me to fuck off... and eventually I left and went home.

From this I ended up with paranoid delusions, they call it. Everyone was reading from a script, winning points based on how much they could make me do with them. I stopped trusting my social worker, because she was the one that told me to go home that way that day. She was in on it. I stopped trusting everyone, everything anyone said was all an elaborate con to make me look stupid. I'm a disgusting slut, I know that. I also know that paranoia is a hilariously self obsessed delusion. Those people didn't give a shit about me or my feelings, who would put that kind of time and effort into making someone look stupid?!

Exactly. No one.

But... Well... Histionic Personality Disorder, apparently. It's like reading a bio about myself. I don't know where it came from, but it's fucking with my head... since I was 15, and still now.

Sorry for writing this thing.

I Shat In My Pants... Can I Get In Yours?

My brain gave me a window. It's was like a shiny, tiny little window where I thought, "What the fuck are you doing? Pull yourself out of this..."

And I did!

Fuck London. Fuck crazy Tinder people. Fuck running businesses that I don't want to run.

I'm going to play games, get a PS4 in time for COD, get my tits out for the lads on cam and eat pie. Apple pie.

You know those 'choose your own adventure' books? Well, they make them for browsers too, like a game. I'm making one. You're going to play it when it's done? It'll take a good long time, though, I'm doing it properly.

I'm going to take a picture of my tits and post it on Twitter right now, so that you read this.

I'm happy. I went window shopping on Amazon last night and added lots of stuff to my wishlist, that I'm just planning to buy as soon as I can! I'm a full on craft fiend. Have you seen my art journal? Oh, I'll post pictures of everything! ^_____^

I'm going to go and walk the dogs with my friend now. Wish you were here, so we could get a slushie and chill out by the river!

x

Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

So, it's been a year, pretty much, since I felt the need to reach out and complain loudly and via the medium of text.

I've been on antidepressants for a year or so. They made me great for a while, then good, then average, then lame... then we upped the dosage. We got greedy - well, I got greedy. That made me suicidal.

I came off them cold turkey and moved to Brighton. I had a terrible time.

I went back on them and came back home to Truro.

Now... I'm going back to London. Originally, it was because I met a fruit loop on Tinder that was a dead ringer for my ex. Same name and everything. I thought he was my puzzle piece (you know, the person that fits everyone just right without having to try...) but he isn't, because he can't deal with the camming stuff and videos.

So that's gone. Now I'm wondering whether to get drunk. I got drunk on my own at midday in a field the other day, because I managed to crush a relationship by text before we even met. Amazing. A record, even.

Getting drunk sucks. Feels awesome, but then I have a SAVAGE headache for about 5 hours and feel sick for the next three days.

I don't know why I'm moving to London. It feels like it's not my future. Like I'm watching a film of someone else's retarded and boring life.

I'm so whiny it actually makes me want to slap myself upside the head. I'm trying, but I can't gather enough hatred to do it properly, because I look all pathetic and weak. That's right, me, play dead. Curl up all small and un-intimidating so I don't beat you up...