The Dream

Her eyes popped open, like a cork escaping an ice-cold bottle of champagne. She rested her head on the pillow for a minute lost in translation, trying to piece together the fragments of the dream that were whirling, blizzard-like, around her head. It had been the same dream. The same dream she had dreamt over and over again for the past fortnight. She had been wearing a heavy red cloak with a fur-trimmed hood, pulled right up over her head and drawn close around her neck. It had been snowing. Hard. She could hardly see and the wind was icy - that much she could hear because she hadn't felt cold. She could remember walking up to a black iron gate and peering cautiously through the bars when she saw it. And then she had pushed and the gate had silently swung forwards and her feet had carried her onto the pebbled drive and up towards an old Victorian house, which looked dark and uninhabited apart from a glowing ball of light coming from a window on the first floor. She could sense her pulse beating under the cloak and she had reached a pale white hand inside and laid it upon her heart. Those same feet had carried her resisting, fearful body right up to the front door with it's cracked white paint and rusty hinges that had screeched ominously as her trembling hand had pushed, not hard, and the door had creaked open. And now she had been inside. She could smell the age of the house, the years wafting towards her out of the darkness. For it had been pitch-black inside and any light she had been gifted with from the moon had been shut out as she entered. However, with the loss of the light came the gain of the low-pitched hum. A hum she didn't recognise from a song her ears had never heard. It had sounded like it was coming from down the spiral staircase. She couldn't see that is was a spiral, but she had guessed correctly. And as her feet carried her onto the first step she imagined it to be elegantly winding down from the first floor like a giant tongue. As she had climbed the gentle eery hum had grown louder, but not because she was getting closer to it - that much she knew - but because her ears felt it crescendo as her pulse quickened. She had felt that her heart couldn't possibly beat any faster or it might explode. Her senses had suddenly been so alert that her eyes had fought the darkness and been able to make out a huge portrait from the top most stair. And as she had teetered there swaying slightly a brilliant white stallion with fierce red eyes had glared angrily back at her, as it reared on it's powerful hind legs. She had gasped and the darkness had rattled in through her open mouth and at that exact moment the humming had stopped. Scared and unnerved by the horse and the sudden silence, she had unintentionally stepped backwards, her foot getting caught up in the heavy red cloak or had it been the darkness that had crept back up behind her? She hadn't known. But the sudden realisation that she was going to fall backwards down the spiral staircase had hit her. And then at that split second in the dream she had woken up. Her eyes had popped open like a cork escaping an ice-cold bottle of champagne. And now she was here in her large white cloud, with the duvet pulled up around her neck encasing her in a safe soft feathery cocoon.

The Argument

The helplessness is a red raw baby. Wildly flailing arms. Mouth open in a perfect ‘O’. The scream pierces my eardrum. I draw a quick sharp breath. The panic is funneled up my neck. Now it is searing into my brain. I can’t see. I can’t speak. I can’t think. All I want is for everything to be right. I need security. I need peace. I need you to believe me. The vulnerability I have is etched across my chest. The destitution I feel carved into my face. Eyes wide with longing. Mouth tight in agony. Emotional agony. Anger even. I thought I felt some anger. A quivering flame glowing from the embers in my palm. Crushing violating accusations shot at me straight from the barrel of a gun. Impossible to dodge it takes every effort to defend. Your minions mislead you. It is not true. Distorted fabricated facts slithering like poison up your leg. They tighten around your waist, but they will aim for your neck. They will get you one day. And I will know I tried in all my hopeless disheartened glory.

One day I will find you

The longing feels physical. It is a lump in my throat that grows and as I choke it back it sinks into my stomach. The longing for you to come back is overwhelming. Once I have you on my mind I know you will stay with me all day. I don’t blame you. I love you. Although the pain feels like it will never go away I embrace it. I deserve it. I have to know that I will never forget you. But it is hard. It is an ache like I have never known. It is an irreparable irrecoverable ailment because nothing can bring you back. The loss seems insurmountable today. Sometimes I want to join you. Today I need to. I want to look into your kind warm eyes and lie on the bed with you next to me. I wish I could see you one last time. I have to tell you all the things I never did. I would have told them to you one day. But then you left. And I didn’t have the chance. I have so much regret locked up inside of me. Today it consumes me. I feel like I am losing my mind. If I say them out aloud I am scared you will not hear them. And my words will linger in the air taunting me and dancing in front of my eyes. The words will say they could not find you. They will say you are not there. Not listening. Not caring. I want to move on and I want to accept. I have to. I can’t carry on like this. Sometimes when I miss you most my mind plays tricks on me. It reminds me of the times we argued, the awful things we may have thought. The resentment. The anger. And I feel guilt. I start to think I was not there for you. That had I been there it could have been different. Deep down I have to accept that is not true. I was not important enough. I could not have changed reality. Life was too hard. Life was too painful. You had to escape. You entered into another world without the hurt, the wretchedness, despair and desolation. Where are you now? Do the tiny birds sing to you every morning? Does the coffee smell fresh when you pour it? Do you feel the earth under your bare feet as you glide across the fields, with your beautiful hands outstretched to the long grass? Does the sand slide through your fingers as you kneel by the sea looking out at the sunset? Does the wind blow your hair the right way? Do you ever think of me?

The power of projection

I feel so trapped. This is destroying me. All I think about when I wake up in the morning is what I did wrong and whether I deserved this to happen. Whether this is pay back for all the hurt I have caused in the past. I am not working properly, I am not eating properly and I am not being honest about the pain that I am feeling. I try to make jokes about it, or listen to the advice I am being given, but ultimately I know my self-confidence and self-assurance has gone. He was a friend and I trusted him. I never trust anybody. I thought that I could be open and honest with him about my hopes, fears and dreams for the future. I didn't feel ashamed about my past when I was with him and I thought I touched a part of him deeper than the surface he presented. I thought I saw something and knew that the man we saw on a daily basis was not the real thing. It was the person that he thought everybody wanted to see. It wasn't super cool, or charming, or 'sic-dude', charisma was meaningless. Although I was attracted to him, it felt deeper. I thought I had found somebody whom I could relate to and who would be a friend for a very long time. I didn't know that I would become physically attracted to him, I just knew that underneath the hard and troubled exterior was a kind soul - a pained and hurting part of him - a part that had been covered up and built upon for many years. I guess the 'always wanting to please/to help/to make others feel good about themselves' part of me took over. I saw somebody in pain and I wanted to make it better. At the same time, I made myself feel stronger. I saw what a positive influence I could have on people and that helped boost my low self-esteem. I started laughing more, thinking deeper, and forgetting the old me. I started to believe that in the future I could be happy and would be, although I didn't know how, where or who with. Quite suddenly I felt good. My relationships improved and my commitment to life. Then I entered limbo. A limbo where I didn't feel safe. I felt scared and I felt hurt. I was ashamed and embarrassed about how I was feeling and I started to doubt my prior motives, my actions and my words. I knew that I had been using my relationship with him to prop myself up - he had given me confidence, support, and allowed me to connect with a deeper me. That has gone. I feel weak, and I feel sad. I feel sad a lot of the time, but I don't cry. I don't cry because to cry is weak. I don't want to shed any tears for him. I can't. If I do then I have nothing left. However, all I want to do is cry. I want to cry with anger and frustration at myself. I want to cry with anger and shame about how I feel about myself. I want to cry with rage and anguish that he ever came into my life. I want to curse those who love me for allowing a relationship to develop. I want to beat myself up for not letting this go. Most of all, however, I just want to sit in a dark corner and weep. I want the tears to cleanse away the pain, the fear, wash away all the uncertainty that has crept back over the last few months. The worst part of this is that I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand. I utter those words again and again - everyday I ask myself why. And then as if my own pain is not enough I worry about him. About how he is feeling, why he hasn't been in touch and what is going on. I wonder whether the deeper part of him has closed once again and the 'slick', 'cool', 'fuck man' mentality has returned. I think about the evils of money in this world and the pain it ultimately causes. Why can people talk the talk and then never walk the walk? Are we all deluded? Or are we just innocently confused? And then I am grateful. I am grateful for the love and support I am getting. I am ashamed it isn't enough - I want more. I need an explanation. Shame is an awful component of life. It is harmful and self deprecating, but it is there. I want to let it go, hand it over, and be strong. I feel embarrassed. Embarrassed that I spilt out my truth to somebody, spoke honestly and was rejected. I think I made him feel pressured. I made him feel pressured when he was too vulnerable, too fragile, and too troubled. I never meant to. There was no pressure. Friendship felt more important. It was my insecurities and I know that. I know now that I acted rashly. I saw something for more than it was, but there was no reason not to. I idealized about something that would become turbulent and damaging. That would impact on me in ways I did not foresee. I want to know why. I think I know why and yet I feel like a child in a dark room who can hear things moving, but can't see them - who feels panicked and in danger. A child who is crying for help - who knows their cries can be heard, but who is being ignored. I can't accept this and yet I know I can't move on until I do. I know many of the feelings I am having are harmful and weighing me down. I am drowning and I know how to swim, I just can't make myself move my arms or my legs. It is too painful and I am too ashamed.

I don't understand.
Yet maybe I do.
This is the power of obsession.

Harvey Julian Dante Kant

The Misery

The Misery was like a searching homeless heatwave. It started at my toes, wrapped up my feet and tingled onto my legs. Before I could take control I was up to my neck in it. The desolation leeched off me and begged into my mind for some sanity. It sucked at my mouth like a passionate kiss after months apart. But there was no love. It was hungry – eager for my soul. It wanted to absorb the remaining happiness and hope from my open mouth. The wretchedness licked my tears as they cascaded down my face. As the angry heat surfaced on my wet cheeks the Misery gained momentum. Like a pan of oil being shown a hot flame, it bubbled and spat at me. Misery shows no mercy. It is an invisible boa constrictor compressing your lungs, as you gasp and gulp down air into the last remaining air pockets, hissing and taunting as you resist the urge to sink to your knees and bury your face in your shaking hands. And then it was gone. It left a quivering mess behind, who lay on the floor wailing, like a naked baby on a cold marble floor. I was infected and the Misery had moved on – off to be a parasitic weight on another victim’s shoulders.

Today I saw your face

The anguish is alive
The rhythm is rough
The grasp is unyielding.

It slithers up my back
It slows on my shoulders
It tightens around my neck.

We stumble into mist
We struggle arm in arm
We bow our heads in grief.

How is life so unfair
How did it come to be
How can I set you free?

Can you look down and see
Can you feel calm and be
Can you remember me?

I focus on my truths
I smile at those I see
I weep for treasures lost.

Without a pip of madness life would not be worth living.

Define madness.

Don't

Don’t lie to a liar
Don’t try to cheat a cheater
Definitely don’t manipulate a manipulator.
And never steal thoughts from a thinker.

The Perfect Silence

As she climbs the waves of her mind,
Full throttle, hands tense at the helm
Concentration unwavering
Hold her steady.
She claws and grasps at the anchors that ground her,
But they are coming unstuck.
She feels the turn slipping
Out of her grip.
The rains sears down on her like sharp, diamond bullets.
She is still in control.

All goes calm.
She is still in control.
She made it
Escaped the storm.
It is the perfect silence.

Her clenched hands slacken their grip,
Breath flees from her cavernous lungs.
And then it hits,
That last unsuspecting wave that isn’t going to let her out.
Her knuckles whiten,
She can’t fight it any longer.
Can’t ride out this storm.
Her mind is a whirlpool.
Of desperation.
Of helplessness.
She gives in,
As the waves of her mind crash down upon her.

She goes under.
Gasping,
Demanding air.
She thinks she is drowning.

The Perfect Storm.

Anger

I’ve been put on the hob to boil and I can feel the temperature inside the pan starting to rise. My body is tense and my fists are shut tight. The energy inside me builds and the atoms I am composed of begin to vibrate. Faster and faster and faster. I am so angry at the world and I am angry with myself. Angry at who I have become and about these tortured thoughts slipping and sliding over the mulch that is my brain. Because that is all we are – mulch in a pan – but heat it enough and you might just detonate it. Give it enough energy, enough fuel, enough petrol and watch it explode. I’ve been put on the hob to boil and you’re still peering into the cauldron.

Sawhead

Imagine if on your shoulders there was a saw instead of a neck and a head. A long aluminium sharp toothed saw that glittered under the morning sun. Sounds beautiful, doesn't it. A saw. A weapon of destruction. No eyes and no ears. Only a saw. Blindly stumbling around sawing stuff up. Great. And you can't even see it. You don't even know the damage you are doing. Obviously this is imagined. An imagined scenario. But really, take a look at the world.... look at the damage, the destruction.... look at the state of the environment. Aren't we all walking around with giant metal saws on our shoulders anyway?

The Mask

It is easy to be faceless. Faceless is a career. Faceless is an aim, an achievement. It is a divine right to be faceless. Faceless and nameless. Wouldn't that be nice? Wandering around aimlessly getting into all sorts of dangerous predicaments, but don't worry because if you are faceless then you are also blameless. Faceless is an aim. Make a career out of it. Don't take any responsibility for yourself or even those your faceless thoughtless aimless actions affect. Faceless is blameless isn't it. That is what you said. Do you really believe that? I don't see how you can. You are not an idiot. But you are faceless. You are wearing a mask. I wonder what is underneath that mask. I bet it is pain and I bet it is suffering and I imagine there is anger, guilt and regret under that mask too. Take it off. Face me and look me in the eye. I want to see you. I want to see the person your actions have hurt the most. I am looking at you.

Looking yourself in the eye in a mirror is one of the hardest things to do.

You have clouds in your eyes

Objectivity

I can’t quantify the trust I have in you. I can’t compare it to the trust I have in others. If I trust you then I trust you as you. I don’t compare that trust to the trust I have in someone or something else. I see you as you and you as you alone. An independent. An individual. I don’t see you in a medium. I don’t see you in a brightly coloured room. A room with foam padded walls and floors. I don’t see you in a room with fresh clean sunlight pouring through the blinds. I don’t trust fantasy. I long for it. I trust you. Fantasy can’t exist. That is why it is fantasy. Trust is fact and you are real.

You love me for who I am?

You say you love me for who I am. But you can't love me for everything I am? Not everything. I mean what is everything? Is everything and nothing a circle with no beginning and no end?

I am a game of charades and you are on the wrong track

His eyes bore into mine like green poison arrows. They are glittering, red, piercing. I blink, but I don’t look away. I return the glare with a wide shot of green, yellow and blue. I am challenging you. I will not give in. By giving in to him I give in to all of those who try to control me. You do so under the pretence of interest. Get over yourself. Best for who – me? Or is it you? Do you sleep soundly at night knowing you have been the best you can in each moment? You can’t – it isn’t possible. We all make mistakes. I am a game of charades and you are on the wrong track.

I guess what it comes down to...

I guess what it comes down to is this: do you trust your instinct, your intuition, that feeling in the depths of your stomach that says, if this is my decision then I know everything will be alright? It took me a long time to trust my first urge to act in a particular way when faced with a dilemma, internal or external. Those questions blew in thick and thin and I never realised that it was I, it was me who had the choice. Just because somebody else was pushing me in one direction did not mean I had to acquiesce. I did not have to cooperate reluctantly, sidelining my anger and resentment elsewhere. I had the choice. If I inherently came to the conclusion that I did not agree, that I was not comfortable, not happy - emotionally or morally - then I did not have to submit to somebody else's choice. But your interpretation might be different - you may see it as perverse and obstinate, pig-headed and irrational. Whatever, that is your choice, your personal interpretation. I simply think I am trusting my instincts and listening to my soul.

The Unfortunate Warthog

They know that he is coming. They know that he doesn't know they are there. They crouch waiting. Listening. They catch the noises as the wind carries them to outstretched ears. They don't know what he is yet. They don't know he is just a warthog. He could be anything. They wait patiently. They are hungry. They know he will appear soon. They can hear him. They sense he will walk right into them. And there he is. Trotting towards them. They see him. And he still hasn't seen them. They lie there, ready to pounce. They have him now. He can't escape. And then in seconds it is over. Eight lions to one warthog. They have him. He never stood a chance. Poor warthog.

But they are nature and nature is them.

Panic

He stands there quivering. His eyes are unfocused and his back legs crumbling beneath him. He looks at me and he whimpers. "But what do you want me to do," I beg. How could I make things better? He can't talk and he doesn't understand me. I don't know what to do. "Stop shaking will you?" I feel anger - resentment that we can't communicate is blazing in my mind, the fire glittering through my open eyes. I can't control the ringing. The ringing - incessant and unforgiving. I want it to stop too. It is ringing in my bones and my head aches. The door is locked and we can't get out. I know he wants to run. He wants to bolt and so I lunge forwards grabbing him in my arms. The smoke is coming now. I can smell it. In my nostrils - thick and concentrated - entering my lungs. I cough and shove him under my sweater. I need to find us a way out of here. I need to save him. I need to save myself.

Misinterpretating you

Isn't it a shame we spend our lives misinterpreting loving actions carried out by those around us? Stop pestering me. It doesn't matter what I am doing. I am occupied and I don't have time for you. I don't see the concern, the care. I misinterpret it as intrusive prying. Informal snooping. I am too important to answer your questions. Take them somewhere else or ask me when I am not so busy. I don't have time for you right now. Stop. Hold it. Take a look at yourself. Why are you behaving like this? Acknowledge the love you are being shown. Acknowledge the kindness. The hurt you will create with your heavy-handed response. You are being insensitive. You are being selfish. Look at the bigger picture. Wouldn't it be worse if nobody bothered to ask how you were feeling? To check you were alive? To sympathetically enquire about your whereabouts. She just wants to know that you are not drowning in your burden of 'self-important' immersions.

Those dearest to us suffer most.

You can't always get what you want

But reality states this is often a good thing.
You may not know it now. One day you will.
And you will be grateful.
Remember to say thank you to whatever was in your way.
Otherwise next time you might get what you want.
And then you will be sorry.

Underground

I am imprisoned. I am incarcerated in a totalitarian regime. Herded around like cattle; nose-to-tail with all these people I do not know. They do not care. They have no respect for any of the other cows. Then again no cow respects them. Why should they show anything in return? Descending into the depths I watch the escapees - those being elevated back towards the sunlight. To real air. Integrated back into society. Onto the streets. I am still going down. Down into the depths. Into the tunnels of London. The heat clutches at my throat and my bag weighs down on my shoulder. I stand waiting. Waiting for the monotonous drone of the approaching train.

Stand behind the yellow line.

It will all be over soon.

Stop it won't you

You are abnormally nosy
Or endearingly inquisitive -
Isn't that what you call it?

Are there moments in life that are pointless?

What happens when we feel like we are sitting there wasting time? Wasting time when we could be out there. Out there living. Out there feeling. Out there making a difference. Instead we just sit here. We breathe. We listen. We do nothing else. We distract ourselves. We disappear inside our heads and creep down the corridors of the mind. We look through keyholes and avoid the rooms we do not want to go into. Those rooms with clothes and belongings in all the wrong places; we leave them left locked. Not now. We are just sitting. We are not doing anything. Right now we can’t face reality. Instead we enter the rooms of fantasy. The imagination is powerful. We look through the keyhole and see marshmallow cushions. We see thick, feathery carpets, and dark, comforting walls. I see roaring fires, a hot mug of tea, and a little fluffy puppy. What do you see? What do you desire when you crouch down behind a closed wooden door and peer through a small brass keyhole? Throwaway moments sitting in an armchair, thoughts freely floating – what do you see?

Are we sitting there wasting time?

Of course not.

There was a little girl

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sweet nothings

If I ask nicely will you stop talking?

It is a buzzing in my ear. An ongoing buzz. It filters through my ears and seeps into my mind. My heads feels like treacle. Heavy and pounding. Words sticking to my thoughts. I can’t concentrate with these self-important mumblings violating my inner peace. Irritation quells and self-restraint is necessary. Do not speak out. Toleration is the gift. After all, I should be listening. I can’t. It is too hard. My mind is too busy. There is work to do. And yet you will not stop talking. I wouldn’t mind if I had an interest in what you were saying. I guess it could be relevant. In spite of this, I don’t. I can’t listen to your deep, penetrative voice. Aged and rusty. You might say experienced. I say conceited. Then again, who am I to judge you?

Fences of London

The fences of London are invisible. Yet they are there. They come in all shapes and sizes. All strengths. All colours. All areas. They are there. Barriers to reality. Barriers to truth. Barriers to integration and wholesome acceptance. Why don’t we just take them down?

The Powerful Nail

We should all admire the powerful nail.
On it’s own the powerful nail is strong.
It holds stuff together.
On top of the stuff we place our knickknacks.
These knickknacks tell the tale of our lives.
The powerful nail can become even more powerful
When there are seven powerful nails working together.

Chipsticks

With filthy clothes and deep-set eyes, you stare up at me from your place on the pavement. That isn’t your place you know. You don’t own it. You just sat down there to eat your chips. I could sit down in that space next to you if I wanted to. I’m not any better than you. Your chips smell and you’ve been drinking. Are you looking at me like you want my life? Like you would trade your piece of ground and bag of chips for what I have? Stick to 'your' chips and 'your' ground. The grass is rarely greener on the other side.

Shorts

As I storm down the stairs to the basement, my head pounding with furious resentment, I see the usual team of no good God Squaders kneeling in front of the dirty effigy that I think is meant to represent Jesus, but looks more like my sister’s skanky boyfriend after a particularly rough night out. “If you all have to give thanks to God at 5.30am every morning, can you at least do it in silence or better still, somewhere else far away from here?”
“.... Like Mecca,” I add as an afterthought, although I am totally certain my brother isn’t a Muslim and I am pretty sure to enter Mecca you have to be one.
They look at me blankly before my brother gets up off his scabby knees and walks over to me. “You obviously haven’t woken up with God this morning, Dolabella. Why don’t you join in and you may start to see you life in an illuminated and fulfilled way?”

What an idiot. I swear he was less intolerable before he found religion a year and a half ago. Now my brother, Enobarbus, is like a seriously tedious long haul flight without any in-flight entertainment, but this is a flight you have to take daily. Eno used to be quite cool; I actually used to beg him to come and pick me up from school on his motorbike because the popular girls in my class used to fancy him, but since he grew a beard and started to wear his hair in a greasy pony tail, only washing it once a month with an organic bar of coconut soap, and began to wear socks with his ‘rustic’ sandals, I pretend I don’t know him out in public. Sadly for me, it is not like he is the most embarrassing member of my family by any stretch of one’s imagination: my mother, Cleopatra de Cipriadi Marvolo, would happily scoop up that prize. Can you believe that I too am lumbered with that ridiculous surname and all because my jaw-droppingly eccentric mother was adamant that she kept ‘de Cipriadi’ in our family? As if there wasn’t already enough to tease me about at school.

Anyway, back to ‘the present’ and Eno’s god squad, who from the smell of things down in the basement either need a good bath or there is some seriously strong Stilton lurking in one of the corners. Anyway they are all staring at me with bloody bemused expressions, like they can’t understand why I am irritated at being woken up at the crack of dawn! “So, are you going to join us Dolly or not because if you are then there are spare bibles under my bed ñ there are a couple in Finnish if you really want a challenge?”
“So, are you going to join us Dolly or not...” I mimic at him sardonically; I am very aware this is not a mature thing to be doing in front of the opposite sex, but appearing demure and sophisticated infront of Eno’s crappy friends is not something I need to concern myself with. Anybody else might think Eno wasn’t being serious about the Finnish bible, but I know him and I know he is an absolute freak.
“I can only think of one thing more painful than getting on my knees and listening to all you moronic Matthew, Mark, Luke and Johns first thing in the morning and that would be having to do it today, and then again tomorrow.”

With that shockingly mediocre insult I spin around and stalk out of the room, the smiley face on the back of my pyjama bottoms wobbling them all out as I begin to stamp my feet up the stairs. Upstairs, Clown, my youngest brother, has just woken up and, although he is only five years old, is watching a yoga DVD and practising his sun salutations in front of the TV. I can’t wait to leave home. This family needs a live-in psychologist. The brutally honest tell-it-like-it-is type though, rather than the, ‘let’s delve deep into your past and uncover some childhood trauma’ breed that colonise Harley Street and charge £300 per hour to tell you that basically you’re screwed up because let’s face it, isn’t everyone? I know this because my older sister, Octavia, used to be anorexic and the doctor referred her to a psychotherapist based at the bottom of Harley Street, who was renowned for being excellent at aiding recovery. Octavia used to tell us all about what her therapist said over breakfast, ‘My therapist says that the reason I don’t like to eat is because Mummy and Daddy always argue and Mummy shouts at me because I remind her of him’ or, ‘I can’t eat that new potato or that baked bean because my therapist says I don’t have to’ or even, ‘I think I will just go up to bed for the morning because my therapist says that school is hindering my recovery.’
Anyway, we soon realised that what Octavia’s therapist told her and what Octavia told us didn’t exactly match up, but as Octavia said when this subject was broached, ‘if you had bothered to come to the family therapy sessions then I wouldn’t have been able to lie to you all so really it is your fault.’ She did have a point.

However, instead of a psychologist we have Domanica, our live in help from Slovakia. Apparently her name means demon, which suits her quite well as she has glittery black slanting eyes and really pale skin. I think she is dead ugly, but my dad flirts with her the whole time. He is such a cretin; are you allowed to call your own father a cretin? Under normal circumstances probably not, but Antony Marvolo is an exception to every rule in a completely negative sense; I honestly think the only three women he doesn’t flirt with in the entire world are myself, my older sister Octavia, and of course my mother. I don’t know why they aren’t divorced – the only time I have ever seen them touch each other was when we went sky diving as a family and my dad shoved my mother out of the dilapidated plane we jumped out of at 5,000 feet. It wasn’t even that funny – she nearly had a coronary and then threw up for the entire three-hour car journey back into London. Gross.

Back in my room I open my pink PVC curtains, which have a feathery trim. The irony of the pink PVC curtains is that I am not joking. My mother redecorated my room a few years ago as a surprise, and, well she knows I hate pink so I can’t think what came over her. I think she wishes I was one of those glittery, fashion-obsessed teenagers, like her friend Portia’s daughter who wears stilettos and make up to the gym and dresses her miniature poodle in a velvet Gucci jacket. My dog, Sebastian, is a mongrel and I picked him up from Battersea Dogs Home when I went there to do some volunteer work last August. He is lying on his back on my pillow and drooling as he snores. He isn’t the most graceful animal nor is he particularly handsome and certainly not since he got castrated last Friday. Now he has a bloody scar and it keeps winking at me when he rolls over onto his back. I didn’t really have any choice because he got the next-door neighbours pedigree Chinese Crested pregnant and then she had mongrel puppies and Mrs. Wilhelmstein was furious with me. According to her, Princess Marilyn Monroe would have won Crufts next year. Now she can’t even enter because her teats are all manky and distorted, and apparently, according to my friend Simon, whose Great Aunt breeds Chihuahuas for showing, once they pop out puppies they automatically lose points because everything goes a bit droopy, which is what must have happened to my mother.

We are all taken by surprise when Clown announces that it is his sixth birthday today at breakfast. My mother laughs and tells him not to be silly because, “darling, you were only four last year...”
Anyway, as it transpires, I do the maths, and Clown is right, he is six today. Oh dear, to me this is all very reminiscent of that Danny DeVito film of Roald Dahl’s Matilda and surely borders slightly on child neglect. I run upstairs to my room to see if there is anything new I might be able to fob off as a birthday present for Clown, but the only unopened thing I can find is the complete fourth series of Sex And The City and, although I haven’t watched it because that sort of stuff makes me want to kill myself, I don’t think it is going to be appropriate for a six year old, however mature he may be. Re-entering the kitchen empty handed I see that my mother has just presented Clown with a box that looks suspiciously like one of my father’s finest cases of red wine. My father would have a fit if he knew my mother had a second key made for his private wine cellar when he was away last year on an extreme sports weekend in Serbia. Luckily he hasn’t seemed to notice, even though she goes through at least nine bottles every week.

“Now baby,” she is cooing at my brother, “this isn’t for you to drink now, but when you are eighteen you will really enjoy it, so take it up to your room and keep it safe until then...” Last Christmas she forgot to buy any of us presents, but gave Clown a pot of Caviar she found in the back of the fridge as he was the youngest and still believed in Father Christmas, so it is not as if I am surprised, but I do feel quite sad all of a sudden and not because Clown looks upset. In fact, he seems far more interested in picking out every blue peanut M&M from the massive packet in the middle of the kitchen table. Clown goes through a packet a week and each day he eats a different colour: blue on Monday, yellow on Tuesday, red on Wednesday, green on Thursday, orange on Friday, and brown on Saturday. On Sunday mornings he takes himself to McDonald’s because, like he tells us regularly, ‘everybody needs to indulge once in a while.’

I am actually feeling dismal because blue M&Ms mean it is Monday and Monday means double dissection first thing in biology. Dissection wouldn’t be so bad if it worked on an opt-in opt-out policy, but Mr. Prickard is a prick and well, even though I got a doctor’s note saying I should be exempt from dissection classes as they caused me to suffer from mild depression and anxiety, he still forces me to participate. Last week we had to dissect a mouldy catfish, which was rank, especially as I got the side with all the fish roe on and one of the disgusting little balls jumped into my eye when the scalpel slipped out my fingers. I really hate fish, so dissecting a fish doesn’t depress me from an animal rights perspective – just a stomach churning slash vomiting point of view; any other animal, however, is a completely different kettle of fish. As a firm believer in equality for all animals, dissection classes are torturous. Actually, everything about the totally elite London day school I attend is torturous – well, except the Coleslaw Club and Ludo Medici.

'When the heart speaks, the mind finds it indecent to object'

If they are thoughts that would haunt you left unturned then you must attend to them as they arise now. It is possible for us to lead our lives free from the burdens of the past, but only if we address them and sort out what belongs to us, what we need to untangle and how we will do that, and also to hand back the load of stuff that wasn't ours to take on in the first place. In one sense that is where confiding in a trusted friend has helped me more than I would have ever thought possible, but on the other hand a lot of my thought patterns and internal belief systems seem to be brought out and processed when I am alone, thinking in bed, or whilst I am reading, for example - recently, from reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I truly believe it has changed my life. And now I will tell you why. In your email your talked of how we need to be apart for a while and I agree, and do not feel in any way rejected. I know that before I can make any important decisions I must feel complete and fulfilled within my own body, inside my boundaries and through self-fulfillment. In the last chapter of the book Tereza's feelings and emotions for Karenin are constantly contrasted with her feelings for Tomas. Her selfless love for Karenin and how calm, secure and content she feels in his presence compared to her insecure, needy and desperate love for Tomas. I do not want to be another example of selfish and needy human love and I do not want to try to reshape and recreate anybody who comes into my life. I am not saying I want to love you or anybody for that matter in the same way I love Harvey as that would be patronising and extremely irritating, but I want to feel that honest mutual affection, respect, and serenity. However, I know that it is not something I need nor want today. Do you understand? I don't think I have explained it very well as I am tired and my eyes are closing.

Beautiful Girl

There is a picture up there of a beautiful girl. I can't see it, but I know it is there. I see it in your eyes. I see you way you look at me. You don't say it, but I know you think it. You have me beautiful in your mind.

'Always be nice to people'

It is true. I heard it recently. I believe it. Not that I didn't before. This time, however, it held more meaning. I learnt. I acknowledged the beauty of choice. Life is a gift and we should not waste one moment. Block out resentment. Fight your preconceived notions. Open your mind and clear out your debris. Your soul will thank you and your spirit will dance lightly on her tiptoes.

Dandi

Serenity