Paris was beautiful in its best Christmas dresses, twinkling lights in the Champs-Elysées and the Eiffel tower sparkling on command every hour and Christian Lacroix creations in the windows at Printemps and winter in the air. It was stunning, and I'd forgotten that there was *anything* to like about Paris, so it was good to be reminded. I feel wistful about it - mum was talking to me one of the days and asked if I wanted to bring someone over for a week in our flat there, and I thought about all the people I've said "We should go and spend a week in our flat in Paris sometime" to and the general destruction they've wrought on me since then, and it's made me feel as though nothing will ever go right again for my poor much-abused heart. Christmas with my parents was fine, except for the bit where my mother got me to try on the new corset she bought for me and then stood looking at me disappointedly and said, "You really are awfully fat, you know. Do you think you might have some sort of...problem?" Which wasn't a conversation I wanted to be having on Christmas Day, particularly - I'm sure you can imagine.
And then on Boxing Day things went to pieces, with my dad behaving like a tourist arse all day, and then mum having a drinks party for the cast after the show, and she and my dad getting plastered and saying the most awful things to people, while I had to stand there and smile and nod and not speak or apologise for them or anything, and I just wanted to die of shame for much of that day, really, especially when mum started drunkenly haranguing the poor waitress in the lovely restaurant we'd been to every other day, for something she hadn't even done, and then screaming at me when I tried to get her to be reasonable.
Which is another thing. They never listen to me. And my father knows exactly how to wind me up, and one of the surefire ways is by saying things about me that he knows aren't true, because it's something I can't stand, and I feel compelled to argue, and then it all gets horribly out of hand. So this time I just sighed every time he started it, and said "Yes, but that's not true, is it?" quietly, until he got bored and stopped. Like you're supposed to do to bullies, at school. I shouldn't have to put up with it. I know my parents are frequently very, very good to me, and I love them with all my heart, but I still shouldn't have to put up with their shit, no matter how lovely they can be to me.
College is starting again soon, and I start hyperventilating every time I think about it. To cut a long story short, for the last three weeks of last term I only went in to my singing lessons. Of everything. For the whole of those three weeks, I didn't go to anything else. I couldn't. I'm irretrievably behind in everything - I've got no chance of catching up because there's a whole series of lectures I've missed. I'm so lost about what I'm supposed to be going to that even if I wanted to turn up to everything I wouldn't know what or where half my classes were. I'm terrified, and there doesn't seem to be any actual answer except to go in there and get on with it, and you know, you might think that was the best and most obvious option, but. When I go in there and get on with it, I have panic attacks; I can't breathe, I can't see, I can't think. I hear laughter coming out of nowhere and it's *all directed at me*, if anyone touches me I have to dig my nails into my skin to stop myself from hitting them, I hurt myself in every way I can find with everything I can find to do it with, in short, I scare myself. OK? So it's not so easy, the thought of going in there and trying to get on with things. It doesn't matter what I do. It wouldn't matter if I turned up to every class on time and got everything done, which I wouldn't, because I can't, but anyway. It wouldn't matter, because that environment brings out the freak in me, I become the weird kid that nobody wants to know, who stands in the corner of class hitting her hands against the edge of the mirror in a desperate attempt to surreptitiously draw blood. I don't fucking do it on purpose. It just happens to me. I don't know what to do.
This is precisely why I never wanted to go to university or college - I knew it was going to be like this. Halfway through the opera in Paris I suddenly realised that I had to kill myself in order to get out, though. It wasn't a helpful thought. I wish anything was, but unfortunately there are no answers to this one. Nobody at college has the time to look after me, and before you say "Oooh, what makes you think you deserve special treatment anyway?", I don't deserve it, I need it. I wish there were answers. Any answers.
People and emotions and stuff
Oh, and then there's everything bloody else. Ok. Where to start?
I don't know where to start, actually. I hate those LiveJournal posts where people talk about the people who've broken their heart, and claim not to be being unkind or bitchy but quite evidently are, and if I talked about what's happened in my love life this last year, you know, it would go precisely that way. And I'd say I didn't blame people but I'd be lying, because how can I not blame people for the things they've done, and yet at the same time of course I'd be telling the truth, because I don't think they're to blame for the feelings that prompted the actions. I don't know. It's hard to know what to say here that won't get in anyone's way; I want the space to be honest, but to do that I'd have to lock this away from everyone, and I don't want to do that.
A good friend has, for the second time in as many years (I think, roughly anyway) got together with someone I have deeper feelings for than anyone really realises. I think it's great but part of me has a leaden sort of 'I can't believe I have to go through this again' feeling that ought to be uncharitable but isn't; it's not that I don't love them or that I don't wish the very best for them, it's just that I wish I didn't have to suffer at the same time. And oh, it's all very big goth blouse and oh god the angst to say I'm suffering, but, you know, I am. I was in love, this year, very much in love, and I was almost destroyed by the break-up, and that's just...fact. It's been an incredibly hard year for a lot of people, but it's not overstretching the truth to say that I'm one of them; I've had a horrible break-up, yes, but I've also been assaulted by someone I loved and on top of those, along the way, I've had to cope with all my usual little heartaches. And I say 'little' but of course they don't seem that way to me; they seem huge, and if I try to see them objectively sometimes I can, but it's not like that helps because, you know, it's intensely subjective pain I'm trying to deal with.
Mrrr. There may have ceased to be any point in this - much more and it's going to develop into a list of LJ names with information on why I've had angst over them in 2004. ~g~ And there are better places for that sort of thing, like nowhere.
I'm not sure this has helped too much, but I think it has a little. I feel calmer now than when I started, though I've not typed many of the things I intended to type. I wanted to talk about mum not listening to me, about the drive to be on stage, I wanted to talk about Aden and about Alex and about Sal and Mark and about losing very important people and about clothes and stuff, but never mind. It can wait.
I'm tired, now.
Edit : On a far, far lighter note, I keep trying to read Black Books slash, but it's just...wrong. I think that's the first time I've ever had to stop reading slash because it was just...wrong.
Why isn't there any Dylan Moran slash, damn it? He and Jarvis Cocker would look great together.
I need more sleep.