I’m trying to remember my reasons for running myself into the ground with such dedication.

December 3, 2010 § Leave a comment


I don’t know why I want to voice this out loud, it’s therapeutic somehow.” – Moving to New York– The Wombats.

Hold on kids this ones going to be a little crazy... 

A couple of months after I turned 18 I moved into student accommodation. I moved in with the hardcore. It just so happened that for whatever reason the craziest and most extreme people in those halls had been thrown into the same place and would now push themselves to prove whatever point it was we were trying to make. Even if they didn’t live directly with us the crazy ones always found us, always. It was a lot to deal with for a wide-eyed boy how was brought up in the sticks. I had always been the craziest of my friends, but I was going to learn that really wasn’t saying much.

We were all thrown together in that worrying period between the end of being a teenager and the start of being an adult. We were giving or student loans, you know, to spend on books and pens and food and shelter. In my whole first year at uni I spent £5.60 on books and pens, three 100 page notepads and a pack of cheap plastic pens, all bought on the same day sometime at the beginning of the year. We were all shapes and sizes but very similar in objective and attitude. Some liked the drugs and some just liked to drink. The thing you have to realise about the first year of our university was that the work was easy. Very easy. The other thing you have to realise is that the people in this insane group are exceptionally bright. It’s just sometimes insanity can lead to distraction, and by sometimes I of course mean all the time. The insane care very little about grades. We could do the work standing on our heads and a lot of the time we did.

It was the girls in the group who scared me. That’s very unlike me. They were the hardest of the hardcore because they were bored by groups of other girls, this meant that they had developed a knack for hanging around boys and learning to out drink them. It was always the same the whole year. We would push each other as hard as we could. Were we worried we’d snap each other? Fuck no. The thought never even came close to our minds. Ever morning it was the same.

Person A “ Dude, I haven’t slept in days”

Person B “Don’t be a pussy, drink this your coming out tonight.”

Person A “Dude, I’m throwing up more blood.”

Person B “Who cares? Come on, we’re going to a bar.”

Person A “Dude, last night the police chased me for two miles, I don’t know where I’ve been.”

Person B “But your having fun right?”

And the truth was that I was having fun. I had never lived like this before. Was it the novelty? Maybe. Was it the fact that I was living like I had always wanted? Probably. I would love to say that we didn’t think we were the cool kids, I would love too say that. But we thought we were. We thought we were the coolest kids, no, fuck that, we thought we were who the cool kids wanted to be. What we weren’t understanding was the after effects. We were young. We were really young and “Don’t worry about it” was almost our catchphrase, that and “Don’t be a pussy”(for anyone who is confused by that being a “pussy” is being a coward were I’m from). We only had to stay sober for that one phone call a week when our parents would ring to see how we were. I would say I was fine. I would say that I was doing all the work. I would say that I was eating well and sleeping lots. I have always been a stone cold liar. What was I supposed to say “Hi Mum, yeah, I doing fine, I don’t really sleep anymore, I can’t cook properly so when I do eat, which isn’t that rarely, it’s microwave meals all the way, I malnourished and worryingly thin.” But to me the lying was justified by my smile.  

It was the mental effects that got us. Your so busy being warned about the physical side that you never really think about it. The physical pain you can feel, then it goes so you must be all better, you don’t realise till your a little older that that’s not how it works. It’s lonely. Through my first year I never had a girlfriend, sure, there were girls, some would say to many, but I could never hold anything down. The whole thing was a blur of ups and downs. But I was lonely, I’ve said it before, but it’s those moments when your all alone when it gets you, it hit me the worst when my head hit my pillow. I haven’t really been able to properly connect with girls since I was young. I could fake interest, I could but it on for a night or a week or separate intervals over a month. Maybe I was a shy kid. Maybe I had trust issues with my mother. But the up shot of all of this was that I was really lonely, I had friends who I loved. But the lack of any meaningful sex was a big point for me, after awhile it starts to trouble you and you start to doubt yourself. I was having sex with strangers sure, and it wasn’t bad sex but after awhile I just stopped that because it wasn’t what I was chasing anymore and it wasn’t what I wanted, I was loosing self-respect. But how much self-respect can you have if you fuck yourself up every week?

If your still reading this you may have noticed that this ones has been a point followed by a contradiction counter point, this is what it was like in my brain and that troubled me. I don’t really trust people. Maybe this why I do this stupid fucking blog. To get all this shit out. I’m kinda messy. Much messy then I would let on in real life, and I know, I know, we all are like that but still you I suppose you always worry your worse. I was ashamed a lot. I had never behaved in this way before. I was sure that I would never meet someone to help me out of this rut. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this.

It feels good to write about it. Then it stops feeling good and I start to worry about how people will think. Plus the fact that I have just wined like a drunk 14 year old girl for about 500 words. Shit. I’m incredibly self-centred and self-indulgent but I never really had anyone else to properly worry about. Everyone at home is calm. I’m not. I worry a lot and don’t talk to anyone about. Get over it, stop being a pussy. 

I feel better. Thank you.

Email me if anything sunk in.

No Longer an Astronaut.

Simon Blake.

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