confession: white girl no.10984563

My life is just wasting away. But I don’t have anything else I want to do. I’m going to pass my exams. I’m going to have enough money to have an alright summer vacation. Maybe I’ll work, but only a little. I’ll pass my next exam. I’ll be real nervous about it but it will go alright. Then I will go on exchange to Europe, where I will have a hard, rough time, I will cry in the shower and not wanting to get out of bed, but I will do it and time will pass and it will be fine. The only problem with living is that time is so sharp. It never goes faster or slower. Movies and books and songs are just trying to manipulate time, but you know secretly that time is straighter than the sharpest knife edge in the world. And there are scientists trying to explain time, and saying things like “the faster you move, the slower time moves for you” and that if you look at the stars, you’ll see back in time, and all other sorts of things that are making me dizzy and I need to lie down and feel like I’m falling down to earth, not out into the universe. Everything will be alright. I say to myself, “what’s the worst thing that can happen? Someone I care about die, or I die.” if I die, then all my troubles are over. I won’t feel guilt or sadness because the people who care about me are now mourning and crying over me. Because I won’t exist. Killing yourself is only difficult until you’ve done it. But living is difficult all the time. Heck, everything is difficult. “But everything will be alright, as long as there is no war where you live, and you have a place to live and a fridge with food and electricity to keep the fridge running. You can read. You’re not blind or deaf or mute or disabled in any way. You’re the embodiment of success from birth. Only problem is maybe your crippling anxiety and your inability to explain that anxiety. But it gives you the creeps. And it makes you cry uncontrollably and inexplicably. And it gives you guilt, because why would you, the luckiest girl in the world, who has every reason to live, who is healthy and well educated and cultured and whatnot, why would this unlikely successful girl get sad and unhappy and scared? The world is yours. It’s in your hand. Yet, secretly every morning, you think to yourself: ‘The world is so heavy to drag. I hope I get hit by a bus today. And that my head gets disconnected from my body so I won’t feel too much pain.’ You’re a disgrace to humanity, but humanity is a disgrace in itself. The only thing disgracing humanity is itself thinking that parts of it is disgracing itself. You’re all just bullshitting the world, pretending a god will judge you one day, clinging to that tiny, weak belief that it’s important that you go to classes tomorrow because you need to do a thing. You don’t need that thing. Everything you are going to learn has already been invented by other humans. You’re not studying nature laws, you’re pretending to learn about humans as if you were not a human yourself. So who are you trying to kid? Just fake it on the exam, you’ll be fine. Fake it in front of your friends, they’ll be fine and you’ll be fine. Fake your whole life, because everything will be just fine." "Fine."  

I like beginnings. When you start on something new, you’re in clear water. Usually, beginnings have very clear instructions. You’re allowed to do mistakes because you’re not expected to know the rules thoroughly. New tings are exciting and fresh and unknown, the main thing that drives you is curiosity. I guess that is why I love to start new books. The first page is always the best one. Naturally, since it’s the first you read in a book, it has been perfected. Every next word follows the one before, as if in a dance. There’s a flow, a rhythm, that is dragging you in. It’s like being hungry, and tasting a piece of chocolate. Your dry and numb taste buds are waking up from their in-between-meals slumber. You taste the sweet, the salt, the fat, the dry, the wet. Your mouth loosens up, and for a second there, your sense of taste is overwhelming you, literally swallowing you whole. Your vision doesn’t blurr, you don’t go blind or deaf, but you forget all of that the moment you’ve layed the chocolate piece on your tongue. You just forget the other senses, simply. The next taste isn’t as lovely. It’s interesting, as well as the first taste, but it is not new, it is compared to the first one. It’s a follow-up. The first taste can also be the last, but the second cannot exist without the first. The second is usually a disappointment. The first one was so consuming and different, and all you feel is a thrill of experiencing something new, so the second one will always only be a resumé of disappointment of all the exciting things you felt with the first taste but which doesn’t exist in the second. It’s just a sad immitation, that’s all. The cocoa isn’t as present, and the sweet is more dull. Naturally, going from zero to hundred is impressive, but from hundred to hundred and one is nothing. The third bite is your last chance, a tiny hope that this one will confirm the magic you felt with the first, that it wasn’t just a small malfunction that occurred with the second. But you hold your stakes low, because deep in your soul, at the chore of your spine, you are very well aware of the truth. The harsh, breathtaking, earth shaking truth that the rest of the chocolate will never be as splendid as that first bite. Unless, of course, you wait another couple of hours, and your tongue is marinated in tasteless saliva. The rest of the chocolate plate, you eat with a mechanical gesture, the only thing that keeps you going is the desire of sugar and the memory of the recent explosion in your mouth which woke you up from the dead for a short time. I guess with books, it’s kind of different. The word flow doesn’t stop, just like a river won’t hold back for small periods of time, leaving the fishes in a constant anxious state, always hoping that this certain holdback won’t be the final. No, a book only stops until you shut it, or until you lose your concentration. But as all allegories, none of them are any good if you study them long enough. My first teacher told us that we could stop reading a book after the first fifty pages, and if it wasn’t good enough by then, it was okay to put it away and ignore it forever. I agree with her, but I have made some corrections. Instead of waiting and wasting fifty pages and fifty minutes of your life, you should only read the first twenty pages. By then, you’re far enough into the story to know the characters, their personalities, their fights against their existence, and if they will have a mental breakdown within the next fifty or the next two hundred pages. If you’ve come as far as fifty pages, you might as well finish the book, because at that time, you’ve gotten so involved with the characters that you just need to know what they are going to answer and what they are going to do. The responsibility you have to the characters and to the author, and to yourself, increases the further you come into the book. People always say that the great beauty of books is that you have the chance to live another person’s life in two hundred pages or so, but what they do not mention is that by living this temporary life, you also have to deal with all the horrors and fears and nerves to all the people existing in the book, in addition to your own struggles in real life. That is why, by page fifty, you already know all these things, and unless you continue reading, you will walk around with a constant wrinkle between your eyebrows, not because of a problem in your own reality, but because of all the unsolved fictional problems in the stories you accepted the responsibility of, but never solved. And of course, the only way of solving those problems is by finishing the books. This is why you should always only read the first ten to twenty pages of a book. In those pages, you have a drop of their life. As in a dream, you are thrown into a reality that doesn’t belong to you. You have no backstory, at least nothing more but a vague feeling of a personality and a history, as obscur as silhouettes against the horizon after the sun goes down. The only set of rules are the laws of existence, be or be not. Within those first «titalls» pages, you can by using your gut feelings, know if you’ll like the story or not. Whether or not you’ll learn something from it, depends entirely on your will to learn facts that may make your situation terribly uncomfortable. Besides, books are extremely overrated. We have an average of 30 000 different words in every dictionary, and still, several millions of books are produced every year, claiming to tell you something you didn’t know before and which you cannot know from any other book ever. Books are valued among snobs, because reading a book is investing your most precious valuta, your life, and you better invest it well since you can never know when you’ll be walking around with professors and intellectuals and royals and stars, and that’s when the litterature you’ve successfully or mistakenly wasted your time on will come in handy and sort out the gold from the corn. And then, when you lie on your death bed, with tubes down your nose and a nurse by your side and your family fifty thousand miles away, you’ll recite a poetic sentence written by a prehistoric author, and you’ll stare into the distant landscape with an expression meant to be thoughtful and reflecting, but which is mistaken as a confused and stressed mine, and the nurse pities you and nods while saying «Yes, indeed» before giving you an extra dose of morphine to ease your final contractions before your well-read mind turns itself off and you’re turned into fine ashes that are kept in a jar on a shelf for fifty years until your grandson has got no clue whether cremated remains are to be recycled or not, and then throws you in the trash can. So for the love of god, stop reading a book after ten pages if you already think it’s shit.

It’s that time of the month again. What I’m talking about is not bleeding softly and screechingly from my vagina yet, but it has certainly something to do with this. That three-day period before I start bleeding, when I cry so much I start looking up signs for depression on the internet. The crying can be triggered by anything. A picture of white interiors and green cacti. A song with lyrics I don’t understand but it feels like it’s about adolescence. I know that it will always pass, and that in one week or so I will wonder again what happened, and then I won’t think about it anymore until it starts again. It doesn’t worry me except when it happens. And I guess it shouldn’t worry me, since I know that this is a regular and natural thing and it happens to other girls as well, but I think the reason that I’m scared is because I no longer need outside stimulations to start crying: it’s enough to think about myself now, or my past, or my future. The things I did, but shouldn’t have done. The current situation where I can’t leave because I need to do my exam and I can’t drink myself to sleep because I am broke. The future, which I know that I secretly hate and despise with every fibre in my body. The careers I won’t have. Oh god, the things I could have done. Revolutionized fashion, made beautiful films, made magic with the piano keys. Painted the heaven and written about the true identity of the devil. But it’s like walking a tightrope, it doesn’t help looking down and facing your fears. I learn how to let it pass, like all things. I stop crying. I don’t tell anyone what think about in those seconds where I’m between two things, like standing up and sitting down. That god-awful moment when you stand on your feet, trying to sit down, but the winds of nihilism blows your mind right off into the sky and for a second you remember that nothing matters and the universe is too insane to be real and everything you are will be gone when you die. And yet, I always manage to sit down, eventually. So I stop crying. And I wait a week, the bleeding stop, I wait three weeks that are totally fine, and then the crying starts again. It makes you wonder whether your emotions are ever true, and you know they aren’t because emotions are nothing but electric signals and small molecules turning on and off all the cells which you are made of. You don’t have to worry, though. Two weeks later your hormones are “in balance” again but you see a picture of lavender fields in Provence, and you remember the 92 year old lady with dementia on the nursing home you worked at, talking of her honeymoon 70 years ago in the south of France, telling you about the wonderful purple flowers while you wipe her ass and stuff her intestines back up into her anus. And you start crying because of this pretty picture of the lavender fields, and it’s not because your hormones are altered.

I’m listening to your angry music and it’s really good. You look really weird and I bet you smell weird as well, but your music is really good. You’re there and I’m here and I’m spending my days by going to class and standing in the shower and drinking alcohol and skipping school. I wonder what you do when you wake up. When I wake up I sit on the toilet and stare at myself in the mirror and I drink one glass of milk and eat a cookie. I know milk is for babies and I only want to be your baby. Hey by the way, I heard about this thing called The Boat, where you torture a person by locking him inside two boats with only his head and his hands and feet sticking out. Then they pour milk and honey on his face and make him drink it, until flies and maggots and starvation have killed him. I think you would like that torture method, I wonder if you would think about this when you make your songs. You sing about your friends and being angry, and being in the desert. When I was nine, I dreamed I was in the desert. I’ve never even been in one in real life, but there I was, and I was walking to get to a city, but it was difficult because my shoes got sand in them. I had to stop after five steps and take off my shoes and empty them. Sometimes, I listen to your music and I forget the words, but other times I listen to both. I like that song where you write about going hiking, it reminds me of my dream. And I like that you end the song with a word that has nothing to do with the rest of the song. If I ever get the chance to meet you, I’ll ask if you want to come to this island I used to go on vacation to when I was nine years old. There are long lines of white houses there, and it’s warm, and you got these little water fountains outside of every house so you can wash the sand off your feet. There are probably cockroaches under the bathtub and herons in the water. We can go out to this swimming pool they have near by the water, it’s very pretty and neat, and next to it is a small area with green carpet which is supposed to look like grass. We can stand on the carpet and wear sun glasses and look at each other and at the pool and the wave breaker. I’m not sure what to do after that. Sometimes I get dizzy when I think about going to that island, because I think that if I ever go there, I won’t be able to return or go anywhere else. I won’t even be able to die, I’ll just be stuck in the same day or year until the earth gets burned to a crisp. Oh, and there’s another thing I’d ask you about, if I met you. Are there any problems?

I am what you would call “not exactly beautiful”. I am ugly, but that’s not so bad. There’s a whole lot of people who are ugly. And as long as you’re not hanging out with extremely pretty people, no one will care if you’re ugly because it isn’t something you decided to be. What bothers me, is that I’m fat. If I stop eating and become thin, I will still be ugly. But now, you see me and think “she’s ugly, and fat”, and you pity me and feel better than me because you are not fat at all, you are slender and athletic and you certainly give the impression that you don’t have to work very hard to look that way. I want to be thin, so you will stop pitying me, and start hating me instead. You’ll see me and think “she’s ugly, and thin” and your squishy electric grey brain decides to hate me. I’m not getting thin because I want to look hot, or look like the models, or look good in pictures. I want to be thin because you will assume that I am thin because of those reasons, and even though you will pity me because you think that I’m “weak”, you will also hate me, which is good, because that way I can hate you too. As I already do. I’ll just have a better reason to.


I can probably count all the times I have nosebled on one hand, but it’s still my favorite thing. All the times have happened after having felt for days that there’s a pressure building up inside my head, waiting to explode my skull and leave me dead. I rarely remember what I was so tense about, nor the circumstances before and after; all I can recall is that intense pressure and the blood dripping out of me. It’s hot and damp and wet, not very dramatic, no horror music or panic or distress at all. In fact, it feels soothing, and cooling. I have never been close to dying so I wouldn’t know for sure, but I believe it feels very close to that feeling when you realize you are going to die soon. Life is leaving your body, through your mind, and it’s dripping down your mouth and into a white ceramic sink. I’ve read that most people hate the taste of blood when you nosebleed. It’s pretty fascinating, though, that your blood is so full of iron that you can taste it, even from so little. But that taste sure does something to you. You get sort of sent into a more instinctive mode, you lose all cultural and civilised aspects, you’re all senses and eyes and taste and touch, waiting for it to be over. Nosebleed has many similarities to actions like washing the dishes, or going to work: you don’t think neither of the actions nor of other things. It’s a state of mind. You don’t become a robot, but it’s not far off. When the dinner is eaten and people have left the table, and you gather up the plates and the casseroles and start running the water and scrubbing the dishes, you don’t relish in that action. You’re just waiting for it to be over so you can go on doing whatever you think makes you feel alive. It’s the same thing with nosebleeding. It starts and you are both agitated and fascinated, something medical is happening to me, how exciting!, you don’t call an ambulance, you don’t call your mother, you just squeeze where the hard part of your nose ends and bend over the sink, leaving beautiful little red-orange drops of you.


I’m not doing what I ought to do. It looks like I take responsibility and maintain integrity while in fact, I could never be less responsible and I could do what I ought to do without losing integrity, instead, it would grow and blossom and become bulletproof. Instead, it is hiding in the dark corners in a forest, a necessary part of the picture but as immobile as grey stones in deep water. There is a notion, deep inside, clinging to my spine, moving rythmically and little and fast, and it either need to break loose or it will spread through my nerves, causing them to whither slow but steady, like a chronic disease. I should be out among people and breath and boil and bleed, and sweat, and work hard for the moment of  creation, because it is the only thing that destruction cannot touch. Instead, I rot and I sink and I stay with my parents because here is the alcohol cheap and the house is clean and this mold fits me perfectly.

The Sprawl

I went to the cottage with my parents but had to leave one day early because I couldn’t stop crying. We arrived wednesday night, the front door was jammed shut and my dad had to get some oil from the shack to open it. The grass in the little garden in the back was so tall and wet, mom said I could just pee in the garden, I didn’t have to go in the forest. Besides, leaves were crunching and paws were moving in the dark behind the rocks and trees. It had to be a hedgehog, the deer moved quieter and faster, and I couldn’t really think of any other large animals making that much sounds. I used my the flashlight on my mom’s telephone to look for the hedgehog, while she used my dad’s to help him see where he was putting the oil. I didn’t see the animal, but I stepped on a large, black snail just outside the toilet. The day after was great. The sun was shining and I was reading for my exam. My mom and dad were working in the garden, and I would have loved to help them, but I said I couldn’t because I had to read. I hadn’t even read half the assigned literature and it was only two weeks til my exam. The texts were interesting but the words were so slippery they went right in and right out again. I couldn’t tell you a single word of what I’d read, but if you asked me, I could tell you everything. The sun stood tall on the south sky and shot beams right at my left arm and neck, burning it even though I had put on some old sun screen I had found in a cupboard. After noon, my mom and dad started to talk about getting out in the boat. “Let’s make coffee?” she asked me and I nodded and in my mind I thought it sounded swell, really, and it was. The boat was full of water and mud but we washed it quickly and drove out. The temperature was soft and warm and the breeze was fresh, my dad brought two fishing rods and he and I threw out old metallic fishes and hauled them in again. We drove the boat north and got on a small island to drink the coffee and eat some old wheat buns my mom had digged up from the freezer. I got off the boat first and helped her out and she walked around a small cliff and sat down right next to a dead seagull. Neither she nor I saw the bird until my dad came as well and pointed it out at once. We giggled at it and drank the coffee from an old thermos in old cups, all from the sixties, when my mom was out with her parents drinking coffee from their new colorful minimalistic tableware. I fished some more and my mom sat facing the sun, staring at the sea, her legs straight forward in a narrow “V” and her back slightly crooked. She looked like a child when it is eating and losing its consiousness into the neverending intercepting waves, but it wasn’t this that made me cry. We went back and dad made us mojitos and we ate a good dinner and drank red wine and walked around the caravan site nearby. The sea had been full of moon jellyfishes at the day, but now it was filled with herring, and small pollocks would feast on them by herding the little fish into the rocks. The sea was literally boiling with jumping fish brimful of life, eating and getting eaten. Fishermen were quitting for the day, plastic bags full of mackarells chasing the smaller fish. The rocks and the seaweed by the shore were shining and glimmering with the millions of little fishes. The sea had only 15 degrees but the water felt summer warm when I put my hands down to catch them. The herring swam through my fingers and got stuck in my palms and panicked. I picked up some and held them between my hands, their little bodies clapping against my skin, their tiny anxious muscles against my large. The skin on my hands was filled with fish shells, like glitter. The fishes and the seagulls hunting them and their little chicks, the jellyfish and the flowers of late may, all exploding with life and fertility and productivity and the purple, vulgar naturality of death, neither this was the reason why I had to go home because I couldn’t stop crying. It was the visit we made next day, to my grandparents, my mother’s mother, feeble and nervous from a rotting body and bitter children and mental diseases, her stubborn and caring husband whose stoic and elitistic attitude towards life made him hated and admired and a superfan of The Soviet Union, which he visited so many times it’s a wonder he wasn’t suspected of being a spy. Two of my cousins came as well, two women on 27 and 25, the youngest sympathetic and well at hiding her bad sides, the oldest a doctor, married for five years, her doctor husband was also here to visit my grandparents. Both girls athletic, well educated, smart, societal, pretty to the top, parents divorced, their father denies all his family, thank god their youngest sister wasn’t coming as well. Every time I hear these cousins are coming, I share looks with my sisters and my mother and it’s true that silence can say more than words. We sat there from 1 in the afternoon until we sort of slipped out the door like old dish water going out the drain three hours later. My mom attempted to leave after two hours, but her mother cried that we couldn’t leave already. My grandfather said less than ten sentences, I said less than five, my dad said probably around twenty or thirty, which is unusual considering it’s him. He also brought his film camera and filmed a few minutes when my cousins took off their t-shirts in the heat and revealed their flat chests under white quality bikini tops. It got colder and colder and I sat in the shadow smiling and “uh-huh”ing and shivering and sending a couple of stern looks at my mom and she talked about the surgery she is having in a few days where 99 of 100 patients make it. My doctor cousin and her doctor husband discussing blood thinning medicines with my mom and her mom. My other cousin telling discretely and humorous that she and her boyfriend had broken up yesterday, for the fourth time in three years. When she asked my mom about my older sister’s love life, I got up and went inside but my grandfather was on the toilet so I stood and stared at nothing for two minutes before I went out again. I hugged my grandmother and smiled and got swept out the door, “Good bye, good bye, tell your mother I say hi, good bye”. I closed the door in one soft movement and imagined as many different ways possible to hurt and kill myself when I walked down the steps: a mixer in my guts, knives through my cheeks, a car at 10 miles per hour crushing my head and neck, throwing myself down from a scaffolding, pills, cutting wrists, getting diseases, voluntaring for charity somewhere in Africa and getting shot and bombed by rebels. One tear before we stopped at a grocery store, unregular breath as I waited for my mom and dad to finish shopping, sobbing four or five times when they went inside a garden store, slapping my cheeks and breathing into my hands so my eyes dried up. The sky had that dead whiteness from thin clouds, it was chill and I was still cold from sitting still for four hours in the shadow. I said to my mom “Maybe I should take the bus home tonight, I’ll probably get more reading done at home”. I said it to hurt her, an admission that I had been crushed and tortured by myself and the last five hours. Her face when she believed my words, my punishment for her life, my punishment for my life. One last night at the cottage before she comes home and gets a surgery where one in a hundred dies. She said she understood my panic, the angst before an exam, feeling you won’t be able to read everything, to be well prepared. I didn’t cry until I got on the bus. “Send me a message when you’re home safely.” We both said it. I sat almost at the back of the bus, I put on my sun glasses and sniffed up my snot, and tears rolled and rolled and rolled. Who could I tell, I thought, who can I tell the secret it is, that I had to go home from what could be the last night at the cottage with my mom, because I couldn’t stop crying? Who could I tell that I sat on a bus and cried for five hours? It was all so neat yet untidy, sprawled over my life, blending with past and present and future, like old ghost going through walls because in their times, there were no walls there. I got home and felt like I had a fever. I changed my bed sheets and tried to fall asleep, my little sister came home drunk and made a lot of noise, she opened my bedroom door and I pretended to be asleep, I didn’t even open my eyes. My mom and dad are coming home today, they will be in later than they thought so we won’t be eating dinner together, not tonight either. It wasn’t my period, and I wasn’t tired, and I wasn’t anxious for my exam. Even if I could tell someone that I had to leave a holiday because I couldn’t stop crying, I couldn’t explain why. It was the visit, but I couldn’t ever have avoided it. It was my cousins but I couldn’t avoid them either. And it was my weeping grandmother and my sick mother and my difficult father, but I wouldn’t avoid them. And the day after I am reading less than I would have if I stayed at the cottage and cried in front of my mom and dad.

Thank god

Thank god people stopped telling the world that they like Twin Peaks. Thank god I have too low self esteem to wear clothes and an attitude like the ones of the million other teenagers who are confident and ‘interested in art’ and who don’t get filled with disgust by the hoards of well dressed obnoxious teenagers who are confident and ‘interested in art’. Spring is in it’s peak and soon the trees will bear fruit and I will lie to my mother about meeting friends I don’t have. I was born in the wrong generation. I wish half of my old friends and family were laid low by diseases and work accidents. I don’t know anyone who has died. We are all stuck in this big thick treacle of good health and high living standard and I have started to shake with anticipation for my first dead acquaintance. Thank god for my imagination who comes up with good ideas for bad problems which I don’t have, but need. I have just eaten a chocolate bar and I’m gonna go throw it up now. I am going to think about it when I’m sitting in our car on our way to our summer house. I am going to think about my bad problem and how good the chocolate tasted and how good it felt to throw it up. I am a normal girl with bad problems, just like every one else. Almost. Not completely like every one else. Thank god.

Never have I ever not felt good. Never have I ever loathed other people because they look more comfortable in their own skin. Never have I ever gotten nervous and anxious when a group of loud friends enters the bus I’m on. Never have I ever made up excuses to go to the supermarket and buy food that I would never eat out of sheer loneliness and anxiety. Never have I ever been completely alone for days in a row and eating several meals in a row just to feel joyous, and then stuck my finger back in my throat and vomited into the toilet bowl. Never have I ever stopped exercising regularly and never have I ever been too big for the dresses I wore when I was fifteen. Never have I ever seen siblings and relatives and friends being healthy and never have I ever felt ashamed of the food on my plate. Never have I ever forgotten how to walk straight because my mind has never been so enclosed in a thick, humid darkness that I have lost control of all of my muscles. Never have I ever lost friends because I didn’t know how to keep them, and never have I ever blamed myself for that. Never have I ever done things that were embarassing and never have I ever lied in bed, sweating under the sheets, clawing at my skin and not been able to forget those moments. Never, and I say never, have I ever been lonely at all. Never have I ever imagined my funeral over and over, just less extravagant for each time, until I ended up with eight family members and three friends because they were the only people I have talked to since I graduated. Never have I ever told my mother I was going to a party on a holiday and then spent the evening riding the subway because I had not been invited to any party for the last six months. Never have I ever hated myself because everything today is a result of my incompetence and it’s all my fault that I wake up and cry and cry for hours and never have I ever cried and tried to pull myself together but I can’t because of reasons I cannot see and never have I ever sat down in a corner of my room crawled up into a ball just to feel some human contact, even if it’s just myself. Never have I ever thought of the best possible situations where it would be suitable for me to die. Never have I ever killed myself over and over inside my head. Never have I ever not been good to everyone. Never have I ever been good to me, and never will I ever be.
Never Have I Ever, 2013