Pretty Hate Machine


It's 7.30am on Saturday the 21st of October and I feel like writing. I finished work half an hour ago, this week I've worked about 60 hours. I'm an idiot.

I wanted to write because I felt like crying. I have no reason to cry so I want reason to write. I've said before that sometimes it feels like I have no words, but oftentimes when I sit down and open a blog post the words come. They're not poetic or artful, but they are there.

I could write about the things I've done, the people I've seen, a few downright stupid things I've done - but none of that really matters. Truth of the matter is I want to say things that are maybe too raw, that are maybe a bit like too much information. Please, stick with me, I don't want to make you uncomfortable.

I spoke to Annette last night at work, about the photos I've been taking recently, I said I like to talk while taking photos, yes it means that there are many that don't quite work, but it makes me feel comfortable, and I'd hope it makes those I'm photographing comfortable. I don't want to force conversation though.

I feel very young. This, I-don't-know-what with photography feels young. I've had cameras since I was a young teen, I've hd SLRs since I was 18, I've used them since college and a fresh faced 16-year-old. I excelled in my photography module at college, my university years peppered with photography-not-just-as-evidence. 

I feel like I'm trying to justify myself.

But if this photography is going to lead anywhere (and I kind-of-really hope it does), then I feel like I should have been where I am a long time ago. This exploration of self, and my creative self feels like it should have been done a long time ago. I'm 28.

This self exploration is in part because I've never had the space, not really, to play and explore like this. Although I'm still consumed by wretched-ness, I have support and friends and space. Mind space, physical space, to explore. I judge myself harder than anyone else. I judge myself for all the things I did and all the things I didn't.

Mental illness is ugly. Mental illness is ugly on me. The truth is, mental illness is selfish and histrionic. Wether it's just me, or part of BPD, or mental illness in general, there is a lot of navel gazing. No-one cares as much as me about my own fuck ups. Or maybe they do, there's a bad guy in every story book.

It's funny, really, that oftentimes it is when I am safe that my mind starts to fall apart. It could be physical safety, or financial, any which way that you want to view 'safe'. My mind starts fraying at the seams and I know, and there is little I can do. 

Imagine a hole in a pair of tights. Your tights are falling down too. Do you save your dignity or do you let them fall, stopping the hole from making a ladder?