SHOUTING - Eté 2006

Je ne sas pas vraiment par où commencer. Peut-être que je ne devrais pas commencer du tout. Ça, je veux dire. Et éviter les miroirs et les balances. Ça, c'est une autre chose que je dois faire.
Et parler anglais.

I must confess.
I'm such an ugly girl.
Weeping, moaning over myself. “Rotten fruit” they'd say.
I was trying to talk (desperately) to someone, got a door slammed at my face... So I scratched. No blood though. Just a wound, like burnt skin. There's going to be a scab. It's going to look admirably gross. I hate doing that. “She should be ashamed of herself” they say. Or “she's taken it too far”.

I was just trying to read. I got to the part in which the girl gets her hair cut and she came in. I was wrong after all. She came (as I had stopped hoping, stopped waiting, given it all up). She looked painfully weak.
We talked. I couldn't stop crying. “I'm dead” I wanted to shout “This thing, this body's dead”. I hated myself for my thoughts, for being so shallow and execrable.
For sleeping my life away, crying it away. “Be harsh on yourself” She said.

I can't leave it all, go to Africa, just like that, no I can't, plus, I'm not sure this is what I really want. My heart belongs to Brussels. And I love my friends. This is what I believe. Truely.
I don't like spiders. I don't like working hard. I'm this obese princess on a sofa. It's pathetic.

I know, just as well, that I'm losing myself. I'm going to vanish. I'm going to choke. If I do nothing, my soul is going to be gone. One day, I'll wake up and I'll be dead. Painfully dead. This I'm sure of.

And I do not want this thing to happen. I won't let it happen. I want to write, though they say I can't since I'm not living. Does it mean that everything I wrote up til now is pointless, soulless, without interest ?
Does it mean I'm not worth being read ? Should I burn all the scrapbooks (and regret the damn thing later on, as I keep on doing ?).

No, I can't believe you ! My words are ALIVE, it's just that no-one will read them because they're fucking busy or they don't care or for any other reason. I'm fucking screaming. I DO exist. I DO write. I AM deserving. I DO have a life. I DO know people (at least, I have a certain perception of what they might be – who can claim to really know someone ?). I'm not claiming I'm some genius (and I wouldn't want to be) but I DO have a right to say that I have feelings and thoughts and the ability to write them down (as far, as much as I can). So stop saying I'm dying in my nest, without knowing the world. I'm richer than you think I am. I've flown already. Okay, I admit I have been moaning in my bed for three days, complaining and destroying my system in the worst way, but this doesn't me I should be reduce to that. I don't like your voice. You're unpredictable. You're hard on me. You're not listening. You're not humming. You're messing with my head. Everyone's messing with my head, forcing ideas into it. I like Polly's voice. Sinéad's voice. Beth Gibbons's voice. Tori Amos's voice. Tom Waits's. Nick Cave's. They're not forcing things into me. They're just comforting. They give me freedom and a reason to live.

I sometimes wonder why I don't leave it all and join a fucking nunnery – some buddhist nunnery probably, but then I think I'm far to ATTACHED and I couldn't just fucking shave my head, though it's what I'd better do, what I'll probably end up doing some day when I'm really wrecked.

Amazing Grace. How sweet the sound. That saved I wretch. Like me. I once was lost. But now...
No, I'm not gonna end in a fucking hospital. I hate the idea of it. It's got a certain power attached to it. Something that would impress people, leave them stunned. 'That girl's seen it all. That girl's spent two weeks in the looney bin.'. I'd hate to raise interest like that. It's fucking unacceptable. It's a loathsome thing to do. Something I might have done already. While I was speaking with friends, with sparkles in my eyes. I might have tried to look interesting because it's unconventional to be locked in a hospital room when you're fucking seventeen. Sometimes, I might as well shut up. Just shut the fuck up.

Tomorrow, I'll drink a lot of water, eat nothing, work a lot, speak to my friends, the ones I trust, the ones I hold dear, the one who were there for me while I was in trouble, who listened, simply listened, without trying to talk me into some life-altering experience. I'm not ready for that.

Still, believe me, my life won't be a final disappointment. This won't happen to me. I'm too high for that, too high above the ground. I'm sorry that I was born in a confortable home. It doesn't mean I'll let people or myself steal my soul away. Or suck the lemon dry.