i danced myself into the tomb
2003-03-02 || 11:14 a.m.

The strain of being nice to someone who is constantly horrible to me is driving me insane.

I don't even know what to write. I've got it all in my head but it won't translate into words.

Today may be a good day. It may be the day because I am on my own all day. It would indeed be a perfect time.

So everytime Alain comes round he is wearing new clothes. He is going to South Africa in September. He went out for a meal the other night with one person and they spent �151. He had his hair done the other day and it cost him �40 and yet today he has stuck peroxide on it. He asks me a question and then ignores my answer. He sneers at me. I dislike him intensely but I dislike myself more for feeling like that. I feel dumb and stupid. His comment re my eyebrow was something along the lines of 'but you're a teacher'. What the fuck's that got to do with the price of tomatoes?

What do I have? A house full of mice. I'm not joking when I say its a real infestation. Unhealthy I would guess. He won't do anything to help. I know there's no reason why he should help me but he should help his daughter. She has to live here. He just strides around smoking Marlboros without asking, making my house smell and he's just so in my space and I feel crushed and unable to speak. I'm literally unable to speak because I can't.

I don't want to be misunderstood here. I would never, ever under any circumstances whatsoever get back with him. I'd sooner give myself a mercury enema but I hate the way I feel so worthless.

I am worthless. I know that. I'm worthless where it counts. I'm worthless deep inside. Where it matters.

I'm frozen, totally frozen. It's over all over. This is just some sort of catatonic awareness that I need to snap out of.

And so why do I take it out on my arms?

When I started hating myself. Truly despising myself I used to write on my stomach in marker pen. I used to think it fitting that in my clothes I looked, well, I don't know what I looked. I can't say normal because I don't look normal. I suppose I looked unique, individual, confident and other things too maybe. But underneath I knew what was written there. It was like letting it out of the inside, letting it become more real.

But my arms. Well, its because they're there firstly, but also because when I used to do ballet my arms were my favourite bit. Its like the legs and body are the hard working bit, the graft if you like, but the arms are the imagination, the spirit.

I know, it sounds stupid.

And I love my arms a lot because my arms have my hands on and my hands create words out of my head.

And they could touch someone. So lightly they might think they imagined it. And they could hold someone, close and tight and warm.

and I've just got to stop all this because what's in my head is not real. And I'm just awful.