no pretty picture this time.
there is no pretty picture to paint this time. just a desperate need for the truth to come out.
do you miss the Bank of Ideas, Blue? did you stay there for long? i couldnt stick around, because in the transitional period between the Squatters Museum and the Bank of Ideas, my ex-boyfriend almost raped me when he was off his face on cocaine, and that blew my world apart a little. and then i couldnt work out why nobody around me seemed to notice that i could barely string a sentence together for a while. instead people saw me as someone who ‘didnt get involved’. thats not the reason why i still get hatemail though. thats something else that stuck a knife between my ribs that to this day people like giving a few turns to every now and then.
it is a pity i am most remembered in life for my worst failure.
it is a pity they came after my family, that they used my blood relations against me, that they terrified my parents. its more than just a pity, fucksake, its disgusting. but the people who didnt come under the spotlight, those who dont know what the beeps on your phone sound like when its being tapped, they judge me, and say i m the worst protester ever, while they collect their benefit from the social. i m not pretending to be something i m not, i gave it my best go, and i m beaten already. i give up. i m not a threat to you anymore. just leave me the fuck alone.
sometimes i miss being able to trust people. but that time is over.
sometimes i get to open up a little, and talk about the reality, but they re few and far between, and its only ever the tip of the iceberg. a month ago, when G and I came back from Italy, we had a fight in the airport (we d been arguing for weeks). I went back to Peters place and when I logged onto Facebook I found out Adrian – Oliver s 4 year old son – was dead. the next few days are a bit of a blur. Peter wanted me to share his bed, and i couldnt do that, so i couldnt stay there, and i couldnt stay with G, so i just drank beer and walked around the city. luckily it was warm outside and it didnt matter where i slept. so finally G and I got to talk and i broke down into tears before i could say too much – Adrian was such a fucking sweet kid, Oliver worked so hard to get them both back to Brazil after his mother deserted them both, the world is too fucking unfair – and then we talked. and i got to tell him about being 18 years old and waking up next to Anthony Redmond and realising he has undressed me and pulled out my tampon and used my body while i was passed out from vodka. that happened. and i had to be the fucking responsible one and give him shit about not using a condom, because he has a wife, and who the fuck knows.
i met this guy i really like. a big dredlocked trombone player from Brooklyn who likes bicycles. kinda like my ideal man, almost. it was really exciting because i ve been so firmly shut off from the possibility of ever getting close to anyone ever again. and we got back from italy and i met him and he said all these amazing things about wanting to get to know me properly and moving in with him, and oh god, it was beautiful, feeling like that with someone again. but that seems to be just something guys say. he doesnt know anything about me. he hasnt tried to get to know me. he doesnt need to know anything about me apart from the fact that we re good in bed together. thats all he needs to know. oh, its ok. i dont feel the need to unburden myself upon him, so i m not going to go bunny boiler on his ass, but its a pity, thats all. a real fucking pity.
its really sad that Rosco never wants to hear from me again. really really. he s one of the only people ever to have believed in me. i havent gotten over that yet.
today i m having trouble seeing the point of it all. i saw Simi the other day in Hackney, and i just wanted to go to her place and get her to stick a needle in my arm. thats not going to happen of course, because i m too much of a fucking pussy, but i cant deny that the thought is there. maybe i just need to leave london. maybe i need to burn everything.