Isle of Skye

That's how I feel. There is no escape. I can't see any release. My mum phoned me today from Kampala just before she left for the airport. And she said it's okay, you'll be coming in February. Yes. And dooming myself. The Luscher test that I am prone to taking decisions without thinking them through. WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? I really have nobody. I have a frigging stupid arse for a father and I don't know. Emerson thinks it's so easy to do this individualist thing. You were a fucking white Christian man. You ended up being appreciated for your vision, philosophy and poetry. Even if it was three centuries later. What the fuck do I have to look forward to? I am alone. I am completely and utterly alone. I have no hopes for the future. I have no marriage about to happen, I have no career waiting to happen. And I know, I am supposed to bring these all about by myself. Well, what the fuck is this all about that us INFPS are like the soil who absorb the light ...

Everyone feels. We all suffer the same emotions. Some of us can sublimate and come up with a song or a film, others just break. Others just pretend they don't have feelings. I really am in hate with Umair . He pisses me off big time. Why the fuck does he write to me after 3 months of silence, only to go away again? Fucking twat. So what if he thinks I'm too intense? Doesn't he have the decency to TELL me that he doesn't want to write to me any more? That he thinks I am crazy to want to lend him money for a plane ticket etc? I know that already. Kiersey is so fucking right - I am projecting all of my values onto him; imagining him to be this soulful artist when he is just a plain old artisan, hedonistic in his worldview. Not that I am any better. All I do is stay at home and sulk. I have an opportunity to go out tomorrow but I have no idea at this point if I will go. I need to get out, eat some aaloo samosas and just talk to a friend. Emerson says that we shouldn'...

...was a desire I never knew I had. It made me laugh so much. I love them. I hope to get out of the house today as soon as I feel able and take my camera and hoping the ice is still there so I can take pictures. The temperature has risen again. The past couple of days have been a nightmare. How can C tell me to give it more time? How much more time? She doesn't even know why I said that it's a mistake, coming here. She doesn't know that I physically assaulted my father, hitting him repeatedly on the head and breaking his £400 glasses. The optician won't even be open till the 4th of January. That's 10 whole entire days. Zafar (from Kartography) is right. The monster is alive in all of us, lurking. God, where the hell is the redemption? I have, for years imagined the monster gone. Only for it to emerge in full force and I wasn't even in control. It was like a dream. I do not care what Fadhlallah has to say - that there is no such thing as I was not myself. What do...

The quiz accused me of playing the 'victim' and blaming others for the fact that my life has stopped. That I falsely use self-justification and that I am stubborn without reason. Unrealistic hopes and expectations. Shut the feck up. Let's try the free writing again. There's so much creativity in music. It is amazing how there are a limited amount of chords or notes yet people can use those to make millions of different melodies. I do nothing, Shut the feck up. Men are funnier than women but it's because it is their defence mechanism. It's humour, not denial or projection or...well, sublimation is the most mature and highest form of a coping strategy. She said that she said, "I only remember the good times, not the bad times." Well, darling, I think the bad times are worth remembering. The strangulation will always haunt me, even if you didn't press down on my windpipe. I was fecking 12 years old and grieving for my lost grandmother. The changing ro...

I woke up at 7 am this morning and switched on the computer because I really had the need to write in an entry. And now I've run dry and can't seem to formulate anything. So I am going to do the ten minute free writing thing I learnt from Macaulay. From now. The sun is shining and I stink and need to take a shower. My nails have grown the longest in a long time. I haven't cut them for two weeks. I feel disgusting and disgusted. There are girls, eleven year olds getting married off to 40 year old men in Afghanistan or little boys in Bangladesh being made to load bricks on their heads or being molested in Pakistan. And here I am, depressed and unwilling to do anything. I saw myself as someone from the outside would and what I saw angered me. I have no pity on my dad and no wonder I stress him out. I smell and I mope and I have not a smile to share or a thing to say or a thing to do. I disappoint him and don't buy the knee guard. I try to reach out and then withdraw even q...

I said, "I'll buy you lunch." He said, "Really?" I nodded. He said, "Are you sure?" I nodded. He said, "Thank you." I nodded. Lunch was good because there was this 74 year-old Pakistani guy; a language purist who has lived in London for 50 years but was damn proud that he could still pronounce ' chhoti qaaf ' and 'sheen'. It was entertaining at the time, hilarious actually, how he damned all English-speaking Pakistani code-switchers as " ghaddaariyon " and that he had cut off ties with half of his Pakistani family because they prefer calling their aunts ' Auntie ' and their uncles 'Uncle' instead of the Urdu equivalents. So bloody what? Since when did you have the right to tell us what to think or feel? If we do feel inadequate and inferior to the white Anglo-Saxons, maybe, just maybe, it's the result of assimilating to the colonialist way of living. After all, it's an amalgamation of a zill...

I said, "I'm depressed." Pause. I added, "I'm taking pills." And I think, why is it that taking those two tiny, round, chalky pilules verify my mental state? That being dropped to and picked up from South Wimbledon each week, where I read OK! magazine and then talk rubbish for an hour justifies my telling strangers that I am unbalanced, slowly getting into a self-induced schizophrenia? I wrote, "Don't say sorry. You can't deal with this. I don't expect you to imagine the pain I am going through." And I think, isn't this slightly too dramatic, even for me? Isn't this too much of a cry screaming 'please, save me, love me, my only guy friend on whom I am projecting all my desires?' Isn't this just too sad for words? Sad. Disgusting. Dependent. Clingy . Ah ha. There we go. That word fits my actions once again. Damn you. Why couldn't I have developed an ESTJ personality? Me and dad would have gotten on just fine. O...