430 days. 

I kept counting. 

My fingers flicking open in order and hands always switching. Bent, crooked and flexed. New lines have formed on my palms. My fingers are no exception. I am slowly ageing without careful observation. My hands are still soft. 

My hands have always been one of the parts of my body I love. Very dainty, with clear lines and structure. Soft in texture but tough enough to fight. 

Anyway, I kept counting. 

I would deduct the dates and add the hours. Announcing it to him before smiling to myself. Encouragement is essential, and it would show him that I appreciate his effort. I really do. 

Going clean is just so difficult when it is a habit lasting for years. 

Any habit is hard to break. Even a person’s will might be weaker than the reliance on habit. 

430 days. 

The last number counted to, on 25th August 2016. And somehow I just stopped. The number still lying somewhere among the rest of my disorganised notes. Funny how I stopped then. 

I remember planning something. When it hits a bigger number. Maybe 500? But when is someone ever truly clean though? 

So naïve, I am. So misunderstood about cructhes, vices and addiction. 

Now I know that too much faith can break you. Especially when it is outside of your control. Especially when your own hands cannot tell the future that is someone else. 

But I knew. I remember asking questions every time I saw a cigarette in photographs, moments digitally recorded or a pack lying on the table. 

Perhaps my gut knew, and I chose to turn my observations to something else. Like the new scars on my right hand, from the dog bites. 

430 days of being in a grey area unknowingly. Neither here nor there. A space of unknowing and false comfort. 

How strange to look back at this now. Am I really out of this space now, even in my head? Or do I never really get to leave? 

Relative blindness. 

Untitled #47. 

I scare myself when I am reminded of how human I am. 

In the ways of piercing words and the urge to cut open to this skin. 

To bleed in more ways than one. 

How my mood can be ruined when one thing goes wrong. When a disturbance happens, and the undercurrents come rushing to the surface. 

Flushed skin and crazed eyes. 

Never calm inside. Never. 

How does it feel to be a genuinely happy person? 

Change. 


Shaved on 2nd August, then again (self-done with my mother’s help) on 3rd August 2017. 

I didn’t have to shave off all my hair so quick, so soon. I had a couple of weeks to go and considering I have never ever shaved my head before (besides as a baby), it isn’t a decision I should rashly make. 

But I felt like if I delayed it any further, I might hurt myself. The impulse to do something is so strong. There are days I go avoiding the mirrors, windows and going into the kitchen. 

I’d lay in bed and try my hardest to just sleep. 

So I did it. 

I shaved all my hair off. 

An aspect so familiar to me, for all of my growing life. An aspect I manipulate and use however I like. An aspect I let loose when I want to hide or pretend to be someone else. 

And I have never felt so free. 

I am happy I did it. x