Happy Valentines Day! What a load of commercial, saccharine shit. I absolutely despise the fact that we feel need to designate some day of the year to celebrate the fact we've found love and can express it in a tacky card or by making ourselves fat gorging on sickly, cheap heart-shaped hearts. I'm probably just bitter because I'm single and there is very little chance of me getting laid tonight. So tonight, I've decided to go on an anti-date with The Real Deal (my best friend from uni. Seriously, never had anyone like her before - an honest friendship) and we're going to get drunk on sake and eat deep friend noodles and not give a fuck. Then I'll go home and attempt to write an essay and then sleep and then tomorrow - I won't have any need to feel inadequate being alone...

End of rant.

Who else waits for the click? When you're so drunk, the edges blur and in the haze, there's silence. Or when you're so hungry, all you can imagine is the creamy centre of an eclair, and there's no pain: just that one image. Or, as I've been exploring so thoroughly, the click as you lie under someone and suddenly, as your bodies are as intimately entangled as you will ever be, unity and silence. How cliched. This is how pretencious people justify casual sex. I'm not sure why I'm so obsessed with silence. I write, I think, I think until I scream and then I write some more. I want to write a novel. I want this to become something a little more permanent, tangible. I'm sick of destroying things, the irony of wanting to make something based on self-destruction. That would surely make it worth it? On a lot of people of blogs they have their history of mental illness (because, dearest, most thinspirational ladies, we're on the fine line between sanity and intolerable craziness.) perhaps that could go somewhere? What do you think? - Honestly, bluntly, brutally.

Over.

We all destroy something beautiful, some of us with more diligence and application than the rest.

Today it was the relationship. Tomorrow, who knows? He sort of sat there passively, looking, biting his lip, half-smiling. I want him to cry, to weep, to stop awkwardly making jokes, to beg me to reconsider. To tell me he loves me. I'm not sure why I'm crying - I ended it with all the casual cliches designed to minimally inflict pain upon the other. The cliche: We never see each other. My reason: I want you to love me, I want to lose myself in love with you and experience the most ineffable of experiences - a total annihalition of myself in love. I just wanted something more violent, more tangible, like rough kisses in the dark and bruised bones in the morning.

Liminal: a. gen. Of or pertaining to the threshold or initial stage of a process. rare. b. spec. in Psychol. Of or pertaining to a ‘limen’ or ‘threshold.’

Thanks for your advice everyone, coming here, ranting, weeping and moaning to you and finding out that people out there have actually heard me saves me a little everyday from crazy Daisy who is beginning to resurface her ugly, deceitful, terrifying head again. I know it's borderline psychotic to see yourself as two seperate people, but it's how am I and as long as I keep out of hospital and away from the doctors, then my dirty little secrets are safely yours.

I needed the Boyfriend but inside I can feel the restless growing, the nervous energy accumulating. Last night I went to a feminist meeting determined to meet androgynous, intellectual lesbians. Is that bad? I'm looking already for the next crazy to submerge myself in. Last time it happened I lost 6 kilos so anything goes. Surrounded by beautiful, skinny girls with the bodies of men I fell in love in my usual, superficial way. Bone lust. The men I fuck hold my bones together, the women I fuck - I guess I just want to inhabit their bones. Exist in their skin for awhile. Strange crossing the lines between the two, falling in love with these mannish women. Motivating myself for the next big starve. Liminal.

"I'm good at love. I'm good at hate. It's inbetween I freeze." Leonard Cohen.

How do you tell someone, tenderly, you don't love them? How do you let them go, gently? I know how to finish something brutually. I've been dumped enough times to understand the maximum pain/minimum effort principle, but I'm terrified of hurting the Boyfriend. He's the only person I've ever known who would pick up the phone at 3am and listen to me interrogate him about all his previous girlfriends. It took only one drunken night to destroy my carefully crafted illusion of well-balanced, respectable, even innocent Daisy. There's nothing to say to him. We have nothing in common. I just want someone here, to feel wanted in his arms. But it could have been anybody. Anyone. I want to be loved but I also want to love. And I don't love him and will not. So what is the point? I'm not sure why I bother with relationships. The loneliness is still here. But how do I tell him?

Back where I belong. I'm sitting at my desk back at uni, surveying my neatly unpacked room - my pot plants cluttering my windowsill, my fruit basket overflowing with apples and everything beautifully, perfectly, absolutely in my control.

I swore that this would be last family holiday. I cannot take another 3 weeks of being bullied, emotionally blackmailed and generally treated like a slightly dim 12 year old. Christmas dinner as ever was hell. But pleasant, sunny hell. Turns out my aunt wants to lose a stone so we were served steamed ham on lettuce. Normally I would have rejoiced, but you know those days you save calories all week for? Christmas is one of those for me. I was all prepared to gorge on as much fat-clad, calorie dripping food as I could wolf down. And there it was - the perfect meal. Twelve hours later and my mum had told her sister how she ruined her life, blamed her for her compulsive eating disorder and banned me from contacting my cousin (and best friend) until I was 'old enough'. Because apparently I'm not old enough to see how my aunt mocks me and uses me to hurt my mum. Frankly, I don't give a fuck. I love my cousin, I love my uncle and I sort of like my aunt. Despite this, my mum cut out our only remaining family from her life and dragged my sister and me out their lives 'until we're old enough'. Because she's 'protecting me'.

Protection: you can never save anyone who does not want to be rescued. So I cried the way I always do when I'm so angry I can't breathe and when I feel so hopeless I lack the energy to breathe. And then I screamed and yelled and raved because really, I'm not a pawn. So, once I'd sufficiently embarassed my mum in public (mentioning failed suicide attempts, eating disorders or any of our family secrets tends to bring out the diplomat in my mother) she promised me total freedom the day we got back home. limitless freedom.

happy new year everyone! thanks for all your comments... they inspired my new years resolution: if i want to change i have to do it myself. no one is going to rescue me except for me. i just want to be happy.

Back home. Claustrophobic as always, I thought I'd beaten this. A month of freedom, no scales, no calorie counting and now back home, and all I can think of is the exact volume of balsamic vinegar I just poured onto my salad. She walks into the room, her look of disapproval mixed with self-pity. Her calculated sighs - pity me, pity me. What do you want me to say? Oh thank-you mother, you've sacrificed so much for me. I know, of course I fucking know. It's not like you don't remind me everyday of the people you've discarded, the dreams you gave up, the lovers that left, the pain I cause you. But you began this, emotional blackmail? Ha, you've only taught me how to be even better at it than you.

Today started as a good day. This week felt like a good week. It's monday evening and already I can't wait to escape. The Boyfriend is coming to visit. Or maybe. Everytime I say goodbye I feel like it's the very last time. Passively I wait for him to dump me. So I cheated. I lied about it afterwards. I wanted this one to be special. We still haven't had sex, two weeks into our relationship, I consider this a record. He still believes I am totally balanced, in control, normal. Why in the hell have I invited him home? Back to the source of everything? How do you purge your body of paranoia? How do you convince yourself that when he tells you you're beautiful it's not just because he's drunk and hoping this is the way into you. How do I reconcile myself with the fact that home is toxic? And why is the person who loves me most, the source of so much pain? I don't understand. It's why I fast. Silence in starvation.