WELCOME UGLY READERS....
todays ugly read is by the spectacularly dark Naida [of whom we mentioned in earlier "Uglies"]
so put on your specs, take a seat and relax as you let Naida show you a little bit of her world...
Saving grace
so when i was five, i used to climb up onto the sink so that i could see into the mirror properly, and whilst i was up there, i'd stretch my face with both of my hands to try and see what i'd look like when i grew up. i didn't want to grow up after that, because i looked pretty ugly.
i used to wander around the playground, sometimes talk to the dinner ladies. i don't really remember playing. but they liked me. they'd say "ooh how exotic" when i'd tell them stories about the types of food my mummy made, and what the names for things were in swahili. one day, i decided to sneak up behind a girl called joanna, and pull her pigtails really, really hard until she started to cry. her and her friends told on me to the dinner ladies, but they didn't believe her.
one day i found a feather, and ran a finger along it the opposite way to the fine joining lines, and it made me feel sick. like when vaseline gets under my fingernails.
in year six on valentines day, i brought michael tayler a heart shaped keyring with two little mice hugging. on the back i wrote;
dear michael, love naida.
he showed it to his friends, then at the end of break, when we all had to line up in our forms, he handed it back to me. in front of everyone. i kept the keyring. it's probably in the attic somewhere.
at secondary school i met a beautiful girl called katherine. for a long time, she was the most important person in the world to me. we'd talk on the phone for hours. she smelt like sugary milk and was tall and slim.
things since then are jumbled by alcohol and drugs, destruction and self-doubt. which is a shame, or maybe not. if i couldn't write things down, i wouldn't see the point in living.
i'm not a catholic, but isn't it weird how catholic and catharsis are similar sounding, and they're sort of the same? confessing, reliving, forgiveness and guilt?
i have no shame. i'm not ashamed of who i am, or anything i've done to myself, or the things i've been through. i don't believe in keeping things to myself anymore. because i'd probably be dead if i had.
i know everthing's connected, i just don't know how. i know that if i can just figure this out, everything will get so much better. .....
right now i feel shit. i've been here a million times before, and have several ways of dealing with it. today i was convinced that this was it. today was it. today felt like my time. then i thought-
and there but by the grace of god, go i.
i'm not religious. i don't know where it came from. but i think it's about angels. i don't really believe in angels. but i like the word and the name grace.
when i chose a new name for myself, I chose Lillya Grace.
I came onto the computer, of all places, and typed saving grace.
my heart is really aching. not in a stabbing way. in a slow, painful, peeling way, like someone has reached in with a vegetable peeler and is working at it, round and round, as i sit here, powerless to stop it.
ketamine and pills, i thought. ketamine and pills. if i time it right, by the time the pills start to rip apart my stomache, the ketamine will numb it and i'll drift off. perfect! i can't believe i'd never thought of it before.
so i typed saving grace, and thought, when it feels right, i'll gather all the pills i've stolen from my mother. the good stuff. and have a drink, vodka lemonade and lime, and then wait. then when the pains start, i'll take the couple of grams of ketamine.
my mum rang. it's like she knew. like how she always seems to pop up when i'm about to do something i probably shouldn't. like when she wakes for no reason in the middle of the night and starts walking around whilst i'm trying to purge a binge i've been saving til everyone's in bed.
i ignored it at first. she rang again.
at the end she said,
i love you.
i said, i love you too.
there's a quote that goes ( and i think it's part of that wonderful monologue in good will hunting, delivered by robin williams to matt damon) real love is when you love someone more than you love yourself.
i used to think that i didn't love myself, so of course, i knew how to love.
i thought, i can't die without watching that monologue. "do you think i presume to know everything about you, just because i've read oliver twist?"
no, i have to see that film again.
"sorry professor, i had to go see about a girl"
i'm still typing. i haven't wanted to stop. i haven't figured it out yet. . .
if i didn't love myself, i wouldn't bother to type this to a maybe audience, to try and share what's going on, to give myself the voice that i want to be heard.
i wouldn't have bothered.
but there's this need... to speak out. to speak out and stand up tall and say
"you know what. i'm kind of fucked up. and i've kind of fucked up. and i can't help it, or tame it. but i can try to understand it, and explain it."
in primary school every year, despite the fact that i rarely spoke and basically had no friends, i always won the english prize. i've always loved language, and expressing myself through the written word.
some people can't, and they haven't found the thing that makes them tick, and they die all alone because it's not socially acceptable to speak up.
because it makes people feel uncomfortable.
because it's not normal.
i'd like to think i love other people more than myself. i'd like to think that's why i'm still here, typing.
maybe i'm not done figuring it all out.
maybe i'm not done loving.
maybe i'm not done hurting, and falling, and picking myself up. (because this is what i'm doing right now)
maybe i'm an exhibitionist.
but i don't care, because i've got an almost smile on my face.
i just saved my own life, and i've got to go see about a girl.
i used to wander around the playground, sometimes talk to the dinner ladies. i don't really remember playing. but they liked me. they'd say "ooh how exotic" when i'd tell them stories about the types of food my mummy made, and what the names for things were in swahili. one day, i decided to sneak up behind a girl called joanna, and pull her pigtails really, really hard until she started to cry. her and her friends told on me to the dinner ladies, but they didn't believe her.
one day i found a feather, and ran a finger along it the opposite way to the fine joining lines, and it made me feel sick. like when vaseline gets under my fingernails.
in year six on valentines day, i brought michael tayler a heart shaped keyring with two little mice hugging. on the back i wrote;
dear michael, love naida.
he showed it to his friends, then at the end of break, when we all had to line up in our forms, he handed it back to me. in front of everyone. i kept the keyring. it's probably in the attic somewhere.
at secondary school i met a beautiful girl called katherine. for a long time, she was the most important person in the world to me. we'd talk on the phone for hours. she smelt like sugary milk and was tall and slim.
things since then are jumbled by alcohol and drugs, destruction and self-doubt. which is a shame, or maybe not. if i couldn't write things down, i wouldn't see the point in living.
i'm not a catholic, but isn't it weird how catholic and catharsis are similar sounding, and they're sort of the same? confessing, reliving, forgiveness and guilt?
i have no shame. i'm not ashamed of who i am, or anything i've done to myself, or the things i've been through. i don't believe in keeping things to myself anymore. because i'd probably be dead if i had.
i know everthing's connected, i just don't know how. i know that if i can just figure this out, everything will get so much better. .....
right now i feel shit. i've been here a million times before, and have several ways of dealing with it. today i was convinced that this was it. today was it. today felt like my time. then i thought-
and there but by the grace of god, go i.
i'm not religious. i don't know where it came from. but i think it's about angels. i don't really believe in angels. but i like the word and the name grace.
when i chose a new name for myself, I chose Lillya Grace.
I came onto the computer, of all places, and typed saving grace.
my heart is really aching. not in a stabbing way. in a slow, painful, peeling way, like someone has reached in with a vegetable peeler and is working at it, round and round, as i sit here, powerless to stop it.
ketamine and pills, i thought. ketamine and pills. if i time it right, by the time the pills start to rip apart my stomache, the ketamine will numb it and i'll drift off. perfect! i can't believe i'd never thought of it before.
so i typed saving grace, and thought, when it feels right, i'll gather all the pills i've stolen from my mother. the good stuff. and have a drink, vodka lemonade and lime, and then wait. then when the pains start, i'll take the couple of grams of ketamine.
my mum rang. it's like she knew. like how she always seems to pop up when i'm about to do something i probably shouldn't. like when she wakes for no reason in the middle of the night and starts walking around whilst i'm trying to purge a binge i've been saving til everyone's in bed.
i ignored it at first. she rang again.
at the end she said,
i love you.
i said, i love you too.
there's a quote that goes ( and i think it's part of that wonderful monologue in good will hunting, delivered by robin williams to matt damon) real love is when you love someone more than you love yourself.
i used to think that i didn't love myself, so of course, i knew how to love.
i thought, i can't die without watching that monologue. "do you think i presume to know everything about you, just because i've read oliver twist?"
no, i have to see that film again.
"sorry professor, i had to go see about a girl"
i'm still typing. i haven't wanted to stop. i haven't figured it out yet. . .
if i didn't love myself, i wouldn't bother to type this to a maybe audience, to try and share what's going on, to give myself the voice that i want to be heard.
i wouldn't have bothered.
but there's this need... to speak out. to speak out and stand up tall and say
"you know what. i'm kind of fucked up. and i've kind of fucked up. and i can't help it, or tame it. but i can try to understand it, and explain it."
in primary school every year, despite the fact that i rarely spoke and basically had no friends, i always won the english prize. i've always loved language, and expressing myself through the written word.
some people can't, and they haven't found the thing that makes them tick, and they die all alone because it's not socially acceptable to speak up.
because it makes people feel uncomfortable.
because it's not normal.
i'd like to think i love other people more than myself. i'd like to think that's why i'm still here, typing.
maybe i'm not done figuring it all out.
maybe i'm not done loving.
maybe i'm not done hurting, and falling, and picking myself up. (because this is what i'm doing right now)
maybe i'm an exhibitionist.
but i don't care, because i've got an almost smile on my face.
i just saved my own life, and i've got to go see about a girl.
Naida Ally -xxx-
