discovering ebony

Thinking out loud.


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Middle Child(ren) Problems

I have never been a fan of classrooms. Whether because my anxiety overruled my ability to concentrate, or just whether the work wasn’t stimulating enough. She had the same problem – you could tell we were sisters.

But rather than sticking it out like me, she never finished year 7.

She refused to go. She refused to leave her bedroom and spent the majority of the day sleeping. She is constantly exhausted despite having no daily agenda. It all sounds too familiar.

Young people are trapped in a system that isn’t suited to them, and then thrown into another system that allows the child to endure interrogation and no successful support structure put into place. The young person is made to feel stupidly unworthy. If you have a elaborate job titles and 5 digit wage, your word is law and final. Accountability and compromise is out of the question.

They will dish out detentions, bad reports and countless fines to confirm their ego and power, with a complete disregard for how miserable pupils actually are. No time is actually spent genuinely invested in this young person to progress to a happier life, only results for meaningless scoreboards and out-of-touch Ofsted – as if these outweigh a suicide risk.

I shouldn’t have to struggle on my own to save her from strangling herself countless times. I don’t want to have to go to hospital with her, not knowing whether she’s going to make it through the night.

She would rather die than attend somewhere she doesn’t feel welcome, and she is not the only one. The fact that so many young people are unheard, unseen and personal issues not catered to is shocking.

This will be the downfall of Institutional Education.


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There is nothing crueller than school children

High school was a misery. Yes the whole structure of it had flaws but, that extended to it’s pupils also.

Dear class of 2007-2011

I didn’t like the way I was peer pressured to have a “boyfriend” by aged 12. This only lasted 2 weeks maximum, and was always at your scrutiny to enjoy, mock and ridicule. Without something on my left arm I would be deemed “frigid”, subject to cat-calling and skirt flinging by male class mates until my relationship status changed to suit you.

I didn’t like the way I was singled out and made fun of when I didn’t have the latest phone or trainers – because my mother couldn’t afford it and for the umpteen time, my dad didn’t live with us.

Do you remember, when we were in year 7, and we had to all bring in an item that described us best and present it to the class. I remember profoundly the pint-size girl, with dirty blond hair, often in a very oversize parka and near-to-the-floor backpack, shuffled to the front and presented a cassette.

“I’m going to play you one of my favourite songs. Mariella by Kate Nash.”

You faced her with bemused and blank expressions, but despite your condescending looks, she went on to play a snippet of the song.

At the time I was a incognito fan of Kate Nash, and a whole range of other indie music. But after the whole “You sound posh for a black person!” and “You shouldn’t listen to/like that! That’s white people music”, I stayed this way for another 3 years. Thanks.

But you didn’t stop there. Those with mental and physical disabilities were at your disposal. The Blind’s guide stick would be kicked from beneath them and shoulder-tapping would commence as you ran away in glee.

A boy was forever shamed and greeted with disgust because of his mental disability. So much so that you pushed it knowing he had an issue with bacteria, that he erupted in rage and fear, bolted out the classroom only to be following by shrieks of laughing kids.

Looking back, I wish I’d hung out with the kids who you told me were  “weird” or “strange” – the oddballs so to speak. Instead I was cocooned in a pretentious and superficial world, spun by you, and with all the mindless drivel of “life updates” I have to sift through now, you most likely have the same mentality to date.

Mirroring that, I speak to a handful of you on rare occasion. Along with Isobel, throughout the years we were victim to patronising remarks on high test scores and interrogation on who we fancied. We didn’t care for all that, but what else is a 14 year old to do? We were outnumbered, so complied right up until college started.

When Isobel passed away, what initially angered me was the the vast majority that took it upon social networking sites to share your grief. And all I could think was “Oh fuck off. Isobel never liked you anyway”.

Which was true. Isobel was extremely intelligent and therefore humble about it. She hated the attention focused on just that, because there was a lot more to her than full marks. She became paranoid of you bitchin’ away about her, even to the extent of not attending an Oxford University school trip – something she was way more entitled to than anyone else.

When Isobel took the week off to revise for her GCSE exams, you made it your business. Do you remember that triple science class? I sat through a whole hour of her name being flung around the classroom – comments on how it wasn’t fair she was granted the privilege, and how she was “mean” and “a selfish bitch” because she never shared her notes or helped anyone else.

It’s a shame Isobel had to be subject to bullying because of her brilliance, and it’s a shame that school children have to be so cruel to lead others into truancy. I understand that high school is there to shape you, weed out the best from the worse, but no child’s experience of it had to end that way.

I really hope high school shaped you for the better. I can’t say I was the perfect kid, because I wasn’t. I fooled you all into believing that sham of a “relationship” I was in when I was severely depressed. But I am a better person after it all now.

We don’t speak much, especially after the tragedy but, there’s probably a reason for that.

All the best.

The girl that dated the Harry Potter wannabe.


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Western Media Priorities

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If I mention to you that between 250-300 Nigerian girls have been victimised and abducted, in defiance to “western ideologies on education”, I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t know what I was on about. Western media has been pretty sparse in reporting on the tragedy. I’ve had many exclaim that “it’s a lot more in comparison to other countries”, but that doesn’t quite answer this question – why was the Manchester vigil to raise awareness and encourage the rescue over 200 young black women, competing with the ‘protest’ of one white man, who didn’t want to be recalled back to prison after breaching his license conditions.

It isn’t the first time this story has had to battle to get any major media coverage/recognition. Within the UK the stories have barely reached front page news and if they haven’t, there are only handful of articles dotted around in major media outlets – such as The Guardian, The BBC and The Times.

Arriving late after a doctor’s appointment and dodging traditional Mancunian rain, I arrived around 6pm. Armed with just a standard DSLR and notepad, I glanced over the site and took a few snaps before being roped into a picture and a unison of voices demanding for the young Nigerian women to be released.

Unfortunately there were no key decision makers/politicians in Piccadilly Gardens today, so I couldn’t really ask why more action wasn’t being organised, let alone taken. Celebrities Misha B and Julie Hesmondhalgh (the late Hayley Cropper from Coronation Street) showed their support, and made sure their followers/fanbase were aware of the cause on respective social media.

But it just wasn’t enough. I estimated around 100 men, woman and children, from a range of backgrounds and ages were present – yet over 1000 bystanders were too fascinated with the idiocy and selfishness of one man to notice how important our cause was.

The crowd had dispersed by half past, agreeing to meet back in the Gardens the upcoming Saturday. I took this opportunity to take some more photographs and testimonies of those present.

“Hi my name is Ebony. I’m 19 and I’m here to obviously show my support, but also I’m writing a blog post in hope this tragedy will get more media coverage – is it OK if I interview you? Why did you want to get involved today?”

“I got involved because it affects me directly. One as a mother, as a Nigerian, and someone that’s experienced something similar as a kid…

I’m looking at the way things are going now in 2014 and I’m surprised the [Nigerian] Government are not pulling their weight. They don’t seem to be bothered about it – and it hurts! Why can’t we get publicity the same way as the coverage to the plane that went missing

A lot of Nigerians aren’t even aware – I was talking to my friend about it, and she was like “Really? When?” And I’m like, where were you? This happened three weeks ago!”

I then went on to reference Madeline McCann, and how there was still heavy headline news articles, 7 years after her abduction, covering the story, and how if this had been 270+ young white women, there would be a similar public uproar.

“Yes definitely, if this was non-African kids, this would be a big thing.

If we Nigerians are laid back, we can’t expect the world to fight for us,  but now that we’re fighting, people will come out and support us”

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“To be honest it’s really heart-breaking, I just try to imagine if that was my daughter, my sister, friend and I just feel…three weeks! Something just has to be done by now.

It’s just horrendous thinking about what could be happening to those girls – are they being fed? Have they been raped? We just don’t know.”

(These two woman who I spoke to were very passionate about the cause and adamant that a positive result came from today. Due to my lack of journalism skills I was unable to get their names and ages, however if you are reading this – thank you tremendously for your input).

My final interview was with 3 younger black women.

“I was born in Lagos, Nigeria, so I try  to imagine myself in that situation, but it’s difficult. I use to live in London since I was 4, so I feel really British, but if at that age, if I was still in Nigeria, if that had happened to me… it’s a crazy thing to even think about.

 It’s more closer to me because I do know people from there. For example, I met a lady at my church on Sunday, who actually has a school in Northern Nigeria, so she herself expressed her own fear that, what if this happens to her school? So it really resonates with me because they’re real people and this could’ve happened to anyone”

- Adenike Adebiyi, 18

“I’m actually from Nigeria, and this is just really depressing because yes, it could happen to anyone. And the fact that there is a lot of chaos happening in Nigeria already, if feels like this is just going to continue happening and there’ll be other side effects a part from people getting killed. This is just the start of something that no-one is looking forward to.

It’s sad that the [Nigerian] Government has really failed us this much. 

“And even the UK Government, in the sense that there hasn’t been a lot of media coverage here?”

“Yes, but even that isn’t going to even stop anything, it raises awareness for that short amount of time but then everyone just forgets about it. There is so much happening and so much tension that’s just building up. People will get frustrated and scared because innocent people will eventually die because of all this. It’s now reaching it’s peak, the boiling point is getting there.

I only came to school here and I do plan on going back home, which I don’t regret, but just to think that my home is in such distress does worry me.

I was planning on getting a French Visa and I was told if you were from a certain country, it will take 2-3 months, and Nigeria was one of them – it’s just gotten to that point where we’re being compared to countries like Iran, Syria and Iraq .

It’s just so unnecessary and uncalled for, and innocent people may not have the privilege to pack their things and leave the country”

“So as young people, in a sense this is all quite strange because you’re all not so much older than the Nigerian girls”

“Definitely, we don’t even know if this number [234] is even correct, there might only be 100 left – some girls could have committed suicide, they may have fallen sick and because they haven’t got access to medicine their [abductors] might have abandoned them.

You just can’t wrap you’re head around it”

- Oluwatosin Adebutu, 18

“We’re hearing that the abductors are selling them for 2,000 Naira, which is like £9. To think they could decide someone is worth so little.

I know the terrorists deceived them, and that’s how they got the girls. Just imagine the amount of trauma these girls are going through, the girls thought the kidnappers were soldiers and never questioned it until it was too late. 

Even walking around perfectly safe Manchester, I’m still scared and so can’t even comprehend what those girls are going through”

- Bukky Olaiewaju, 18

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There is a lot being done, particurlalry social media outlets, that illustrate the dedicated people that demand our justice and government intervention. However one thing that was made clear from today, that in 2014, the importance of an issue and need for urgency, despite how dire, is still determined by race, and therefore a lack of empathy is shown and we’re back to obsessing over the fairer skinned within mindless pop culture.


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KT – Emotionally unstable as I am.

I’m sat in Theodore‘s old flat. Me, him and Elle are in our natural habitat – huddled onto a sofa and puffing away our cigarettes like chimneys.

There was knock at the door and unlike me, being shocked at who could possibly be wanting to visit and replying with “Who is it?”, “Come in!” is bellowed and a hurry of foot steps along stairs follow.

“Theo I can’t fix my eyelashes! Have you got any tweezers?”

“Um yeah, this is Ebony by the way, she just moved in on the first floor”

I awkwardly smiled in her direction in response to my name. A pale and thin girl with long burgundy hair is stood over us. In just a oversized t-shirt and leggings, she was undeniably perfect for Theo’s photo shoot.

Once not minding me and Elle be present, Theo sets up his equipment and begins to work. Like myself, particularly around strangers in such an environment, she was hesitant to pose openly, but her body does otherwise and the pictures come out resembling high professionalism.

The next time we meet we’re both vodka-induced crying and wailing.  KT has just broken up with her boyfriend – who lives on the same floor as me – and naturally needs consoling. I haven’t had the privilege of such since I was 16, however “I just don’t think it’s fair on James considering my depression” struck a bad chord, and I’m next known to be howling on a tear soaked bed about my own health, even though it doesn’t equate.

Looking back I can’t quite remember if he was present, considering it was his bed, but Theo must’ve been sick to the nines of our noise and had gone to sleep downstairs.

KT then threatened to kill herself because as was I, she’d just had enough with life and it’s inconveniences.

I blacked out, because the next thing I know I’m frantically running down stairs, causing a scene 4 doors down and screaming to security to allow me access into KT’s flat. She’d locked the door and after that episode, anyone would be worried.

Her boyfriend James rushed back followed by a policeman. KT had informed him of her plans and he had come back to the Foyer immediately. She was asked some questions and the option of being admitted into hospital for the night was suggested. She declined and stayed with James.

Exhausted and relieved, I went back to Theo’s, and I was greeted by pizza brought by Kyle, and just like how you can shut up a child with candy, I consumed slice after slice ravenously, and ambled back to my flat for the rest of the morning.

I didn’t see nor speak to KT for atleast two weeks afterwards, which gave me enough thinking time into why I had reacted in such a way.

I had only known KT  a month, yet that night I was so determined to not let the thin pale girl become so fragile she’d break. I even gave a monologue on how “things would get better” and dropped in my own personal experiences. Which was scarily hypocritical because I could never convince myself with the same words, nor took similar advice from others.

At the time, I’m not sure why I cared for a near-stranger so much. She wasn’t Isobel, but, that could’ve been Isobel.

 

 

 

 

 


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Trinity – The Father, Ghost and Whole disregard for young people.

“I can’t wait to start high school, I can finally wear trousers!”

- Ebony Montague, 11 years old.

My mother was adamant I attended “the best high school in Manchester”. She wanted me to be in an environment where my intelligence would be nurtured, and would excel in the presence of degree-educated adults; who would do everything in their power to give the best opportunities to their students.

I am 14, and I’m being heckled to “pull down that skirt!” by yet another member of female staff.

Looking back, I’m glad I continued in protest to the sexist nature of the school. With a Christian religion at it’s forefront, it was clear how the institution wanted to indoctrinate it’s young people.

“Skirts should be at a modest length to prevent unwanted attention from the male gaze”

Unfortunately I wasn’t nearly as politically interested back then, otherwise I would’ve asked in the name of feminism why the “male gaze” wasn’t being challenged, burned the skirt in front of her face and walked away in just my underwear.

Instead I boomed the rehearsed phrase “WILL YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M TIRED OF BEING VICTIMISED”, and stormed away defiantly to my next class.

Following her cue to retaliate, the teacher followed me into the classroom and tried to reason with me.

“If you have a problem, go and talk to my Mum” *insert big teen-agey sigh, folded arms and making no eye-contact*

“Ebony I didn’t mean to upset you, I just wanted to talk”.

My face burns with all the over-thinking. “These people are actually paid to give a damn about young people, yet I’m being attacked on what I wear? They must talk, and I must listen. What a joke.”

The class was Geography, so naturally my mind just implodes and I stupidly grind my back teeth instead until the teacher releases us.

 

I am 15, I’m in a hour long detention after being late more than 3 times that week.

“Ebony, why were you late this today?”

“Just was”

“Well there has to be a reason. Were you *insert generic reasons which clearly do not apply to me*?”

“I.Just.Was.”

Being asked by someone employed to know every known symptom to things that affect the young people in their custody, i.e. mental illnesses, this degree-holding individual was blind to notice that I was suffering from depression.

And fine, maybe because mental health wasn’t part of the PSHE curriculum, teachers also disregarded it. But any fool asking why I looked so tired every time we met, despite not arriving into school well into the afternoon, would conjure up some sort of analysis that something wasn’t right, and then acted upon it.

Instead the teachers were lazy, and shoved me in a room to do meaningless lines of promises to attend school on time, despite now having to leave an hour later, travel on bus for an hour to go home, in the dark, as it was winter.

 

I am 16, I am speaking with a Muslim friend who has been notified that despite the schools welcoming approach to all religions, a school rule was to be enforced that all Muslim girls were to wear the new head scarves (yep, they couldn’t even be bothered to say hijab), provided by the school, costing around an overpriced £12 for some shoddy material.

“What? Are you serious? They can’t do that!”

“Yeah, we have to wear them because coloured head scarves, even though only a few girls wear red rather than black, aren’t “school uniform friendly”

“Fucking evil bast- right, I’m setting up a Facebook page as a petition”

Why would you call yourself a C.of.E school and force every student to endure Christian services each morning if you were then prepared to bring in this? Why try to enforce your views on the beliefs of others, after accepting them as equals under your care?

But I guess that’s acceptable you see, the “all students must comply with the Christian ethos of the school” is probably somewhere in the small print of the school prospectus, makes them look good to Ofsted so they don’t appear discriminatory.

My face burned again, the ridiculous injustice against young people was so rife yet secluded that the school was no more than a hierarchy, both of adults and Christianity on top. This example of the sheer destruction of individuality for someone’s particular preference was an abomination of everything the school stood and still stands for. Young people are only at the forefront when it suited them –  to be shined and presented to Ofsted and potential funders, and then quickly stood in front of to peer through the legs of the teachers that proclaim to put them first.

There is so much more I could say on how my old  high school was so warped in it’s own beliefs that it’s young people didn’t stand a chance of being heard. Like how those with physical disabilities were assured the school could adhere to their needs, yet were isolated from fellow students and subject to bullying due to the archaic preservation of the original school building, which included stairs. Only was the issue later resolved with elevators – in 2012 when these students are long gone and were no use to them now.

Like the method of dealing with “troublesome students” resulted them in prison-like refuge for a full day, only to be entertained by the copying of school rules for the umpteen time, and an essay detailing why you were such a terrible student, why this didn’t agree with the rigid school rules and why Jesus wouldn’t approve of this.

This was then finished with the standard guilt-shaming of missing important work which you would have to catch up upon in your own time – to which no regard is taken on the mental effect this has on a young person, plus no investigation why this young person is in this situation in the first place.

And also, the lack of awareness for mental health, yet the championing abomination of students having under age sex – because getting pregnant is a lot worse than being suicidal.

I could literally recite every ridiculous sex-ed class, and the deep set embarrassment endured knowing that I had better things to be worried about than catching an STD with some imaginary boy. The shame inflicted for not completing homework on the human sexual organs as you instead cried in your desolate room proclaiming how badly you wanted to kill yourself was unbearable and unjustified.

“If you believed in God Ebony, maybe you’d be less depressed”

My Art therapist with a face like Rodney Copperbottom from that children’s film Robots, had his eyes bore into mine. I wanted to wipe that awful look from his face and smear it onto my paper. “There. That’s how I feel today. Like shit.”

I still can’t believe it took them that long to realise that I needed help. I was in the midst of revising for my final GCSE exams and they wanted to break up my routine with hour long silences with occasionally dialogue of:

“How do you feel?”

“Can I get you a tissue and glass of water?” 

This was supposedly the best school in Manchester. Ofsted proclaim it’s outstanding. Yet, with more than enough notice to persuade the students to behave and delegate the ‘good classrooms’ to inspect, they were none the wiser. My high school was manipulative to the core – I doubt it’d be something Jesus would do but, they most definitely used it as justification.

 

- Ebony Montague, 19 years old.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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I’m Not Happy

Just like when I lived with my mum, my surroundings resemble my internal feelings. A fucking mess.

Honestly my flat is a pigsty, and has been for nearly 2 weeks. I’ve been living on my hard mouldy sofa, which is fixated in front of the TV, which lives through The News, a Hollyoaks Omnibus and Jeremy Kyle USA.

I can’t remember the last time I went to college. Neither could they, as my senior pastoral manager hasn’t returned any of my calls.

“Hi, my name is Ebony Montague. I’m a student at the college – can you put me through to Mr. H’s secretary?”

“Hi, it’s Ebony Montague (again). Is Mr. H available?”

Of course he isn’t. He’s a teacher. He also wasn’t paid to chase up students with long-term illnesses.

“Would you like me to take a message?”

Yeah, tell him to just give up. Tell him to stop trying to get me into college, stop trying to get me on track to actually finish my A levels because it’s not working. 3 years later and none of this is working.

No. Just tell him I rang.

I punch in the red button and slump back into the sofa. I’m hungry but nothing is in the fridge, and a concoction can’t be made from whatever is in the cupboards.

I’m tired, but I’ve slept over 10 hours and it’s getting dark outside. 2 weeks now and here I was with only a double-bill of Storage Hunters and my roll ups to keep me company.

 

The phone shook violently and the vibration made that annoying short-lived noise. The screen read “New Message Received: Mum”.

“Just got letta frm college, y u nt been goin in! what r u doin afta college? r u goin uni?”

Oh god. Not now.

I throw the phone on the table. I can’t be bothered explaining myself.

I hadn’t showered for a while, so I probably stank as much as I reeked self-pity. ‘d already been called up on this, and as much as I smiled and laughed at myself, I was shrugging on the inside. What did it matter? Just allow me to be depressed and sad already

I just didn’t understand why I couldn’t be like everyone else. In the sense of being capable of making it through a full day, being capable of not always drowning in fatigue and just being normal.

And yeah, I had some how managed to crawl through the front door, exchange few words to people and do something constructive with my days (like wash a fork to eat my take-away with). It just wasn’t enough, I was still mentally ill and in my eyes, it was just getting worse.

 

10 more hours pass and the phone goes again.

“Look ebony i dnt care what u do as long as ur happy! Love Mum xx”

Thanks, but I don’t know what to do, and I’m not happy.

Thanks, love you too.

 

 


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Theodore/Henry – The Second-Hand Smoker

If you’ve read this blog post, you’ll know about the second-hand smoker. My age roughly, similar issues. We get on well for the most part.

When I first moved into my own place, I was in Theo’s shadow a lot. I knew none of the other residents and had hardly any friends of my own. It was reassuring to know I had a guide with a map with “who to” and “who to not” talk to.

As you’re aware that with my depression, I often relapse. I literally can shut down with sheer ignorance to the surrounding environment, only to be too occupied by my dark thoughts.

“Look Ebony, you’re going to have to eat some time”

A plate of pasta drenched in tomato sauce accompanied by wimpy shreds of lettuce gleamed before me. I wasn’t hungry.

“I know it’s difficult to prevent yourself from getting this low, but you can come back out of it. Whether it’s when you’re hungry and have to go cook something, or have to have a shower – you’ll eventually snap out of it”.

He often over exerts himself in explanations and analysis that are completely unnecessary. I’ve had my fair share of counsellors and schooling, so “not now Theo”.

He rolls himself a cigarette and I’m inclined to join him. Instead I shuffle timidly towards his sofa and slump into a heavy mess.

He glanced over as if to start another intellectual rant about how depression was separate to who I was, and how he studied psychology so he “knew these things”. I rolled over and faced the back wall. I really wasn’t in the mood as I could already feel myself welling up, and I knew if Theo saw how moist my eyes were, he would just unintentionally set me off.

Some time had passed, probably 10 minutes or so, and I hear a soft muffled thump. Theo must’ve been on his bed, but then the sound of light clinking followed. I peer over my shoulder and he’s looking in the mirror. But not in that “Oh god is that a pimple?” type of way. He was holding the mirror in front, it capturing his profile to his shoulders, and looking at it sternly. Intensively, as if to find something.

He didn’t touch his hair, face or anything. He just stared straight on. When I think about it now, I don’t believe it was his reflection he was concerned with, not literally anyway. It was as if he was looking at Theo on the inside, trying to find an answer to a question long gone or at least unanswerable.

I roll back over, at the time it does concern me that I was bothering him and intruding on his own internal battles, but I was too lost to act upon my thoughts, and fell asleep.

 

Two wrongs don’t make a right, and therefore two negatives don’t do any good. That was us. We often clashed when we both had hit rock bottom – me being that annoying catalyst as always.

The last straw for me was when we actually raised our voices to each other. I haven’t had to raise my voice to someone since I was 16 and so you could naturally hear my sheepish bleat of dialogue break in an effort to sound intimidating.

It was over two girls being drunk outside his door, causing a residential nuisance and effectively him being penalised. There was a lot of screaming, shouting and furious rage that converted into things being thrown and broken.

Consumed with guilt, my apology was formed into cleaning the most part of Theo’s flat, and then leaving. We didn’t speak until a month later.

And that was because I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t manage this stupid depression without involving and inflicting the same pain I feel on others. It wasn’t fair nor right. And with Theo, it just amplified. Inside himself he probably saw his own demons compressed and far away from reaching the surface. I did notice this in him, my admiration for his courage and strength was high, but I guess that can only last so long before some one like me throws a stone and shatters everything you worked so hard to control.

I wrote him and two other close friends the same letter, one of the closing lines were “I’m not a very good friend, no wonder Isobel didn’t want to stick around”.

Unfortunately it was interpreted as a suicide note (which I felt slightly offended by because if it was, it would’ve been written a lot more eloquently) and adults were involved.

I was given one of those patronizing pep talks that forced me to promise not to do it again. It made me feel that sharp guilt feeling again, when your mouth goes dry and your throat numb as if you’ve just dry-swallowed 100 capsules. I returned to my room defeated.

“But at least I got the point across.”

Theo had most definitely gotten the point by now, and had given up on all attempts to make peace. He ignored me and kept my camera tripod hostage for a whole month. I probably deserved it, like I said, I’m a shit friend.

We’re fine now. The friendship hiatus is over and it was a fresh start. Theo was now called Henry and I was on new medication. Things were on the up and it started to finally be manageable in conjunction to the depression.

Living here isn’t so bad. Everyone has their own issues, their own vices and virtues, and their own mirrors to reflect in. I suppose it just matters whether you like what you see.

 

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