Days to forget

*emo emo emo*

For the record, I don't particularly enjoy writing about depression. It's depressing. I don't like writing about self harming or thoughts of suicide or whatever, because really they sound like cries for attention and with anyone else I would assume that they are. That's entirely why yesterday was the very first day that I told anyone at all. But when you sit and know that without distraction you will no doubt take some kind of sharp object to your skin, writing is so very theraputic.

Today was a.... well, I can't decide if it was a good day or a bad day. I feel like I have my best friend, a friend that I know will always be there for me and that finally I can talk to someone - someone that'd not on the other side of a computer screen - about anything. And while this is of course a good thing, you end up dragging up the bad with such depth that as soon as you are left alone you are left spiralling back into the mosquito nest of depression.

So I have come to several conclusions. Firstly, if I can read a book in a week, then I will let myself open to the oppurtunity of possibly starting a English course. If I don't manage that, then really there is no point.

Secondly, either way I want to move to Liverpool. I have friends there, a sense of purpose there, I know which streets are good and which aren't, where is cheap and where to avoid, and there's such a strong student life that when I need a house, if I can't convince some of the friends who already live there to find a place with me, there are many places with a place for me. I need to get out of this place. I need to get away. And I need aspiration.

I need an end.