Day One

Day one

Holly was 24 years old. She was an optimistic depressive. She was a lazy perfectionist. She wanted to write a book. She had been contemplating the idea for a while now, yet she didn't really know what it was going to be about. She wondering about the style, the format, what time of day she should do it, all the time she would be spending on her own, well she had been doing a lot of that lately, yet would it be worth it? What would she really get out of it? Would anyone really want to read it? And would it just be an exercise to flatter her ego. So she had a bath.

She always put bubbles in the bath; she didn't really like to look at her body. She wasn't fat, she didn't have an extra nipple or a hand sprouting from the top of her shoulder from a medical test she participated in to pay her credit card bill. She just didn't like to look at the sexual parts and her stretch marks. Although, her nipples did emerge from the bubbles occasionally. Also she did like to extend her legs onto the slopping wall at the end of the bath. She had awful feet, bunions and dead skin. Yet two boys had sucked her toes in a bid to prove to her they were her best lover ever. One was her first boyfriend and it was on the sofa. And the other was another man with the same name as her first boyfriend who sucked them in a bath. At least it was a little cleaner in there. She felt sorry for them but had really enjoyed the experience She wondered if she may have enjoyed it even more if she had exfoliated, as she did have a lot of dead skin around the heel area.

She started to bath dance. A good song had come on the radio. She was a little annoyed at commercial radio, too many adverts and too many same sounding bands. But it was safe, and she could then talk about mainstream music with her friends. As if she started to pursue and seek bands on her own whom would she have to discuss it with? Bath dancing was always accompanied with a smile, a smile that indicated she didn't care and that she could be herself.

She always gave herself time limits in the bath, not in regards to how wrinkly she got but with what she had to do during the day. Today was Saturday. She had already watched t.v, had breakfast, scrambled eggs on two pieces of seedless brown toast with tomato ketchup. She always cooked her eggs in the microwave. Two eggs black grounded pepper and salt and a dash of milk for around two minutes. Delicious. Yet the dishwater and the leading dishwater tablet didn't like this procedure to egg cooking, as it deliberately left evidence after an intense wash. Bastard. So she always had to clean the egg reminants herself. Despite knowing this, she continually purposely forgot this everytime she had scrambled eggs. She didn't really have any plans for the rest of the day, so decided to get out of the bath when the big hand hit the next hour.

The book idea was really frustrating her. She loved to write she knew she could. She loved the idea of creating characters, plots and themes, disruption, confrontation and finally resolution. Yet she would always get a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. It would automatically be followed by the need to poo. Great diet plan. Forget weight watchers, Constipated? Just get nervous. Think of all the things that worry you immensely think about them and hey presto. A big poo. Ok the idea may not win any awards; oh it might do in the stool awards! They occur every year in Basingstoke, and the trophy is a lot of stools, cunningly shaped like a barstool. It's for big shitters.

She was bored as well. She was living with her extended family in London. They were incredibly funny, caring, tremendously wonderful people but she wasn't ready for scrabble and sudoko every weekday evening. They all had partners, they all got on with life and took responsibility to make life what they wanted it to be.

On the other hand she had had about 7 jobs in the last 7 months. Each one she detested. Oh the girls are really cliquey; all they do is talk about celebrities and really mundane stuff. Oh he has no respect; for the customers and me I can't work in a place like this. Oh it's not busy enough. Oh I feel like I am not good enough. Oh I am working for this charity and all I am doing is thinking about is myself, I feel like a fraud. Oh I feel I am a lot better than working there. She was the problem. She was depressed. Alone. Building up the barriers again. Isolating herself. Making excuses for her predicament. Ignoring the core issues that her plagued her for so long. But she knew that life was worth living, she just had to start living rather that existing.

She had started to jog around the glorious park in the morning; she liked the birds and the fact she was doing it. She even attempted to meditate. It takes 21 days for a habit to became habitual. But it was the weekend, jogging was out and PopWorld was in. In the 'ways out of depression' book she had read, it gave her tips and guidance to rid herself of the illness. It advised her to exercise, talk to people that have been through depression, socialise, meditate and make small goals each day. She was doing all of that. Yet she felt her life was still empty, but perhaps it would take time. She had been depressed for a long time.

She had got a job in a bar. It kept her busy and socialising, tick, tick. It was dire though, but the staff was lovely. It attracted the kind of alcohol pop, spiky haired, same dressing, same talking, same looking sameys. But on her first shift she did get to chuck someone out and she thought it was hilarious, and she felt powerful. The drunken man had asked it someone could go through the bins as he had lost a document. The girl behind the bar listened and instructed him to come back the next morning. He attempted to persuade her to do it herself immediately. She was having none of it. So Holly asked if he was a secret agent. This agitated him a little. Luckily, that night Holly had just completed a computerised introduction to the company and could identify what an angry customer looked like. He would be aggressive sounding, with negative body language and with the possibility of being violent. Holly had to be careful. So she mocked him a little, did not use and physical aggression and guided him to the door. He did accuse her of being racist and managed to steal a Sammy looking girl's wine on his way out. Yet overall it was a success. Her mouth formed a smile. She homed in on he next prey. Four men. She made eye contact, asked them if they had had a good evening, and then proceeded to warn them of the vicious badgers that were on the streets attacking poor civilians travelling home late at night. She added substance to the fictitious story by explaining that there had been an article in the local newspaper. They looked shocked, interested and a little bemused. She didn't let up. She continued. She enjoyed it. She wasn't hurting anyone, ok she was lying, humorously but not in a malicious manner. Everyone was a winner.

She was working that evening 7pm until close. Close was one in the morning. She wasn't that excited. But it was money and would get her out of the house. It would be hot, busy and clammy. She did sweat a lot for a girl. She couldn't wear particular tops. She even sweated profusely in the winter. She had bought some special deodorant from the chemist, that reduced sweat, but it stung. Plus you couldn't roll it on once you have shaved your armpits. So you had to have stubbly armpits. Yet it wasn't hot enough for short or stripy tops so she could apply the deodorant. She just forgot or couldn't be bothered or had something else to be distracted by.

She had Yoghurt, it was in the afternoon and she was hungry. It had omega 3 in it, and real cherries. She still had the whole day ahead of her she didn't know what to do. Watch some more t.v., yet that reminded her of her being depressed and being alone. Yet, it helped her to not think about herself. Tomorrow she was going to watch her brother play football. He was a good player. Not in the sense that friends and family say, 'oh he is really good, he will definatley make it.' Scouts, coaches and other children's Dads noted his skill as well. Holly hoped he would make it, to a semi professional level at least. But he was at the age where girls, experimenting and free porn downloads had a higher precedence than the beautiful game.

Holly loved to watch him play. She was part of life then. Writing the book would also mean a lot of time in front of the computer, typing, thinking, work, solitude and she was renowned for her charismatic personality and energy. And if she sat at the computer all day, she would be the quiet, hardworking, boring individual not participating. She always wanted to be happy, having fun, laughing, but was starting to comprehend that life wasn't always like that.

A song came on the radio. Her mouth opened, she mime screamed and started to dance. She lip synched, and got all the words wrong. It was a talent. She looked at herself in the mirror. She loved his voice. She loved to dance. She loved music.

She missed her friends. Her University friends. You have friends for a season, a reason of a lifetime. Someone once said to her. A lot of friends she had made at University were the friend that fulfilled the last category. They would call, and email but it wasn't the same. She did take comfort from this; she was still in the loop, still part of their lives and still involved. But second hand. She was not there. However when she was there, she wasn't mentally, she was always somewhere else worrying, analysing or trying to direct the scenario. It was exhausting. Perhaps the time away from her friends offered her the opportunity to really find out who she was. What she really wanted from life, what she actually believed it and experience it on her own. She hoped there was a reason for this misery.

It was getting darker. It had been raining heavily and it was nearing the end of May. She was tired and still hungry. She ate a lot. She liked food. If she had to pick her last meal she would choose chicken gorgons, spagettit bolognese and cornflake tart followed by lemon sorbet.

The book would have to wait. She couldn't think of anything. Her mind was blank. It needed nourishing, food. She heard noises from her family member's bedroom, she felt anxious. She didn't want to seem a loser sitting at the computer on a Saturday; she wanted to seem vibrant, doing interesting stuff. Yet they wouldn't care. They would get up, complain about bring hungover, laugh at it, have small talk and be with eachother. Holly wanted someone. But when she wanted them. She knew that wasn't possible. That was the problem. She wasn't part of anything, she felt she didn't belong, she felt an outsider. Maybe that could be a theme for her book the outsider attempting to find a way in. Too cliché.

She needed a hobby. Her sister had popped round last night and while her sister was cutting the burnt edges off the Victoria sponge, they discussed the definition of the word hobby. She was adamant that is had to be enjoyable, her sister disagreed. She consulted the free thesaurus she had received from a press day she had attended with a friend. She was wrong, it did not have to be enjoyable. Another word used for hobby was sideline diversion. Yet surely it would have to contain an element of joy or what was the point of pursuing a hobby in your leisure?
Holly liked one to ones. She preferred getting all of that persons attention, the intimacy and closeness. She often giggled to herself, though, as she quite liked the idea of a threesome.

She wore glasses, she could wear contact lenses but she only had pair left and they had a scratch on them. She was extremely long sighted. When she took her glasses off the vision reflected her mental state, blurry. She was taking them off more frequently, but was worried her eyes would get worse. So she wore them all the time. Except when she was sleeping and in the bath. Unless she was reading in the bath.

Time was going slowly. She just had lunch, a microwave meal and a naan bread and a banana but she had the banana before the main meal. She didn't really pay much attention to the order in which food should be eaten. She eats when she is hungry. She did her make-up. A little bit of foundation smudged to hide her dark circles and some mascara. Her eyes look bigger when she wears her glasses, as her lenses are so thick. Jam jar lids. She likes the shape of her eyes, yet she is not very good at make-up. Her sister plucks her eyebrows and berates her for plucking them too thin. She gets on with her sister now that they have grown up. When they were younger they would bicker all the time.

She googled, 'word count for adult non-fiction novels'. 180,000! What!? She had no chance. She didn't even do a dissertation, there was no way she had the time, energy or motivation to spend time at the computer and churn out 180,000 words about something. They publishers probably don't even include the title, the introduction or the bit at the back. It was impossible.

Maybe she could concentrate on poetry. Enter short story competitions. Yet, all her poetry was dark, melancholy and sad. She didn't want to be remembered for being a depressive. Al though she adored Sylvia Plath, and thought she was a genuis she did have an unfortunate end to life, and Holly hoped for more. She did attempt suicide at 14, yet her stupidity saved her. You can die from a diesel engine.

Being optimistic isn't necessarily a bad thing. Perseverance is productive. Walt Disney didn't get a bank loan until he asked over 1000 banks. Holly had read that somewhere, probably in a self help book. She admired his diligence.

Work was ok. The people were nice, that's the only adjective she could think of to describe them. The customers on the other hand were the epitome of 2006 culture. Same talking, same looking pissed up amoral materialistic morons. A man spat on the floor near the bar inbetween drinking his beer, Holly just shook her head. What was she doing here? Why was she working in a bar? Why could she not integrate and communicate like others? Yet she realised she was meant to be living in the now, and then got instructed to go and put napkins round as many knives and forks. The music was better in the kitchen too. The bar played mainstream sound, which sounded all the same. The punters liked it, and threw their hands in the air, like they just didn't care.

The night was coming to a close. It had been a reasonable night. One of the lads on the till next to her worked at a faster pace, and it annoyed her a little. She always liked to be the best. She did speed up on occasions, but couldn't really be bothered. Everyone was leaving, she walked home. It was late and dark, and she shouldn't really have been walking home on her own, but she did. She often created scenarios, and panicked herself deliberately. Oh look at the man, he could rape you, be careful. Cross the road, pick up the pace, and be aware. Get the keys out of your pocket, so if you do get attacked you can gauge his eyes with your key. The thoughts consumed her cranium. She would tell herself to stop. She was nearing the house. Once last panic. Someone could come out of the woods and grab you. That would be ironic, nearly home and then get attacked. She was fatigued. She was ready for bed. She had forgotten about the book.

Day 2

She slept well. She got up, tidied the living room and had a bath. She placed her feet on the sloping wall. She took them off and there was dirt on the white walls. Disgusting. It was a quick bath and wash. There was little of the soap left. There were sausages in the pan. Her family member had added salt, grounded pepper and mixed herbs titled, 'rub your meat.' Oh 'er. They were delightful. She got dressed. She felt lethargic.

Her Mother called to tell her she was going to be early. She was nearly dressed; she just needed to find some socks. Her Mother picked her up; it was a new car. Her Mother had written off the previous car, drink driving. The new can smelt of stale puke and lingering alcohol seeping from a drunk's pores after a heavy night. She did comment on this, her Mother stated it was the odour of a new car. Not a scent to capture and use as an in car airfreshner she thought.

They talked about depression, about the family, they talked. Both not really there. Both probably judging each other. Both a little angry with the other. Both in a different place. Both tired. They got home. Her brother was sporting a black eye. He had walked into a tree. She wasn't convinced. She questioned him. He had got into a fight. She later learnt her sister had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly. Banged up in a cell, a £8 fine and it's not on my criminal record, am I bothered? That was the response she received. She felt comfortable though. In London she felt alone. This drama felt familiar, felt natural, felt like home. But she wanted it to feel abnormal. It thundered. It was raining heavily. They left for football. She hadn't once thought about the book. She was immersed in her day; being with her family and watching her brother play football.

They missed his first goal. They were in the toilet and getting some snacks. It was a good game. Her Mother asked her to take the water and chocolate to her brother for half time. She started to walk. Her trousers were so long that the water started to creep up her leg. Slowly at first, pretending it would stop. It didn't, it persisted right to her calf. Skinny jeans were in this season, and they wouldn't let the water abuse her leg. She got to the dug out a little before half time. A terrible tackle. Her brothers team had a free kick. Dirty cheating gits she bellowed. The linesman was not impressed at the comment. He retaliated by snarling at her like a bulldog. He accused her of being the prime reason for hooliganism in the country. A little harsh she thought. He gazed at her, trying to intimidate her. She held his stare. She would not allow his aggressive testosterone to infiltrate her. She mocked him. He continued glaring at her. One of her brother's teammate interrupted, and provoked him. He thought she could not stand her ground. She was quite capable. Her words were shot with a venomous vernacular precision. The linesman did not retreat. Not did Holly. We scored. Show them with the game boys; show them with the game. At half time they were winning. She returned to the other side of the pitch slowly.

The second half was tense. The linesman made a controversial decision in favour of his team. Others jeered at him, as did Holly. She would not stand small. Round two. It was petty, but she thrived on this child like banter. She liked to antagonise, to evoke, a response. To ruffle a male peacocks feathers. To tease the ego. It got the blood pumping around the veins. She felt alive.

The game ended. They had won. They all got a burger, a can and stood eating it. She wanted to get healthier, she knew this type of food was not good for body. It was taking the goodness hostage, laughing at it as it entered the blood stream and giving her instant sugar hit. She carried on slurping the fizzy pop. She was freezing. Her trousers were soaked. Her teeth chattered. They all got in the car, and discussed the game. Her heart felt safe.

Her Mother had agreed to pay for her therapy, but kept mentioning the money. She had been to NHS therapists before, but stopped or made excuses not to return. Yet she knew she had to do this now. While she had the opportunity, and with no one else to loose herself in. They stopped at the corner shop so her Mother could get some money. She felt guilty. She put on a song on the CD player, Aretha Franklin. You make me feel like a beautiful woman.
There were a group of tramps sitting on the bench. She continued singing, the wrong words of-course.

Her brother came out of the door on the shop with a fan of notes. She widened her eyes, get in the car there are tramps just to your left! Then felt immediately guilty, she was presuming the tramps would attempt to attack him and steal the money. Her Mother got in the car and apologised, as she could not give her all the money she needed. Holly was thankful, yet knew her Mother would use this against her in the future. But she would pay her back. Her brother asked for the popcorn from the plastic bag. What flavour is it? Chilli he said, you hate that flavour. It was toffee, her favourite. He didn't offer Holly any. She flicked through the tabloids. Pap, breasts, gossip, scantily clad women. Oh she looks awful. She was not free of it yet.

They arrived home. She went to check her emails and MSN. Her dog was the same age as her brother; she wasn't sure what that was in dog years. He was on his last legs. Legs that looked too fat and struggling with the weight it was supporting. Yet he was a clever canine. Everytime the family thought he was a goner they would get the camera out and take some pictures. This had happened around five times. Holly thought the dog knew what was going on, how? He posed for the camera. Give me hurt dog. I want I'm on my last legs. Give me you are going to miss me once I'm in doggie heaven. Great. Beautiful. Silly humans. The next centrefold for, 'You're my Bitch'

She stroked him. He nestled his nose inbetween her legs. Sniffing her vaginal region and then he poked her breasts with his wet nose. Pleased to see you too. It looked as though he was wearing those hideous fur books that chav women were adorning themselves with. They looked a lot better on dogs than humans.

Her Mother would wait on everyone. Meeting their every need. Doing, fetching, saying, being their everything. It's what she thought they wanted. Holly was becoming more aware of her behaviour. Yet in London she behaved in the same way. As she was not comfortable in her situation, she wanted to please everyone. It hurt when she recognised this.

She hadn't pondered the book all day. Her heart hurt. She didn't belong; she was a floating down the gentle river of existence. Yet the therapy would help. She could begin to feel, let a significant other close. It frightened her, yet her old self was dissolving. He new self was emerging and shedding it's scarred skin. Her younger sister arrived home. Exhausted form work, the weekend and alcohol consumption. She attempted a conversation, blank. So she stated to poke her, a response. Holly was to be collected in half an hour. She hugged her brother. She prodded her sister some more. She missed them. She clung on to the false sense of family.

The car was on the drive. Her Mother mentioned the money one more time; she smiled graciously and left. On the journey home she listened to her family members trip to York. She tried to listen, but was elsewhere. She was thinking about a guy she thought she was in love with, were they compatible? The fact that her heart was feeling heavier, the fact that she didn't like it in London, the fact that she felt very lonely and the fact that she needed to work more to earn some money so she could pay for the rent she owed.

Should she give herself to this guy? She would wait until she had therapy, to see if the feelings were still there? As when they first got together she was fragile, vulnerable more lost than now. Was he attracted to her as he felt she needed him? He did mention that he thought she was out of her league. Was he like her Dad? Was that why she was attracted to him? Was he everything that she wanted to be? She put him on a pedal stool. She did adore him yet was jealous of him. His talents, his past, his mannerisms and him. Why did he like her?

York, the trip, engage. It sounded like a lovely place; she had been there before, cobble streets, very scenic. The journey was quick and pleasant. There were sausages in the pan as she entered the kitchen. She grabbed another. A little greasy. She should have wiped it on kitchen roll before annihilating it. There was an oil film on her lips.

It was 9 o'clock. She finally thought about the book. Her heart was really hurting. Too tired. What's the point? She was unhappy. She wanted to be around her close friends. She sat in her room. What else should she do? Go for a jog. Listen to some music. Got to sleep that sounded like a good idea?

She was hungry. She fancied something light. Weetabix. She liked to mash up her two weetabix, with sugar, preferably brown. There were only sweeteners. She popped two in, some milk and started to mash. She curled up in front of the T.V, and inhaled her food. She was cold; she still had her jeans on. Her head was hurting. She often complained in regards to her aliments but never did anything about them.

She had a shower. She had had a bath earlier in the day, but she wanted a shower to warm her up before bed. During her morning bath, she was listening to the radio and it stated how much water people in the UK were wasting by having a bath instead of a shower. By having a shower she was making a conscious environmental decision. Granted she was having a bath and a shower in one day, but she needed it. It was a blanket of warmth sprinkling and cleansing her body. She never looked down, and used shampoo to wash her rude parts. Fuck the water shortage. She'd turn off the tap when she brushed her teeth.

Should everyone have his or her biography in print she questioned? Everyone was interesting, everyone had led a completely unique experience, and everyone sees the world from a different lens. Bedtime.

Day three

Holly got up and went for her jog. The over zealous dog was out, and not on a lead again. Despite growing up with dog her whole life, she still felt anxious if a dog ran at her with speed. She smiled and called morning to the owner. Control your dog she muttered under her breath. The rain was lashing down from the right. She slowed down and walked back through the garden gate, down the garden and resided on the lawn, She started to meditate. She sat crossed legged on the wet grass and concentrated on a plant. The birds were singing, the rain was falling right on top of her and she tried to focus. She wondered whether the family would think she was mad. Focus. What would she do for the rest of the day? Focus. How long should she meditate for? Focus. That was enough, she got up, wiped the blades off her bottom and went indoors.

She detested the mornings in the house; everyone was getting ready for work, pre-occupied and busy. She grabbed a banana and completed it in 3 bites. She had a shower, switched on the T.V. and watched the latest gossip from the Big Brother House. She didn't mind the programme. She had a mind that enjoyed observing, watching and analysing human behaviour. Passive voyeur. The programme allowed her to reap the rewards of a friendship without giving any of herself away. She got nervous, she felt lazy. She got up and got dressed. She wanted to move. She wanted to be with her friends.

She printed out her CV twice; she had spelt the road wrong, A S in the wrong place. Easy mistake. She never was great at attention to detail. She put on her coat, it wasn't raining, it probably would later, but she didn't have an umbrella.

She walked and handed her CV in for a part time job at a doctor's surgery. Then she walked to the job centre. She liked to walk to get out of the house. Actually she enjoyed being in the house if no one else was in, but everyone was always in the house. She felt unsettled, as though she had to perform. She printed out some jobs, what was she doing? Holly thought about a job centre based sketch. It had loads of potential. She smiled. She blocked out life with the music. Yet it wasn't distracting her mind enough, and she knew if she ruminated too much then she would not sleep well. Then she would wake up and feel exhausted, and then her motivational levels would be low and she would feel low. The majority of people believe depression is a chemical imbalance, although Holly believed that was an element of depression, she believed it was thought based. Inadequate programming. A blanket to shield her from the world, when situations occurred that reminded her of childhood traumas. She did want to get better. Her head hurt. She needed some painkillers. She thought she was a selfish conversationalist, she was only really interested in what she wanted to know. She got annoyed if the conversation did not adhere to how she wanted it to flow.

What would she do all day, she was back in the house. People were there; she had to be polite. What about writing her book? Hmmm. Or a proposal for the NRDA. This was an idea regarding a National Recovered Depression Award Ceremony, to celebrate those that overcome the debilitating disease. She wasn't quite sure how people would be judged for each award. Different categories. The award for bed ridden for more that 2 years, self harming, creative, in the sense of work being published and critically acclaimed goes to¦If the soap stars could get a ceremony why not individuals that had overcome depression? Music, art, motivational speakers all supplied by ex depressives.

She started to cry. Her incapacity benefit had been turned down, she had only claimed for 2 months, during her worse period. But due to the fact the she had not contributed enough tax during 2003-2004 tax year resulted in her not being eligible. She was at Uinversity during that time, and had had part-time jobs. Her head really hurt. She didn't want to be London. She wanted out. With a capital O. She was working now, and was applying for another job. She knew she had caused her predicament, but she wanted to wallow. She had reached her lowest ebb in the wall of depression, but she would not give in. She had her first therapy session tomorrow.

The gardening boys had popped in. She did like talking to them, She made them some tea. They were nice guys, funny and down to earth. They always teased her. She did want to spend time with them, but she worried that they might think she was a flirt, or not interesting, funny, intelligent enough. She needed to establish that she was she, Holly. Be herself, accept herself and just be. She cooked her lunch, chicken nuggets and chips. She had had two pieces of fruit during the day, a balanced diet. It was the nutrition equation. Good nutritious food + bad junk food = 0. They cancel each other out.

It was only half two. She had sorted an interview out for tomorrow. She would be fine. She emailed some friends, looked up free meditation classes in London and felt tired.

Do people even read books anymore? Well as much as they used to? Surely doing a documentary would be more viable. She was blinking more.

She had popped to the shops to get some chocolate, she thought she deserved a treat. As she arrived back, she looked inside her bad for the keys. Access denied. She was locked out. She sat in the garden for a while. The sun nudged the clouds out the way, but it was having none of it, it ate her and then weed. Holly felt pissed off and on. She went to the library.

All the chairs were taken, apart from two in the children's section. She grabbed a book, what not to wear. Great. The librarian politely stated that children would be coming in any minute, she finished reading what not to wear at the beach, well she looked at the picture and got up. A schoolboy was just about to leave she had a desk. She grabbed a book on The Alexander technique. She found it very interesting. Her mind didn't wonder. Well she did listen to the internal conflicts with the teenage population cramming for tomorrows GCSE There was a dictator, same age as his colleagues, but with A type personality. He took no crap. He was not worried if his hard teaching methods would loose him popularity points. Holly liked him. He gave them timed essays. Others would seek his advice; he did not succumb to their advances. She needed a poo. Or a least to let some poo particles in the air. She clenched her buttocks.

She needed a different stimulant. She picked up another depression book; the style was colloquial, frank and funny. She flipped through the pages, crossed legged at the window. She let one out. No one was around only she could smell it. Meaty. She decided when she got a boyfriend she would nick name him Prozac. He would be her medication. Laughing is a great way to banish the blues.

She was walking back from the library smiling, she thought she spotted a friend stopping to pick her up. She was unsure, but proceeded to cross the road. She looked in the window, squinted her eyes and still could not identify him. Mistaken identity. And she was wearing her glasses. She turned a faint shed of red, and walked on. Beep. She turned around was this him? He was laughing. Beep, beep, beep. Not funny anymore.

She arrived home. Everyone was doing what he or she was doing. What was she going to do for the evening? T.V. She should really be experiencing life. She needed money. She needed some mates. She needed to stop making excuses! She took two painkillers.

Everyone was pissed off with her. She had left the back doors open. Her family member began to iron and said little. Yet Holly realised, well she attempted to that it was her family member's anger not Holly's. She apologised, but little response. Perhaps she was tired? Holly began to feel guilty, guilty for all the money she owed, guilty for being depressed, guilty for inflicting herself on the family. She wasn't happy either. She had got herself in this position though. Why did she not like herself? Why did she want to treat herself so badly? She watched Big Brother and went to bed.

Day four

Her head was heavy when she woke up, too heavy for her neck. She did have a big head. The biggest head in the family. One evening she spent with her sister and god mum they decided to measure body parts with a shoelace. She had the biggest head, forehead, shoulders, waist and hips. Not boobs. They were equal to her older sister. She went for her mandatory jog. The trainer was enforcing a new technique to control the over zealous dog, it nearly worked. He only chased after Holly once, and then returned to the owner. She sat on the grass sluggishly and tried to keep the mind still. It didn't work.

Time for breakfast. Her hurt still hurt. She got some peppermint oil and put in on her temples. The media were complaining, well a few doctors that money should be spent on conventional medicine rather than alternative medicine. She'd choose peppermint over paracetemol anyday.

Porridge would keep her going for the rest of the day. To lunch at least. One cup of oats, one cup of milk to half cup of water. Low heat and stir. Wait until it begins to boil. Add some syrup, she had a sweet tooth, and diabetes she thought, the doctors disagreed. She over sweat, needed a wee all the time, and yearned sugar. Conversation still sparse. Head clearer. They all left.

She had an interview at 10, therapy at 1 and work at 7. Her digestive system and feelings were intrinsically linked. She needed a poo. She was apprehensive. The post arrived she had got into the course! Wahoo! Her course started in September, she just needed to save up the money, pay back the rent and go. Fantastic! Hopefully the therapy would equip her with tools to deal with stress, coping mechanisms.

She needed a CRB check for the job, she did actually know that but it got her out of the house.
She had her therapy session. The lady was lovely; she had rapport as soon as she met. They talked; they revisited aspects of the path. She had a panic attack. A thought instigated a memory, she felt like she was being attacked, like she was going to die. The therapist was good. Separate the thought and the feeling. Look here and look here. She spoke about her life; she still didn't feel all there. Was she making stuff up? She had a good life she achieved academically, socially and externally, but inside she was void. She was a viewer, or did she read that and now that was her reality. She had read so many self help books perhaps she was just reiterating the discourse. Needing attention, needing love, needing someone to understand. She was about to leave and had her distance delusion. She knew the therapist was actually sitting, right in front of her but she seemed really far away. Logically it didn't make sense, but it was what her mind was telling her. Her head was swamped with all these thoughts, theories and past. Surely she just needed to get on with things. Life wasn't bad, she had a family that loved her, lived in a beautiful house and had amazing friends. She should be grateful, she was. It was since moving down here. Stop lying to yourself. She had been depressed for years. Had horrid intrusive thoughts for years. The panic attacks were a way to tell the mind it needs to clean out house, as there are some new neural messages that need to move in.

She went to work she was exhausted, it was good she was earning money. It lessened her guilt. She cleaned, mopped, wiped, served, swept and internally dissected her life. She walked home, worried about sleeping, and went to sleep.

Day five

She slept well. Of what she can remember. Head aching, she put some peppermint on her temples and in her eye. Ohhh! She closed he left eye, and when she opened it she saw a yellow doughnut shape. She put her dressing gown sleeve under the tap, and put the cold water on her eye. Sorted. She got up later, yet still went for her jog. No dogs. Stop, she'd tell herself. Stop thinking about yourself all the time. Get on with things. Use your senses and describe the surroundings. It's windy, the trees are swaying and it's green.

She had some food. Two pieces of toast, a banana, a yoghurt and an apple. It was only 10:16. Working at 7. What to do for the rest of the day.

She was feeling a little bad as she thought she had lied to the therapist, not telling her exactly how she was feeling, to try and stop the bad thoughts as soon as possible. She rung her friend, he had got a new job. Well done she thought! Well done! He was a brilliant guy, talented, charismatic, funny, interesting, emphatic and passionate. A born leader, he did what he have says he'd do, she respected him for that trait.

Work was ok, keeping her busy. Everyone was so nice, so natural, so themselves. She liked that. She wanted to be like that, no like her. 80's night, Hall and Oates, ABC some killer tunes. She danced behind the bar, she was smiling. She started to talk to an old man, he ordered some beer and some wine, and He started to dance, well an excuse for a dance. She laughed. The night went reasonably quickly, it was drawing to a close. He handed her a business card with his number. He was the same age as her granddad. She decided to walk home. It was raining, she took her glasses off, and she didn't have windscreen wipers. She was going to patent; well she needed to invent it first. Quick moving glasses wipers. A black Toyota stopped, You ok love, you one your own? Where are your friends? Do you want a lift? Can I have your number? Was she addicted to fear was she addicted to putting herself in danger?

She arrived home safely and swore to herself she would never walk home alone again. Book. What book?

Day 6

Jog. Sit on grass. Big brother. Bored. Internet. Head hurt. Peppermint. Laugh with family. Eat. T.V. Shop. Food. Laugh. Music. Fill in form. Head hurt. Pictures. Childhood, family, future, me. Eat. Dinner. Spaghetti bolognese. Apricot upside down cake. Gardening boys. Funny. Anxious. See inside me. Vulnerable. No turning back. Stir. Turn down heat. Anxious. Head hurt. Evening. Eat. Alone. Safe. Pleased. Distractions. Hiding. Fear. Distraction. Alone. My Best Friends Wedding. Need to experience, live life. Friends. Food. Big Brother. Tiddly. Ssshhh. Laugh. Music. Bed. Tired.

Day 7

She woke up on time, looked at her piece of paper stuck on her wall. Don't be part of the problem, change your mindset. So true. She fell back to sleep naughty. Woke up an hour later, not good for the system, she did really need to keep a routine. She went for a jog and came back and had two pieces of toast. Her family members discussed the weather, she sat and read the newspaper. Football, knives, obituaries and text. She conversed with her family member, when do you get paid? She took it personally, it wasn't meant to be. It was a question, open not agenda driven. She did take things personally, well mostly everything. What was she to do for the rest of the day? Emails. Her back hurt. Her back ached, She always bloody moaned.

Her brother was misbehaviouring. Everyone reacted differently. Holly said the facts, family members were sympathetic and indifferent. Poor him, having to come home to his Mother in that state. Not surprised he is acting like that; I would be worried if he wasn't. He needs to pull his socks up, or he is seriously going to fuck up his career. She didn't know how to feel. She was too immersed in herself, what she had endured, which frustrated her, as she could not relate. 2:52, she wasn't working until 8. What was she to do? Monotony.

She took the pin board done and helped clear the kitchen. It was to be decorated next week. In the process she managed to smash a bowl, shit. Was it expensive? Was she going to get in trouble? Shit. Ah no problem, we'll throw it away, less to tidy away. Phew. Then they had a chat. With her family member. About Mum, about her, about Abby, about George and about why we are the way we are. Her throat hurt, she was tired and had exerted a lot of energy talking about her predicament. She wanted to have fun, to have a giggle, to be out of this mindset. Yet she had to fact the root causes. Actually feel it so she could believe it, learn from it and move on. She wanted to experience life. Make mistakes but learn from them. She didn't want to turn out like her mother, she knew she wouldn't but it troubled her.

He hadn't returned her email or called. She thinks he might be moving on, finding someone else, as she couldn't give herself to him at the moment. She needed to nurture herself and believe in herself before she could let anyone close. She liked him; she liked him a lot, but wasn't ready, or was they just too different?

Day 8-9

She arrived home a little pissed. She hadn't done much during the day apart from reading Rudolf Stiener. Work was better, everyone was lovely. She realised she had to change, be the person she was, not conditioned into. It was late, it was 2:30am, she wasn't that tired. She missed him, but she knew they weren't right. She missed University, she needed a poo. She needed to listen to her inner child, and comprehend that the change would be uncomfortable but not forever.

Day 10

It was 20:26 and she was trying to upload a picture onto myspace. The computer had a dial up connection and was operated by small Russian orphans. It was very slow. She had eaten a lot of junk, junk food=love. She knew the lingo, the inner child, NLP why was she resisting? She had therapy tomorrow. Today had been ok, she had cleared out the kitchen, eaten a reasonable amount and umm¦it was bank holiday Monday you aren't supposed to do much. Like most things Holly had forgotten about the book, shed soaked up the initial adrenaline and then as it weaned as did her motivation. Bored. The idea didn't come straight to her; it was too much like hard work. What if people rejected it? What if she tried and it wasn't good enough? She was good enough; she just had to believe it.

Day 11 and 12

She was feeling a little stuffed she had just drunk a large praline and cream milkshake. While she was drinking it, she questioned herself, it would only satisfy her for a short period, not forever, and food wasn't the answer at all. She needed something else to pour her love and devotion into. She'd also looked at all the artists on myspace, they were doing it for the love, the passion, the feeling they received by doing something they loved. What was her passion? She had been so down on herself for a long time, that was it, berating herself and not accepting herself. She was creative and charismatic yet lacked a distinct assertive quality.

She had been for her job interview at an old pub. In was like walking back in time, she loved it. Lots of posh boys, lots of old boys, lots of character. She was working in polar opposites, like Prince William and Prince Nasem. But enjoyed the possibility of working in contradictory places.

Her therapy session had been draining; she was transported back to a scene, to a place that was uncomfortable. Was she making it up, was she creating a situation to blame her self worth on, surely she was her truth. Surely anything she was feeling, suggesting and detailing was her truth. Where did the feeling of being bad and a liar originate from? Why did she have such low self-esteem? Why did she always quit things? Why did she always question everything? Why would she not let anyone close? She had an idea where she wanted to be; yet her beliefs were not in accordance to that. She thought they were, but when the therapist read them back to her, she was disappointed or was she. Was the therapist right? What was happiness? She had to formulate the words and sentences. She just needed to be. Be that. Be. But she continued to search, continued to ponder, continued to continue.
The milkshake made her feel fatigued, as did her cold. She was going to a healing session that evening; she looked forward to it. Treating herself.

The people at the pub were ok, she didn't really agree with their morals, but they all were the same as her, they'd probably done a poo that day.

She just got a twinge in her stomach, a jealous twinge, it passed but it was because people were doing something about there situation and she wasn't. She always wanted to be number one, to find everything on her own, she wanted control. But it wasn't natural. You can't control anyone. You can only change and control yourself.

It seemed all of her friends were progressing with their lives, experiencing and she was in London. She didn't like it. Yet it was also a good time to find out about herself, without people distracting her. Meditation, healing, therapy and her time. She was bloody bored sometimes, maybe she was a people person. She was 23 years old she should be having fun, yet when she had been there with him, with them she wasn't really there. Why was she stopping herself, denying herself, she was frustrated. She was annoyed she couldn't let anyone close, she was annoyed she didn't really know who she was, she was annoyed as she didn't have to know the equation to experience life.

She went to the healing centre, god focused. Holly did not assign herself to a particular dogma, and the mention of god didn't really feel that comforting to her. She was seeking a solution. She was looking for an answer to her depression, a magic formula a spell to dissolve the grief, the indecision and lack of continuity. She had a cold as well. She got home for Big Brother, felt a little low, yet realised that it was all part of the journey.

Day 13

She didn't want to get out of bed, she wasn't overly tired but the bed was so warm, like when she inside her mother's tummy. She got up and went for her jog. Ate an apple, and resigned herself to the sofa. She wasn't overly happy or melancholy, did it matter? Did she have to constantly feel elated?

She ate some lunch, put some washing in and read her Steiner book. She did not know what it was all about, yet she did know that she still couldn't rely on herself, that she needed to incorporate a different belief system. She was still seeking experts rather that experiencing life, she also knew that she missed him. Why did she question all the time instead of doing? Why did she not believe everything she was going through was her truth?

Day 14

She had got the job at the pub! Wahoo. She was still in a lot of debt, she still felt a little uneasy, yet she felt good also. She had had an ok day, not done much, she hated it when she had nothing to do. She ruminated and that always made things seem worse. She had previously always made things difficult for herself, not gone for the simple solutions, she had to be the best, the funniest, the loudest, it wasn't life. What was the best anyway? The best was so open.

She was afraid to have fun, not sure why, did she deserve to? Her Mother was still pissed. She promised her £100 for her therapy, but she hadn't given it to her. She needed that money, for the session on Tuesday. She resented that she was relying on her mother, yet she had offered to pay for it. Her head hurt again, it was a lovely day.

She was going to look in the mirror every morning and tell herself why she loved herself. She wasn't that bad, she had had a tough childhood, but she couldn't blame anyone, she could change if she wanted to. Day by day. There was no solution. Living was the solution. Doing what she wanted to do was the solution. She was lazy, but she had done very well in life. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, she was wonderful.

She was working at 7, she wasn't really looking forward to it. Yet it was money that she needed.

The book now was a figment of her imagination, a fleeting thought, and a brief glimpse into the literacy world. The weather was beautiful, so hot it hurt. The family had put on a bbq on the weekend. Her family member had got back from holiday, with little sleep she was annoyed. Annoyed as the house wasn't clean, annoyed that Holly ha done nothing around the house and just generally annoyed. At first Holly wasn't looking forward to the bbq. A little anxious abour seeing everyone but that soon dissipated and she began to enjoy herself a little. She ate food, read the paper, giggled, had a conversation, played croquet, ate dessert and had fun. Then she had to go to work, it was boring, she was a little tiddly from drinking too much Pimms, but she did make 6:40 in tips and got a lift home.

Why did she think so much? She was still scared and finding excuses not to move on, why wasn't she meditating? Why didn't she love every day, why was she still holding on to the negative past? There was not an answer, there was not a magic wand, and noone was going to make it better for her. She needed to love herself and accept herself and not judge others. It was easier to do this; it was habitual to think in this way. To protect herself, to blame, to not take responsibility, to not acknowledge. Her family member had just arrived home, she was sitting in the garden but then came inside. Why? Who cares? Holly thought he might think she was lazy, not doing anything, but who cares? Holly seemed to care what people thought that she respected and other people she did not respect she was different to. She couldn't get on with everyone though. Her own place would be good; she could do what she wanted to do, would she get lonely?

She had started her new job, everyone was lovely, and the punters were great. Everyone had been there a while; again the new girl, not nice feelings but they would pass. She went back to the lad's house she felt alone, observing again, not part of it. They had there own sayings, idiosyncrasies, education and roles; she was the third in the bed. She also didn't get much sleep, she was tired, and she was contemplating taking Prozac to assist her. She was having therapy, she had a good job, she was working but still she was not letting herself letting herself rid herself of the past, the responsibility she gave to people and the pain.