And now it is my turn, I suppose. I know that I had something in my mind that I was going to write, some sensible things, some reasoning, which I have used in getting me in this situation in the first place, but it all seems to be gone. It does not make sense anymore, not in the way it did. The change has begun and I have already let her engage with my life and mind, and - in consequence - it is far more difficult for me to try to collect the thoughts that I had before. So do not expect me to have any exquisite conclusions and detailed lists of excuses for any actions I have (or have not) made, because I just cannot remember these things anymore, now that she's around (which might actually be a positive thing, considering everything).

It had been a while, really. It had been some time from the last time we were together, and the time changed me, along with everything else. And where did it get me? Was I happy without her?

Well. I could not hold my head up high. I could not be sure of anything. I felt that I was forced to be neutral, grey, calm, silent, away from everyone and without opinions, or I would go and f*ck things up just like I always do (or do I, really? This is something I need to get back to, when the time is right). Anyway, that is what I felt. I felt that I could not do anything. Anything at all! I barely managed to live through days.I was very restricted when I spoke to people, the few times I did, and even then I had a certain role I seemed to play. I often looked like someone living on the streets, because I was not able to see myself from others' viewpoint, let alone do anything about it, whereas the next day it would crush me to acknowledge all the burning eyes on me, when staying at home felt like the safest option...

Oh, wait! Now several events and times are getting mixed in my head. On one hand I am talking about all the times in my life when she has been away, and on the other I am thinking about this last time, this last spring and summer and autumn, which, in a way, differ greatly from all the previous times and which I will write more about in some other occasion. All in all, also this time I eventually ended up in a situation similar to all the rest, so maybe I should try to focus on the more general problems I have had. Hmh.

Now, why do I get so scared, restricted and undecided in general?

Well, at least I am really afraid of being wrong. Whenever she is around, I get so easily excited about all kinds of things. And when I am in the mood, I want to spread the word and really take the new thing as a part of my personality. I start to see myself first and foremost as a fat-eater, a goth, a pro-ana, a lucid dreamer, a messenger of a certain political or ethical view, an artist, a bisexual. Just about anything. After some time I realise that I have gone too far, that I have thrown myself into something that I will later regret. The politics change and the view I thought was right becomes the most loathed one. My art is poor and embarrassing and it kills me to understand that other people can look at it and think that this is as far as I can get with my poor creativity. I cannot look weird or have weird hobbies because of what I am in a professional sense. A piercer or an artist can be just about anything, but the space for me is really narrow and the choices few. I even should not have anything too interesting in my history. And therefore it sickens me, that the Internet is full of all kinds of things I have written as a young girl having a strong illusion, that in the Net you will remain anonymous no matter what you did.

The another thing actually relates to my past. As a girl, living at my childhood home with my parents and my two sisters, I learned that I was usually wrong. My mum and especially my older sister made fun of me all the time. They laughed at my hobbies, my interests, the way I dressed, the music I listened. I quickly started to do everything in secrecy, but it just made it worse, since then they might go through my secret drawers and see my secret writings and drawings. According to them, being creative in any way was childish and stupid. And me, the poor girl who drew her heart out and wrote her dreams and passions in the secret notebooks, was slowly crushed. Fine, I thought. If they hate to see me meditating or reading books, maybe they leave me alone if I act like a normal teenager and, for instance, get drunk on Friday nights. And I did. And they did.

As a result from these, I have again been really reluctant of doing anything. I have a strong need for things, but I cannot do them. I long to be creative and I long to look like something instead of this nothing that I look like at the moment. But I have no courage to throw myself into anything, not even now, when I have been shrinking so bad that I barely exist. It really has been a while now, and this is getting worse by the minute. I really cannot continue like this. And that is why I started writing Syndromeia.