fresher's week revisited

This time last year I disappeared altogether. Here's what actually happened.

I arrived at Royal Holloway on the 24th of September 2004 and found that I was the first person to arrive in my flat. Having mistakenly believed that I was in fact living in the flat upstairs I was quite relieved not to have anyone to share this humiliation with (I tried breaking into the room above me, how do you think I felt?)

Then Reena arrived, then Adam, Kate. Days later, Endrit. Then Jay, the Korean girl who didn't seem to like us that much.

Adam, being the only guy initially, became our unofficial bodyguard. He happened to be out of the flat when we found the spiders, then later told us that they might nest in the hoover and come to get us. I didn't sleep well.

The next day we went shopping in Egham and I got the monthly fun known as stomach cramps. Went home, went to bed.

Monday I went to a drama induction meeting. A blonde girl came over and spoke to me, her name was interesting, Jewish. I forgot it later that day when, feeling queasy, I went home to nap and woke up with an incredible need to vomit.

And vomit I did. And again. And then some.

The first three days I remember in crystal detail, from what time I napped to when I woke up, the exact time I first vomited, everything I ate that day, at what time and who with and the order in which it came back up.

The cheese and pickle muffin that I called Adam to ask if I could eat. He said I could, they were out of date anyway.

The lasagne and coke from Founder's dining hall, lunch with Naomi, Matt and Fflur, telling the rudest jokes we could remember.

The strawberry wholegrain yoghurt and shredded wheat.

The Ribena.

The next few days go blurry. I remember calling my parents and begging them to come and get me. Calling everyone I knew just to chat, to hear a friendly voice. I remember curling up in my bed and weeping uncontrollably, wanting to be held like a kid.

Thursday I finally left the flat, went to the Fresher's fayre, lost my debit card.

It was the worst week.

The next week I approached the blonde girl and told her what a shit time I was having. She agreed that, oh my god, uni is brass, and we went to get pissed on vodka and fruit juice. Things started looking up.

My flatmates and I baked a cake wearing dresses and high heels.

I started to have fun. I started to have a lot of fun.

I've watched so many mates go off to uni in the last couple of weeks and when I think about it, how amazing and awful and long and short and exhausting and exhilirating the whole Fresher's experience was, all I can think of to say is - brace yourself.

You're never gonna be the same again. Brace yourself.

Things that have been said:

Him to me - Dave reckons we're just exactly the same person. You're fucking lovely. You're always tired, you're always angry... it reminds me of people in prison, how they start to sleep so much just to try and make the time go faster, that's how you live your life. You're pushing me away. When I die I want them to fill me with porridge and make me into a posable action figure. I never, ever want to read what you write on your blog.

Me to him - You don't let me get away with anything, do you? You don't trust me, do you? You remind me of that Alanis Morrisette song, you treat me like I'm a princess / I'm not used to liking that. I can't write anymore. I feel I've been running the whole summer from this stuff and I haven't stopped to deal with it yet and that scares me. You're so pretty, though.

You know you shouldn't try to save me, right?

Things that have changed:

I smoke more, drink more, swear about as much, take more medication, cry less, write less, wander around on my own less, like myself a bit better. I'm older and probably wiser, but what I know now is that a lot can happen in a year. An awful fucking lot.

Things that have been lost:

Big and little things, like faith and weight, dignity and children.

Things that I will cling to, to get through this, to stay sane:

Irn Bru, frozen Frubes, my student comfort food, bacon and brie sandwiches from Mario's Lunchbox.

The pub, a pint, a cigarette, some conversation.

The club, the noise, the heat, the people.

The boy, the hugs, the spark, the cups of tea.

The books.

The walking around.

The sleeping; the simple things.

be my everything

There's a disclaimer because there has to be - I don't want to piss off or insult anyone. If I do, in this or anytthing else I am so sorry. But I've always been honest about faith on here before and I'm not stopping now.

Last week a lady came into the shop and we chatted. She told me about her nephew, two years old, and how he died out the back of A&E while they waited to be let in, with his mum pushing the bed and his dad holding his drip in the air. She tells me how they're all going to wear Bob the Builder t-shirts to his funeral.

A man chips in. 2 years old, he says, that's ok, he'll only be in purgatory.

What?

He wasn't christened, was he? So if he's under the age of 7 he'll only go to purgatory, not hell, so you don't have to worry too much.

There is a kind of Christian that stands in the face of complete tragedy and tries to make a fucking point. They are the reason that I can't do this anymore.

*****

7 days after my birthday, something happens at a party. The next night I'm at the Ag, and one of my best friends puts his arms around me. I lose it, utterly, I don't want anyone near me or touching me, all these bodies and people, all this touching in this tiny space, it makes me frightened.

I feel sick, and guilty, and dirty. And familiar.

Familiar? How can I already know this feeling? If last night was the first time I've ever done something like that then how on earth can this be deja-vu?

Then I remember. Being sixteen and the absolute shame I felt for sleeping with someone I was in love with. Tell me, someone, why I ever let myself feel that way? Thanks to the guilt, the shame, the self-loathing, I ruined something beautiful because someone told me God didn't like it and

I never asked why.

Now, I've done something I actually do think is slutty and I realise just how bad I let myself feel before, how I convinced myself that it was somehow faithful to feel this way over nothing. Nothing. I did nothing wrong. Except lie.

*****

So, apparently, this is some kind of death warrant. My rejection of this, my saying 'no' to this is what will damn me. I wear the hoodie I stole from Catherine to work, the one with 'saved' written on the back and Joan asks me - saved from what?

From what indeed. If I play good, if I keep my legs shut and my mouth shut and force myself to believe that an all-loving God is prepared to die to save our souls but won't give us enough of a heads up to save us from hell, if I think this and breathe this and throw myself against the brick wall and ask to be healed until I'm too weak to wonder why I'm still sick - if I do this, I'll be blessed.

If I walk away, and start thinking. If I find the balls to say actually I feel that sex has been demonised, and there isn't anything wrong with being gay and words are just words and that people who tell other people that they'll burn are the worst kind of people.

If I stop lying, in short, I'll be damned. But I won't be a hypocrite anymore. From that at least I'll be saved.