I wish I had written regular diary entries over the past year, so that I could document what happened, in what order, how it made me feel and why, but my laziness has led to forgetfulness. All I have are scattered memories and other people's photos - nights out and pretty dresses and me on wonderful beaches, on horseback, with friends. Me with men who I let fuck me; men who fucked me over.
I remember the gym, the hours of cardio, the obsessive competitiveness I tried to hide. The gym instructor who said, half-joking, not to overdo it; that he didn't want to have to carry me home
I remember the road trips and the street racing, the laundrette and the cinema, the way people stared
I remember whiskey and cocktails and dancing on the roof
I remember the few lectures I attended, the ridiculous hour-long bus journey to the university
I remember the glorious heat and smoking weed through a lime
I remember the need to cut, but not the reasons why
I remember eating, almost normally
I do not remember how I felt or what I thought.