I am… lots of things…
I don't know where to start.
I am a disgrace. I've been told that often enough. My parents never approved of my interest… fuck it, obsession with flying. Sure, they humoured me when I was little, of course; but then they were just ashamed. And so they should be.
I am depressed. I feel the void, the black hole pulling me in and separating me from most of my emotions. But I can still cry. I hold onto that like a life-raft as it shows I am not as bad as I was and I don't need to go back on the bloody pills! They'll take my license, Arthur! I'll be fine. Just… I need time. I don't need to be grounded. I don't want to be.
I am a self-harmer. I cut. I slice into my arm so I can feel anything other than the heavy sadness and fear. Pain is euphoric. Pain is relief. It's a bad thought, one that shows just how fucked up I am. I don't want it to go while I still feel like this. Arthur knows. He'll tell Carolyn and Douglas. That's probably why I let him clean me up, so he would tell the others so I don't have to. I cry too often as it is.
I am an awful pilot. The thing I've spent years learning to do and spent thousands of pounds on… And I'm terrible at it. I hate myself. Why do I always fuck up and make the wrong choices. I don't know.
I am starving. The only thing I eat now-a-days are the catered meals on flights. Maybe a slice of cheese or two if Douglas hasn't won it all. I am slowly wasting away. It's been harder during van jobs recently. My uniform has gotten looser; if anyone's noticed, they haven't said anything.
I am a dreamer. Head in the clouds either literally or figuratively. I don't know if it's good or bad anymore. I'm quickly losing interest in most things – except flying. I still love that, even if anyone with half a brain cell would quit. I have my dreams still – so I can't be that bad, can I? My dreams sustain me more than nourishment, I can continue. I will continue. If I just close my eyes… Everything will be better once I wake up…
