Where to start ? I have long sought the cause of everything, to no avail. Words trying to spring out of my throat, to no avail. They were undeniably stuck in the depths of my being, tumbling my heart and mind into dark chaos. They ask to flee however and those for far too long. But how can I describe this hidden evil from the beginning of my existence ? This feat seems impossible, this permanent sigh emanating from my being does not illustrate it well enough. I have also developed this dreary ability to hide all my darkness behind a dissonant joy. Who could hear my inner chaos constantly destroying me ? So few people.

I also have this tendency to protect myself constantly, never dropping my guard in front of anyone. My empty gaze alone betrays me sometimes. Alarming look, but that a blue line fatally deceives. My body also often betrays me, and only because of my fault. My distress is painted on him. I materialize it since childhood, by stains colors of azure at the beginning. These marks hidden under dull clothes, all of which still do not know the existence and which haunts me yet. How can I forget the rage of my clenched fists falling on my lonely and frail child's body ? I remember that strange pain, those bruises covering my belly, those spasms of anguish that shook me all over. A sleepless night of anguish and sorrow, against a background of punctual pain.

And then hunger supplanted the azure. What's the point of feeding a specter? The arrival of my eating disorders have sunk my unwell. Yet everything seemed so beautiful to me then. I had found a way to hate myself more, while occupying my sordid mind. Sweet euphoria of a reduced body, ode to protruding bones and a sickly pallor. But this part of my life deserves some of what I hardly dare to describe as my book. Book with no apparent purpose, still in search of meaning. But which I'm writing the first part of that night.

Where to start ? By the presages, I suppose. The presages that we will describe as a childhood. Childhood without innocence however. I share the unfortunate fate of these children who have experienced illness far too soon, those who have seen him settle at the very dawn of their lives and who have never left them since.

I was one of those children whose fathers were part of what are commonly referred to as chronic depressives. I interpret this term as incurable. Describing one's own father as lost in advance can be sad, pessimistic or cruel. But how to refute the irrefutable? I realized early on that my father would not change, and especially that I would not change him. Unfortunately, it is not for lack of trying, and this with all my strength. What have not done, what have I not given for this weakened and dull being that I dare not even call "Dad» ? I grew up to the sound of his cigarettes, the sound of his coffee maker and his medicine. And yet. I' loved it, and I love it now, despite everything.

I have long been convinced that this love was one-way. It seemed obvious to me. I was telling, "My father doesn't love me." I had so much hope to make him proud, to show him this blind love of child. This shiny hope in my eyes was confronted by the immobility and pallor of his. And when I tried to spend a tiny moment near him he rejected me fatally, showing the destructive indifference that I had always known to him. We had some good times, however, those precious moments when we seemed to be just a father and daughter as common sense dictates. I keep so much sweetness from these moments. But the fall was even more severe. I would have liked to put a little sparkle in those eyes washed away by evil, warm those rough and icy hands firmly clutching rancid cigarettes.

I tried to be happy on the surface, hoping to make him happy for a few moments. To no avail. He didn't like me. Then I realized that no one could love me. My simple childish logic has finally assimilated this fact, and I have nurtured this infamous guilt to exist. This is what growing up alongside such a disease, you get beset by guilt. "What if it's my fault?"

I felt like an incurable and undesirable tumour.

So I began to hate myself totally, certain to deserve this fatherly coldness. Yet I was loved, but it seemed absurd in the face of this indifference, boredom and constant rejection. And this man whose shadow I only know, I'm not even able to blame him today. I hated him forfor a while, a few years before, when my heart still had the strength. I see this miniature version of me tearing up the only photo or we seemed happy. I remember, my face bathed in tears, painfully waving these two distinct pieces, waiting for a reaction. To no avail. I was only given the same grin of indifference. Nothing mattered. I had demonstrated the tearing of two existences, meaningless, without even a reaction. So what's the point?

I wish I'd never done such an act. Still years later, my hands tremble as I write these lines, and tears get stuck in my throat. I would have given anything to put those pieces back together. All. And yet they lie in my mind, mixing with the spleen. From then on, our relationship continued to be colder and what little we had to say was suddenly silent. Had I ceased to exist in his eyes? Probably in a way. And even now I line my wall with childhood photos, the only vestiges of a chaotic relationship, and this for the only curious purpose of atone for my fault. How can I not blame yourself for not saving you? And yet I am aware that this task was not mine. How do you do that as a child?

Yet this father never ceased to destroy me with arid words that he would pain me so much to write here. Described as cruel and "without any humanity" I believed his words, religiously. I would be lying if I said I don't believe it anymore. Insults, gestures, words and harsh looks punctuated my childhood, leaving a bitter aftertaste in the depths of my being.

Do you feel this long descent into hell coming? I didn't feel it either. Rub shoulders with the abyss every day, I looked elsewhere for a little light, as if to avoid the fatal and inevitable sinking.

And yet the outside world seemed even more austere to me. I was one of those children unable to integrate, prostrate tirelessly in a sickly fear of rejection. So I isolated myself, keeping in my mouth this bitter feeling of being too much. The words sounded wrong, it seemed to me that I could not meddle in this outer life, that I was a dissonant element in the face of this atmosphere far too lively. I stopped speaking, weighing every tiny syllable, hesitating with every movement, diverting every look. I observed this ambient life, analyzing each of its aspects, in silence. I spent such a long time not to mention that the sound of my own voice seemed foreign to me. I've watched others evolve, weave bonds. In silence. Persuaded to be a added piece, invisible, yet far too visible. I grew up with foot eighth, vile child tauts and mocking glances. And. and I kept quiet more. It takes time to realize his harassment. I realized mine so recently. It might seem unthinkable that these cruel and innocent acts of child are not justified. I thought I deserved this permanent rejection, this feeling of embarrassment. And yet he was not. I understand it now, without feeling any grudges. I thought I was the problem, and I doubly hated myself for it. I was the cause of everything and nothing at once. How can hatred be preferred to indifference? The two seemed to associate divinely, and from this association I kept only this perpetual fear of rejection. How do you find a place in a world that doesn't seem to want you?

I had this ball in my stomach on the way to school and on my way home. I was in a kind of perpetual apnea, clinging to the few things that seemed welcoming to me.

That's where my passion for books came. This adoration of beautiful phrases, from the resonant words to the depths of the soul. I dived into the books to hope to get out of the real world. I shared my sadness and my sorrows with beautiful words. I understood the character of Emma Bovarie, six years too early. Tears, and sometimes even blood, permeated the pages. I hid my blades in collections illustrating the spleen, and my sadness on some of Camus's pages. I liked some books more than some humans, and I used them as a bulwark against them. And yet it was no longer enough. My being became more and more impervious to words, to every literary sigh, to everything. My sick brain is no longer even able to concentrate on these lines, which have become wobbling before my dull eyes. And I can't even stand it.

With this passion for books came that of art. I understood that this vague thing that is drawing made me a little more bear the existence. So I filled sheets, notebooks and even canvases with uncertain scribbles. I have represented women's bodies, some of my attraction to them. I left a little of my mind wobbling, and even my daily life on these innocuous leaves. I drew my loved ones, my darkest words, my most beautiful joys. And I like to see those moments of my life locked in simple notebooks. Art has saved me for a long time. It always seemed to me to be the only thing to cling to, and those with all my strength. And yet art seems to be running away from me now. How can I rediscover the joy of drawing or painting? Everything seems bland, and my hands tremble in front of a white sheet. And part of me fears the only thing I can get a little recognition from. This fear of being only once again an abject and useless being. Knowing that one will never prevent the other.

It seems crazy to cling to something as uncertain as art, but what else clings firmly to such inner chaos? People are too uncertain to hold on to it sincerely, I understood it very quickly.

I have never been good at human relations. I have this unfortunate tendency to get attached too quickly. Or too little. I rarely open myself to people. I stay on the surface, never really show myself. I tend to hide my true being behind derisory facades. As if revealing myself fully was a far too dangerous undertaking. I hide my words behind silences. Behind slow gestures. Behind corner glances. I constantly analyze people. I analyze until I can reveal myself without fear. But I'm not that selective. But I am still waiting for that moment when my internal barriers can be destroyed with total confidence. Delicate company. I look at the world without really being a part of it. I would have liked to be transparent with anyone. But I have learned far too much that humans remain fickle. Let it remain a dark part in him. And yet it is this dark part that attracts me singularly.

Broken beings are undeniably understood. Their pale sighs echo in one echo. Stretching one's soul towards a self-like being remains the guarantee of being fully understood. One look is enough to understand the pale pain that inhabits us. And sometimes a smile on the corner emerges as if to say "I understood you". I understand your flaws, your scars. I understand your empty eyes. Your long sighs. All these things are running away into you. Everything you don't say. I understood every piece of your soul. And I embrace this part as if I could fix it that way. But I'm still fearful. I have known so many people who have never been able to read between the lines. Who never knew that my pale smiles were just dark facades. That my eyes awakened by a blue line hid the void. Who never knew how to hear my sobs in the night. I would have liked them to understand all these people. I would have liked them to lift these interior screens. Let them put a smile on my face. Let them learn to decipher my language, my gestures, my looks. Let them know that my "it's okay" are actually "I'm drowning". But I don't blame them. Some beings have not suffered enough to read between the facades. They are lucky it is undeniable. But something keeps them away from beings like mine. I tend to leave a distance with people. Often prefer indifference. Indifference is far more violent than hatred. Indifference protects me. But sometimes I abandon indifference. I let myself be carried by someone else's hand. Through his eyes. By his voice. I put my heart in the palm of his hand. I'm exposing my bleak being. My most frail thoughts. But the happy fear the beings torn by the spleen. And often they run away. And they take away a part of my heart by the way. They give me back a trembling remnant of my heart. A rugged heart. Something broken.

I loved it some times. But I kept this love in a corner, without revealing it many times. I've grasped so many hands. Felt so heart-heartedly fighting against mine. Feel so much breath in the hollow of my neck, my kidneys. But my heart didn't thro mean. I enjoyed these people without ever loving them, without ever feeling their eyes pierce me. Without ever feeling my being ignite. A few haggard embers were deposited deep inside me. But they often didn't manage to burn me completely. I would have liked to let my body burn up under the incestuous fires of love. But there was this distance between us. This impassable distance. I preferred to drown on my own. I was afraid that they would watch me sink in the distance. I was so afraid to drag others to the bottom of the water. To keep them away from shore. I've always preferred to drift alone.

I have protected myself so much from people that I have developed this habit of derisory, superficial relationships. No real attachment. Just two beings rubbing shoulders. But without ever mixing fully. I mixed my aura with another one a few times. And everything was so sweet then. I had let my heart burn without fear. I could feel my eyes filling with sparks. My whole body shudders in the depths of his. And part of me was stolen. People are leaving. They all end up leaving. I'm the first one. But this time my being was so consumed. I had to put out that fire on my own. I had this screaming heart, deprived of the being that made it burning. Something went out in me. I kept our only picture around the corner from my wall. Others followed him in my sheets. On my wall. But I was never able to remove this photo. I easily landed the polaroids of other souls. But I could never bring myself to forget his gaze. And I have seen this ultimate photo so many times, in the arms of another. My heart demanded his, even though another beat in the depths of mine. I could see her in every look, in every street corner, behind every crossroads. I had so much room in me for our memories. For our laughs. For our songs. For our eyes full of sparks. I wish I could sing that song again, with her. And since then I've been so afraid that others will leave. So afraid to turn myself in without fear.

I have this irrational fear of abandonment. Rejection. Indifference. I'm afraid everyone will wake up one day and exclaim"she's worthless, I don't even miss her.' It's that fear that haunts every night I sleep. Looking at it. Since then I've been careful not to get attached. I have not been able to do that all the time. Some beings mark you in an indelible way. They keep a part of you, and this without pain. Some people left with a little bit of me in the palms of their hand. But I don't blame them. They left me with a smile on my face. With some kind of silent pact. A promise to cherish this tiny part of me, as I will cherish the one they have left in me. Some people mark you. And they left a little of their smiles in my soul.