The Writers' Circle

Darla

	Being at Wimbledon was like a fortnight of therapy. The most tennis orientated place on earth was perfect for me, allowing the teenager in me to come to the fore. A teenager whose dreams knew no bounds and the sheer thrill of playing the game was such a high. Within a day of being back home it was clear that the Wimbledon trip was like a sugar hit, felt great while it lasted, but when it wore off I was in a worse state than before. Wimbledon was tennis heaven and I was so far away from my personal heaven that I must be in hell. I started to wonder if I'd have been better off being one of these morons who never had a dream.
	The first night back in LA the spirit bottle was opened and the chat rooms entered. I'm sure no addictions can be easily explained, but my one to internet chatting is nowhere near my own comprehension. I don't even enjoy it on any level that much, I'm chatting to losers who are completely uninteresting people. Even when the chats turn into cyber sex, then the gratification is not as good as when I merely pleasure myself in the more traditional way. Yet I can stay up for hours into early morning, then as soon as I wake up later that morning, the first thing I find myself doing is logging on again. I've spent so much time doing this that it frightens me to think how many books I could have read in that time, how many foreign languages I could now be fluent in or how many musical instruments I could be able to play. A recurring pattern has developed, first I start off reasonably light hearted with the chats and the choice of character I play. Then as the days go by it takes up more and more of each day, the chats becoming more degrading and the characters more extreme. Sooner or later I hit a point where I feel I've gone too far and that I should get a grip and stop. At that point my shame and embarrassment is at it's worst, and usually I managed to have at least a few days away from it all, sometimes even a couple of weeks or so. Then the urges gradually return and I spend a day or so convincing myself that it really isn't a big deal and nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed by, I don't need much convincing and the pattern has gone full circle. I wonder if it's some sort of manifestation of loneliness I might be feeling, yet there are enough people I can talk on the phone to or hang out with for me not to feel lonely. Instead I pretend to be somebody else and talk to strangers.
	As much as anything else the internet addiction is bad for me as an athlete because of all the late nights. I'm equally aware that the quantities of alcohol that I'm consuming are totally unprofessional. Again I can't seem to control myself, I should just make sure there is no alcohol in the house. Although whenever I try that I end up either going out to a bar and drinking way too much or going to a shop and buying as many bottles as I can carry. It all comes back to my dream. Happiness and depression are two sides of the same coin, the coin being my dream, and there's no way it can land on its side.
	Depression has crept up on me like a dark cloud, blocking out the sunlight in my life a tiny bit at a time. I realised how depressed I was when one day I found myself in the kitchen, holding a knife and it seemed totally natural to be cutting myself. I knew I wasn't insane because I was thoughtful enough to cut places that other people were unlikely to see. The very top of my thigh was the first place, the pain almost felt soothing. When I realised that my sweatbands would cover up any marks on my wrist I gently cut into the skin there. I honestly don't think I'm trying to kill myself, it's as if I'm trying desperately to hit rock bottom so that I can start my way back up. On the second night that I have a knife in my hands I stare at my knee, for a moment I'm trembling and thoughts of slashing through the body part that has destroyed my life, are prominent in my mind. The trembling increases and I start to sweat, eventually I throw the knife across the kitchen, grab a bottle of Whiskey and head for my computer.