Turns out, he was fucking someone else. A few other someones. I broke. I lost it. We're still friends, but I keep my distance, and he keeps his. I understand now how he effects me, and I refuse to bend to that stupidity.

So now I am fucking who I please, and feel more like a whore than anything else.

And I can't stop eating. I really can't.

Depression's back. I feel more and more suicidal and I can't talk to anyone about this because I refuse to bring them down with me.

crazy girl

I can't afford my phone bill, so now I depend completely on WiFi to communicate via Facebook. I can't afford rent right now, and it's due the first of the month. I'm seriously screwed.

But at least I can't afford to eat, either. As long as I can afford a tall boy after work, and since it seems I'm re-developing a smoking habit, that's another necessity.

See how fucked I am?





Not to mention how fucked up my brain is. I've never been one to get violently jealous, especially over a boy. But this boy has got me fucked up. I see red, and I want to smash everything near me. I can't stop thinking that he's fucking someone else, and my brain creates these scenes that I don't want or need to think about. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up. And I don't know how to fix it.

I don't know how to fix myself.

The issue of Mass and Volume

I keep thinking of things to tell you about, if there's even a reader out there.

The last time I weighed myself was about a week ago, and I came in at 153 pounds. I've bounced back and forth between 140 and 160 for about two years now. The lowest I've ever gotten down to is 130. I think, maybe, I hit the 120s, but I honestly can't remember. It's probably a good thing, too. Honestly, the back and forth in my mind is proposterous. I know how horrible it is to purge my food, or to starve myself. I've been cutting back on my consumption, this past week, moreso because I cannot afford to eat than anything.

Also, depression plays a part. The self-hate, the disgust, the horror of the fat blimp I've become. I don't eat healthy, and now I can't really afford fresh vegetables. I crave carbohydrates and fat like some starving, rabid freak.

Somehow I still get hit on. I still have sex. My brain is fucked up. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and see the blimp. Others, I see a soft, womanly figure. It isn't a bad thing. The emaciated look isn't really my style, not to mention probably impossible for me to accommodate or accomplish. Emaciated, weak, sick is not something I want to be.

But then I remember what it felt like to feel my hip bones protruding, and the faint knock of my ribs. I remember how I looked, and though I don't have many pictures, it hurts to look back and remember that I was that close to my ultimate goal.

What was my goal? Fuck, double digits. FUCK double digits, I mean. Ninety-eight pounds. I'm 5'4", that'd be a suitable match. But it isn't sane, it isn't healthy on any level, and I'm too old now to fall for the double zero fan club.

But I want bones, I want to be thin. I want to not be embarrassed when someone picks me up, to not apologize for my stretch marks and fat rolls. I want to not look like this, to not stretch my shirts out when I forget to suck in. I want to be able to fit into my jeans, to look good in dresses. I want to feel confident, to know I'm smoking hot and to know that anyone who doesn't want me is a goddamn idiot.

I can't plan these things out, though. I can't just sit down, write out what I'm going to eat for the day or week, and then follow that plan. I'm rebellious, and I'm stubborn, and it's maddening. I'll rebel against my own agenda, simply because I said, at an earlier hour, that I was going to do that, exactly this way. It may not make much sense, but it's the truth.

So I have to go about it another way. I have to be spontaneous with it. When I start to feel hungry, I have to just drink some water, or tell myself now. Remind myself what delayed gratification is. It will work out, it will. I just have to try it, and try it a way that I won't obliterate with my stubbornness.

It can happen. It will. It is. Now, to stop talking about it, and to be it.

“Violence does not always take visible form, and not all wounds gush blood.”

—	Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”

—	Friedrich Nietzsche

Denial. (rant)

So I lied. I've been falling in love with T for awhile now, but I've been in denial about the fact that he is just using and manipulating me. I know it, I've been seeing it, but it's easier on my heart to pretend otherwise. It hurts, deep inside. My chest and my heart aches, my throat closes up and I choke on recurring tears that won't let me go a day without crying like a pathetic little kid. He's only using me for whatever end. I crave him. His touch, his even breathing behind me while I sleep. Half the time I want to kiss him, the other half I want to hit him, over and over, until he hurts like he's hurt me. I haven't hurt like this in years. It reminds me of why I've held back from letting anyone in for so long.

I'm a fucking idiot.

I'm a fool, and I don't know how to confront him about it. I don't know how to say how I feel without breaking down. Should I just let him see me cry? Let him see how badly he's wounded me? Tell him that I wasn't truthful, when I acted like I was okay with him going off and fucking another girl? When I said I was alright with the fact that he "had no sex drive"? Oh really? Really? Then why are you going off and kissing her, touching her, spending the night in her bed? You want crazy, you piece of shit? I'll show you fucking crazy.

YOU make me crazy. You fuck. You have made me hate myself, but I let you take such control, didn't I? Didn't I... And even now, it hurts that you don't reach out and touch me. I can't hug you back, when you come up behind me. You were so sweet when you got off work, today. But that part of my heart you've claimed, that part has been blackened and turned to stone. It has to be stone, because I cannot take anymore of this. I cannot handle this. You.

You did make me happy, you do. But when you spit these cruel words at me, it destroys me. You know exactly what to say and do to injure me the most. I haven't been in a relationship, any relationship, like this, in so long, where I was being emotionally and spiritually wounded and abused. I am the one who tells my friends when they're in this situation, that they deserve better, they should leave people like you. I'm not the one that is tortured like this. I'm on the outside, looking in. And now, I can barely take my own advice. I would rather ache for your touch, and live off those few moments of you smiling at me, and holding me, and telling me I'm beautiful to you.

Instead, I have to end it. Because I am not strong enough to survive much more of this bullshit. I wish I could change your mind, I wish you were attracted to me, still, after you've had me. I wish you wanted me, and fuck you for not. I am half possessed by the need to just grab you and force you to love me, but that won't work, and that would make me as bad as you, as awful and cruel.

And don't doubt, I realize that the "fuck you"s and the "shut up"s, they're mostly just bullshit. I shouldn't take it so to heart. But when you say these things, and then your face eases and you smile at me, I cannot help how it breaks me. And you dare to say you love me.

Why would you turn towards me as soon as she's left and lay your head on my shoulder, and tell me you love me? How could you possibly mean anything you say when you are that manipulative?

You know she's possessive and jealous, don't you? You must. You love your girls bat shit crazy, like that. What have you done to your exes to make them so much moreso? I don't care to know.

Months to do with nothing.

I haven't been here since May.

I've taken a lover or a few since then. This is great, for me, as I was in a dry spell, and with my sex drive, that's just fucked.
 About them... One of them lives with me, T. He's a mess; a crazy, uncircumcised mess, my male counterpart in many ways. We're so alike, it's scary. We've both said so. Really, he isn't a lover, not anymore. We love each other, but sex is no longer on the table. It's more a platonic, frustrating love. He has zero sex drive, and I'm a sex fiend. My roommates and friends don't care for how he speaks to me, and neither do I, if I'm being honest. I've never talked to anyone that I can recall the way I talk to him. We talk about these things, sometimes. He admits, he's a dick, and he says this and that about changing and getting a job. In fact, today, he did get a job. So I should maybe talk about him better. He isn't always mean or rude or disrespectful. He often has this great smile on his face, and he gives me hugs out of nowhere. He feels vibrations and can sometimes read my mind. He's a talented musician. He gives the best hugs, and I love the way he smells and feels against me, and he holds me perfectly when we sleep at night. He loves to eat pussy, and he's the best I've had at it. I feel safe when I'm around him, though I don't feel like he's safe. Not that he's violent, though sometimes his flashes of rage put me on edge. I just know that I feel more for him than I should. I refuse to say I'm IN love with him, because that's another monster entirely, but it could be something like, being comfortable with someone. I don't want to upset the balance we've got, even if it's not real.
           Another is B. Fuck, I should never have fucked B. He has so many fucked things going on in his life right now. He has a daughter with a woman who hates him, and he is so madly in love with her, it hurts to see them when they are together. He's an alcoholic, and this is destroying his life. He is a beautiful man, and I fucked him one night in a school bus out of lust, a little bit of pity, and abandon of reason. Our relationship was always awkward and mostly slanted smiles and darting eyes before. I haven't talked to him since.
          Then there's M. Sweet Mary, I was the last to know, he's had a crush on me for nearly a year. He was another awkward one. Awkward silences, stumbling over each other's sentences, or struggling to create them at all. I'd always had this physical attraction to him. He reminds me of Aslan, from Narnia, or a wizard. He's solid, a door, one you cannot access until he allows it. One drunken night a few weeks ago, he kissed me in his kitchen, and I fell into his bed. Only in the last few days has this affair slowed, once my own alcoholism interfered, I think.
          Yes, I am definitely an alcoholic, once more. Maybe I never stopped. It seems, once the onslaught of illicit substances tapered off, the drinking intensified. Or maybe the drugs were merely the distraction, the balancing out to how fucked up I really was.

          But you have to have money to feed your addictions, kids, and I am fucking broke. It's a lot easier than it may sound to blow a hundred thousand dollars in a matter of two or three years. Especially when you're a drug fiend, addict, and you surround yourself with people of the same like. It doesn't help when you loan them money, and oh, surprise! They never pay you back. It doesn't help when you go through car after car, hotel room after hotel room, ball after ball. You finally decide to "get your life together", get a place to rent, and oh, surprise! You're roommates are shitty drug fiends, too, and they bail. You leave town, go someplace else, not new, it's an old familiar town. But it works. You get another place, new roommates. You don't bother getting a job, though, because you're fucking "rich", you have everything you need to survive for five or ten years. Oh BULLSHIT. You could have invested in the stock market, bought a house, bought a boat, gone to college, gotten a degree, started a business, gotten in shape, lost weight, gotten your fucking life together.
         Except you didn't.

Now look where you are. Alone, lonely, still fat, still insecure, sinking back into that familiar, loathesome pit of depression and daily anxiety attacks. Finally got a job at a restaurant, though you're going to need another one, soon. Still have a roof over your head, but your social skills and interpersonal relations with the people you care about the most are failing you. You've had your head up your ass for years. Welcome back to reality. Too bad you can't be honest with your parents. Too bad you're the same sad little girl you were five, ten years ago. You still throw up, if it "feels like the right thing to do", you still drown your thoughts and feelings with alcohol, bury it all in powders and pills. You may have changed, girl, but for fuck's sake, HOW?

No control

I will not cry in the coffee shop. I will not cry in the coffee shop.

I'll be house sitting for my parents for the next week or so. They're going to New Orleans, which will be great for them. I was just there a little over a month or two ago, and though I'm jealous and want to go back with them, I am more than happy to have their big, beautiful house to myself, so I can play records all night long, drink wine, be merry, and get my fill of the country, at least momentarily.



I weigh 145 lbs, which is a lot less than I had imagined, considering how my eating habits have deteriorated. Until recently, actually. Lately, I've been focusing on preparing and creating colorful, healthy meals, instead of caving to the fried mirage of fast food drive-thrus. I've been taking my time and buying vegetables, at least, and focusing as much of my attention on the actual creation, rather than the automatic consumption.

It makes me feel a bit better, and I think it's enforcing better habits, in the long run.

Overall, I'm still not happy, but when was I ever? Even when I was at my lowest, I was only really focusing my thoughts on the skin I could pinch between my thumb and forefinger. I only had one mantra that really stood out, "fat, fat, fat, fat, don't eat, don't eat, starve, starve, purge, purge..."

It's insane, this back and forth that is occurring.

Yet, I still have so little control. It's okay, though. I'm working on it. I'm actually trying. And doing.

That counts for something.