... This is what I want. Perhaps not to be emaciated, but to be thin. Thinner. Toned. Fit. Lean. Gorgeous. Comfortable in my skin.
Yes... comfortable in my skin.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Then I'm reminded...
... This is what I want. Perhaps not to be emaciated, but to be thin. Thinner. Toned. Fit. Lean. Gorgeous. Comfortable in my skin.
Yes... comfortable in my skin.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
To Clarify...
"Aquarius Horoscope (Jan. 21-Feb. 18): You will soon begin to cultivate
new friends and feel a sense of community. Not now, but later. A
redirection is occurring within and your sense of unease is telling you
change is coming. Don't maintain the regular ways of being if they are
too difficult. Bodywork is needed Monthly. Should someone oppose you,
tell the truth in neutral tones. Step back." - http://www.januaryhoroscopes.com/september-horoscope.html
Just so you know what my horoscope is... Heh.
Earlier I was talking about feeling partially recovered, that things have changed, my body view, much as my world view, has altered. My perception has altered. My habits and actions have changed, some for the better, some not so much.
I want you to understand that food has always been my best friend and my arch nemesis. It has always been there, when I was alone, when I was surrounded by people, when I felt abandoned, hopeless, alone, even happy or ecstatic. Food has always held the 'answers', even if they were all lies. Food was what brought my family together. My father and I would have competitions to see who could down their Sunday pancakes down the fastest. He and I both consumed like it was the only thing keeping us alive. I watched him, when I was young, go on the Atkins diet, and it worked. He lost weight. Then, he returned to his old eating habits. He went back to Atkins, and that time he had health problems relating to it. I was a little afraid of diets, but they also appealed to me. Diet pills, too, piqued my interest. The magic of it - eat this, not that, and you will be thin/beautiful/smart/popular/stylish/amazing... The list went on. Food was this great thing to me. I was addicted to sugar (still am, if we're being honest...), became a pro at eating astronomical amounts of "food", aka: crap. Early on, I was stashing food in my room, in my pockets, in my locker at school. I would sneak cookies into classes when we weren't allowed food or drink. My pockets were constantly filled with crumbs. I ate all the time, because I was hungry, starved for something I couldn't put my finger on and just assumed was my insurmountable appetite.
I took dance classes, went to competitions, won awards and honors, for fifteen years. I was usually the biggest girl in my class, or one of the biggest, but I never really 'noticed' or understood this was unusual. I was told every now and then to watch what I ate, but it was never pushed on me to be thin, that it was a necessity for a professional dancer. I was just pudgy, had baby fat. I didn't know the difference. I was happy at dance, and I was happy, I thought, when I was eating. I saw the other girls, how thin they were, and I thought they were just naturally that way. It didn't click for me until I got into my teens that there was something else going on.
No one ever directly said anything to me about my weight, when I was dancing. It's merely been my own memories and perceptions that has painted the picture of how ridiculous I must have looked, lumbering around in my tutu, on pointe, when I was obviously not the fawned, obsessive figure of someone 'in control'.
After all, I had other problems. I was annihilating my arms, shredding them with my nails, on a daily basis, from age twelve on. I didn't have a clue this wasn't really normal behavior until I hit high school and took drastic measures, by hiding under sweatshirts and hoodies in ninety degree weather, to hide the shame of my lack of self-control and how obviously fucked up I was. So began my sick little obsession with self-destructive behaviors. It was so innocent, those early years. I was just curious. Why was everyone else so thin, so pretty, what the hell was anorexia anyway?
I remember once thinking I'd never force myself to throw up, because it was simply wrong to force your body to reject something that was supposed to be good for it. I remember thinking I'd never try to starve myself, even if I did think those people who did were holy, pure, and obviously enlightened. My thoughts were always skewed on the subjects that eventually became my living hell, but I didn't see the relationship.
Then something began to grow within me, this little voice, it had been there for years, but now it turned on my obsession with food with a vengeance. I was fat. I was disgusting. I was a laughingstock. How anyone could love me, hell, how they could even like me, or look at me, was beyond my understanding. I had been this blob for years, and hadn't realized just how ridiculous I was. I started taking diet pills. I started drinking caffeine to curb the appetite. I started drinking. I started popping pills, it didn't matter what they were, how many, I took them all, and watched the world turn into a dizzy improv. I started hanging out with the kids I'd been secretly admiring for years, with their drugs and obvious disdain for authority. I loved it, loved them. They helped me forget who I was, what I was. Fat. Fat to both...
Shit happened. I got into trouble, imagine that. I moved across the country. To Los Angeles. The worst possible place for a person who hates herself to 'try a life'. I got worse. Much, much worse. I thought and thought about these disorders, about my mental state, about how I was a disappointment, and the depression, the monsters inside my head, consumed me. Then I tried it. It worked. I liked it. It was simple. Eat, throw up, eat, throw up, eat, throw up. Ritualistic. Simple. Practical. If it goes in, it can come out. It should come out. Why hadn't I thought of this before? I looked back at my life, my dancing career, and was mortified. Old pictures of me in costume, competitions, videos of performances, in all of them I felt like the elephant in the room. Family vacations, pictures in which I should have been pretty and coifed, elegant, cool... I was a sham, a mismatched slob baring my pudge like some twisted badge of horror.
How had I managed that? Hadn't I known shame? Had I not felt their eyes on me, their sneers of contempt? How could I have missed it? I had tried so hard to kill the stupid, naive little girl that had gotten herself so hurt in the first place, I'd built so many walls to protect myself, and the only thing I'd managed to do was blind myself, conveniently, from the blinding truth.
Fat.
That year in LA was not a good one. When I returned to the east coast, I was a different person, and to this day I think the only way anyone knows is because I have talked about parts of it, how it shaped me. I don't tell them about the bulimia, the rage, the puking in the shower after work. I don't tell them about going from McDonald's to Burger King to the grocery store within thirty minutes, and then binging in my car, ten thousand calories gone bye-bye. I don't tell them. They don't need to know.
Just so you know what my horoscope is... Heh.
Earlier I was talking about feeling partially recovered, that things have changed, my body view, much as my world view, has altered. My perception has altered. My habits and actions have changed, some for the better, some not so much.
I want you to understand that food has always been my best friend and my arch nemesis. It has always been there, when I was alone, when I was surrounded by people, when I felt abandoned, hopeless, alone, even happy or ecstatic. Food has always held the 'answers', even if they were all lies. Food was what brought my family together. My father and I would have competitions to see who could down their Sunday pancakes down the fastest. He and I both consumed like it was the only thing keeping us alive. I watched him, when I was young, go on the Atkins diet, and it worked. He lost weight. Then, he returned to his old eating habits. He went back to Atkins, and that time he had health problems relating to it. I was a little afraid of diets, but they also appealed to me. Diet pills, too, piqued my interest. The magic of it - eat this, not that, and you will be thin/beautiful/smart/popular/stylish/amazing... The list went on. Food was this great thing to me. I was addicted to sugar (still am, if we're being honest...), became a pro at eating astronomical amounts of "food", aka: crap. Early on, I was stashing food in my room, in my pockets, in my locker at school. I would sneak cookies into classes when we weren't allowed food or drink. My pockets were constantly filled with crumbs. I ate all the time, because I was hungry, starved for something I couldn't put my finger on and just assumed was my insurmountable appetite.
I took dance classes, went to competitions, won awards and honors, for fifteen years. I was usually the biggest girl in my class, or one of the biggest, but I never really 'noticed' or understood this was unusual. I was told every now and then to watch what I ate, but it was never pushed on me to be thin, that it was a necessity for a professional dancer. I was just pudgy, had baby fat. I didn't know the difference. I was happy at dance, and I was happy, I thought, when I was eating. I saw the other girls, how thin they were, and I thought they were just naturally that way. It didn't click for me until I got into my teens that there was something else going on.
No one ever directly said anything to me about my weight, when I was dancing. It's merely been my own memories and perceptions that has painted the picture of how ridiculous I must have looked, lumbering around in my tutu, on pointe, when I was obviously not the fawned, obsessive figure of someone 'in control'.
After all, I had other problems. I was annihilating my arms, shredding them with my nails, on a daily basis, from age twelve on. I didn't have a clue this wasn't really normal behavior until I hit high school and took drastic measures, by hiding under sweatshirts and hoodies in ninety degree weather, to hide the shame of my lack of self-control and how obviously fucked up I was. So began my sick little obsession with self-destructive behaviors. It was so innocent, those early years. I was just curious. Why was everyone else so thin, so pretty, what the hell was anorexia anyway?
I remember once thinking I'd never force myself to throw up, because it was simply wrong to force your body to reject something that was supposed to be good for it. I remember thinking I'd never try to starve myself, even if I did think those people who did were holy, pure, and obviously enlightened. My thoughts were always skewed on the subjects that eventually became my living hell, but I didn't see the relationship.
Then something began to grow within me, this little voice, it had been there for years, but now it turned on my obsession with food with a vengeance. I was fat. I was disgusting. I was a laughingstock. How anyone could love me, hell, how they could even like me, or look at me, was beyond my understanding. I had been this blob for years, and hadn't realized just how ridiculous I was. I started taking diet pills. I started drinking caffeine to curb the appetite. I started drinking. I started popping pills, it didn't matter what they were, how many, I took them all, and watched the world turn into a dizzy improv. I started hanging out with the kids I'd been secretly admiring for years, with their drugs and obvious disdain for authority. I loved it, loved them. They helped me forget who I was, what I was. Fat. Fat to both...
Shit happened. I got into trouble, imagine that. I moved across the country. To Los Angeles. The worst possible place for a person who hates herself to 'try a life'. I got worse. Much, much worse. I thought and thought about these disorders, about my mental state, about how I was a disappointment, and the depression, the monsters inside my head, consumed me. Then I tried it. It worked. I liked it. It was simple. Eat, throw up, eat, throw up, eat, throw up. Ritualistic. Simple. Practical. If it goes in, it can come out. It should come out. Why hadn't I thought of this before? I looked back at my life, my dancing career, and was mortified. Old pictures of me in costume, competitions, videos of performances, in all of them I felt like the elephant in the room. Family vacations, pictures in which I should have been pretty and coifed, elegant, cool... I was a sham, a mismatched slob baring my pudge like some twisted badge of horror.
How had I managed that? Hadn't I known shame? Had I not felt their eyes on me, their sneers of contempt? How could I have missed it? I had tried so hard to kill the stupid, naive little girl that had gotten herself so hurt in the first place, I'd built so many walls to protect myself, and the only thing I'd managed to do was blind myself, conveniently, from the blinding truth.
Fat.
That year in LA was not a good one. When I returned to the east coast, I was a different person, and to this day I think the only way anyone knows is because I have talked about parts of it, how it shaped me. I don't tell them about the bulimia, the rage, the puking in the shower after work. I don't tell them about going from McDonald's to Burger King to the grocery store within thirty minutes, and then binging in my car, ten thousand calories gone bye-bye. I don't tell them. They don't need to know.
strange things (babbling)
It's a bit odd, but I don't want to be some emaciated corpse. I remember once-upon-a-time wanting that, because I thought it was beautiful. I thought it represented the ultimate power and control over oneself, and that was something I craved more than anything else. I wanted the ball back in my court. I wanted to be able to say I did it, all on my own, no thanks to my family or my friends or anyone at all, that it was just me - purely, simply me. I thought being emaciated and undernourished meant one had won out over the self, that it meant the ego had been defied and defeated.
I realize now, I'm just not that girl anymore. And I'm glad I'm not her, anymore. She was as unhappy as I am now, if not moreso. She loathed everything about herself, she was tormented by the mirror. Not to say I'm free of that, no, but at least now...
I can eat without feeling obligated to punish myself. I may still feel bad, too full, I may still purge, but it's more a matter of real necessity, it's more a choice. This may be disgusting to some of you, since that makes it sound like I'm 'choosing' this shit, this 'lifestyle', like I'm some pro-ana whore. I'm not. I was more pro before I even became actually sick. I was so fascinated by the idea of an eating disorder, I didn't see what was so wrong with wanting one. And then, bam! I'm throwing up nearly every little thing I eat. I'm punishing myself daily, nightly, crying myself to sleep, crying in my sleep, dreaming of food I won't let myself eat, punching and pounding myself for disobedience. That wasn't control. That was not self-empowerment. I was torturing myself on a scale that I didn't think was really possible, until it happened. Until it enveloped me in its madness and refused to let me go.
I suppose I've partially recovered myself from the hell I was living. I don't hug a toilet bowl after every bite I swallow. I don't even bother trying to starve myself, I've discovered the hard way that it just doesn't do any justice or good. All it does is fuck up my body's systems and throw my mood into binge-fest the next day. I don't binge, not like I used to. But... there's a part of me that misses that, that still considers the disease a form of empowerment, of control, something forbidden, tortuous, beautiful. Ravaged.
I'm not, by any means, healthy. I'm not recovered; I've still forced myself to purge. It's down to a few times a week, now, rather than multiple times a day. For that, I'm glad. My body, I realize, is not a punching bag. It deserves a lot more love and respect than I've given it. I'm working on that, because I don't want to be some emaciated girl (which I never was to begin with), nor do I want to be this fat blimp couch potato-ing through life (which I do now.) I'm tired of stuffing my face with my emotions, I'm sick of turning to food for comfort. I'm so fucking fed up with myself, with life, with everything. I don't know when things changed in my head, but they are constantly shifting.
One day, I'm fine. I eat without a second thought. The next, I am debilitated by the desire to binge and purge. The next, I want to starve myself into submission. Up and down, back and forth, the pendulum swings chaotically.
I don't really know what I'm babbling about. Sometimes it's easier to think about the physical aspect of things to avoid the ideas and objects that are actually at the center of the problem. I'm just pretending, and sometimes I'm fine with that.
Self-preservation. It can be a beautiful thing. I just don't know if it's sticking around for awhile, or if this is the calm before the storm, the steady before the fall. My world is slowly drifting off course, the ground is shifting askew. I can't say what forces are at work. I only know, I better prepare myself.
I realize now, I'm just not that girl anymore. And I'm glad I'm not her, anymore. She was as unhappy as I am now, if not moreso. She loathed everything about herself, she was tormented by the mirror. Not to say I'm free of that, no, but at least now...
I can eat without feeling obligated to punish myself. I may still feel bad, too full, I may still purge, but it's more a matter of real necessity, it's more a choice. This may be disgusting to some of you, since that makes it sound like I'm 'choosing' this shit, this 'lifestyle', like I'm some pro-ana whore. I'm not. I was more pro before I even became actually sick. I was so fascinated by the idea of an eating disorder, I didn't see what was so wrong with wanting one. And then, bam! I'm throwing up nearly every little thing I eat. I'm punishing myself daily, nightly, crying myself to sleep, crying in my sleep, dreaming of food I won't let myself eat, punching and pounding myself for disobedience. That wasn't control. That was not self-empowerment. I was torturing myself on a scale that I didn't think was really possible, until it happened. Until it enveloped me in its madness and refused to let me go.
I suppose I've partially recovered myself from the hell I was living. I don't hug a toilet bowl after every bite I swallow. I don't even bother trying to starve myself, I've discovered the hard way that it just doesn't do any justice or good. All it does is fuck up my body's systems and throw my mood into binge-fest the next day. I don't binge, not like I used to. But... there's a part of me that misses that, that still considers the disease a form of empowerment, of control, something forbidden, tortuous, beautiful. Ravaged.
I'm not, by any means, healthy. I'm not recovered; I've still forced myself to purge. It's down to a few times a week, now, rather than multiple times a day. For that, I'm glad. My body, I realize, is not a punching bag. It deserves a lot more love and respect than I've given it. I'm working on that, because I don't want to be some emaciated girl (which I never was to begin with), nor do I want to be this fat blimp couch potato-ing through life (which I do now.) I'm tired of stuffing my face with my emotions, I'm sick of turning to food for comfort. I'm so fucking fed up with myself, with life, with everything. I don't know when things changed in my head, but they are constantly shifting.
One day, I'm fine. I eat without a second thought. The next, I am debilitated by the desire to binge and purge. The next, I want to starve myself into submission. Up and down, back and forth, the pendulum swings chaotically.
I don't really know what I'm babbling about. Sometimes it's easier to think about the physical aspect of things to avoid the ideas and objects that are actually at the center of the problem. I'm just pretending, and sometimes I'm fine with that.
Self-preservation. It can be a beautiful thing. I just don't know if it's sticking around for awhile, or if this is the calm before the storm, the steady before the fall. My world is slowly drifting off course, the ground is shifting askew. I can't say what forces are at work. I only know, I better prepare myself.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
thanks
Thank you. :) I'm doing a little better with consumption. I've been paying more attention, and noticing the speed picking up. This is normally what happens when I figure it out again and get motivated to do something about it. I'm still too much, but as long as this keeps up, as long as I keep my head at least somewhat attached to reality, I should be okay.
(Doesn't sound quite sane to me...)
I'm pretty sure I'm not, in fact, moving to the big city. It's the worst possible thing to do, realistically. Not only would it seriously endanger my friendship with my bestie, it would create a lot of friction, possible resentment, and take me away from the opportunities that I can afford to go after. I haven't told her yet, I guess I'm a little cowardly about it. I don't know how to tell her that, yet again, it just isn't going to happen. I know she's stressed, and in her current position, I don't blame her. But...
Ugh. "But..."
Sum of my parts.
I love you. I'll be back.
(Doesn't sound quite sane to me...)
I'm pretty sure I'm not, in fact, moving to the big city. It's the worst possible thing to do, realistically. Not only would it seriously endanger my friendship with my bestie, it would create a lot of friction, possible resentment, and take me away from the opportunities that I can afford to go after. I haven't told her yet, I guess I'm a little cowardly about it. I don't know how to tell her that, yet again, it just isn't going to happen. I know she's stressed, and in her current position, I don't blame her. But...
Ugh. "But..."
Sum of my parts.
I love you. I'll be back.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
real eyes
I went to the optometrist and still have 20/20 vision. There's no problem with my eyes from the accident, thankfully.
As far as moods go, today's been a rotten one. A bit more depressed and dejected than yesterday, and frustration riding the curve heavenward. Not the best combination. I've been having yelling tantrums when left alone, or driving around in my car. This sounds ridiculous, but it's really one of the only ways I'm able to speak my anger or discontent without hurting the people that my anger and frustration is directed at. I don't want to hurt anyone. It's better, then, to just yell at myself and bite my tongue furiously when in the company of others.
I think.
I feel rather like an idiot again. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I had a mid-day mini-binge today. An ice cream sandwich, a bag of chips, some candy, and I'm currently fighting the strong, damned impulse to buy ridiculous amounts of chocolate. I had a really delicious red pepper, goat cheese, and spinach sandwich earlier, too. And we haven't even gotten to the idea of dinner, yet. And dinner, as in most households, is a mandatory family meal.
I'm broke, I'm fairly certain. I've been broke, but I've had this money sitting in my lap just itching to be spent, so I've caved, because I have no budget and no self control. Yes, I'm a loser. We already knew this.
What the fuck am I doing? I can't afford food, either financially or weight-related. I can't afford to sit around doing nothing but blogging, either. I can't afford to feel this pathetic and used up and helpless before I've even really begun to try. It just isn't feasible. What the hell is wrong with me?
I just don't understand the point of it all. I don't see what there is worth living for. I don't see myself ever succeeding, ever being more than the sniveling, weak slug I am day by day. I don't get it. I don't GET it!
Thank you, Persephone, for your comment. For believing in me, for telling me I can do it. I don't know if I believe that, but maybe I can try... maybe trying isn't as hard as I'm making it be in my head.
If only there was a way to live outside of my mind, away from my brain, and all its wretched lack of faith.
I am fairly convinced I need drugs, legal or no, to survive on a daily basis. Without drugs, I'm worse than useless. Without chemicals, I'm better off dead.
As far as moods go, today's been a rotten one. A bit more depressed and dejected than yesterday, and frustration riding the curve heavenward. Not the best combination. I've been having yelling tantrums when left alone, or driving around in my car. This sounds ridiculous, but it's really one of the only ways I'm able to speak my anger or discontent without hurting the people that my anger and frustration is directed at. I don't want to hurt anyone. It's better, then, to just yell at myself and bite my tongue furiously when in the company of others.
I think.
I feel rather like an idiot again. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I had a mid-day mini-binge today. An ice cream sandwich, a bag of chips, some candy, and I'm currently fighting the strong, damned impulse to buy ridiculous amounts of chocolate. I had a really delicious red pepper, goat cheese, and spinach sandwich earlier, too. And we haven't even gotten to the idea of dinner, yet. And dinner, as in most households, is a mandatory family meal.
I'm broke, I'm fairly certain. I've been broke, but I've had this money sitting in my lap just itching to be spent, so I've caved, because I have no budget and no self control. Yes, I'm a loser. We already knew this.
What the fuck am I doing? I can't afford food, either financially or weight-related. I can't afford to sit around doing nothing but blogging, either. I can't afford to feel this pathetic and used up and helpless before I've even really begun to try. It just isn't feasible. What the hell is wrong with me?
I just don't understand the point of it all. I don't see what there is worth living for. I don't see myself ever succeeding, ever being more than the sniveling, weak slug I am day by day. I don't get it. I don't GET it!
Thank you, Persephone, for your comment. For believing in me, for telling me I can do it. I don't know if I believe that, but maybe I can try... maybe trying isn't as hard as I'm making it be in my head.
If only there was a way to live outside of my mind, away from my brain, and all its wretched lack of faith.
I am fairly convinced I need drugs, legal or no, to survive on a daily basis. Without drugs, I'm worse than useless. Without chemicals, I'm better off dead.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
gain
Tonight my father commented on my weight gain. He said something to the effect of how you can tell I've put on weight again, and that he's going through the same thing.
His comments in the past have been severely triggering. This one just made me sad. I don't know how much my parents have affected me in this disorder, but I can tell you, they have. They don't know the extent to which they aid my self-destruction, and they do not know to the extent I have gone in my self-persecution. They do not know I have purged, they do not understand fully my tendency to binge competitively, and they have no idea how painful it is to live within my body.
And I truly hate that they have to say anything at all.
I realize that he doesn't mean it in a hateful or damaging way. It's only my perception. It's only my reaction, and how I view myself, that makes it feel like damnation.
It still hurts. It doesn't matter what anyone's intentions are. When they ask me how far along in my pregnancy I am, it hurts. I'm not pregnant. My best friend is pregnant, and I'm the one that looks the part. No, sorry, my baby consists solely of my binge from the past week, and constipation.
I haven't touched laxatives in weeks because I'm afraid of how they'll torture my stomach, and I'd like to be able to continue shitting on my own, without the need to take them. I haven't taken diet pills lately, either, because I'm afraid of my family's history, although I've known about it for years, and have continued to purge, pop pills, and ignore my body's cries for help. I haven't purged since my car accident because my nose is broken and I am very afraid of fucking shit up worse than it already is.
And still I eat like there is no tomorrow.
Where the hell is my self-respect? Where the fuck is my discipline?
What in the hell happened to my will power?
I know it didn't get deleted like my old blog.
Where there is a will, there is a way, and in the name of all things good and holy, I am going to find a fucking way.
Watch me.
His comments in the past have been severely triggering. This one just made me sad. I don't know how much my parents have affected me in this disorder, but I can tell you, they have. They don't know the extent to which they aid my self-destruction, and they do not know to the extent I have gone in my self-persecution. They do not know I have purged, they do not understand fully my tendency to binge competitively, and they have no idea how painful it is to live within my body.
And I truly hate that they have to say anything at all.
I realize that he doesn't mean it in a hateful or damaging way. It's only my perception. It's only my reaction, and how I view myself, that makes it feel like damnation.
It still hurts. It doesn't matter what anyone's intentions are. When they ask me how far along in my pregnancy I am, it hurts. I'm not pregnant. My best friend is pregnant, and I'm the one that looks the part. No, sorry, my baby consists solely of my binge from the past week, and constipation.
I haven't touched laxatives in weeks because I'm afraid of how they'll torture my stomach, and I'd like to be able to continue shitting on my own, without the need to take them. I haven't taken diet pills lately, either, because I'm afraid of my family's history, although I've known about it for years, and have continued to purge, pop pills, and ignore my body's cries for help. I haven't purged since my car accident because my nose is broken and I am very afraid of fucking shit up worse than it already is.
And still I eat like there is no tomorrow.
Where the hell is my self-respect? Where the fuck is my discipline?
What in the hell happened to my will power?
I know it didn't get deleted like my old blog.
Where there is a will, there is a way, and in the name of all things good and holy, I am going to find a fucking way.
Watch me.
My bite is brutality.
Anger runs through my veins, toxic. Catapulted into these situations by the slingshot of my own making, I feel I am setting myself up for disaster. I am no good to those I love when I resent them, and I fear most that resentment is indeed the direction this course will take me. Should I move in with my best friend, in her state of pregnancy, desperation, and need, I will become the one she depends on, and I am not sure I can compete with my own needs.
I am aware I should not forfeit my own life, make such a sacrifice, if it means my being miserable and angry towards someone I love wholeheartedly. She says she doesn't know what to do. She can't afford this, she's barely scraping by, she's so frightened, and the fear paralyzes her. She needs me now more than ever, and I am not so certain I can provide the support she needs right now. How can I, when I am barely capable of supporting myself in any form? I, too, am terrified. Of life, of consequences, of the financial weight upon my bulky shoulders, of the physical weight I have put on in my many moments of weakness.
There are so many opportunities, and it is hellish that I cannot distinguish if this would be a step forward, or a step out of league with my intentions. Would this be dissent, a mockery of the direction I wish to move in? I fear it. And fear, I've found, is only good when you use it to extinguish itself from existence.
There's many options, many more constructive ideas than this. The only reason I'd move to this city is to help my friend, but for how long? What good can come of it if I already am beginning to resent her for needing me, when I am still hours away? I haven't even moved yet, and already I am angry with her, unfairly so. It is my choice to move, my feet that would do the walking. How can I resent her for being human, and erring so?
For my own intents, it would be better to find another place, one more agreeable with my intentions. I want to attend college, I need to move forward with my education and allow the consequences to transpire. The transformation needs to happen, and it will not if my ego and my emotions roll in discontent.
What the hell am I doing?
I need so many changes, it's unfair to my past, my future, and my Now to think of anything other than what I can do in this moment to make change transpire.
I'm an idiot. There's no choice, really. I've already made it, I simply don't want to admit it.
How to share this decision with those it will also affect, I've no idea.
I am aware I should not forfeit my own life, make such a sacrifice, if it means my being miserable and angry towards someone I love wholeheartedly. She says she doesn't know what to do. She can't afford this, she's barely scraping by, she's so frightened, and the fear paralyzes her. She needs me now more than ever, and I am not so certain I can provide the support she needs right now. How can I, when I am barely capable of supporting myself in any form? I, too, am terrified. Of life, of consequences, of the financial weight upon my bulky shoulders, of the physical weight I have put on in my many moments of weakness.
There are so many opportunities, and it is hellish that I cannot distinguish if this would be a step forward, or a step out of league with my intentions. Would this be dissent, a mockery of the direction I wish to move in? I fear it. And fear, I've found, is only good when you use it to extinguish itself from existence.
There's many options, many more constructive ideas than this. The only reason I'd move to this city is to help my friend, but for how long? What good can come of it if I already am beginning to resent her for needing me, when I am still hours away? I haven't even moved yet, and already I am angry with her, unfairly so. It is my choice to move, my feet that would do the walking. How can I resent her for being human, and erring so?
For my own intents, it would be better to find another place, one more agreeable with my intentions. I want to attend college, I need to move forward with my education and allow the consequences to transpire. The transformation needs to happen, and it will not if my ego and my emotions roll in discontent.
What the hell am I doing?
I need so many changes, it's unfair to my past, my future, and my Now to think of anything other than what I can do in this moment to make change transpire.
I'm an idiot. There's no choice, really. I've already made it, I simply don't want to admit it.
How to share this decision with those it will also affect, I've no idea.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
music fest
I went to a music festival this past weekend, and it was wonderful. I got a cold, though, so now my doctor has me on antibiotics so that this infection will hopefully not affect the healing process.
Pretty awesome, too, was the fact I lost ten pounds at the festival. There was so much walking, so many hills and stairs and dancing around, and very little eating. My body was like a limp noodle by the end of it, and since I got back, I've managed to not lose my head and immediately start binging.
My serotonin is definitely low, though, so I need to keep check on my emotions. Last night, I was on the phone with my parents and just started crying. I felt badgered by them and their suggestions. Plus, the fact I had little to no sleep over the weekend, little food, and so many foreign chemicals introduced to my rather clean body, it was amazing I kept it together as long as I did.
It was so cold, like Fall, and now back here, where the nineties is the usual temperature, my body is in shock from the changes.
My best friend is pregnant and panicking. She refuses to consider abortion, and I can understand it, but the fact is she simply cannot afford it. She can barely take care of herself. How is she supposed to survive with a baby? The boyfriend is panicking, too, and just recently changed his mind about keeping it. Now he wants her to get rid of it, saying he's not ready, and neither is she. I can't help but agree with him, but she's so angry and scared and confused, I can't just blatantly tell her that I think what she's doing is wrong. It's such a fucking mess.
Excuse how convoluted this entry is, I'm quite uncaffeinated and have absolutely no idea how to color in the lines right now.
Much love.
Pretty awesome, too, was the fact I lost ten pounds at the festival. There was so much walking, so many hills and stairs and dancing around, and very little eating. My body was like a limp noodle by the end of it, and since I got back, I've managed to not lose my head and immediately start binging.
My serotonin is definitely low, though, so I need to keep check on my emotions. Last night, I was on the phone with my parents and just started crying. I felt badgered by them and their suggestions. Plus, the fact I had little to no sleep over the weekend, little food, and so many foreign chemicals introduced to my rather clean body, it was amazing I kept it together as long as I did.
It was so cold, like Fall, and now back here, where the nineties is the usual temperature, my body is in shock from the changes.
My best friend is pregnant and panicking. She refuses to consider abortion, and I can understand it, but the fact is she simply cannot afford it. She can barely take care of herself. How is she supposed to survive with a baby? The boyfriend is panicking, too, and just recently changed his mind about keeping it. Now he wants her to get rid of it, saying he's not ready, and neither is she. I can't help but agree with him, but she's so angry and scared and confused, I can't just blatantly tell her that I think what she's doing is wrong. It's such a fucking mess.
Excuse how convoluted this entry is, I'm quite uncaffeinated and have absolutely no idea how to color in the lines right now.
Much love.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Broken
A week ago, I was in a car accident. Luckily, my friends and I, as well as the driver that careened in front of us, all walked away relatively unscathed. I did have to go to the hospital, and apparently the shit-faced eighteen year old driving the other car broke some important bone. I don't hate him, I only pity him, and the whole situation makes me sad and frustrated with today's world.
I've lost so many people I cared about to drunk driving. I've done more than my fair share of stupid shit while I was inebriated, behind the wheel, or horrifically, both. I'm no saint, not by a long shot. I can only hope that this kid has had a little bit of common sense knocked into him, and realizes just how damned lucky he is that he didn't get himself killed, or kill anyone else. Like me, or one of my friends. He'd have had an army of angry, vengeful mercenaries hunting him for the rest of his life, make no mistake.
But no, we're all okay, mostly. We're surviving, and that's what matters. It could have been much worse. It'd have been nice if it hadn't happened at all, but what's done is done.
The good news for me is that everything seems to be healing up well enough on its own, and the prospect of surgery is fairly low. I still have another appointment with the surgeon in a week to null the idea altogether, but I'm hopeful.
On to other news.
This weekend, there's a massive music festival that I and my friends are all attending. It's going to be wickedly fun, and hopefully a pleasant escape from the hellish nature of the everyday. I by no means hate my life at this point, but I'm not necessarily enthralled with it. I've had my share of depressions, and I've felt the claws of it prodding me recently, warning of its ease to return, so familiar, a cruel ex-lover who, regardless, knows how you crave to be held, even if by Death itself.
I've been packing on the pounds. I now weigh over 150 pounds, at 5 feet 4 inches height. I am not pleased, needless to say. I'm rather appalled at my complete lack and disinterest in any semblance of self control. It's as if I'd rather stuff my face, like my emotions, rather than focus on my general health or well-being or, you know, dignity. I haven't weighed this much in... a year, or better. I'm disgusting, and disgusted.
This is changing, starting now, because nothing ever comes from waiting for tomorrow to get things done.
I'm a habitual bulimic, but due to my broken nose from the accident, I figure that's no longer a 'good idea', as my sinuses are already pretty fucked up. So, I'll just have to reach into those unfathomable bottomless pits of control, I know I still have some, and grow some balls. Just do it, as they say.
Wish me luck. This is going to be hell to pay.
This time last year, I was 130, and dropping.
I'm giving myself to the end of the week to wipe out the last of the bad foods from my pantry, and then it's no more miss piggy. It's going down.
Obesity is not my friend. I will beat it into the ground, and then six feet under.
So help me gods.
I've lost so many people I cared about to drunk driving. I've done more than my fair share of stupid shit while I was inebriated, behind the wheel, or horrifically, both. I'm no saint, not by a long shot. I can only hope that this kid has had a little bit of common sense knocked into him, and realizes just how damned lucky he is that he didn't get himself killed, or kill anyone else. Like me, or one of my friends. He'd have had an army of angry, vengeful mercenaries hunting him for the rest of his life, make no mistake.
But no, we're all okay, mostly. We're surviving, and that's what matters. It could have been much worse. It'd have been nice if it hadn't happened at all, but what's done is done.
The good news for me is that everything seems to be healing up well enough on its own, and the prospect of surgery is fairly low. I still have another appointment with the surgeon in a week to null the idea altogether, but I'm hopeful.
On to other news.
This weekend, there's a massive music festival that I and my friends are all attending. It's going to be wickedly fun, and hopefully a pleasant escape from the hellish nature of the everyday. I by no means hate my life at this point, but I'm not necessarily enthralled with it. I've had my share of depressions, and I've felt the claws of it prodding me recently, warning of its ease to return, so familiar, a cruel ex-lover who, regardless, knows how you crave to be held, even if by Death itself.
I've been packing on the pounds. I now weigh over 150 pounds, at 5 feet 4 inches height. I am not pleased, needless to say. I'm rather appalled at my complete lack and disinterest in any semblance of self control. It's as if I'd rather stuff my face, like my emotions, rather than focus on my general health or well-being or, you know, dignity. I haven't weighed this much in... a year, or better. I'm disgusting, and disgusted.
This is changing, starting now, because nothing ever comes from waiting for tomorrow to get things done.
I'm a habitual bulimic, but due to my broken nose from the accident, I figure that's no longer a 'good idea', as my sinuses are already pretty fucked up. So, I'll just have to reach into those unfathomable bottomless pits of control, I know I still have some, and grow some balls. Just do it, as they say.
Wish me luck. This is going to be hell to pay.
This time last year, I was 130, and dropping.
I'm giving myself to the end of the week to wipe out the last of the bad foods from my pantry, and then it's no more miss piggy. It's going down.
Obesity is not my friend. I will beat it into the ground, and then six feet under.
So help me gods.
Quickie
I was formally someone else, and within a few hours, have remade myself, in this world of anonymity. I'm a bit of a paranoid creature, and with good reason.
This blog shall serve as my personal diatribe. I have my share of problems, among them an eating disorder, possibly psychiatric issues as yet unaddressed, and a multitude of nitpicking that you'll see soon enough. I have a history of drug use, alcoholism, debauchery, limited madness, and a love of profanity.
If you recognize me, please do keep it to yourself, until I figure out how to make this buffer more safer than my last. I'm hoping to remain in the shadows in regard to those who may know me in reality, and would prefer it if you could aid in that endeavor.
I'll go ahead and tell you now, I was "A Will is the Way", and she is no more. I once believed that a will really was the extent of it, but now know better. There is much more involved in these pursuits, and will power, self control, is but a fragment.
Enjoy yourselves, and please, should you find offense in any of these passages, get the fuck out. I have no room for you.
I offend myself enough; I haven't the time nor the energy to give a proper damn about your propriety.
With love,
Namaste,
Nona.
This blog shall serve as my personal diatribe. I have my share of problems, among them an eating disorder, possibly psychiatric issues as yet unaddressed, and a multitude of nitpicking that you'll see soon enough. I have a history of drug use, alcoholism, debauchery, limited madness, and a love of profanity.
If you recognize me, please do keep it to yourself, until I figure out how to make this buffer more safer than my last. I'm hoping to remain in the shadows in regard to those who may know me in reality, and would prefer it if you could aid in that endeavor.
I'll go ahead and tell you now, I was "A Will is the Way", and she is no more. I once believed that a will really was the extent of it, but now know better. There is much more involved in these pursuits, and will power, self control, is but a fragment.
Enjoy yourselves, and please, should you find offense in any of these passages, get the fuck out. I have no room for you.
I offend myself enough; I haven't the time nor the energy to give a proper damn about your propriety.
With love,
Namaste,
Nona.
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