Well between the British system and the American, I'm covered on my meds. Hooray! This means you all won't have to hear the rants anymore.
I have been playing Dragon Age at my friend's house for the past few days. It's completely intense. But it led to yet another awkward conversation this morning with Paula Deen (this is after she tried to talk me into seeing some nurse practitioner who does "great pap smears..." UH overshare.).
PD: "Is Dragon Age the really bloody one?"
Me: "Oh my gosh yes. It's crazy."
PD: "I know you have had a problem with cutting in the past. Does the game make you have urges to do it? Or does it replace the urge?"
Me: ".... Jesus Mom it has nothing to do with that..."
PD: "Oh well I was just wondering because of the violence. It doesn't hurt to ask, that's how I know!"
Ugh. I appreciate her trying to understand me or whatever, but it's like more awkward than if she talked about sex positions or something. At least I wouldn't feel like a freakshow. I shouldn't complain though, I sometimes forget that she knows some things about me I would rather forget myself and usually she doesn't say anything. That I really appreciate.
Be safe during the next few days, we'll all make it! After January 6th when I'm back in England, I can leave all this food behind me... I seriously am not liking the abundance of food. Break please?
Paula Deen is calling me to dinner. What irony.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Well between the British system and the American, I'm covered on my meds. Hooray! This means you all won't have to hear the rants anymore.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Me: "Why are you afraid of the hospital?"
Holly: "Because it has a weird smell..."
Me: "It really does have a distinctive smell. Offputting..."
Holly: "It's because people go there to die."
I have to go to the hospital tomorrow to try and convince a new doctor to take me seriously. Honestly though, I've kind of reached that inevitable point I get to every now and again where I'm like, "There's NOTHING wrong with me! The problem lies within society! FOUCAULT BITCHES!"
But eventually I'll take like a sheet of sleeping pills for a "headache" or start throwing plates against the wall and I have to rethink this philosophy.
The hospital freaks me out in a number of different ways (hello deadly bacteria on elevator buttons!?) and I always feel like my clothes I've worn there aren't really clean until 3-4 washes/I've forgotten I wore those particular ones. But there's something comforting about it too. It's like, "Hello this is the one chance you get at a real vacation. All you have to do is sacrifice order, basic hygiene, and control over your destiny..."
Maybe what is so appealing is that relinquishing of control. Knowing everything is futile and just lying there while you get poked and prodded by bad-cop and coo'd over by good-cop.
I suppose it's why you can't really ever "recover" from an eating disorder. Something hard wired within you made that particular disease an outlet. You can take away the behavior, but your personality, the gears that wind your inner clock, still remain.
Oftentimes I say that despite my destructive behaviors, suicidal tendencies, all I really want to do is escape. I'm usually thinking the external burdens upon me that I feel are to overwhelming to control. But now and again, I wonder if I just want to escape being stuck with the broken parts of me. The parts of me that are my weakness and my strength.
Then again, where does the problem lie? Within one's mind or amidst one's cultural entrapping?
"Death left its old tragic heaven and became the lyrical core of man: his invisible truth, his visible secret."
- Michel Foucault (The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of Medical Perception)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Flying back to America for the holiday in a few hours. Am super neurotic about traveling and TR isn't here to hold my hand through being crazy and resistant about it.
I don't know why I developed this fear of traveling. It happened some time a few years ago. Used to be that airports and train stations were exciting and maybe a bit romantic... but I've come to realize despite the price tag, I am in a vehicle that is a glorified city bus. And after living where I've lived, the city bus is disgusting no matter what allure they try to paint with "Red busses" in London to win me over. Nope, it's filthy and smelly and no one on there can be trusted not to have the flu or be rude.
There are also too many variables about the airport I can't control. Delayed flights. Gross people sitting next to me. Getting to the airport on time (must rely on other forms of public transport which are equally unreliable). It's all too stressful.
It's the same reason that while I like to drive, I find driving to be a stress-inducing activity. I'm a great driver, but everyone else on the road is probably trying to kill me at any given point. Most of them shouldn't have a license.
So I'll be fat for Christmas and New Years. Hopefully this period will give me some time to widdle myself back to a respectable weight because I never over-eat when I'm with other people and food is continuously flowing. I flip out and don't want to eat much.
Must avoid the scale because my thighs are telling me I won't like the number I see. However, I know that everyone will be pleased at my weight gain. This will keep people from bothering me about things while I try to sort my body-philosophy out for myself.
Thank you to my readers, new (hello there!) and those of you who have been with me for a bit. You all have stuck it out when my blog has veered in many directions and always been helpful, supportive, kind, and loving.
Hope the upcoming holidays are the least stressful as possible!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Sweet baby Jesus on a bicycle!
Clearly I need to bump up my twitter @#$(*#($...
I didn't realize this existed until I googled my blogger alias and it was the 3rd thing to pop up. Immediately I thought, "OH NO YOU DIDN'T! Someone is fucking stealing *my* completely unique persona for some stupid feed." Then I realized the potential of this situation and felt relieved and a little pleased with myself.
They say that cursing cheapens language, I say "they" just don't fucking know how to correctly use it. A swear with the right placement is better than the best jargon, the most eloquently placed semi-colon.
Today I met someone I haven't seen in months. Was told the following:
"You look great. Slim but not anorexic."
This made me wonder two things... did she know? At what point did I decide that skeletal was beautiful?
Don't get me wrong, a huge part of me is still mourning the loss of my protruding spine. But I know that it looked disgusting. I could see things that you shouldn't even see on an X-Ray. And because of it, I have lost all sense of beauty. TR and I get in fights about what it is (even though he's male, I automatically think I am a better judge of aesthetic).
"What? No no no. Collarbones are beautiful! And everyone thinks hipbones are sexy! They don't? Are you sure? You don't think that little articulated bump on the collarbone is amazing? You aren't lying to me because you want me to eat pizza, are you? Ok well I don't believe you but I'll try to believe you. But I don't."
(P.S. I blame pizza for my weight gain. Cheese is Satan. It's not animal friendly and it's decidedly sneaky)
No one. NO ONE starts out at the beginning stages of an eating disorder wanting to be 70 lbs. If you do, you have other issues going on.
Something happens, and the mind flips everything around. We get trapped in the mirror we're so entranced by, and the world doesn't seem to work by the same rules anymore. Left is right.
In other news, as healthy as I've spouted off being lately, I just realized today that I still completely don't know how to eat. This occurred when I ordered lunch and did fine. Then we had to get dinner and I realized I was NOT not not hungry nor had any desire to eat.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
My sleep schedule is horrible. Woke up yesterday at 3:00pm after going to sleep at 6:00am.... It's 8:43 now and I still haven't slept.
I even ate breakfast (I never eat breakfast) to try and make myself full and tired. Now I'm full and confused about why I just ate beans and tomatoes. English breakfast is weird.
Hope you'll all take a look at a blog that's just popped up, and I'm lucky to be the first follower. Lillie Flower is lovely; her writing is soft and delicate like her name.
So I haven't stuck to my eating plan and it's mostly been intentional. I realized that I have company coming on Wednesday, and we're taking a trip up North for a few days. So I'll be spending 24/7 with them and my friend already hates how thin I've gotten. Then I go home, and honestly, I really want to eat my mom's food :(
But there's two sides to this coin. I had the brilliant idea of going Vegan again after I come back from the States in January as a "New Year's Resolution." I already don't really eat eggs or yogurt anymore so the only thing I really have to cut out is cheese.
The other side is I am physically not doing too well with this re-feeding. I'm above a underweight BMI in the first time in ages, so I should have more energy and blah blah. Instead, I'm breaking out. Like worst worst worst breakout ever. My hair is meh, and I'm always puffy. Like retaining fluids.
WTF? Being healthy sucks.
I do think it's important that I stay like this even though my trousers are moaning when I pull them on. At least through the holidays so people stop worrying and get off my case.
The other day TR said something to the extent of "because of the eating disorder you refuse to acknowledge, you've rendered your body fucked up for life."
They say you know you have a problem when you can't admit it.
I keep thinking about a quote from Wasted (cliche I know) as I hop between trying to eat normally and then freaking out and starving again:
"When you eventually begin to get well, health will feel wrong, it will make you dizzy, it will confuse you, you will get sick again because sick is what you know."
I think I'm stuck between two worlds. There's this inability for me to be around food without over-thinking, and yet I can't properly starve. I'm not well. I'm not yet sick again.
Friday, December 11, 2009
If I can gain weight, I can lose it.
(repeat this until you believe it.)
shit shit shit.
Why did I buy a scale? It was fine until I see a sudden huge scary spike this morning.
snap snap snap.
Time to start popping pills out of their metallic and plastic enclosures...
Hello eating disorder! I've allowed you to take a backseat to my nasty eating habits, but now I need you join me again to fight the terrible beast weighing me down on the scale.
Must go about this slowly, otherwise I'll have set myself up for failure and a bad binge. Tonight I'll finish or throw away all the gross shit I have in my kitchen and tomorrow it's grocery shopping.
I'm writing out my list just so I have to stick to it:
I'm also back to "The Anti-Brown" diet. Porridge and tea aren't brown because I say so. Eventually though, porridge will be out as well. I'll be doing my version of 2-4-6-8, which is going to be 1-3-5-1. Tomorrow we start at 3.
OK. Doable. I'll ease myself back into fasting, one day at a time. Write down everything that enters my mouth. Grr, where did I put my notebook!?!
................... found it!
I'm going to try something I like to call: "Plan everything out the day before and don't even dare to falter from the plan." Sounds good. I can even schedule in homework (that I don't ever do, but I must if it's on the plan lol!) and chores.
OMG I'm so excited. I love being organized.
It will take a little bit of time to start counting calories before they enter my mouth, not accidentally pick something up and eat it, or be basically neurotic about everything, but it's better than eating until I feel sick and then feeling guilty and promising that tomorrow is another day.
I know it's pretty stupid to talk myself back into starving after I've been working really hard to eat, and more importantly eat without freaking out... but it doesn't seem like the later really happened. I just ate, ate more, felt guilty and sick, waited for that to subside, and ate more.
...I hate that food controls me even when I'm controlling it.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
"I have a horrible problem with shopaholism too. I realise what my life has boiled down too - the superficial and desperate need for quick fixes. I am the quintessential consumer, with no real ability to feel joy anymore and with the constant need to blot it out by the millions of brief flicks of satisfaction caused by purchasing something or shoving something in my gob."
I want to hear about your experiences with shopping. Grocery shopping. Clothes shopping. Corner store shopping.
What kind of consumers are anoretics and bulimics? This is part of a larger discourse I'm working on, so I want to know how you shop and what shopping does to you.
(P.S. if you write about it on your lovely blogs, send me a link pleeease!)
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I only ever seem to think about my money problems realistically right before I'm about to run out of toilet paper.
"Damn," I mutter to myself, "It's time to buy more. There really are so many things I need to reserve my money for and don't. Don't."
Then, noting the irony of my ways, I step over a pizza box--haphazardly thrown on the floor--and think about where exactly I spend my money.
Oh. Food. Lots and lots of food. Followed by periods of no food but equally ridiculous purchases (clove ciggys, more clothes, online gaming, "Christmas presents" which are a thinly veiled excuse for me to buy things and try to remember they aren't for me). The online gaming has to be the saddest because it's basically throwing money into a vortex, knowing it will go somewhere, but not really benefiting yourself or showing the fruits of its labor.
I have 2 options for tonight. Things can either shape up, involving me doing a rigorous bout of cleaning and making up for any lapses in personal care.... or I can take some sleeping pills and know that tomorrow is another day.
I've only got *shakes can* 2/3 left of my Orange Tango, so if I stay awake too much longer (note it's only 8:30pm and I woke up around 3:00pm today) I'll have to ignore my thirst or bundle up to get soda again.
The sleeping pills are looking inviting. Plus, when I'm asleep, I can't possibly be eating or buying shit. I'm running out of TV programs to stream, and I can't do homework unless I take care of the physical mess. Everything in order, you know.
Trying to do some math in my head to see how long I can sleep before I have responsibilities tomorrow. Ugh, Thursday is always a long day... maybe I should just stay awake now so I don't sleep and get to the grind of tomorrow any sooner.
Sometimes, my favorite things to do are those I am fully aware I shouldn't be for ethical/medical/moral/safety reasons. I like to breath deeply and rub my eyes until it's like looking into a kaleidoscope. Your brain can't differentiate between light and pressure, so it thinks it's looking at something (and tries to interpret it with colors etc) when actually, you're just ramming your fingers against your eye making a "I'm so sleepy" motion.
Meditation never works for me, but there's something soothing about closing your eyes and seeing things among the murky blackness.
It's times like this when I distract myself away from the mundane things in life, like when I'll make time to buy more sodding toilet paper.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
I'm on hold with my American insurance company, listening to a looping message about managing stress.
This makes me want to punch a hole in the wall.
I have nothing witty or supportive to say today. Officially, I am drained and more than a little discouraged. Don't feel like talking about it... for once, har har.
P.S. I tried to get private insurance in the UK but I can't even be treated for pre-existing conditions for 5 years. FML. I've run out of options.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Spent the night in the hospital.
How many times can shit like this go down before it's completely tiresome?
Nothing to whine about. Don't drink cough syrup though... the next morning isn't pleasant. I also learned that what we Yankees call acetaminophen is called paracetamol everywhere else in the world. Oops.
Food intake at the hospital is always great. When they're worried about your kidneys failing, they don't give a shit if you eat the gravied pork (after you've already slurred your vegetarian ways) that's gathering significant precipitation under the now-swampy plastic hospital cover. So my intake was 80cal of cheese and 30cal of cracker and negative calories for whatever it was I managed to purge from the day before.
When I got out of the hospital, my mood immediately elevated despite lacking a good reason, and I bought a Subway to pretend I was in America where I wouldn't have just been sent home with a pat on the head.
Seriously though, the one thing that is good about the hospital is that it's the shittiest hotel you'll ever stay in. This is fine if you've got nationalized health care and you aren't paying for it, but I do get a bit irked when I think about how much I'm shelling out to be mentally sodomized in the US.
But back to my original point. I like to be taken care of and know that there's a routine and a schedule that I have to follow. It's like vacation.
(omg, side note for a good paper)
Sometimes I'll say to people, "If I had it my way, I just wouldn't ever do anything. Ever." I always get the same response: "Oh doesn't everyone want that?"
No. Lock me in a room without windows and external stimuli forever and I think I'd be ok. People creep me out more than they comfort me. Too much stuff is overwhelming. Just leave me alone with my craziness and my thoughts and the promise of no responsibility to anyone or anything and I would be happy.
When you tell people that you don't want to do anything, they think you mean 1) Quit your job 2) Be rich 3) Live on some kind of fancy deserted island where you still have access to everything you want and desire.
People actually need to do meaningful things in their lives. Well most people. People like us find meaning from within. From staring down at our bodies... blobs of skin... for hours. Letting our mind race from topic to topic, conversations of the past, and things that need to be done. A mental checklist.
The only people who actually don't want to do anything are the people who are so exhausted from themselves it's hard to live in both the real world and the one that's going on inward.
Integrating back into society after a brief hospital holiday. Remembering how to successfully lead two lives.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
What Ho, Readers!
I may or may not be losing my job soon. This is really shitty because I want to quit. It's also really stupid because this is the first time I've ever not been able to juggle school, social life, and hold down a job. I'm obviously less high functioning than I look ;)
Managed to do what I have decided to be THE stupidest method of self harm YET (Oh and there have been plenty... I always get asked about "cutting" and "overdosing" but I want to say, "Wait, you don't want to hear about the really clever ones??"). I'm going to tell you about it only because I can't think of anyone as stupid as I am who would actually go through with this.
Decided to color my hair because I'm sick of the auburn color it is. Bought bleach and bleached it. Realized the stupid pink I colored it months and months ago was underneath the auburn and black I had on top that bleached out perfectly.... so fully knowing I should wait to bleach it again, I bleached it 2 days later AND put another color on after the bleach to get the yellow out.
The bleaching went fine but the color started burning my head. That's when I started getting very, "pain is gain" about the whole thing and wanted to see how long I could last.
Now my head is raw and weeping and I can already envision the scabs. This was dumb.
The pink didn't come out. It's kind of interesting looking though. Just wish I didn't effing burn my head so I could actually use toner to get the yellows out.
Term papers are due on the 14th and I haven't started a single one. Oops.
A care package arrived with all my favorite American Christmas candy. Damn. I think I'm going to dole them out to friends and be like "Look how kitchy this is!"
I need to replace my toothbrush. Very anal about when they start to get old (after like a month lol!) but I can't find where I put the damn replacements.
I have a negative balance in my bank account and my American health insurance just went up. FML
The best thing of all though is that yesterday I came home and went straight to bed at 7PM and woke up at 7AM. Now all the shitty things in the world don't seem to bother me.
Have a restful day. Zone out on the bigger things for a bit with me!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Me to my mother (PD): "So what do you think about Paula Deen getting hit in the face with a frozen ham?"
My mother (PD): *In her best Southern drawl* "Oh at her age? That's just awful!"
Me: "What does age have to do with it?"
PD: "Hun, your face just doesn't hold up as well... If she were 30 it'd be a different story."
Then she proceeded to talk about how the dog must be starving and the plan to buy him hamburger tomorrow because she could see his ribs. Hunger strike and all that.
I do wonder if the rest of America came to the immediate conclusion that I came before I got all the facts (what? it was an accident?? oh, not as interesting!):
Was the Paula Deen "Ham Throwing" incident to Food as the George W. Bush "Shoe Throwing" incident was to Politics?
You might not get my subtle standardized testing rhetoric. I think the world is similarly weary of seeing poor Paula shove her hand in BBQ sauce like it's........ jesus, I can't even find anything to compare that to... You shouldn't dip your whole hand in a bowl of *anything* then proceed to lick it off your fingers. "More butter" and phrases of the like aren't cheeky anymore. We're getting a little grossed out.
The Food Network has made me realize something after so many years of being on TV. We have fucking dedicated an entire NETWORK OF TELEVISION to something that we're only supposed to be doing to keep us alive.
I think the world is sick of Paula and Jamie (shit, I am sick of Jamie, and I just learned who the hell he was 2 months ago) and even Top Chef (sorry Padma). Please tell Gordon Ramsey, he's not scary except for what all that yelling has done for his face.
Seriously... you all have ruined food. Bush has ruined the world, and you all have ruined cuisine.
Hope your nose isn't broken Paula. You're a tough cookie (damn it!).
... sitting across the aisle from me every Friday in lecture.
I don't know if you are intentionally choosing to sit there--juxtaposing yourself to me, if we are magnetically attracted to one another, or if we keep magically finding ourselves sitting adjacent to each other each week.
But it fucking pisses me off. Stop doing it.
I know you are thinner than me. And if I'm looking at you, I know you are looking at me. You can't be thinner than me and doing it by some force of nature. You are starving yourself. By putting yourself in my line of sight, and especially draping yourself week after week in stripes and baggy clothes, you thrust your thinness in my face. Reminding me that I've failed a little bit.
You have the perfect jawbone and I know I stare at you sometimes. It makes me wonder looking over at you, intently jotting down notes... did I ever look like that? I pinch my index finger and my thumb around my upper arm to mentally gauge the size difference.
Was someone ever looking at me like that, when I was at my smallest? Sitting, staring, spitefully wishing to trade places?
And yet, I know I look a bit better now that I've put on some weight. Does my Striped Friend with whom I have a Silent Shared Secret like the way she looks? This achievement in svelte.
Or do we sit adjacent because she longs something from me too...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
This offends me on several levels.
1. I think tries to compare itself erroneously to anorexia nervosa which actually kills people.
2. What's next? Cakeorexia?
3. This is something that EVERYONE does. Eating disordered or not.
For those of you that don't know what this is, the media will try and make this sound really complicated, but basically it's saving calories so you can drink more. And if cakorexia does exist (which I argue it does), we already do this. Save calories to make room for cake.
I have a severe form of drunkorexia which I've come to realize deeply concerns my fellow cohort in the pub. While everyone is ordering crisps and cider and beer, I come upstairs with my drink of choice. A wise one in my opinion.
A shot of vodka and a glass of water.
Efficiency in its highest form. Saving you on money, calories, and time spent getting drunk (which is the only reason to drink in the first place... to get buzzed. Don't argue with me about taste, drink god-damned grape juice if you want something that tastes good, alcohol is juice that's sat out too long).
Perhaps I'm jaded because I've gone for a week consuming water alone and not died so when people tell me things are dangerous, I tut tut and have decided that there are worse things I can do.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Can I just say I hate my roommates?
Like every single one of them.
(P.S. I'm going to try something I call leaving out obscenities... some people think it cheapens things! We'll see.)
I have a love hate relationship with the location of my room on the cell block that is my flat. I'm 2 doors down from the kitchen. Bad. BUT, I can look through my peephole and see if the light is on in said kitchen.
Obviously I like to sneak in there when no one else is around because I don't want anyone to see what I'm consuming and I hate making stupid small talk with them.
But being so close to the kitchen, I'm always smelling their shitty food. Being eating disordered, I think I have a pretty damn good idea what good food is. People can lie all they want, fast food tastes absolutely delicious if you know what to get. Turn your nose up if you want, but everyone who secretly says its gross and munches on edamame like it's chocolate can just go stuff themselves into a rabbit cage. So I think I'm a pretty good judge of gastronomy (and I've had 5 star cuisine that was to die for and really amazing hole in the wall stuff).
Let's begin the rant though.
It's never ever ok to leave your leftovers overnight in the pot on the stove for 36 hours. It didn't even look good to begin with and now it smells like rotting. If you are going to let your dish soak, please rinse it first. Close the trash can. These things waft into my room and I can't do anything to stop it except open the window and smell cigarette smoke which seems like the better option of the two.
I have never met anyone who doesn't know how to properly store food. If you want to freeze your bread, why are you going to leave the bag ripped open? And for that matter, why are you going to put your ripped open bag of frozen bread and crumbs in the freezer bin that has been MINE the whole term? The fact that I haven't used it in 3 weeks doesn't mean I've moved out. I should still get 1 fridge rack and 1 freezer bin (by the way, I've moved your disgusting tupperware off my shelf from my clementine oranges before you could infect them with whatever was inside).
It is NEVER ever ok to put something in the fridge without a lid. And I mean things like yogurt. Like "Oh I didn't finish this, I'm just going to stick it in here." And yogurt is being kind. I really mean curry and chinese take out (that most certainly once had a lid). Things that permeate through the fridge and my food absorbs the smells. Making me have to change what I buy to only things that have an inch of plastic encasing them or things that never ever have to enter the horrible refrigerator in the first place.
When you are leaving the kitchen, are you so angry with what you have just cooked and eaten that you feel the need to slam the door? Because even when I try I can't figure out how to slam that stupid thing. I just don't know how the six of you do it. Slam the door and walk by my room in what sounds like steel-toed Doc Martin shoes, mumbling something loudly when I KNOW there isn't anyone in the hallway talking to you.
Then you have the nerve to ask me why I'm never in the kitchen! Because you all came from families and countries where apparently the sacred place of the kitchen is your toilet. I bet your bathroom is cleaner than our kitchen is.
Sometimes I want to do my dishes in my bathroom sink because you all disgust me so much.
So I thoroughly blame you, neighbors whose names I for the most part do not remember so I don't even have to make up pseudonyms, for the fluctuations in my weight. I either have to eat gross over-processed food (not the same as fast food... the later actually expires where as "Twinkies" are good to stockpile if you are worried about a nuclear attack) which causes a spike on the scale, or I drink squash to keep myself away from that horrible war torn country that is my kitchen. Squash diluted with large amounts of water and the occasional cheese sandwich is a surprisingly affective weight loss regime. That and a horrible horrible cluster of roommates with bad manners and poor cleaning habits.
fuck fuck fuck. OK I had to get that out.
Sometimes I feel like I'm shouting at the wind. Typing away and no one is really reading except the echoes wooshed and swirled back at me--tossing around my hair and kissing my chapped nose--reminding me that there are bigger forces than myself out there.
Oh, Sapling outside my window
You have lost most your leaves and I imagine you are quite cold
For you, I enviously note when I walk by, are so gracefully thin
And if I am shivering... you must be frozen
Yet in the breezes and harshness of the elements
You sway gently and stand proud
Slight and lithe and beautiful
If I could, I would only ever look like you
Someday, I hope to find shelter under your sparse branches
You will hide and inspire me with your striking foliage
But in order to do so, we should both make a pact:
You must grow a bit,
And I must dwindle.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
There's just something about me that screams "rebel." If I show you the me at my messiest self... I must clean up my room the next day and show you proof that I can live in something other than complete squalor.
Actually, there's method to my madness. If you look by the computer, you can see a large stack of books. Those are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.... 17 books I just got between today and yesterday that I absolutely cannot bear to display and use (for my end of term essays) without knowing that they aren't going to get lost in my room.
No, that's not true. I'm really one of those people who has to like clean everything before she gets down to the dirty deed of doing work. There's something oddly gratifying about housework. Maybe that's why I let my room get so filthy before I clean it all up?
Maybe I should clue you all in on what I'm actually going to be doing one of my term papers on? No, I have something else I want to talk about today. I'll talk about the term paper another time. Remind me about the term paper though... it actually is important!
I went into the A&E (ER for you Yankies HAR HAR) after getting sexually assaulted and I was pretty shaken up. Like I was pulling out my own hair, shaken up (which is pretty shitty now that I look back on it, because my hair is considerably less asymmetrical now that I take a good look... which was the look I had going for me). Had a long drawn out conversation with this ridiculous "crisis team" [seriously, ever single fucking day I learn that the UK system and the US system of health care are like god damn apples and oranges mind-fucking-blowing] and the lead guy was this really intense Jamaican man. Now I don't feel bad for singling him out as Jamaican because he was one of those guys who was obviously super proud of being a Jamacian export. He had no less than 3 pieces of jewelry (ring, bracelet, necklace) with a Jamaican flag, so I found this humorous.
What was the point? Oh yes. So during this long-drawn out conversation that numerous times led to "What do you want us to do for you?" At which point I always want to scream "FUCKING FIX ME OR JUST KILL ME NOW!" There was one point where I'm-refraining-from-going-to-every-cultural-stereotype-I-can-think-of-to-call-this-guy-but-it's-hard-not-to-go-there! is like "Oh I don't know that you really need the Crisis Team right now, since you're high functioning."
I just told you that I can't take the Underground because I'm afraid I'll step in front of the train but I mostly refrain myself because I don't want other people to see that and be scarred and as fucked up as I am. And there's a pile of my hair... A PILE... of my hair on the floor.
So later they offer to drive me home since pretty much that's all they can offer to do other than tell me to come back to A&E if I want to kill myself (great help, kthnkxbi) and the woman who is like the Robin to the Jamaican Batman turns to me and says "So how long have you been here and how long are you staying?"
"Oh.... um, I got here end of September and I'll be here about a year."
*Dead Silence and then...* "Oh no hun. You've only been here two months and you're already having so many problems! You poor thing!"
UH YEAH! High functioning my ass.
But then it made me think. I've never really attributed that term to myself. High/low functioning has been something that people like my autistic cousin get labeled with because there's all these complicated factors and usually other people involved. Who will look after them when their parents die? Can they take care of themselves? Who will support them? Can they hold down a job? Legal issues legal issues jargon jargon blah blah boring I'm bored.
That doesn't really seem like me. But I guess sometimes it seems like things that affect me sometimes counter one another. I will spend all of my semester in bed, but blow me down if I will allow myself to drop out of school. That would mean failure (for me)... that is unacceptable. I will sleep in until that last minute possible and then I will wear myself raw to achieve what I have to, to get it done. BUT, I don't live in a vacuum, my success largely relies on other people. BUT, I am also aware that some of my biggest faults are also aspects to my greatest strengths. SO am I high functioning?
Are we even talking about the right spectrum, or is there some other range or category that better applies?
In case you wonder: the starkness of the room is not my choice, the management has very strong opinions about sticking things to the painted surfaces and I rebelled but for some reason my tape didn't even stick... so God was telling me it wasn't worth the fine I suppose. So I guess I'm going for a bland mashed potatoes look until the end of Spring!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
My room is turning into an assemblage of trash. It's horrible. Should I list off some of the things I can see from the vantage point of the writing spot on my bed?
On The Night Stand
Guava Juice Box
2 straw wrappers (insinuating there was once another juice box... probably around here somewhere)
The corner of a bag of Haribo Cola Fizzys under a book (I'd tell you the book, but it'd give my alias away dead on! Though I'm sure my face has done that time after time *wink*)
Bag of Haribo Sour Cherries
Hubba Bubba chewing gum package... cool cola flavor (on that note, I love cola flavored things, but I hate cola the drink)
Bottle of spilled nail polish (I'm including this because it very obviously needs to be cleaned up but hasn't been)
In My Chair
Bottle of laundry detergent
Wacom bamboo tablet (I still haven't opened it!!! I can't open new fancy things I buy until my room is clean... it's a rule I generally stick to)
On My Computer Desk
Absense of Computer (It's been here on my bed for ages... I've been sleeping with it too, since there's no room on said nightstand)
2 takeaway boxes
Dr. Pepper (It's new unlike everything else, I'm planning on using it for breakfast tomorrow since I've just spent today sleeping all day and I'll likely not sleep at all tonight and thus need the caffeine)
Bottle of "Brut Spumante" (I opened it, spilled it everywhere, then realized I hate champagne and sparkling wine... bought it when I was drunk and stumbled into Waitrose. Stupid "Scrumpy Jack and its suprisingly high alcohol content!)
Old Jamaica Ginger Beer (gross)
Reese's Peanut Butter cup (present from the States, thank you Holly! If she's reading this, she's probably so grossed out becuase it's definitely from Halloween)
Toffee Crisp (omg new favorite candy bar)
Sainsbury bag full of what I presume to be a lot of trash
coffee mug and spoon (from lunch... my bowl was dirty so I had to use the coffee mug, sad I know. Even sadder that I ate lunch!)
Birthday card from a long time ago
perfume that belongs not there
On The Floor
Piles and Piles of clothes and shoes
No less than 4 bags of trash (Oh I can see the other juice box!)
Ewww a fruit fly just flew by... that must mean there's a fruit peel somewhere in here
A care package for a friend (I bought a bunch of Cadbury bars for said friend, but I haven't mailed the package for two reasons 1) I've run out of money 2) While waiting to get more money I ate the Cadbury..... oops)
Books and books and books
I like to think that when my room is organized my life is better organized (<-- a made bed makes all the difference!). When I can pull things together and things are tidy, and I've showered and put on make up, and gotten out of the house, I think my outlook on life is generally a little bit better. You can see that clearly I need to clean my room. It's really not as gross as it sounds, but it's kind of gross. Kind of a lot. I just started typing something else, but I'm saving it for tomorrow. It's heavy ;) Loving you all to pieces. Tiny pieces that are scattered about my disgusting room.
EDIT: You can all thank What If Summer... because now I feel compelled to describe the bathroom :)
Stack of newspapers and magazines the oldest dating to October 15 (they like force them on me on my walk home and I don't know what to do with them!)
An orchid that I impulsively bought that never gets watered except by hairspray but somehow is doing quite well
The dreaded scale (trademark Boots)
A "Habitat" paper bag that serves as my trashcan
make up that's on the sink and the floor and in a galloon size ziplock bag (again on the floor)
See that wasn't SO bad. I'm not like living in complete filth.
P.S: I lost a follower during the night and I wonder if they decided I was too gross to justify reading :)
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
You damn well better have. I am glad to report that in my long absence, I was not disappointing you. Well, I was disappointing you in the sense that I binged a lot, gained some weight, felt shitty, moped, and bought a scaled, and freaked out. Even wrote a post about said scale and never got around to publishing it.
When I look at "Borderline Personality Disorder" traits, I like to think that I don't do all the reckless, dangerous behavior that's carefully listed in a bit of a "You're up shit creek if you're ever unfortunate enough to have this," kind of way. For better or worse, I can now say I've crossed a line.
"The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well."I'm having money problems. Like, I'm really not sure how I'm going to stretch out about ₤100 pounds over the next month when it seems like I spend about 20 every time I turn around. Must figure out what this "overdraft" business is all about. Thus, I'm getting increasingly desperate for cash. I started doing research for a paper I was going to entitle: "Sex, Money, Beauty, and Power: Gold Diggers or Material Girls." This lead me to various places, including a very interesting little blogger community, not too different from ours. Except they are filled with 20somethings that call themselves "sugar babies" not to be confused with "sugar gliders" (google search likes to bring up the later when you search for the former!).
My research and reading these blogger accounts started making me long for Alexander McQueen dresses and Jimmy Choo heels... and more importantly, the idea of a ₤5000 month allowance. I joined a website promising me the allure of rich men who wanted to spoil me just for the joy of having me as brilliant conversation and not-too-shabby-looking arm candy. I easily lined up dates with men that you could google and know who they are. Men whose clothes are in your closets and are CFOs at banks you shop in. Cocktails at Harvey Nichols. The best Dim Sum in London. Promises to holiday in the Alps. Too good to be true, right? It was. I realized that the more and more I delved into this, that all the finger wagging from the media was right. It was softcore prostitution, and I didn't even notice until I was very nearly raped. Raped in a multi-millionare's mansion by Primrose Hill.
It was all very well to say "Drink me," but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. "No, I'll look first," she said, "and see whether it's marked 'poison' or not"; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.Anyway, after getting past the initial shock of it all, I realize that my perspective on it all has completely changed. Yes, I'm still compulsively shopping... but I'm happy to be in my economic situation. You have no idea how disgusting and sadsack these men are despite being surrounded by fame and wealth. This is probably the only thing that makes me feel better about being a high-class hooker. That and the fact that all my flaws, everything I worry about, how ugly I feel all the time, seemed--for maybe the first time--a little more than a little excessive. I really am pretty. And every single girl in this community who has ever been brave enough to show us a glimpse of her in the real world astounds me. It's like I expect us to all be the sorrowful little homely things, but everyone is so beautiful and we are wasting our lives, tearing away at our souls.
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' said Alice. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'We're all mad here.'
I also started cutting again. People accept the stupidest rationalizations for these things. Used a razor again and my side from the top of my low-rise-ultimate-skinny-jean-line (thanks Lulu) to the bottom of my bra-line there's these hideous slashes, with the prominent ones almost making this kind of macabre artistic corseting pattern.
Someone got a glimpse when I was taking off my sweatshirt and I made a quick cover up, "OH jesus. I was helping a friend in the art school a few weeks ago with a project he was doing and I lost control of the hand saw... so yeah." Questions Questions. UM. Yeah, that's not how that would look. And who loses control of a hand saw and slices up their side? People are dumb. It's like the time that I "caught my calf on the stray metal of a chain link fence..." I guess you have to be like oddly specific and people just buy the story.
"Curiouser and curiouser" thought Alice.
Well my dears, I give you my leave. It's time to catch up on readings. If you're curious, I'm satisfied with my weight for now and am focusing on maintaining and toning my stomach. I love you all dearly.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Thanks for coming out to vote everyone! And I blush at the compliments about my arms... you aren't seeing them when they're squished up against my sides though, different story ;)
So I realized this morning I can wear the wig when I'm having a HORRIBLE hair day. I can't wear a hat to work, and sometimes my hair is just a hot mess... so that's what happened this morning. If anyone asks, I've already got a sad "Oh, I had skin cancer in high school so I still have the wig and I wear it sometimes when I feel funky" story. No one can think bad things about someone who had cancer. Though in reality, I just bought the wig... but I did actually have melanoma in high school (I had to wear this ridiculous bucket hat for like 2 months because hats were against "dress code"... so in hind sight, I really should have gone for a wig back then). So it's only a half lie.
Tonight I've gotta get caught up with blogs because I'm a terrible person, so I'm going to cut this off now. The comic may or may not happen this week... I kind of want to blow the money in my bank account and get a Wacom Tablet. My national insurance number needs to come soon so I can get paid. Eek!
Loving you, each and every one.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Kay. So, I am sick of my hair.
You, my fine readers need to tell me which looks better... I trust your opinion. And don't say "neither" because there's nothing I can damn well do about that.
My hair is short and I hate it now. But I don't want to get extensions because they're expensive and they can f-up your real hair....
SO I'm super creepy and got a wig and I can just tell everyone I got extensions. But I can't tell if it looks good. Need ya'lls opinion.
My short hair. Option 1. I can't take pictures without making ugly faces.
Option 2 and ugly face no.2 You would think I can't smile AND look disgusted, but I can. And do. It's a gift my friends.
And for your viewing pleasure. Remember that post when I showed everyone how my mother LITERALLY looks like Paula Deen? Well I stumbled upon this gem and thought you all would appreciate it. My mom PD at age 16.
You can't tell because she's scrunching up her chin, but she weighs like 90 pounds here. Jealous. But now she has heart problems and osteoporosis. Oops.
Guess which one? Uh, the ED unit. Damn bastard calculating my BMI and deciding that if I just eat 3 meals a day all my other problems will go away. Cha, ya right. So now I'm still off ALL my meds and he won't refill my ritalin because he thinks I can't concentrate in class because I'm fucking hungry. Idiot, I can't concentrate on class becuase I have ADHD and I usually effing do work to get my mind off being hungry. Ass.
See what I said about the angry? haha.
Friday, November 6, 2009
There's a bunch of stuff I could blog about. Oh good good stuff.... but because I've been sick (unintentionally) in 3 different public bathrooms around Bloomsbury and Islington (faking my way to use of one the toilets by frantically lying that I needed to have my blood drawn. Yeah good stuff)...
Instead I'm going to nurse whatever the hell is ailing me (cider hangover, swine flu, or food poisoning) and try to find something that doesn't look revolting to take my meds with. People. No matter how thin you want to be, don't fucking take meds on an empty empty empty vomit-y stomach. Especially pain killers. Such a sad irony.
But I have been thinking about you all, and composed several blog posts in my head. Most of which I don't remember.
So starting next week, I will be delivering a weak dose of humor poorly sketched comics with bad intentions. The comics, not me.
I'm providing you with a rough sketch of our protagonist to get you thinking, as well as some fashion advice from said character.
LOL how lazy am I? Scanning advice... don't use Apple's photobooth because you'll just decide one day "Whatever, it's good enough for everything." Then you have no idea where the library scanners are because you're a slob.
Again, pardon the quality of the drawing and the sad upload (yes I'm aware of the backward writing, surprise I don't care). Promise that future installations will actually be worth you looking at. Perhaps, if you still don't like it, then fuck off and go eat something.
Our main character. Maxine. Her little devil friend, whispering terrible things to her, Eni. Here's some praise they've already receieved!
"....like them or loathe them, you'd be mad not to loathe them!" --Steven Fry (A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Estate Agents)
I'll let the comic introduce itself next week, but hopefully this will be something a bit different to stare at once a week, and force me to keep my sketchbook on hand.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd fashion porn for funzies.
Monday, November 2, 2009
"Today is going to be a good day."
Write that down and put it in your pocket.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Bella, where'd you go!?
I have to email a few of you because I always bite off more than I can chew and get really manic and get my whole to-do-list done and then I realize I'm not crazy later and don't have the energy to take care of a months worth of work in a week. Neglectful. Tut tutting myself. So, they're coming. And I do love to hear from you, so feel free to send me emails, I miss getting them from readers.
Conversation I had in my head earlier today (not even exaggerating):
"Oh I'll just go into the shop and get my favorite sandwich, that will make me feel better"
"No. You have no money. Your bank account is 1/12 of what it was a month ago. No."
"Oh the Wellcome Collection. I'll just stop into the cafe and get a cookie. It makes me feel good to be in there."
"No. Stop thinking about it."
"Oh if I walk by a Subway, I'm totally getting a sandwich. It's like the only quasi-American food here."
"Kay... but there aren't anymore Subways on the way home."
"Fizzy cola from the corner sto..."
"OK an italian restaurant right next to my flat. If I'm really good, can I come back later this evening and get a take away?"
"Really? What counts as being really good?"
"Anyway once you get inside, you won't want to get back out. There's no food in the house. Trap!"
Yeah. It was a real back and forth thought process. Have you ever realized you're talking aloud? That was probably how it went. Didn't even notice, but half of it was probably mumbled with strange people wondering where my bluetooth was (THANK GOD for bluetooth, before that they knew I was just a crazy fuck).
So, very little food in the past 2 days. But now my stomach looks flat so I'm not tempted to microwave the last remnant of food I have.
P.S. Took out the naval piercing. It was painful but I was too embarrassed and cheap to go to a piercing shop and have them do it. More on that later.
One bottle of pop,
Two bottles of pop,
Three bottles of pop,
Four bottles of pop,
Five bottles of pop,
Six bottles of pop,
Seven, Seven bottles of pop.
Fish and chips and vinegar,
Fish and chips and vinegar,
And pepper, pepper, pepper, salt.
Don't chuck your muck in my dustbin,
My dustbin, my dustbin, my dustbin.
Don't chuck your muck in my dustbin,
My dustbin's full.
Ah, another artifact from my childhood. At first glance, nonsense sung in rounds...
and yet, you realize it accurately describes the actions you are thinking in your head,
"Drink, Eat, preferably in large quantities and over seasoning." Whether that happens
or not is a matter of placing yourself on the spectrum, and oftentimes particularly
changing depending on mood and even time of day.
Oh, by the way, my dustbin *is* quite full and has started a new pile of shopping bags, cartons,
and empty containers. What a sad state.
The irony of the situation: even though we've all become bonded over the internet,
the whole ritual of the thoughts, the actions, gestures, and afterthoughts are
quite private. No rounds to be sung. We sing alone. In silence.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
This food looks disgusting. I can't believe I ordered it. What is wrong with Chinese restaurants in London? That aside, I don't want to eat this. But a problem exists. It seems so simple.
"No Savory! Listen to your stomach. Throw that God-awful food away, with its mystery sauce and gross gross mushrooms that look like little skulls (no really, they do... don't even have to try on this one)"
But then I realize, I throw it away and it doesn't matter. I'll still go find something else to stick in my face. Granted, it might be my rations for the next 2 days worth of dinner instead of attempting delivery (let alone garner the motivation to go get a take away)... Then I will have thrown away a fucking expensive, albeit disgusting, dinner AND still managed to spend more money on the replacement dinner.
There's no saving face here. It's eat this retched shit or think I'll be good, wait for a few hours and then eat a half-frozen pizza, having no choice tomorrow but buy more food. Obviously this "don't spend any money on food" plan was a failure.
My grand plans of not spending money in general have been a failure. You know what I bought yesterday? A laptop. What am I typing on right now? My perfectly good ONE YEAR OLD laptop while the new one sits in the package under my desk.
Shit. I have a problem.
Then I get so pissed when people are like "Oh oh shopaholics don't exist" and at the people who whine "Oh EM GEE! I have SUCH a shopping problem. Like I totally just bought so many outfits! My mom is going to freak!!!!!!! lawlzzzz wut shud i do!?"
Some people, aka me, actually buy stupid ridiculous things like 3 desserts, a laptop, 10 sweater jumpers, or getting impulsively pierced (yesterday I walked around until I found the first tattoo shop I saw and got my naval pierced... I want it out now). Hating the act and loving it at the same time.
Worst of all, I totally realized I didn't have enough cash to pay the stupid delivery guy (he was rude so I didn't care about him), so I just grabbed what I had and a bunch of change and was really relieved when he shoved it into his pocket and ran off to his douche-y little motorcycle.
I think I'm going to put the Chinese in the fridge. The mushrooms are seriously freaking me out.
Monday, October 26, 2009
"Sometimes I can really see how book-smart people aren't actually people-smart at all."
-- [Not Quite] Bella
If you aren't following this brilliant blogger, why the fuck not?
[Not Quite]Bella's quote is referencing how she spouted off a bunch of bulimia facts whilst joking with her bloated, stuffed non-ED friends after eating and no one batted an eye. This is definitely a thread that is woven by many in their conversations with others, I've noticed.
"I'm going to drop you breadcrumbs... are you going to follow them?"
Why do we do this? I do it all the time. Let me think if I can remember the last time I did this. Oh. Easy. Last Thursday during a discussion seminar. We were talking about shopping.
This deserves a new paragraph. Our professor who prides himself on being important and an expert on the subject (not of being important) discussed the idea of shopping as something that is done out of love. You usually shop for other people. You pick out things with care and thoughtfulness in mind. What do your children like to eat? Would my husband wear this shirt? The nature of shopping is an act of love even if one does not enjoy doing it.
Here's where I come in. Have I ever gone to the grocery store since I became really ill and looked at a bag of carrots and thought "I would buy these because they are tasty." No. I think, "Fuck. I hate carrots by themselves. I can't get any dressing, that would make the carrots like worthless. I've gotta get the carrots and fuck I've gotta eat them in like 3 days. Just tell yourself they're low cal. They are healthy. Bullshit, it's not healthy when I'm just eating carrots. Fuck I'm fucked."
Pick up a cake. "Ah, here is a nice treat because I have done so well today! I deserve to reward myself."
"Shit. I accidentally walked by cakes. Don't lie. I did it on purpose. Look at the calories. How much would you *not* have to eat to be able to rationalize that? Where do you think your body will pack the butter and sugar onto first? My stomach or my thighs? God, just fucking pick up the cake and those cookies over there and go back over and get some hummus for the damn carrots because people are starting to stare. Just don't come back to the store with a credit card."
That is shopping with an eating disorder. Well, one experience. Shopping is hate.
So of course I open my big fat lip-glossed mouth and make a brief but potent mention of this. In hind-sight I should have said alcoholics or something, but nothing quite fits like ED. I even binge-clothes shop (completely different blog entry and shout out to Lulu, I binge shopped 2 days later!). Moderation is not our game. We are black and white.
No wonder we are scattering breadcrumbs, nay loaves of bread for our loved ones to see and put pieces together. We wonder if anyone will catch us at our game, as we let our guard down for one bit because being clever and secretive is so tiring, and the nature of our constant participation in this act of perpetuating hatred... cannot forever continue, can it?
I think a good word for people who are really sucked into the ED world, stuck amidst this spectrum between love and hate is simple:
Our world is about commitment. It is about something bigger than ourselves. Fervor, sacrifice, and oftentimes physical violence is involved. It's all very religious in nature. But that's for another day. Another time.
Sprinkle your breadcrumbs, playing the game of getting caught.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Nothing exciting to report except that you lot are adorable. But that was obvious.
...Now a word from our resident personal-life coach: Do something unexpected tomorrow. I'm going to tell my professor I'm a fucking lunatic (ED excluded. To the external world that part of me is perfect), which has never before been revealed. I'm shattering my own carefully-constructed persona. We'll see how it goes. But I've not gone to school for 2 weeks and we've only been in session for 3 so... it's possibly a necessary self-intervention.
And the new craze hitting the streets! The 5 Day Cash Freeze Diet! Folks, my plan is not to spend *any* money until Saturday (minus lunch Wednesday when I may buy a sandwich only because I am working an 8 hour day and if I don't have one small joy during my day as a retail bitch, I will break down and leave tear stains and mascara on my pillow). The food I have isn't terribly healthy, but there isn't a lot either. I hate spending money on food. It's so... fleeting.
Breaking news: I have a tummy ache. I blame booze and chewy candy. Hiss.
That's it for the 2AM edition. I'll see you again to recycle the same garbage at 4AM, 10AM, and possibly 6PM with some different catch phrases to make you think the stories are different, new and/or more relevant.
I'm Savory, and that's the News.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Intake: 12 cigarettes, 2 cups of earl gray, 8oz squash mixed w/ 52oz water, 1 diet lime coke. 1 sparkly bleach-clean bathroom. 1 pair of ultra skinny jeans (size 8... can't convince myself to wear size 6), 1 fabulous black dress (size 6). 1 awesome introduction to Topshop with London jet setting gal pal.
I've noticed that a dedicated and very bored psychologist could probably accurately track my manic and depressive cycles over the past months based on the tone of each previous blog post. You never know what to expect with me, do you?
Well it's a good day today. Minus a massive headache, I'm well. Thought about writing something philosophical, but fuck it. I've got a plastic glowing Halloween pumpkin and an alarm clock with bird perched atop (yes, it chirps the alarm... *and* the bird moves around; so exciting and frivolous) to keep me occupied. Hooray for new toys, especially the former, which came as part of a surprise care package. The later was me being wasteful. Naturally. I now have 4 alarms.
Word of sagely advice to pass down today. As I was walking home this afternoon (yes, I'm aware that was like 10 hours ago), I was thinking about what I should make for dinner. Then I realized I wasn't at all hungry. I wondered about dinner because it was the routine.
So. Don't eat until you're hungry. I'm not going to. I'm still not hungry. I just have a headache.
P.S. Shame on the UK for not stocking clove cigarettes or swisher sweets in corner stores. What kind of establishment is this?! For now, I'll just have to switch to my other favorite, Lucky Strike: "It's Toasted." Enter Don Draper.
Friday, October 23, 2009
It's time to be better about a lot of things.
Number 1. Stop skipping school. It's a vicious tornado of self-loathing and moping in bed.
Number 2. No more food is allowed in the room. Eat it in the kitchen. A) It gets munched mindlessly whilst watching TV B) The room smells gross later when not eating. Eat in the kitchen, none of my flatmates believe I eat anyway... which is unfortunately far from true.
Number 3. Count calories, fat content, and portions/ratios again. Write it all down. I'm trying to maintain weight, but I don't want to live on Percy Pigs, squash, and guacamole.
Number 4. Read and comment on blogs. Every day. Starting tomorrow.
Corollary to Numbers 1 & 4. Take the ritalin and do the assigned reading for class dammit.
Number 5. Buy a scale. This seems counter-productive, but aside from the facts that I moved to another country, had zero cash, and went off my meds, I started binging when I lost track of my weight. Perhaps it might be useful to stick to a happy-comfortable-safe number if I know what that number is without going to the dreaded Surgery.
Number 6. Keep the damn room clean. Do the laundry. Scrub the toilet and clean the sink/shower. A clean house is a happy house. It's true.
Number 7. Save and record receipts in the handy Piggy Bank themed "Money Planner" that hasn't been used. Speaking of which, stop buying stupid things.
Number 8. Always look pretty.
Number 9. Figure out a sleep schedule and stick to it, no matter who is online or what kind of sparkly thing is on the internet. No more of this sleep at 4 AM and wake at 11AM (Oh, funny story as an aside. I, for some reason that I now don't remember, kept taking multiple doses of Prozac the other night, followed by some Trasadone and Topamax, and then more than a few Ambien. I woke up what I thought was 9:00AM with my mom screaming on iChat because I guess I had slept a full 24 hours after popped all these pills while talking to her, rolled my eyes, mumbled something and craweled into bed only to wake at 9:00PM. Oops).
Corrollary to Number 9. Stop fucking around with meds and drugs.
Number 10. This could be any number of things, all of which sound very vague. Be a nicer person? Go out and do things more? Make an effort to be happier? I'm just going to go with... Channel that impulsive, ambitious, aggressive, irritable, perfectionist energy into something less destructive (i.e. eating, shopping, cutting, sleeping). Maybe doodling. Binge doodle.
Loving you all more and more every day, even if you don't know it. I have the amazing ability to skim through my reader so I at least know the first paragraph of your current lives every now and then.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
I can't stop shoving things into my mouth. It's so bad that I pulled out a box of scones I had thrown into my waste bin the night before and ate it (disgusting, but there was only paper in there but still I fucking dug through the trash to get my food).
Yeah, I totally wasn't going to tell you all about that. But who else can I whine to? "Ew, I'm eating food again... and now I can't stop. And I threw carbs in the trash so I wouldn't eat them but then I felt guilty for wasting food AKA I wanted to eat them still. Whine." Yeah, no one else in the world would be sympathetic of that. I don't even really think you should.
The only solution I can see is going back to safe foods. "What?!" You say. "You have been stocking unsafe foods!!???!" Yes, I for a brief period thought I could keep carbs and sweets in the fridge and cabinets without eating my grocery list in one weekend.
When it rains it pours.
I'm also binging on clementine oranges so I guess my safe foods aren't really safe.
Also in the extreme arena is my adoration for super skinny, not-busty-and-proud Olivia Wilde. If she can be a sex symbol than I shouldn't be so upset about the way I'm distributed and stop this vicious cycle and just like the way I look. Except get thinner. Ha.
Yours in pie-eating-contests,
Friday, October 16, 2009
Fuck me. I can't even take my own sappy post advice for 5 minutes.
You don't know hatred and longing until you live 1 door down from the communal kitchen with a bunch of international kids who love to over-spice everything in a room without a fume hood.
Also, I've made a grocery list for tomorrow (to spend my last £20) and aside from the bag of apples and oranges I plan on getting, NOTHING on the list is healthy or respectable. There are 2 week old cucumbers in the fridge because I know I'd rather go hungry than eat them.
I'm just going to balloon back up to my high weight and start over. There's nothing admirable about loathing your body for being disproportionate, when fat or thin. I just want to gain weight to get something to put in my bra. Right now, I'm pretending like that's all that's going to happen (ignore the cottage cheese thighs, the stretch marks, the poochy tummy, the muffin top, the legs that make sizzle noises because the stockings are rubbing together...). No, somehow none of that will happen if I only gain 5 pounds because it will all go to the right place, I won't cringe at my sight, and suddenly I'll be gorgeous despite the fact I've already seen myself at that size and thought I could do better.
Basically to go against what I said before (rapid mood swings!), and not know which one I truly mean, life is futile. You are born, you get fatter, older, and inevitably kicked in the teeth... then you die. But in a kind of "life as adventure" kind of way, if you want to take a positive spin.
Let's just do something mindless instead. Kay?
I'd start lamenting and apologizing for being such a terrible blogger and virtual-friend but I seem to do it on every belated post, so it might start to lose meaning and sound insincere. Know that it's a vicious cycle of neglecting you, feeling guilty, avoiding blogger due to said guilt, and continuing to neglect you. It eats me up more than you probably notice my absence ;)
Recently, I took off the necklace I've worn every single day since the week I started blogging. I never took it off... not even parading around in costume, going to fancy events, getting engaged. It's been there for the whole lot and any sparse pictures that may have gotten snapped. When my collar bones seemed particularly noteworthy a few months ago, I decided to memorialize the necklace's importance via photograph.
The chain has gone from silver to brown but the pendant still retains most of its original spark.
I said I would never take it off. Of course the little fairy dragonfly has obvious symbolic implications (which I will always deny to TR, though he sees right through it) but it would become so much more than a gentle reminder of my dangerous pact with myself and maniacal need to push things further.
It became about remembering everyone there scattered around the globe, thinking the same things I thought. Hating every inch, longing for something better and perfect, if only to compensate for something else. My pendant was my daily struggle and a tangible connection to all my readers I couldn't hope to ever meet.
I'm trying not to hate myself, but it's hard when you're taken off medication and you know the impulses, the thoughts, and the actions are going to inevitably follow. It's not a sad thing because there's no safety net to catch me here. No one would ever really notice if anything happened to me, and for the first time, that's scary not comforting.
You won't believe how extraordinary it feels to feel less and less of your bones, try and be hopeful at the sight of a 1.5 inch increase on your waist (though you secretly know both triumphantly and defeated that it's almost all bloat and water retention). There's a tinge of sadness walking by women who are thinner than yourself, feeling jealous that you hadn't achieved that kind of tiny and once again reassuring yourself it's not a pretty sight.
I don't know what will happen with the necklace. If I'll just replace the disgusting chain and put it back on, its comforting wrap reminding me of my shared bondage to a loathing master... or if I'll manage to ignore the pleas of my naked collar and carry on forward.
I have no assumption that recovery is possible for anyone. You can't recover from something like this. Maybe you can change your behavior, maybe you can move beyond the pull of desire that's taken you here in the first place, but you're always addicted. Always unstable. Always eating disordered. It's alcoholism (despite my former attempts to deny this) except it sneaks up on you. You don't have the simplicity of "one drink" to tell you when you've cheated or failed. The voice gently brings you back in before you even know you've slipped, because we're surrounded by propaganda to slenderize, cut back fat/carbs/sugar, rejoice in shedding weight, and without all that what are we? What do we have in our culture to really root onto? If you try and ignore the shouts to lose weight, hate XXXXX about yourself, you become the outsider. More unsettling than it was to be sucked into the ED world. It's black and white world it seems, and we have to fight to stick in whatever gray spot we can find if we want to avoid the beast.
I'm really glad to read over your successes and continued perseverance, but I can't bring myself to individually cheer people on or condemn the practice. I'm a hypocrite either way. My support is always here, and I don't know which way in the spectrum of "fucked up" I'm moving towards. But I suppose I need to figure out what to do about my necklace before I can manage to pick a team to start following.
I hope my readers can confront their ideals of beauty this new week, whether it is achieving a new goal, reflecting on a current predicament, or moving toward something challenging or unprecedented. Beauty is in everything. I don't really care if that means being comforted by the warmth of consistency or marveling at what lies beyond the safety of routine. Be dazzled either way. There's no point in being stationary because of fickle emotions. Shed that feeling of self-doubt and empty longing--with me--to experience the thrill of pushing yourself for something without judgment or condemnation. Find something that makes you happy and don't feel any guilt that may accompany it.
Sounds absurd, and also a bit unreal, but we don't have to hate ourselves or long for punishment in our desires to achieve these goals. It just seems like a good strategy, in hindsight, to push toward something for which we feel undeserving.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Some people might call me obsessive. TR specifically things I have "phases of fads" ...
Case in point. Two days ago, I was determined about going to Burning Man next year, but I only care now because I've reminded myself. Another example. I started carrying around my old sketch book and doodling. When it falls out of my bag onto my floor, I'll forget about how meticulously I was documenting the world and not draw a single absurd figure for the next few months.
Last week when I was applying for jobs, I got it into my head that I should become an exotic dancer. After much research, walking by my local Spearmint Rhino, and "How to Give A Proper Lapdance" queries later I decided this probably wasn't going to happen. Actually, I think it was the horrible "audition" dream I had during the weekend that turned me off from the whole thing, but that aside.
Oh my stripper name by the way? Mallory Moxie. Don't steal it if you become a successful dancer (unless you want to help me with some personal funds).
But what did this whole lesson in futility teach me? Yes. Yes, I'm finally thin enough to strut around on stage and know that despite how fat I think I am, measurements don't lie. And men like tiny and outwardly confident.
It doesn't matter though. Because I can morph and slenderize my formerly pear-shaped self to a more suitable celery me, but that's not what men want either.
Man, in all his urge to conquer nature, wants something that none of us can achieve no matter how much we starve or run or fight. And guess what? I want it too. And you all probably do as well.
I want to be tall(er), and keep my 24" waist but push the weight from my 1400g brain matter into my boobs and butt. I want perky and round and tight and firm.
I want to be a Barbie Doll. Unless I get a disposable income and some serious time to myself, that is not going to happen.
This revelation has made me wonder to myself, "What has been the point?" Yes, part of it has always been about pushing my limits, destroying myself, and painting an outward image of my inner fucked-up self... but I never wanted to be ugly. If I wanted to look like a monster, I would have just started slashing my face instead of meticulously finding new spots to mutilate.
If I wanted to look bad, there were far easier ways to do it.
I've rid myself of both the good and the bad fat, knowing that some omnipotent ruler in the sky is laughing at the sad paradox of it all while he blows up balloon planets and releases them into other galaxies. I can't be a sex symbol, I can't be my own definition of beautiful.
What do I do now? This, ladies and gentlemen, has been my conundrum. Unfortunately, I don't have an answer. But in the event that I decide to go in a different direction, a "healthier" direction, I clued in my GP. And weighed myself.
Eight stone. It's so much harsher over here.
I have to get some bloodwork and things done so she can see what kind of state I'm in, but I haven't decided if I want to go along with the referral to the ED Unit (especially because I don't know what that even means in this country)... I don't know.
It's all very confusing. Someone just pay for me to get implants and this whole mess can go away. hah, kind of.
Monday, October 12, 2009
1) I don't like Jaffa Cakes despite how much they are adored on blogger. Hooray! It is a bit sad that I sought them out after hearing so many woeful stories about them though... I'm a sucker for sabotage I guess.
2) Buying clothes where you buy your groceries doesn't make sense, and as such you should just expect similar customer service.
So I got a job. Yay! In retail... which means I have to spent my first week's paycheck before I've even started working on going out and getting "smart" black clothes. Here's where H&M would have come in except I have no sense of direction and walked a strange way that led to nowhere interesting. Navigated back and decided to pop in at the little M&S.
I thought I knew a little bit about British sizes but it all got very confusing very fast.
"Excuse me... what number is the equivalent of a small here?" (I keep seeing 12, 14, 18... which seems HUGE but that's all they have so I decide I must not understand the sizes)
"It depends on how small you want to go." (WTF does that even mean)
"Blah blah blah 6 is the smallest we have here blah blah"
"OK so a 6?"
"NO NO That's like really skinny."
OK fuck you. Obviously you're telling me I can't get into a size 6, which I know is not as small as it goes (I'm aware of the magic UK size 4).
"Erm, right. So I should get like an 8?"
"Size 6 is tiny. Like runway small. Catwalk."
Now that I'm embarrassed about how fat this woman must think I am, holding onto loads of depressing black clothes in sizes 8 & 10 because I figure I must fit into that since I'm a whale but everything else looks too big, AND everyone's just heard about how I have no idea what size I'm supposed to be buying IN A F-ING GROCERY STORE.... I slink over to the check out and try not to let my things touch the dirty food conveyor belt this girl obviously wants me to put them on.
Get home. They all fit. Knew it.
Obsessed now with finding this size 6 so I can see if I'll rip out the seams by looking at it.
Now I'm stuck with stupid clothes that don't fit me right. Not that anything ever has fit me right since I've come to the conclusion that if you want to look good you need plastic surgery and a good tailor.
I don't remember what I was ranting about. It's not important. One of you lovely ladies need to point me in the direction of some real shops. None of this grab a jumper and a sammie on the way out business.
Gah. I'm frustrated.
In other news, shoes are officially your only friends. I have never ever had a bad experience trying on shoes (except those weird wide ones that I'm POSITIVE somehow make feet look fat). This proves that shoe shopping is the only joy left in my world and explains why I have more pairs than outfits to match them up with.
That said, I am longing for some new boots. Because no one can tell me how damn thin I have to be to try on a boot. And if my feet are big, well fuck, it usually means I'm taller. So there.
Go buy some shoes for me. I'm out of money ;)