I hate when other people complain to me.
I hate more that I think I have the right to be a complainer.
Isn't that always the case though? Someone tells you how awful their life and you think "Well at least you aren't going through this this and this. I'm the one who has it bad!" And then you realize, that you're them, except worse because you can be self-aware and still not give a damn about changing your mindset.
It's so much easier to think that the world is against you. And it's even easier to think that everyone else is floating in rainbow bubble slush while you are getting kicked in the teeth. What do I have to do to shake that part of me? The part of me that always laments over getting dealt the bad cards. The part of me that scoffs at a God who might intervene on our lives (if there is a God, he is surely uninterested in anything but deep time) but secretly thinks that I must have done something horribly wrong to be punished so profusely.
The worst part is I probably wouldn't feel anything like this, and definitely not this profoundly, except that obviously I've skipped my medication several days too many. It makes me wonder if my meds keep me emotionally regulated but complacent and blind to the true nature of the world. And if so the question remains...
Is ignorance bliss?
I obviously wouldn't be nearly as upset about a topic (that I can't even reveal to my readers because I have no idea who might read this from my offline life) except I accidentally found out about it. And I definitely would feel less bad if I had stayed on the medication that keeps me emotionally drained.
At least most of my day went well. Exceedingly well.
"On the ignorance of learned men:
Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before. He is full of murderous resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by their ignorance the hard way."
(Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut, 124)
And we come full circle again.
Monday, October 18, 2010
I hate when other people complain to me.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
If you haven't seen this yet (I meant to mention it before it went viral but meh), this should turn you off from a good percentage of food you shouldn't be eating:
Let me know if it doesn't.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Today was strange.
We went to visit my sister who is in San Diego doing some freelance work right now. That city is so emotionally charged. It isn't neutral for me like Los Angeles or Seattle. I associate it with Comic-Con and TR (who is obsessed with his home town and like practically every San Diego native thinks it's the best city in the world. Weirdo.) So I always feel a little sad going there, it's like walking into an old memory. Seeing ghosts everywhere.
But today it was compounded. We were trying to figure out things to do, and I suggested we stop in this British imported goods shop.
Literally everything in there made me so wistful. In the back of my mind, I tried to remind myself "When you lived in London you were hospitalized or at A&E 3 different times in 8 months... it wasn't as great as you remember it now". But I just kept thinking to myself, as I gazed at the Cadbury chocolates and Twinnings tea boxes, that my life would be so much better if I was still there.
Obviously with some minor details like my own kitchen and a job, but still.
I don't know. I'm just now coming to grips with the notion that my life there is over. It all feels like a dream. And if I didn't know that Anise, Lulu, and Lola-Rose would quickly remind me, I might think that perhaps it never happened.
During that time, I walked down the lane, looking at myself at my absolute thinnest and later at my loathsome stubborn neutral weight. At different points, I wore size 4/6 and 10/12. Sometimes I liked to put my teeny tiny Topshop skinny jeans on top of my fat cheap Primark jeans. Like it told a story. In reverse.
At the import shop, I bought a box of Mr. Kipling's Battenburg cakes (which may find itself atop the fourth plinth in Trafalgar apparently) and Cherry Bakewell Tarts. Some of you may remember they comforted me many a night during my kitchen boycotts.
They're still sitting in the bag on a countertop. I don't think they've ever lasted this long before. Perhaps I'll freeze them. It was lovely to see them and though I almost cried at the thought of my favorite delights, I have utterly no desire to eat them.
Maybe it truly is an emotional addiction I have to food. It's not that I don't want to eat anything, but I'm worried that I'll eat a battenburg cake and it just won't taste as frantically good. It wouldn't be associated with lonely nights in my 8x20 room watching TV and spending 16 hours in bed. I didn't have to throw on clothes and an awful hat, doing a walk-of-shame to Sainsbury's just to get them before the shop closed so I could survive another evening.
It would just be food. It would just be the remnants of a memory.
And it's not really about food. Never really. It's about thoughts, and desires, and obsessions, and sadness and loss. It's about eating my ups and downs. It's about finding something that doesn't want to be found. It's about filling up a bottomless hole. A gaping wound. It's about love. Hate.
It's just a cake now.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
I fucking hate how out of control I feel. It's like I'm sitting here watching my life happen.
Even if I wanted to start fasting right now, I can't, because I live at home. And I'm too old to sneak around pretending I ate somewhere else with someone else. Emptying out food into the trash and leaving bowls around. If I don't fucking want to eat something, why do I not have a choice in that? It's my fucking body. I'm not doing anything illegal. Yeah, I know I should at least eat 1300 calories a day, but I also shouldn't be eating the chemicals that get poured into all my food. No one cares about that (except for obnoxious "green" people who shove their lifestyle down your throat... no offense to any of my granola readers).
I'm just so mad at my mother for constantly pointing out that the meal I have planned out won't be enough calories. But she doesn't say anything to my fat sister about her meal which is her day's worth of calories on a plate.
Sometimes it feels like I don't make the decisions in my life. Either someone else does it or shit just happens and takes control away from me. I don't even want to be here anymore. I can't believe this is my life.
I have to take control back.
Friday, October 1, 2010
I don't understand why food is so important to me. I mean, we need it to live so yeah it's one of the most important things in the whole world.
But why can't I just eat potatoes and oatmeal and oranges (which apparently contains enough nutrients to keep you alive -- no scurvy for you!) for the rest of my life? I mean, I don't think I'd have a breakdown if I had to wear the same outfit forever, assuming it was comfortable yet fashionably acceptable (btw, I would choose a gray hoodie, green cap sleeve t-shirt, push-up bra, skinny jeans, and ballet flats).
Sometimes I find food and eating completely repulsive, but even then I'm obsessed with the idea of food and eating. I used to think that it because I was bored and it was something to do. Kept my hands occupied.
The smoking excuse, if you will.
It's really pathetic.
I need to figure it out. I want to dream about great sex, and buying fabulous clothes, and visiting magical places...... not spaghetti. I'm not even talking about amazing 4-star restaurant pasta, but plain jane spaghetti with sauce from a jar.
I don't want that to be the thing I'm longing for.
My life has to be more than what I'm not eating and what I want to see on a scale.
There has to be more. There has to be.