Wednesday, January 26, 2011



EDIT: This needs to be amended to "I need a job that doesn't make me want to kill myself"

I want to write a book. Think I could do it? What would I write about?

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


Even though my encounter with Anonymous was entirely harmless and mostly misunderstood, it still made me reflect on the state of things in my life. Because even if she (who has now revealed herself as chasingsecrets! Remember when you were starting out and take a minute to check out her blog!) didn't mean anything negative, I automatically extrapolated all my fears and concerns about blogging and projected them onto someone else. Projecting is such an awful thing to realize about yourself, isn't it? Such a low-brow psychological tool of manipulation.

Nonetheless, she's right. And by she, I mean I'm right because I perceived her comment as how I genuinely feel about myself.

Today I planned to scribble down some kind of hilarious entry that would win me adoration and new followers and internet fame. As is the case more often than not, I put that aside to be mopey. Seriously guys, I am sorry that you have to see this garbage so often. I'd stop reading if I were you. But then again, my whole point here is that I really am the shallow dream-chaser I'm afraid I'll become. Of course I'd stop reading if it was someone else's plight. There's a feisty little hamster running a wheel where my heart is supposed to be, I think.

OK shelving this line of thought because it's not going anywhere...


I don't normally address comments so often and so blatantly, but I also haven't been blogging regularly in who knows how long so I suppose there's a time for everything. Hanna wrote a lovely, thoughtful comment. However, she's semi-anonymous so I can't go stalk her, which is sad; social media and networking have given me an incredibly unrealistic expectation that I can learn anything about someone with a few key strokes. But getting to the point...

First of all, "low calorie tapas" are indeed my secret source of dragging the unknowing into my web of mostly unpleasant things, with some delightful surprises thrown in to break up the monotony (like playing a record backwards to reveal the backmasked messages! Go on then, try it yourself!). Anyway, I've trapped you Hanna. Here's what she says:

"I am so happy that you are doing so much better now. That is something you should be really proud of... Anyway, when you were really into ana I was looking out for you but I wouldn't have commented because you and the community might've seen me as an outsider, as the weak person which I am. Somehow now that has changed and I am taking this opportunity to wish you all the best, and surely keep blogging..."

And she and chasingsecrets are right. I started a journey into madness that coincided with a large number of other people. We went into hell together. It was inevitable that we could only stare at the face of death, from a moderately safe distance, before we lost it completely or decided to change. I would say most of us haven't found true safety, but I am also not in touch with many girls who still maintain that level of sickness.

The other thing is this: being completely fucked up-batshit crazy and self-obsessed is only so interesting for so long. Seriously, no one except your therapist will put up with it, other than people feeding off your insanity. Normal people, the people we want to interact with and share our lives without an immediate fear of judgment, they just don't understand.

They don't understand that we would choose, on some level, to be this unhappy and destructive. It doesn't make sense that we become more important than everyone and everything we love. It's alienating. It's stupid.


But even now with all that I know... Long discussions with recovered friends who tell me it's such a selfish and childish disease. Remembering my mother comparing my illness to a drug addict. Knowing that at one point TR, the one person I am supposed to look good for, thought I looked like a genocide victim. Those things should keep me on the straight and narrow path.

I want more, though. I crave for something that I can't find anywhere else. I want to be recognized, and contributing something, and making a difference, and achieving. There's only one way I know how to succeed. I can't even form the sentence grammatically.

And yet, I was ill during my most productive times. Perhaps my recent string of mostly-perceived but somewhat justified notions of failure are a sign that I've gotten lazy and slovenly. The reflection in the mirror is a desperate attempt to obliquely alert me that part of me needs to shape up or ship out. Get fit. Not too thin, not too fat.

I just wish it could happen without my brain knowing. My brain and the crazy it is supposed to keep locked up.


I argue with myself about this, back and forth. Who needs external conflict, when I have this to think about? For that matter, who needs other people if I can debate against me so well.

My mind is a theatrical production, and I play all the parts.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Elitist Bullshit

DISCLAIMER: This is a horribly written post but I'm too bummed out to fix it.

Someone wrote a comment that I can't get out of my head:

Anonymous said...

Your post was a massive downer. I think that the community you speak of (which I wasn't apart of, but have a vague idea of) had to disappear a little bit. If everyone was as obsessed with the same shit still...THAT would be depressing. Maybe blogging with people who are going down a different route might be good for you? I've read every post you've written, and I would like to discuss and talk with everyone...but I feel like me and my blog are not "disordered enough" for your "community" which even sounds ludicrous to me.(Hence the anonymous label).
What I'm trying to say is that communities change, and maybe you should embrace a new group of people.

I feel awful that someone's read ever post I've written but doesn't feel comfortable to link their blog back. Even if it doesn't seem like it, I treasure every single reader I get and live for comments. I haven't started following people back because it's such a daunting task. When I first started, I just randomly followed a lot of different people because I didn't know any better.

I thought the only thing I was interested in was getting more people to read my blog and reading about things that would keep me motivated. Now I'm not interested in either. I just want to have a meaningful conversation with someone about something I can't talk about to anyone else. Anyone else. At all. And to think that the vibe someone gets from my blog is that they have to be some level of fucked up to be in dialogue is sad.

I don't want to be fucked up. I don't want people to have to relate to me just because they're fucked up too. In a perfect world, I wouldn't be mostly-anonymous and you would get to see the rest of my world. And the rest of the world would see this too. But if I was completely open to the people I know, I'd get labeled as crazy or attention-seeking. I'd hurt my already slim chances at getting a job and I'd alienate people who were my friends because now they no longer know me.

At the base level, I'm just happy for myself that I even started blogging again. I'm not ready to dedicate time to following more people and commenting, but I want to get there soon.

The last thing I want is for people here to think I'm an elitist because if someone who read my blog thought that then that must really be me. Nothing is more stripped down and raw than what you read here.

Right now blogger is the only thing I'm happy about in my life. Literally everything else around me seems to be going to shit. It's the reason I started blogging in the first place. Just be a little patient with me while I get sorted out, and please dear God send me your blog. Or blogs you like to read. Or etc.

This really had no meaning except to try and expel my worries about this comment from my head. It didn't help. I'm sorry Anonymous. And to everyone else, thanks for following me. I stalk all of you, but I'll try to be less creepy and more open about it.

Toodle pip,

Friday, January 7, 2011

No I'm not pregnant, just fat.

Once you've stopped having certain a period (i.e. your body's rather un-subtle hint that something is wrong and you need to start fucking putting some food to your lips), you begin to forget that it's a necessary function. So once you're at the point that you're having them again, and should have them, when they stop, you sometimes don't realize it.

You may even be a little happy about it. Then you remember that you can't fit in your jeans anymore.

Possibly, you're pregnant.


My dumbfounded realization at this simple statement came after I legitimately couldn't remember when I had my last {insert asinine menstration metaphor here}.

It was like a scene from a movie. I had an overly complicated transaction at CVS Pharmacy, buying a pregnancy test with a bottle of hair dye so I didn't look too concerned about the former. Long story short, I tried to use a Maestro card (it apparently never wants to work) and no one behind me wanted to go to the self-check out--they proceeded to act like I was the one holding up their day. I withdrew cash using said card, loudly proclaimed that indeed had money to pay for the damn pregnancy test and I wasn't some kind of hobo with hypocondria or sexual-impulse problems, and shoved a twenty dollar bill at the check-out girl, mumbling that she should have the card reader checked.

Then I popped into the nearest hipster coffee shop and ordered black tea. As it was brewing, I snuck into the toilets to play the baby lotto. Peed on the stick like a pro as the Shins piped through the speakers.


Happily, I burst open the door to the privvy, grabbed my now-tepid tea, and whistled along to "Caring is Creepy."

As I arrived at my car, the thought suddenly dawned on me, "FUCK!? Now I have no explanation for why I'm getting so fat!"


Monday, January 3, 2011

A Clever Title

I think about you every day. Just so you know. And yes, I am talking about you.

Part Two of Intake History will continue another time. I just need to ramble tonight.


It's early morning and of course I haven't slept. Outside the window is some kind of owl. I can hear it. Something about the presence of owls feels spiritual to me, in this urban wasteland, like inexplicably finding a smooth river rock at the bottom of clothes pile. It doesn't belong. It speaks of something foreign and natural in a largely artificial environment. Something deep inside you that you've forgotten long before you were born.

Owls make me wistful I suppose. I get a similar feeling when I'm driving and a deer or coyote skirts by my path. I feel as if I've encountered a ghost.

The only light in the room is the faint glow of computer LEDs and the shine of my laptop monitor. It casts forgiving shadows on my arms that would lead me to believe I am much smaller than the mirror would report. For now, that is enough.

I am visiting TR. We rarely see each other now that we are living on opposite ends of the state, for reasons complicated with choice and responsibility and willfulness. He is silently sleeping next to me, and I envy how easy he makes it look. My relationship with slumber is turbulent and bitter. We make poor bedfellows, pardon the pun. I either rejoice at the prospect of sleep as an escape from reality or shun the idea as it seems to quicken my inevitable encounter with another day. Tonight, I avoid sleep to avoid dreaming. I can't bear to relive my worst pains or unfulfilled wishes. Not tonight.


I recently thought about how easy it would be to slip back into the mindset I had early on in the blog. A mindset that tapered away a little over one year ago. Part of me wants it back. It dawned on me that even if I became as obsessed and dedicated to the task, it would never be the same.

Everything has changed. The community is so different. Those who remain, like me, have moved beyond the thrill of watching numbers decrease, and instead see how little control they have left in the matter. Many who have gone are those I relied on for comfort, laughter, and hope. I've seen the same shift in my own life. My postgraduate course is finished and I can't find a job to reliably pay the bills. Of course, my mind races at the thought of simply returning to school. But the only thing that kept me from ripping out my hair was the companionship of my cohort (and even then, as witnessed by my multiple hospitalizations last year, it was not a guarantee). School was awful. The 'real world' is equally terrible.

I boast to others that I loathe people and shun socialization. It would seem, however, that I am completely lost without it.

Coming to this somber realization, I have little advice left for myself as to how I should progress. Where do I go from here? I welcome the day when my life is no longer a perpetual exercise in existential philosophizing nor a reluctant reliance on others.


In other news, I still hate myself and think I'm useless, so at least some things don't change.

design by