Soliloquy

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...

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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.

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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.

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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.