Sunday, April 17, 2011

Off the wagon

I let myself fall. It makes me so mad at myself.

Basically there's a hole in the wall that I have to fix. My laptop screen is completely broken and looks shattered, which I'm sure is going to get worse. And every time I take off my shirt I'll see how incapable I am of taking care of myself.

To be honest though, I am amazed at how creative I can be when it comes down to finding things to hurt myself with. I guess it's from getting my shoelaces taken away and being forced to use plastic utensils for too long. I adapt.

In all seriousness though, I haven't done this in such a long time, it felt like maybe I had rid myself of it forever. I suppose I just hadn't let all the bullshit and fucked up people affect me as much as I thought. Nothing's changed and I still can't deal with conflict like a healthy person.

The worst part is the incredible guilt I feel. The incident that caused this wasn't even worth the amount of shame I'll feel every time I look at my broken laptop, trying to see around the black shattered bits. Every time I bend in a way that stretches my skin in such a way as if to say, "Hey remember me? I'm hurting."

I'd tell you the long drawn out story but it really doesn't matter and the whole thing was stupid anyway. Isn't it always? I can think of a million different times when I dealt with something so fucked up but didn't let it get to me. Then something idiotic happens and I go into this dark terrible place. I don't know how to get out.

I just want to crawl into a corner and sleep for 8 days.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

The job.

I feel like things are going to change. They have to, that's all there is to it. I got the job I've been chasing after and start in a little more than one week.

It's thrilling and terrifying. Of course, first thing I did was figure out all the lovely things I'm going to buy with my nice paycheck. Those of you who have read my less-than-grand narrative know that I'm a binge shopper for lack of a better word.

I also hate myself and somehow feel that if I can just transform my looks, better myself, my life will be OK. I don't know what exactly I need anymore. I've snagged a job that should make me feel less like a failure, I'm in a healthy relationship, I have good friends and do incredible things for fun.

A little voice tells me it's just me. I'm finding things to fix because I can't deal with things going right. I have to fixate on the fact that my skin isn't perfect or my stomach isn't flat. There's a desire to upgrade the material possessions in my life. My car, my clothes, my things.

What am I chasing? Why?

Perhaps this is why I wasn't more excited when I knew I had secured the position. At the time, I thought I was just in shock. Now, I just feel empty. It seems as though this was finally supposed to fill a void. This was supposed to fix things.

It didn't and I'm left with a gaping hole with the urge to find something else with which to fill it.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Thank you.

My dog has pee'd somewhere in my room and I can't find it. I try to sleep and occasionally catch the smell interrupting my attempt at dreaming. Down on hands and knees, I'm sniffing the carpet, my blankets, my clothes. I can't find it.


For some reason, I'm feeling incredibly anxious. I haven't felt this way anytime in recent memory. I just don't want to sleep because I know as soon as I close my eyes it will be morning. The new day brings responsibilities. I can't handle them right now. My life seems too hard and I don't even have any real reason to feel this way. Currently, I have a part-time job that's so easy it hurts, while I complain about money the reality is I have very few bills to pay, my health is...

Wow. I just realized something. I changed my medication a few days ago. This has to be the source. Normally I would just delete everything you just read and start over, now that I know what's wrong this writing exercise seems futile.

But I avoid writing here. I often start something, decide it's stupid, delete it, and thus you never hear from me. My life just doesn't seem relevant. I'm not particularly a good example of how to behave nor am I screwed up enough that my trials seem like they would be much of an entertaining read.

I found some photographs of myself at my lowest weight. The other day, I was speaking to a friend who is a "recovered" bulimic. She's also a writer, and I told her about my desire to turn the past few years into something tangible. We were talking about my struggles and what made me decide to "eat again". Looking back on the conversation, I spoke almost admirably about how I saw a picture of myself with my ribs clearly visible through my shirt. Now at the sight of these photos tonight, I remember my life seemed to have a purpose. I felt accomplished.

To be fair, during this time, I was writing my undergraduate thesis (which was being funded by a $20,000 grant), recently accepted to UCL and Oxford for graduate school, progressing in my relationship from BF (boyfriend) to TR (the guy with the ring), finishing college, and moving.

Everything I've accomplished since then seems insignificant in comparison. My masters dissertation is a joke, I don't have a single professor I can ask for a recommendation from, my time in London was mostly spent watching television and eating cakes, and despite finishing graduate school at the 6th best university in the world, I have little to no prospects.

In my mind, I think this must be because I let myself go. I lost the control I had over myself, the control that my mind literally had over the rest of me. The discipline was gone and I let myself fail.

I'm up for a job, and it's the first one I feel nearly completely sure that I should get. Yet, I expect I will not. Even though the person hiring is a friend of mine who wants to give me the job, I feel certain something will happen to keep this from happening. I literally cannot sleep or eat properly because everything hinges on this two week period where my life may or may not change. I only know two ways to handle this kind of stress.

I could begin (more strictly) obsessing over my food, weighing literally 20 times a day, spending 4-5 hours on blogger, and leaving no room to worry over anything else.

I could call in sick to my part-time job, feign sickness, hole myself up in my room with snacks, watch 15 hours of television straight, and numb myself with food and the internet.

There's no tidy resolution to this predicament. In reality, I will likely "choose" to pursue a mix of the above, unsuccessfully handling my stress because I can't seem to commit to becoming selfishly delusional or an unfeeling escapist. I honestly don't know which is worse, being the physical embodiment of every problem and anxiety or being physically healthy but possibly worse off mentally. At least now, I can avoid the prying eyes that I know some of you are faced with, but now everyone expects things from me that I cannot always give.


On a nearly unrelated note, my transcript arrived in the post. Remember more than a year back when I asked for feedback on shopping for a paper of mine? It earned me a distinction. So thank you every single one of my readers for assisting me in that. It's the one thing I'm really proud of and it's funny that it's directly related to this space. A small comfort in my life that may not be a constant source of joy or unconditional affection, but the most stable and possibly functional relationship I've had in years.

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!"


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