Newsflash

I
Need
A
Job

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?

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...

---

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.

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,
Savory

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.

Negative!

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!"

Curses.

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.

Intake History

I have a friend who tells everyone about his problems. All our acquaintances know about his latest bruise or bump, relationship drama, and family issues. Admittedly, he's gone through some pretty fucked up nonsense and doesn't always live a charmed life.

I have to retreat to the bowels of the internet and create a fake persona to share the things that are troubling me. In fact, I don't know that any one person (other than perhaps TR but probably not even him) knows the true extent of the ridiculous things I've gone through.

I have reasonable evidence to support this. By this count, I've seen... 8 therapists. Those of you who have been to the shrink know the drill. First session: History. Every single therapist I've seen has given me that look of "Oh yeah you definitely need therapy" or "Why are you so functional?" or "JESUS".

I have known for a long time that everyone suffers in life through one form or another. When I was younger, I used to look to the sky and ask why I had been forced to live such a life when others were so fortunate? But now I know better. It isn't what's happened to you but how you deal with it.

---

Sometimes I just want to be that person who can't deal with it so everyone else has to deal with it too. Distribute the burden so it hurts a little less. Sit and listen to people tell me how they feel bad for me and tell me exactly what I should do. Hold my hand.

I'll never be that person.

But I want to get it all off my chest. I have to tell someone about the baggage I carry. Someone who isn't paid to care about me.

So here it is.

---

I have to start the story of my life before it begins. I have to tell you the story of my mother. It needs to be done this way because my mother lives through stories. Something reminds her of some other thing. She needs to relay her motivations by explaining what event caused her to feel that way. And sometimes, she just talks. And talks.

My grandmother is and was a wicked woman. She married a soldier going into WWII fully expecting he would die in the war and she'd be given a widow's pension, set for life. Unfortunately for her, he lived. And through that union, my mother was born. It was made very clear to her that my grandmother did not want her. When my mother was 3 years old, my grandmother (let's call her Petunia) took her door to door asking the neighbors if they'd like to adopt her. When this strategy didn't work, she told my mother (let's call her Rose) that she'd tried to have an abortion to prevent this entirely.

Several important events happened to Rose during these formative years. Most significantly, she almost died at age five.

Rose followed a trail of candy that the local newspaper boy, of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, was leaving behind along his way. The trail led into a barn. She was brutally raped and beaten. Her teeth were kicked out, her nasal cavity collapsed, and bones broken. The attacker buried her in a shallow grave and left her for dead. Rose softly cried out and was eventually found by a neighbor. She spent months in the hospital.

My mother had two younger siblings. Petunia's displeasure at having given birth to Rose never relented. Rose endured punishments like having her head shaved for wearing make up. Being a religious nut, Petunia told Rose that fiction books like Lassie were from the devil. More things than not were sins. Rose could quote scripture and play the organ in church, but she could barely read or write. She did poorly in school and other children teased her.

When she was 13, Rose became ill with the German measles because of which she contracted viral arthritis. She was hospitalized for almost a year, wheelchair bound. At one point, doctors told her she would never walk again. That night she attempted suicide. Her father wouldn't allow her to use the wheelchair in the house and made her crawl if necessary. Rose attributes his brand of tough love as the reason she was able to walk again.

Rose married at 16 and was pregnant at 17. Her husband was abusive (himself having been physically and sexually abused by his mother) but she gave the marriage 5 years, not wanting to return home to her former life. Her life was incredibly sheltered and her husband allowed her to have no friends. She couldn't drive a car and she hadn't finished high school, neither of which he allowed. He had a PhD. They divorced and she quickly remarried for financial security and to avoid Petunia. The only person she knew was her ex-husband's brother. So they married.

Husband #2 turned out to be even worse, but she would not know this immediately. She would have another child, a second daughter, by this man. Rose discovered later that Husband2 was sexually and physically abusing her children. He beat Rose and mentally tortured her. It was during this time she weighed 80 pounds at 5'3". Still, he called her fat and ugly. This husband was the principle of a private school. He was later accused to be sexually molesting children, but being a church run establishment, was relocated to a different area (after they divorced). My mother met another man, slowly but eventually, divorced husband number 2 and married husband number 3.

Number 3 was my father. By this time, my sisters were 13 and 17. I was born shortly after they married and a younger sister was born 2 years later.

Four years after they married, my father was killed in a plane crash.

---

I think this is a good place to rest our eyes and continue another day.

Moderation

Have you ever felt really thin and looked at yourself in the mirror and said, "I am definitely like 20 pounds lighter. Sleep really does wonders!" Then you go on the scale and you actually weigh more? And it cannot be explained by water-retention or the weight of your ever lengthening hair (whenever I'm growing my hair out, I always think to myself, "If you would just cut your hair short again you'd probably weigh like 5 pounds less!") or the weight of tiny robots that may be camping out in your spleen!

Anyway, I'm still going to call it a victory. I feel less revolting so win! Actually, I'm incredibly proud of myself. My family has been spreading out Thanksgiving so we don't eat everything in one day and want to die. This has a downside for me because I'll be going to TR's parents house for Thanksgiving (aaah the first holiday spent with in-laws! My life is turning into a romantic comedy!) so basically I'll be eating Thanksgiving food at my house for 3 days then go to his house and have a huge dinner and then 3 days worth of leftovers.

The only thing saving me is that his mom isn't a great cook (fucking would it kill you to maybe season your food?! WOULD IT!?!!?) and I'm incredibly picky. So hopefully I'll just eat the pie I'm bringing and push some of her food around on the plate until it looks like I enjoyed her hospital food.

But anyway, I'm proud of myself. Today I was all set to make candied yams so my mother put out everything for me to make it. I LOVE my yams. I really love most Thanksgiving food actually but only if it was made by me or my mother. Otherwise Thanksgiving and most holiday food can go fuck itself.

So I decided that after my mashed potato overload yesterday (and midnight snack of hummus and pita) that perhaps today should be one of moderation. I put the yams back in the cabinet and ran upstairs to avoid the kitchen all together.

HOORAY FOR ME! I've done something that normal people have no problem doing on a daily basis.

*smug*