So, for those of you just tuning in, let me clue you in on the contents of this blog so far:
Right now, I am recounting journal entries from the past year of living in Los Angeles. For the first time reader, may I suggest the entries "Spartacus" and "Still Out of Work".
Then, please subscribe. Tell your friends. Maybe someone can profit from my misery, and somehow seek the methods for recovery that I never did.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
From 4/11/09, "Nothing can stop me now..."
24 today. Just showered, as I plan on going to Chinatown in a little while. I've been contemplating death all morning. And I want to say: That I'm sorry for being such a disappointment to everyone I've ever known. It is inevitable that this journal is going to be found sooner or later. Those of you who have been able to stomach the contents thus far, I applaud and comment your courage. And am sorry that the last entry in this journal may potentially be nothing more than a pathetic, apologectic, and weak goodby not in the most traditional of suicide fashions.
I've not been stable for quite a number of years, as one can imagine from reading this.
(NOTE: went to Chinatown. Had a horrible day. Wanted to die. But later in the day wrote...)
Maybe today's not the day.
I've not been stable for quite a number of years, as one can imagine from reading this.
(NOTE: went to Chinatown. Had a horrible day. Wanted to die. But later in the day wrote...)
Maybe today's not the day.
From 4/7/09, "Is this happiness? Sign me up."
Too long since my last entry in december. My attitude has shifted upward since.
In reviewing previous entries I noticed that the first time I entered BC into this book was on Halloween of last year. (Incidentally, I just realized that this is the first entry of 2009.) It's apparently been around 8 months since we started sleeping together. If memory serves correctly, our first night together was September 30th. The only reason I'm able to remember this date is because I was incredibly sore the next day for my first shift at Glendale Costumes. We've been sleeping together on the regular ever since.
He's told me over and over not to fall in love with him... It's not a deep and passionate yearning to be with him, the feeling is there... I feel like we're both coming into a new skin. Simultaneously realizing that our feelings may run deeper than a bi-weekly romp. Perhaps it's just me. I'm most likely talking out my ass, and he is perfectly content in keeping the relationship we've already established. You can't change a person. As this is a fear of mine, I have remained silent on my feelings. Truth be told, I don't want to mess anything up. But he's so wonderful. Makes me laugh. Loves my writing, which, the narcissist in me says is the biggest turn-on.
What to do, what to do?
In reviewing previous entries I noticed that the first time I entered BC into this book was on Halloween of last year. (Incidentally, I just realized that this is the first entry of 2009.) It's apparently been around 8 months since we started sleeping together. If memory serves correctly, our first night together was September 30th. The only reason I'm able to remember this date is because I was incredibly sore the next day for my first shift at Glendale Costumes. We've been sleeping together on the regular ever since.
He's told me over and over not to fall in love with him... It's not a deep and passionate yearning to be with him, the feeling is there... I feel like we're both coming into a new skin. Simultaneously realizing that our feelings may run deeper than a bi-weekly romp. Perhaps it's just me. I'm most likely talking out my ass, and he is perfectly content in keeping the relationship we've already established. You can't change a person. As this is a fear of mine, I have remained silent on my feelings. Truth be told, I don't want to mess anything up. But he's so wonderful. Makes me laugh. Loves my writing, which, the narcissist in me says is the biggest turn-on.
What to do, what to do?
From 12/23/08, "Totally out of control"
I've got to get out of here. LA was a shotgun blast to the chest with no exit wound, allowing infection to fester inside. I'm sincerely losing control here, and dream daily for a method of escape. I don't feel that I ave a place anywhere, and I'm choking on an ever-thickening despair. My only solution is to sit with my head in my hands unable to cry, unable to think. A sense of complete unfeeling has overtaken my body, allowing whoever to do whatever as I remain stoic and sad.
I don't fear death, but question the afterlife. If I had a firm grip on who I was, I would end it all, to use the trite and careless phrase. I can't stand who I am or what I've become. I only want it to stop. I feel like the world has abandoned me. No sympathy for those who lag behind.
(NOTE: I had created a list of words coresponding to the emotions attached to the entry. I don't know why some are capped and some are not.)
Denial
self-loathing
Hatred
scared
lonely
restless
bored
tired.
no sense of self
unfeeling
unlovable
conflicted
Abandoned
Used
Desperate
Disparaging
failure
Useless
Diminished
addicted
branded
destructive
appalled
reckless
I don't fear death, but question the afterlife. If I had a firm grip on who I was, I would end it all, to use the trite and careless phrase. I can't stand who I am or what I've become. I only want it to stop. I feel like the world has abandoned me. No sympathy for those who lag behind.
(NOTE: I had created a list of words coresponding to the emotions attached to the entry. I don't know why some are capped and some are not.)
Denial
self-loathing
Hatred
scared
lonely
restless
bored
tired.
no sense of self
unfeeling
unlovable
conflicted
Abandoned
Used
Desperate
Disparaging
failure
Useless
Diminished
addicted
branded
destructive
appalled
reckless
From 12/20/08, "Fear and Loathing and Purple Ink"
(NOTE: this journal entry was written in a purple pen. Most irritating.)
Purple ink. How I loathe the very idea of it. It reminds me of all those rubric busy-works that grade school teacher forced upon me.
Again, after much anticipation, TC stopped by last night. He's been coming by, on average, once every two weeks or so. I've begun collecting our online chats so that one day when my laziness is lifted I will write my book. I'm nine pages in and a lifetime away from the end. Hopefully these journal pages will serve as a guide. Although much of me was torn to bits three years ago in an argument over MDF with MJF. Regret inevitably ensued, and still haunts me today. Surely it's not the emotions contained, but the phrasing that I valued. My inner sentiments have and will remain the same. Those days were no different, except now I express more outwardly.
I want to curse this pen! But it is the only one that I have right now with the gel ink and structure and form I like. Such as it goes.
I'm resigned to the fact that despite my best efforts, MJF is always going to be a part of my life. No matter how much I protest and fight, somehow he's always there. Perhaps this means something, perhaps not. I'd like it if he was truly the friend that I could turn to, but I know that I can't even turn to him for $20.
I've hinted to him about my conquests since I've been out here, but he has no clue as to how long this madness has really been going on. There's no need for that.
I want to start talking about KC, but my mind is too tired. So I shall leave it at this for tonight: British, pt 2.
Purple ink. How I loathe the very idea of it. It reminds me of all those rubric busy-works that grade school teacher forced upon me.
Again, after much anticipation, TC stopped by last night. He's been coming by, on average, once every two weeks or so. I've begun collecting our online chats so that one day when my laziness is lifted I will write my book. I'm nine pages in and a lifetime away from the end. Hopefully these journal pages will serve as a guide. Although much of me was torn to bits three years ago in an argument over MDF with MJF. Regret inevitably ensued, and still haunts me today. Surely it's not the emotions contained, but the phrasing that I valued. My inner sentiments have and will remain the same. Those days were no different, except now I express more outwardly.
I want to curse this pen! But it is the only one that I have right now with the gel ink and structure and form I like. Such as it goes.
I'm resigned to the fact that despite my best efforts, MJF is always going to be a part of my life. No matter how much I protest and fight, somehow he's always there. Perhaps this means something, perhaps not. I'd like it if he was truly the friend that I could turn to, but I know that I can't even turn to him for $20.
I've hinted to him about my conquests since I've been out here, but he has no clue as to how long this madness has really been going on. There's no need for that.
I want to start talking about KC, but my mind is too tired. So I shall leave it at this for tonight: British, pt 2.
From 10/31/08, "Halloween, more of the same"
Happy Halloween. My life is indeed a hellish nightmare. I feel guilty that this is my first entry in over a month. This is partially due to the fact that the raw angst diminished for a brief time, and had a brief stint in [emotional] rehab. I've been enjoying life working at the Glendale costume Shoppe, and found a happiness akin to my childhood fantasies of becoming a costumer/designer. But dear heart, do not despair - I'm crawling my way out of remission and back into the hellfire of an unsettling and vengeful depression; like an old pair of jeans, the fit is natural.
So much has happened over the course of one month. It appears that I never entered BC into this book. We have since been together twice, after the date of the previous entry... I encountered B first at game night. A week or two later, he was in my bed. Two weeks after that, back again. Funny thing is, last week (our last encounter) he was my 2nd person in a span of 4 days.
TC. He's an englishman, and makes me melt to the floor upon every word spoken from his soft, accented lilt. He's gorgeous. We fucked. After only a face-to-face meeting of under an hour. He's my buddy now.
I met KO through C. He was two years ahead of me in school, and had somehow slipped my radar. Girl code plainly states that you DO NOT date your roommate's crush. I can't help who is attracted to me. And KO is. And we've gone out a couple of times. He's nearly 40, and a writer. I don't understand my attraction right now, other than the fact that I won out over C. That again I obtained the XY goal before any other woman could. The real truth is, he's a great guy with a lot going for him. My draw feels genuine, as we went out on a second date today, and I didn't sleep with him. Kudos to me! But I see it in his eyes. The way he looks and observes. And I'll allow it.
Something strange is going on with my vision. I have been getting migraine auras, minus the migraine, followed by temp peripheral blindness. I concerned that I am going to experience total blindness at some point. I don't know if this has any correlation to my purging; that I've maybe strained my eyes and did damage behind them.
I feel here that I should put down some of my eating habits over the past few days:
Sunday
container of Trader Joe's mac'n'cheese, purge
some chocolate candies
3 rum and diet cokes, involuntary purge
Monday
nachos from Poquito Mas, maintain
Tuesday
Chinese food, mmaintain
Wednesday
pizza, maintain
Thursday
Doritos and fries, purge; a couple Reese's
What a disgusting little piggy I've been. Time to get control. All purge, no play, must make goal for Saturday. No meals until next week. No disputes. Purge all.
I don't even want to devote time talking about MJF in this entry. He's having issues, and I feel that he's upset at me because, once again, he's misinterpreted something that I've written. A blog, for G. Totally platonic. He totally misunderstood. I'm about to wash my hand of the whole thing.
(NOTE: and then I proceeded to make "Of Mice and Men, pt 2" but more detailed for all you curious cats out there...)
David H
Jason C
Ryan P
Justin T
Mike F
Matt F
Andy
Ben W
Joe C
Alan K
Ryan L
Chuck G
Ben C
Tom C
Guy Whose Name I Can't Remember
Kurt C
Brandon T
So... is there some kind of celebration when I reach 20?
So much has happened over the course of one month. It appears that I never entered BC into this book. We have since been together twice, after the date of the previous entry... I encountered B first at game night. A week or two later, he was in my bed. Two weeks after that, back again. Funny thing is, last week (our last encounter) he was my 2nd person in a span of 4 days.
TC. He's an englishman, and makes me melt to the floor upon every word spoken from his soft, accented lilt. He's gorgeous. We fucked. After only a face-to-face meeting of under an hour. He's my buddy now.
I met KO through C. He was two years ahead of me in school, and had somehow slipped my radar. Girl code plainly states that you DO NOT date your roommate's crush. I can't help who is attracted to me. And KO is. And we've gone out a couple of times. He's nearly 40, and a writer. I don't understand my attraction right now, other than the fact that I won out over C. That again I obtained the XY goal before any other woman could. The real truth is, he's a great guy with a lot going for him. My draw feels genuine, as we went out on a second date today, and I didn't sleep with him. Kudos to me! But I see it in his eyes. The way he looks and observes. And I'll allow it.
Something strange is going on with my vision. I have been getting migraine auras, minus the migraine, followed by temp peripheral blindness. I concerned that I am going to experience total blindness at some point. I don't know if this has any correlation to my purging; that I've maybe strained my eyes and did damage behind them.
I feel here that I should put down some of my eating habits over the past few days:
Sunday
container of Trader Joe's mac'n'cheese, purge
some chocolate candies
3 rum and diet cokes, involuntary purge
Monday
nachos from Poquito Mas, maintain
Tuesday
Chinese food, mmaintain
Wednesday
pizza, maintain
Thursday
Doritos and fries, purge; a couple Reese's
What a disgusting little piggy I've been. Time to get control. All purge, no play, must make goal for Saturday. No meals until next week. No disputes. Purge all.
I don't even want to devote time talking about MJF in this entry. He's having issues, and I feel that he's upset at me because, once again, he's misinterpreted something that I've written. A blog, for G. Totally platonic. He totally misunderstood. I'm about to wash my hand of the whole thing.
(NOTE: and then I proceeded to make "Of Mice and Men, pt 2" but more detailed for all you curious cats out there...)
David H
Jason C
Ryan P
Justin T
Mike F
Matt F
Andy
Ben W
Joe C
Alan K
Ryan L
Chuck G
Ben C
Tom C
Guy Whose Name I Can't Remember
Kurt C
Brandon T
So... is there some kind of celebration when I reach 20?
From 9/12/08, "False hope and bad poetry"
I feel that I should note my dismal food intake for today:
1/2 bag soy and flax tortilla chips
13 soy nuggets
purge
Bread and cheese - ate too much of this today. The who demi loaf of the rosemary bread w/o purging. Sad.
And yesterday BF from Panavision took us out for lunch during prep for Samantha Who. I had fries and a whole veggie burger. I felt so completely bloated after eating it, it almost ruined the rest of my day. I'm ruined for this weekend. C has off the next 2 days. No purging when she's home. Can't be done. This is very upsetting.
And then MJF has been distant the past couple days. We're getting close again, but this time it feels different. Like we could be friends as well as lovers. I can see myself with him, and this makes me nervous. 1. I know I'd get lost in some affair again and hurt him. 2. He has a lot of enemies. I can't afford to be an enemy by proxy in the business that I am in. Too many lost opportunities if we got back together. I can see being with him like an addiction. When times are good, he doesn't exist to me. When times are hard, he is the one person I can count on to make me happy and the whole world right again. Now I understand my brother's relationship with Katy. It was something I could never understand until I began doing it to someone as well.
And I recently found out that G has a new girlfriend. This is also sad. It's fun to harbor impossible dreams. This one's over. I felt myself wake from that thin veil of sleep and being a long rehabilitation that is destined to be repeated.
Love
Is like an etherized patient
Waking from a thin veil of sleep
To begin a long rehabilitation
He is destined to repeat.
Cognition is absent
Comprehension is marred
Recovery is inevitable, but
Still he cannot see past his
Momentary weakness that
Cripples his foresight.
Unwilling to remit, he hopes for
Death.
1/2 bag soy and flax tortilla chips
13 soy nuggets
purge
Bread and cheese - ate too much of this today. The who demi loaf of the rosemary bread w/o purging. Sad.
And yesterday BF from Panavision took us out for lunch during prep for Samantha Who. I had fries and a whole veggie burger. I felt so completely bloated after eating it, it almost ruined the rest of my day. I'm ruined for this weekend. C has off the next 2 days. No purging when she's home. Can't be done. This is very upsetting.
And then MJF has been distant the past couple days. We're getting close again, but this time it feels different. Like we could be friends as well as lovers. I can see myself with him, and this makes me nervous. 1. I know I'd get lost in some affair again and hurt him. 2. He has a lot of enemies. I can't afford to be an enemy by proxy in the business that I am in. Too many lost opportunities if we got back together. I can see being with him like an addiction. When times are good, he doesn't exist to me. When times are hard, he is the one person I can count on to make me happy and the whole world right again. Now I understand my brother's relationship with Katy. It was something I could never understand until I began doing it to someone as well.
And I recently found out that G has a new girlfriend. This is also sad. It's fun to harbor impossible dreams. This one's over. I felt myself wake from that thin veil of sleep and being a long rehabilitation that is destined to be repeated.
Love
Is like an etherized patient
Waking from a thin veil of sleep
To begin a long rehabilitation
He is destined to repeat.
Cognition is absent
Comprehension is marred
Recovery is inevitable, but
Still he cannot see past his
Momentary weakness that
Cripples his foresight.
Unwilling to remit, he hopes for
Death.
(undated) "Reinvention"
What can I possibly write to you that you don't already know? Or will know by the time this gets to you? Forgive me if this ends up being repetitive to something we might have already discussed during its transit. (NOTE: I'm not sure if I had planned on sending this to MJF at this point or what)
Out here everyone talks about reinvention - of both the industry and the self. That one must constantly reinvent themselves so that he/she can seamlessly adapt to the churning river of change going on in the business. That no longer is any one job specialized, nor is that job secure. That despite the lack of work there must always be something lined up. That my broad generation of "talent" drops in, takes over, conquers and destroys. That I've entered mid-game during a stale-mate.
It's funny how I don't exist here. I mean I live here. I occupy space. But I am one out of a million that occupies space here. And while this might not seem like a new concept to be the "small-fish-in-a-big-pond", the normal response is to go out, make friends, enjoy the new life. I'm having a hard time adjusting. It's almost as if my life never existed before Winston, and then ended shortly thereafter. I have suffered an identity death. Out here I don't know who I am. I don't know what I want, and opportunities vanish before I'm even aware of them.
The real truth is that for the past five years I've been trying to figure out what I want through irrational means. I've never healed from what happened with my dad, and I think I'm beginning to suffer for it. I can't even remember why I wanted to be a filmmaker any more. Now it's just something I have to do because I've got too much to lose if I don't. I have loans, I have expectations, I have the education. All I lack is the desire.
There has been an enormous pressure put down upon my shoulder that I can no longer bear. I am unhappy in this life and have begun fantasizing about change. I'm on the wrong path toward my happiness. I can't live this unfocused, out-of-control life any more. I need to concentrate and center myself.
Out here everyone talks about reinvention - of both the industry and the self. That one must constantly reinvent themselves so that he/she can seamlessly adapt to the churning river of change going on in the business. That no longer is any one job specialized, nor is that job secure. That despite the lack of work there must always be something lined up. That my broad generation of "talent" drops in, takes over, conquers and destroys. That I've entered mid-game during a stale-mate.
It's funny how I don't exist here. I mean I live here. I occupy space. But I am one out of a million that occupies space here. And while this might not seem like a new concept to be the "small-fish-in-a-big-pond", the normal response is to go out, make friends, enjoy the new life. I'm having a hard time adjusting. It's almost as if my life never existed before Winston, and then ended shortly thereafter. I have suffered an identity death. Out here I don't know who I am. I don't know what I want, and opportunities vanish before I'm even aware of them.
The real truth is that for the past five years I've been trying to figure out what I want through irrational means. I've never healed from what happened with my dad, and I think I'm beginning to suffer for it. I can't even remember why I wanted to be a filmmaker any more. Now it's just something I have to do because I've got too much to lose if I don't. I have loans, I have expectations, I have the education. All I lack is the desire.
There has been an enormous pressure put down upon my shoulder that I can no longer bear. I am unhappy in this life and have begun fantasizing about change. I'm on the wrong path toward my happiness. I can't live this unfocused, out-of-control life any more. I need to concentrate and center myself.
From 9/7/08, "Making plans is all I do"
Spoke with MJF today. I can hear the want in his voice as if he's just short of saying "I love you, be with me." And in my dulcet tones I somehow manage to deliver to him the same encrypted message. The strange thing is, that we're both enjoying the freedom that has come with separation. At least I have been. But put us in a room together and what happens? We're two prisoners locked in our own sentiment. We're getting too close. Too comfortable.
G is completely out of the picture. I believe it was me who drove him away, with my incessant advice on dating and whatnot. Had he been forthcoming about his feelings, which are now painfully realized, we would not be in this situation. If silence and distance can work with MJF, so too can these things work with G.
I feel that I should note my plans for my eating habits:
Mon-Fri, b/p/r
Sat and Sun, indulge and p if necessary
I met my goal of 140 for Saturday. Then I ate after the concert and today, so I'm feeling bloated and disgusting. This week, my goal is 135. (All purge, no play, must make goal for Saturday)
I'm not sure what is more difficult: living my life pretending I don't still love MJF and being miserable, or loving MJF openly in a relationship that shows no prospect of freedom. I can't let him go, but I can't live a life where he is the only man in it. I'm so immature. How many more fucking pages of this book are going to filled with senseless shit like this?
Most days I just want to send him a letter like the one on the adjacent page and hope all my problems go away, when in reality something like that would be the catalyst for disaster. (NOTE: on opposite page of journal is a 2-line letter that reads:
"M,
I love you and I don't
know how to deal with that.
R."
So here is my plan:
For G: no more letters until he writes one in response. No texts unless provoked. Certainly no phone calls. Time to play Distant and Aloof.
For MJF: he can make the first move. I'll figure it out from there.
Another Sunday of revelations. How have I allowed life to steer me in these directions?
G is completely out of the picture. I believe it was me who drove him away, with my incessant advice on dating and whatnot. Had he been forthcoming about his feelings, which are now painfully realized, we would not be in this situation. If silence and distance can work with MJF, so too can these things work with G.
I feel that I should note my plans for my eating habits:
Mon-Fri, b/p/r
Sat and Sun, indulge and p if necessary
I met my goal of 140 for Saturday. Then I ate after the concert and today, so I'm feeling bloated and disgusting. This week, my goal is 135. (All purge, no play, must make goal for Saturday)
I'm not sure what is more difficult: living my life pretending I don't still love MJF and being miserable, or loving MJF openly in a relationship that shows no prospect of freedom. I can't let him go, but I can't live a life where he is the only man in it. I'm so immature. How many more fucking pages of this book are going to filled with senseless shit like this?
Most days I just want to send him a letter like the one on the adjacent page and hope all my problems go away, when in reality something like that would be the catalyst for disaster. (NOTE: on opposite page of journal is a 2-line letter that reads:
"M,
I love you and I don't
know how to deal with that.
R."
So here is my plan:
For G: no more letters until he writes one in response. No texts unless provoked. Certainly no phone calls. Time to play Distant and Aloof.
For MJF: he can make the first move. I'll figure it out from there.
Another Sunday of revelations. How have I allowed life to steer me in these directions?
Monday, November 23, 2009
From 9/5/08, "Spartacus"
Perhaps you should know what kind of person I really am. I think that you should know, that you didn't know me at all. And to your credit, this is in no way your fault. It's because I'm secretive and rarely tell anyone anything. Least of all the truth.
First of all, you should know that I have and have had an eating disorder for three years now. If you've read through this book, you may have already picked up on that. I've had image distortion problems since I was in fifth grade, and had no one person in my life model an air of physical confidence that could have shaken my disillusion, my dysmorphia. M was never comfortable enough in her own skin to explain to me that while you may not like certain parts of your body, there's no reason to hate everything. That we can't just be brains on skeletons walking about. That we are what we eat, eat accordingly. And D, he wasn't there. My eating problems are MY eating problems, and I refuse to blame anyone but myself.
I remember the very first time I ever felt ugly. During lunchtime in 5th grade, after we would send our trays out to the dishwasher, we would file to the back of the gym by class, until everyone's lunch shift was over. As per usual, I sat with my best friends Colin and Eric. We were the top 3 intellectuals in our class that year and inseparable in every regard. We published our own periodical, "Weirdo's Monthly," and submitted its grotesque and obscure columns, comics, and gonzo-esque journalistic endeavors to our teacher. Much to her chagrin, I think she relished in our tedious efforts and always indulged us the first read.
So, during the downtime after lunch one day, our minds were somewhere in the realm of the future articles for our publication, when the topic shifted to the subject of female classmate rating and dateability. Whereas poorly-drawn comics had been my forte, this was hardly a conversation in which I was qualified to contribute. What - me in my oversized "Don't Worry Be Happy" smiley-faced t-shirt, Arizona stone-washed jeans (probably a size 10), and my pink Chuck Taylors. What did I care about dateability? I was still queen of the jungle gym, and 4-square champion of the universe. I remember falling silent, as one by one Colin and Eric ranked my fellow female classmates on a scale of 1-10. 1 being a "hell-no" and 10 being a solid "doable" (whatever that meant at age 12.)
Brandi: 7
Beth: 9
Cori: 2
Becky: 1
Shaylin: 6
Brittney: 8
And then... there was Ashley. The buxom brunette, gifted with nature's pubescent acceleration. The girl-next-door who teetered on the edges of tomboy and fantasy. The dream girl. The masturbatory vision. The 10.
"But we left you out," said Eric, as both boys finally looked me over, assessed every atom of my being.
"I'm sorry," laughed Colin, "but Ashley is much prettier than you."
And how was I to argue? Perfect teeth, straight salon-cut bangs, and already wearing the trademark black and gold letterman jacket. A 10.
"No, no. I totally agree," I ruminated, suddenly drawing my knees to my chest to cover the spare tire around my waist. Straightening my back so my love-handles retreated back into my consumer-brand jeans. Rubbing the skin of my neck back so that only one chin connected to a makeshift jawline. Smiling close-lipped so that my crooked teeth no longer offended.
"She's just so pretty."
"She's skinny."
"She's... I mean... wow..."
A 10.
It no longer mattered if I was beautiful in my parents' eyes. Inner beauty - what was was inner beauty compared to physical perfection? What did boys think of me? How did I look in their eyes? Did anyone consider me a 10? The truth of the matter is that I never considered the consequences of developing early. That Ashley's assets were most likely exploited to gain rapid popularity among the horny generation of my 5th grade classmates. She later ended up being a redneck slut that fell from beauty queen to trailer trash. But, no matter her outcome, my feelings of inferiority would forever stick. The seed was planted that day: that I was unattractive by comparison, and could no longer see myself through my own eyes. While the charming effects of Ashley being the most popular girl in junior high inevitably waned, now as a 20-something, I still let the impotent ratings of 2 cases of adolescent lust govern my self-image.
That was the day I became self-conscious.
First of all, you should know that I have and have had an eating disorder for three years now. If you've read through this book, you may have already picked up on that. I've had image distortion problems since I was in fifth grade, and had no one person in my life model an air of physical confidence that could have shaken my disillusion, my dysmorphia. M was never comfortable enough in her own skin to explain to me that while you may not like certain parts of your body, there's no reason to hate everything. That we can't just be brains on skeletons walking about. That we are what we eat, eat accordingly. And D, he wasn't there. My eating problems are MY eating problems, and I refuse to blame anyone but myself.
I remember the very first time I ever felt ugly. During lunchtime in 5th grade, after we would send our trays out to the dishwasher, we would file to the back of the gym by class, until everyone's lunch shift was over. As per usual, I sat with my best friends Colin and Eric. We were the top 3 intellectuals in our class that year and inseparable in every regard. We published our own periodical, "Weirdo's Monthly," and submitted its grotesque and obscure columns, comics, and gonzo-esque journalistic endeavors to our teacher. Much to her chagrin, I think she relished in our tedious efforts and always indulged us the first read.
So, during the downtime after lunch one day, our minds were somewhere in the realm of the future articles for our publication, when the topic shifted to the subject of female classmate rating and dateability. Whereas poorly-drawn comics had been my forte, this was hardly a conversation in which I was qualified to contribute. What - me in my oversized "Don't Worry Be Happy" smiley-faced t-shirt, Arizona stone-washed jeans (probably a size 10), and my pink Chuck Taylors. What did I care about dateability? I was still queen of the jungle gym, and 4-square champion of the universe. I remember falling silent, as one by one Colin and Eric ranked my fellow female classmates on a scale of 1-10. 1 being a "hell-no" and 10 being a solid "doable" (whatever that meant at age 12.)
Brandi: 7
Beth: 9
Cori: 2
Becky: 1
Shaylin: 6
Brittney: 8
And then... there was Ashley. The buxom brunette, gifted with nature's pubescent acceleration. The girl-next-door who teetered on the edges of tomboy and fantasy. The dream girl. The masturbatory vision. The 10.
"But we left you out," said Eric, as both boys finally looked me over, assessed every atom of my being.
"I'm sorry," laughed Colin, "but Ashley is much prettier than you."
And how was I to argue? Perfect teeth, straight salon-cut bangs, and already wearing the trademark black and gold letterman jacket. A 10.
"No, no. I totally agree," I ruminated, suddenly drawing my knees to my chest to cover the spare tire around my waist. Straightening my back so my love-handles retreated back into my consumer-brand jeans. Rubbing the skin of my neck back so that only one chin connected to a makeshift jawline. Smiling close-lipped so that my crooked teeth no longer offended.
"She's just so pretty."
"She's skinny."
"She's... I mean... wow..."
A 10.
It no longer mattered if I was beautiful in my parents' eyes. Inner beauty - what was was inner beauty compared to physical perfection? What did boys think of me? How did I look in their eyes? Did anyone consider me a 10? The truth of the matter is that I never considered the consequences of developing early. That Ashley's assets were most likely exploited to gain rapid popularity among the horny generation of my 5th grade classmates. She later ended up being a redneck slut that fell from beauty queen to trailer trash. But, no matter her outcome, my feelings of inferiority would forever stick. The seed was planted that day: that I was unattractive by comparison, and could no longer see myself through my own eyes. While the charming effects of Ashley being the most popular girl in junior high inevitably waned, now as a 20-something, I still let the impotent ratings of 2 cases of adolescent lust govern my self-image.
That was the day I became self-conscious.
non-journal entry. "Youth, as They Say..."
Will I outlive the teenage angst
That thrashes in the pit of rebellion?
This devious IV of adolescence
Pumps in spirited but unprecedented anger
Toward a seasoned and adulterated heart.
How silly it will be to arrive tipsy
And inappropriately dressed
To the funeral oration of my youth.
That thrashes in the pit of rebellion?
This devious IV of adolescence
Pumps in spirited but unprecedented anger
Toward a seasoned and adulterated heart.
How silly it will be to arrive tipsy
And inappropriately dressed
To the funeral oration of my youth.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
From 9/3/08, "Dry humping at the concert"
I feel that I should note my food intake for the past couple days.
Monday (at the BBQ)
Was supposed to limit to 200 bites. Fail. Massive fail.
Grape tomatoes
Edamame
1 slice of bread
1/4 c white rice
teabag size grilled yellowtail
1/3 c cucumber salad
iceberg lettuce salad w/ 1 sliver of avocado
tea-light candle size apple tart
Tuesday (writing workshop)
1 can Cherry Coke Zero
2 mini peanut butter cups
6 crackers
7 potato chips
small wedge of watermelon
1 fig newton
8 cubes cheddar jack (BOO!)
1 key lime cookie (at home)
Wednesday (today)
2 c coffee w/equal and cream
2 cans mac & cheese
purge
300 cals worth tortilla chips and salsa
1 Rolling Rock beer
I'm at about 143lbs, and I don't think that I'm trying hard enough. Especially after looking back on just the past 3 days. I'm embarrassed by Monday's intake. But I didn't know what to do. I was so hungry. I feel like such a failure. I'm still trying for 140 by Saturday. Maybe I can just do coffee tomorrow, and if the chips and salsa tempt me like I know they will, I'll indulge then repent.
I flaked out on a date with someone tonight. I had no motivation or ambition to even try. My mind is once again being clouded with MJF, and I can feel myself losing focus and ground. Although I may have tortured myself by cutting off communication with him before, I was more concentrated and attentive. I cannot lose my focus right now. I still love him. I still imagine myself sharing a life with him, and the fact that I do makes me blind with rage and disappointment - in myself. I am not to be trusted with the life of a relationship - I'll kill it. I only want what's best for me, and obviously don't care who or what I hur. And I'm even angrier that the pages of this journal are once again being filled with this fodder. Major stress still triggering major eating issues.
ABOUT THE CONCERT...
The concert was insane. For nearly half the show I was slammed against the huge ass of a middle-aged, bleach blonde fat goth chick with a sorry tattoo (NIN, Spiral, lyrics, Reznor's no doubt forged signature) on her back. She kept using her butt to push me off her. It was as if an elephant stampede was charging at me. She kept screaming at me to stop touching her fresh tattoo, to which I retorted, "Don't get a fucking tattoo the day before you willingly stand in a mosh pit!" There was a perpetual army of skanks clinging to the guardrail, all waiting for that fantasy moment in which Reznor outstretches his meaty arm and pulls one of them backstage to fuck. Good luck with that. All of them hold this fantasy beneath the exposed roots of their cascading, jagged, fried, and tinted hair.
But I can't lie. I too have had this fantasy. I don't want his money, his fame, or his children. Just him and his fascinating propaganda. Because as we all know, this country doesn't have enough white males with stilted opinions. Some are simply cut from a more attractive cloth.
But I digress. So there was the elephant woman. then my hair tie was pulled out and my hair was down for the rest of the show. At the mercy of the crowd no less, so I'm lucky I still have hair. There was some fellow dry humping me for a good half hour. And I have to admit, between watching Reznor simulate masturbation and this dude's junk grinding on my ass, I got mildly excited. Not to mention I was dripping with sweat, and there was mood music a-playin'. That's when I decided to slither away from the rail, and start to enjoy the show instead of fight for my life. And once I did, the show was amazing. My body was wrecked today, but totally worth it.
I hope I get to do it all again in Columbus in November. MJF wants to get a hotel if we go. Which makes sense, as it's a 3-hour drive from Cleveland to Columbus. How convenient. I suggested that he beings his brother along (to uncomplicate things, I thought to myself), but I know we'll go to the show, get wasted afterward and have sex in the hotel room. Not the worst of times by any means, but totally stupid and a means of complication. But it's inevitable if I get the chance to go to that show, we will fuck.
Monday (at the BBQ)
Was supposed to limit to 200 bites. Fail. Massive fail.
Grape tomatoes
Edamame
1 slice of bread
1/4 c white rice
teabag size grilled yellowtail
1/3 c cucumber salad
iceberg lettuce salad w/ 1 sliver of avocado
tea-light candle size apple tart
Tuesday (writing workshop)
1 can Cherry Coke Zero
2 mini peanut butter cups
6 crackers
7 potato chips
small wedge of watermelon
1 fig newton
8 cubes cheddar jack (BOO!)
1 key lime cookie (at home)
Wednesday (today)
2 c coffee w/equal and cream
2 cans mac & cheese
purge
300 cals worth tortilla chips and salsa
1 Rolling Rock beer
I'm at about 143lbs, and I don't think that I'm trying hard enough. Especially after looking back on just the past 3 days. I'm embarrassed by Monday's intake. But I didn't know what to do. I was so hungry. I feel like such a failure. I'm still trying for 140 by Saturday. Maybe I can just do coffee tomorrow, and if the chips and salsa tempt me like I know they will, I'll indulge then repent.
I flaked out on a date with someone tonight. I had no motivation or ambition to even try. My mind is once again being clouded with MJF, and I can feel myself losing focus and ground. Although I may have tortured myself by cutting off communication with him before, I was more concentrated and attentive. I cannot lose my focus right now. I still love him. I still imagine myself sharing a life with him, and the fact that I do makes me blind with rage and disappointment - in myself. I am not to be trusted with the life of a relationship - I'll kill it. I only want what's best for me, and obviously don't care who or what I hur. And I'm even angrier that the pages of this journal are once again being filled with this fodder. Major stress still triggering major eating issues.
ABOUT THE CONCERT...
The concert was insane. For nearly half the show I was slammed against the huge ass of a middle-aged, bleach blonde fat goth chick with a sorry tattoo (NIN, Spiral, lyrics, Reznor's no doubt forged signature) on her back. She kept using her butt to push me off her. It was as if an elephant stampede was charging at me. She kept screaming at me to stop touching her fresh tattoo, to which I retorted, "Don't get a fucking tattoo the day before you willingly stand in a mosh pit!" There was a perpetual army of skanks clinging to the guardrail, all waiting for that fantasy moment in which Reznor outstretches his meaty arm and pulls one of them backstage to fuck. Good luck with that. All of them hold this fantasy beneath the exposed roots of their cascading, jagged, fried, and tinted hair.
But I can't lie. I too have had this fantasy. I don't want his money, his fame, or his children. Just him and his fascinating propaganda. Because as we all know, this country doesn't have enough white males with stilted opinions. Some are simply cut from a more attractive cloth.
But I digress. So there was the elephant woman. then my hair tie was pulled out and my hair was down for the rest of the show. At the mercy of the crowd no less, so I'm lucky I still have hair. There was some fellow dry humping me for a good half hour. And I have to admit, between watching Reznor simulate masturbation and this dude's junk grinding on my ass, I got mildly excited. Not to mention I was dripping with sweat, and there was mood music a-playin'. That's when I decided to slither away from the rail, and start to enjoy the show instead of fight for my life. And once I did, the show was amazing. My body was wrecked today, but totally worth it.
I hope I get to do it all again in Columbus in November. MJF wants to get a hotel if we go. Which makes sense, as it's a 3-hour drive from Cleveland to Columbus. How convenient. I suggested that he beings his brother along (to uncomplicate things, I thought to myself), but I know we'll go to the show, get wasted afterward and have sex in the hotel room. Not the worst of times by any means, but totally stupid and a means of complication. But it's inevitable if I get the chance to go to that show, we will fuck.
From 8/31/08, "Further down the spiral"
I feel that I should note my dismal eating results for today:
4 slices of pizza
1 breadstick
purge
2 key lime cookies
2 cups coffee w/cream
2 chocolate cookies
maintain
Got a migraine so bad I was shaking, dizzy, and about to pass out. Like a pussy, I didn't hold strong, and went to get food. So disappointed.
Fries
fish sandwich
maintain
Consumed so much food in the past couple days I'm disgusted with myself. I'm never going to meet my goal if I can't stay strong. I want to be 140 for the show on Saturday. I'm having anxiety about the BBQ tomorrow. I'm going to have to eat because I don't want to be rude. Major anxiety. If I just eat small bites, count them, and gorge myself on water, I should be fine. 200 bites max. That's fair.
MJF is trying to work his way back into my life. He's trying to assuage me from asking out a 38 year old photographer.
4 slices of pizza
1 breadstick
purge
2 key lime cookies
2 cups coffee w/cream
2 chocolate cookies
maintain
Got a migraine so bad I was shaking, dizzy, and about to pass out. Like a pussy, I didn't hold strong, and went to get food. So disappointed.
Fries
fish sandwich
maintain
Consumed so much food in the past couple days I'm disgusted with myself. I'm never going to meet my goal if I can't stay strong. I want to be 140 for the show on Saturday. I'm having anxiety about the BBQ tomorrow. I'm going to have to eat because I don't want to be rude. Major anxiety. If I just eat small bites, count them, and gorge myself on water, I should be fine. 200 bites max. That's fair.
MJF is trying to work his way back into my life. He's trying to assuage me from asking out a 38 year old photographer.
From 8/30/08, later, "NIN and the magic number"
Going to see Nine Inch Nails this Saturday at the Forum in Inglewood. I'm going alone, and while this makes me very nervous, I'm way too excited to let anything stand in the way. If I didn't do any of the things in life that made me nervous, I'd be permanently landlocked.
MJF expressed interest, but as he's in OH, that's out of the cards. This is for the best, because here's what would happen: He'd come, we'd fuck, things would get awkward again because we can't and shouldn't be together, and then I go back to having lost my best friend. (And I used the diminutive word "fuck" because it wouldn't be making love. Sexual encounter for the sheer face value.) Still, it would have been nice to go to the show with him. Although, there are going to be plenty of men there waiting to expend all of their angst-ridden energy after what will be a skull-fuck of a concert.
Potentially a liberating, enticing, and unforgettable night...
...that is, unforgettable if I met a Mr. Trent Reznor. HA!!! Not in this life time. Dare to dream.
I feel that I should notate my food intake as it was a disappointing day. Good until C came in because then I had to stop purging.
1 c coffee w/cream and Splenda
1 chocolate cookie
(C leaves for work)
1/3 bag of fries with ranch
2 cans cheese ravioli
purge
cooked more fries, but threw them away to punish
1 key lime cookie
(C comes home to an already delivered pizza and breadsticks and me 1 slice and 2 breadsticks in. fuck.)
SO: 2 slices cheese pizza, 3 breadsticks
LATER: 3 Jack and diet Cokes
Yesterday I had a can of ravioli for lunch and one for dinner. Pathetic, but seem to be losing weight nonetheless. Want to be at 140 for the NIN show. Will be at 120 before the end of this year. Okay 125. I'll try to keep it to a minimum tomorrow. All purge, no play, must make goal for Saturday.
MJF expressed interest, but as he's in OH, that's out of the cards. This is for the best, because here's what would happen: He'd come, we'd fuck, things would get awkward again because we can't and shouldn't be together, and then I go back to having lost my best friend. (And I used the diminutive word "fuck" because it wouldn't be making love. Sexual encounter for the sheer face value.) Still, it would have been nice to go to the show with him. Although, there are going to be plenty of men there waiting to expend all of their angst-ridden energy after what will be a skull-fuck of a concert.
Potentially a liberating, enticing, and unforgettable night...
...that is, unforgettable if I met a Mr. Trent Reznor. HA!!! Not in this life time. Dare to dream.
I feel that I should notate my food intake as it was a disappointing day. Good until C came in because then I had to stop purging.
1 c coffee w/cream and Splenda
1 chocolate cookie
(C leaves for work)
1/3 bag of fries with ranch
2 cans cheese ravioli
purge
cooked more fries, but threw them away to punish
1 key lime cookie
(C comes home to an already delivered pizza and breadsticks and me 1 slice and 2 breadsticks in. fuck.)
SO: 2 slices cheese pizza, 3 breadsticks
LATER: 3 Jack and diet Cokes
Yesterday I had a can of ravioli for lunch and one for dinner. Pathetic, but seem to be losing weight nonetheless. Want to be at 140 for the NIN show. Will be at 120 before the end of this year. Okay 125. I'll try to keep it to a minimum tomorrow. All purge, no play, must make goal for Saturday.
Friday, November 20, 2009
From 8/30/08, "Creating my own melancholy"
I watched you change
As if you never had a chance
In the Valley of the Dolls.
Just came back from RP's (2:30am)
I cannot stop thinking about MJF today. He's all I've thought about for hours. "How long until he returns my text?" "What's he going to say?" I wasn't planning on writing a journal entry about him ever again, but here I am. Again. I DO create my own melancholy. I bring depression, this hollowing sadness. The unflinching doubt and uncertainty. I love him still. A relationship as strict friends cannot work. There's always going to be that desire, no matter how much I try to suppress it. He won't abandon my thoughts.
As if you never had a chance
In the Valley of the Dolls.
Just came back from RP's (2:30am)
I cannot stop thinking about MJF today. He's all I've thought about for hours. "How long until he returns my text?" "What's he going to say?" I wasn't planning on writing a journal entry about him ever again, but here I am. Again. I DO create my own melancholy. I bring depression, this hollowing sadness. The unflinching doubt and uncertainty. I love him still. A relationship as strict friends cannot work. There's always going to be that desire, no matter how much I try to suppress it. He won't abandon my thoughts.
(undated) "Prestige"
Los Angeles happens to be the final trick of my magic show of a life: The Great Disappearing Act. One way or another I'm going to lose myself - in work, in a man, in any colossal disaster of a relationship. A master of my craft, there is no illusion, only a pure prestige to stun the masses. A Great Finale: One Night Only. And in a flourish of bitter excitement, the crowd assails the stage with a barrage of roses and gratitude. Little do they know that this smoke-and-mirror illusionist has bowed out, foregoing my final romantic curtain call. Vanished without a trace, and in a day relieved to be forgotten. And on that day I can be hidden and anonymous. Free to be myself.
(undated) "Ladies and Gentlemen: In a moment of Desperation, of Weakness, presenting a confession"
I know that our lives will never be the same. The silver thread of a once tightly-wound bond permanently tarnished, frayed at both ends. this, not because of our doing, but because of my un-doing. Our turmoil is like a wave in its unstructured and unpredictable nature. Like a ripple in a tidepool, pulsing, trembling silent ringlets from the casual stroke of my hand. And now we have surfaced to a sea of silence that can only be welcomed with both relief and unsettlement. Silence, the double-edged sword of wanting and complacency.
I never wanted to write this, but you deserve to know who I am. To know what you allowed yourself to be involved with for nearly four years. Just as well, I deserve to admonish these things as a catharsis. And I write this so that should we ever speak again, let it not be of this. I'm letting go my sins to the one I wronged, and cannot be obliged to linger on them.
I have come to realize that my lust is a reaction and a disease. A drug in my veins for that delicious and temporary sedation and satisfaction. The product of lust becomes fixation, obsession, and penultimately sex. Then, after the thirteenth hour, after the expected moment of glorious transformation and penitence, there I am: naked and weeping at the edge of some stranger's bed. The pre-coital moment of doubt never strong enough for me to discern the civilized structure of right and wrong. Ultimately numb.
I never wanted to write this, but you deserve to know who I am. To know what you allowed yourself to be involved with for nearly four years. Just as well, I deserve to admonish these things as a catharsis. And I write this so that should we ever speak again, let it not be of this. I'm letting go my sins to the one I wronged, and cannot be obliged to linger on them.
I have come to realize that my lust is a reaction and a disease. A drug in my veins for that delicious and temporary sedation and satisfaction. The product of lust becomes fixation, obsession, and penultimately sex. Then, after the thirteenth hour, after the expected moment of glorious transformation and penitence, there I am: naked and weeping at the edge of some stranger's bed. The pre-coital moment of doubt never strong enough for me to discern the civilized structure of right and wrong. Ultimately numb.
From 8/26/08, "Making lists, pt 2"
I feel that I should note my binge from Saturday night. I meant to note it after the fact, but was too worn out.
2 bowls of bow-tie pasta with sauce
purge
20 mini peanut butter cups
1/2 bag Ruffles
large asiago cheese roll
purge
2 soft sugar cookies
maintain
On a positive note, I've had the shittiest most stressful day imaginable and refrained from putting a gash anywhere on my body. but now that I am settling down from the day's minutiae, it sounds more and more appealing...
2 bowls of bow-tie pasta with sauce
purge
20 mini peanut butter cups
1/2 bag Ruffles
large asiago cheese roll
purge
2 soft sugar cookies
maintain
On a positive note, I've had the shittiest most stressful day imaginable and refrained from putting a gash anywhere on my body. but now that I am settling down from the day's minutiae, it sounds more and more appealing...
From 8/24/08 "Making lists"
(NOTE: for no apparent reason, I made out this list. I retain its meaning. Decipher at will)
After a call from G. A sigh and a breath of fresh air. Vindication and my infatuation continues to grow. He's hard to read, as his exterior belies his soft core.
Of mice and men:
JC
DH
RP
JT
A
MJF
MDF
BW
JC
RL
CG
After a call from G. A sigh and a breath of fresh air. Vindication and my infatuation continues to grow. He's hard to read, as his exterior belies his soft core.
Of mice and men:
JC
DH
RP
JT
A
MJF
MDF
BW
JC
RL
CG
From 8/23/08, "Still out of work"
Beauty is a farce narrated under the pretense of accessibility. Its conflicts well up emotion so full that the body is forced to rely on tears, voiding the self to the lees. I am puppeteered by some preternatural instinct to flush away sadness, despair, hatred, dissension through a salty thread unraveling down my cheek, over my shoulder, and down my back. I rest my head in my own polluted well.
An anxiety is growing, and rooted so deeply that now I cannot even escape torrid jealousy and rage in my sleep. This is the blackest day among many. I'm hold up somewhere in a city that hates me, that cannot stand the sight of me, that promises me the world then rapes my naivety. I can feel sadness settling cavernously within my heart like a nest of spiders, waiting to be disturbed so that they can invade and overtake my being--weighing down my arms, my legs, my eyelids so that I can neither move or wake.
I envision that someday my precious razors will turn on me, the inevitable cause of my death. The hot, soothing draw of the blade will open my wrists, separating so precisely the flesh, and sighing a great flood of relief. Pouring down my fingertips to the floor. And I will forgive that blade its iniquities, as it cannot understand how it was once searching for a sweet, simple taste of mortality, but caused death--"dead now. Dead later. Dead infinitum." (Caroline Kettlewell)
All this, as well as trying to rationalize myself into thinking that I'm not exactly like M; a creature so unambitious so unequivocally God-fearing. So simple and trite, so timid and agoraphobic is but the mere consistency of my inner-most core. The cause of the bitter taste in my mouth and the well-spring of blood that runs through my veins. It is because of the overbearing and protective nature that allots M endless worry, therefore leaving me without.
I let no one in or anyone out. I waste my time worshiping the idolatry of monogamy, creating fictitious relationships in my head in a hopeless mirage of Zeffirelli's bedroom scene in "Romeo and Juliet." Two hearts, one beat. Two eyes, one look. Two lips, one kiss. A busted Dalian image. A perverse arrangement of fragmented mirror, a dangerous distortion of the meaningless suddenly becoming relevant.
"...Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way." (Janet Fitch)
And it's the painful and obvious realization that loneliness is the human condition that makes my mind wander toward fantasy. It was what deluded me after my encounter with G. It's what still pulses through my veins at mention of his name. The fantasy that he is untouchable by every other, that his love for me is something historical, is laughable and detestable. Both humiliating and unilluminated. To think that any man might go out of his way to care about me is simply a stale cosmic joke that life repeats seven nights a week--I'm here all month, try the veal!
Desperation is maddening. It's the pink gum stuck to my shoe in the middle of the hottest day of the year. No matter how hard I scrape, blobs of pinkblack good nestle into the crevices, tacking my heel to the pavement...grimly obvious to passersby. Desperation glows about the face, haloing the sick desires that cradle loneliness. Will I cry myself to sleep tonight? Will I cry? Will I toss during a sleepless night so that I can rightfully claim the black eyes and drooped lids? To brandish humiliation about the face is the essence of desperation. These meticulous wounds such a miracle savior for all the world to see.
"Despair [isn't] a quest, you didn't play its favorite music, find it a comfortable chair. Despair [is] the enemy." (Ibid)
An anxiety is growing, and rooted so deeply that now I cannot even escape torrid jealousy and rage in my sleep. This is the blackest day among many. I'm hold up somewhere in a city that hates me, that cannot stand the sight of me, that promises me the world then rapes my naivety. I can feel sadness settling cavernously within my heart like a nest of spiders, waiting to be disturbed so that they can invade and overtake my being--weighing down my arms, my legs, my eyelids so that I can neither move or wake.
I envision that someday my precious razors will turn on me, the inevitable cause of my death. The hot, soothing draw of the blade will open my wrists, separating so precisely the flesh, and sighing a great flood of relief. Pouring down my fingertips to the floor. And I will forgive that blade its iniquities, as it cannot understand how it was once searching for a sweet, simple taste of mortality, but caused death--"dead now. Dead later. Dead infinitum." (Caroline Kettlewell)
All this, as well as trying to rationalize myself into thinking that I'm not exactly like M; a creature so unambitious so unequivocally God-fearing. So simple and trite, so timid and agoraphobic is but the mere consistency of my inner-most core. The cause of the bitter taste in my mouth and the well-spring of blood that runs through my veins. It is because of the overbearing and protective nature that allots M endless worry, therefore leaving me without.
I let no one in or anyone out. I waste my time worshiping the idolatry of monogamy, creating fictitious relationships in my head in a hopeless mirage of Zeffirelli's bedroom scene in "Romeo and Juliet." Two hearts, one beat. Two eyes, one look. Two lips, one kiss. A busted Dalian image. A perverse arrangement of fragmented mirror, a dangerous distortion of the meaningless suddenly becoming relevant.
"...Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way." (Janet Fitch)
And it's the painful and obvious realization that loneliness is the human condition that makes my mind wander toward fantasy. It was what deluded me after my encounter with G. It's what still pulses through my veins at mention of his name. The fantasy that he is untouchable by every other, that his love for me is something historical, is laughable and detestable. Both humiliating and unilluminated. To think that any man might go out of his way to care about me is simply a stale cosmic joke that life repeats seven nights a week--I'm here all month, try the veal!
Desperation is maddening. It's the pink gum stuck to my shoe in the middle of the hottest day of the year. No matter how hard I scrape, blobs of pinkblack good nestle into the crevices, tacking my heel to the pavement...grimly obvious to passersby. Desperation glows about the face, haloing the sick desires that cradle loneliness. Will I cry myself to sleep tonight? Will I cry? Will I toss during a sleepless night so that I can rightfully claim the black eyes and drooped lids? To brandish humiliation about the face is the essence of desperation. These meticulous wounds such a miracle savior for all the world to see.
"Despair [isn't] a quest, you didn't play its favorite music, find it a comfortable chair. Despair [is] the enemy." (Ibid)
From 8/20/08, "Un-settling into LA"
Couldn't get food off my mind all day today. Had a bottomless hunger. Went to the Burbank library where I applied for a lot of odd jobs. Called SG at Clairmont today. Still interviewing other people. Guess I didn't wow them as much as I thought, or as much as they let on. Major stress triggering major eating issues. This was my day:
1 cup of coffee w/ Sweet & Low and cream
slices of sharp cheddar
bowl of guacamole and chips
whole 10" cheese pizza
purge
1/2 bag of steak fries
can of Spaghettios
second 1/2 of steak fries
second can of Spaghettios
purge
Ate these things about an hour apart. I ate the pizza, threw it up. Then reheated the oven and made the fries. Had to keep them down while C was here. Made the pasta and cooked more fries. Ate the pasta while the fries were cooking. Then after the fries, cooked another can of pasta and ate that. Purged. Now I'm enjoying a nice glass of tea. My eating has been totally out of control for the past several days. I just can't stop thinking about food. Eating it. Not eating it. Binging and purging. Today was the first day I've purged since I was home in MO a few weeks ago.
I'm stressed about work. No one has come through. I love LA but I'm going nuts.
And I think I'm irrationally in love. I know G has no feelings for me at all. If he does, he's good at hiding them. Sure there was the sex, but what does that mean? Nothing.
A text exchange:
G: Got your letter today. Large use of huge words. Had to read it twice. Not used to civilized speech patterns in BFE [bum-fuck Egypt]. You doing ok?
Me: I'm fine. Glad you got it. Sorry about the language. Can't control it. Okay that I wrote?
G: Of course. I don't mind. Plus when you get famous I can realise [sic, release] a memoir book and make a million. So keep em coming.
Me: Haha. Good. Cause I wrote you one today.
G: Awesome. I may have to get off my ass and write back...
Me: You should write back so we can trade sundries and sharp pedantic quips.
G: ...sounds like a plan.
Me: Good, good.
G: for now it's beddie by. I'll call soon.
Me: Oh, please do! That'd be great. Night.
End texts.
(hanging on a quiet desperation is the English way...)
I can't ever be normal. I have to be obsessive. Men. Food. Diets. Stress. Sleep. Sex ... Yes my full transition into a statistic is almost complete.
1 cup of coffee w/ Sweet & Low and cream
slices of sharp cheddar
bowl of guacamole and chips
whole 10" cheese pizza
purge
1/2 bag of steak fries
can of Spaghettios
second 1/2 of steak fries
second can of Spaghettios
purge
Ate these things about an hour apart. I ate the pizza, threw it up. Then reheated the oven and made the fries. Had to keep them down while C was here. Made the pasta and cooked more fries. Ate the pasta while the fries were cooking. Then after the fries, cooked another can of pasta and ate that. Purged. Now I'm enjoying a nice glass of tea. My eating has been totally out of control for the past several days. I just can't stop thinking about food. Eating it. Not eating it. Binging and purging. Today was the first day I've purged since I was home in MO a few weeks ago.
I'm stressed about work. No one has come through. I love LA but I'm going nuts.
And I think I'm irrationally in love. I know G has no feelings for me at all. If he does, he's good at hiding them. Sure there was the sex, but what does that mean? Nothing.
A text exchange:
G: Got your letter today. Large use of huge words. Had to read it twice. Not used to civilized speech patterns in BFE [bum-fuck Egypt]. You doing ok?
Me: I'm fine. Glad you got it. Sorry about the language. Can't control it. Okay that I wrote?
G: Of course. I don't mind. Plus when you get famous I can realise [sic, release] a memoir book and make a million. So keep em coming.
Me: Haha. Good. Cause I wrote you one today.
G: Awesome. I may have to get off my ass and write back...
Me: You should write back so we can trade sundries and sharp pedantic quips.
G: ...sounds like a plan.
Me: Good, good.
G: for now it's beddie by. I'll call soon.
Me: Oh, please do! That'd be great. Night.
End texts.
(hanging on a quiet desperation is the English way...)
I can't ever be normal. I have to be obsessive. Men. Food. Diets. Stress. Sleep. Sex ... Yes my full transition into a statistic is almost complete.
From 8/12/08, "Post-1800 mile drive"
For at least (surely more) 1200 miles of my 1800 mile trip from Farmington to LA, I couldn't get G off my mind. The other 400 were spent trying to convince myself not to pull off into an exit to find a pharmacy so that I could purchase some razors. Followed by the next 100 when I meticulously counted every bite that went into my mouth; followed by the last 100 in which I tried not to kill myself in a wreck due to fatigue.
Somwhere in Oklahoma I began convincing myself that the sex was just a fling. A one-shot deal with him. I held a conversation with myself: "He doesn't want you," followed by the unbearable reality that I was right.
It's not that the sex was any good. Shockingly mediocre at best. It's just that I feel so irrationally connected to an unobtainable entity. But of course I've hyperbolized the entire relationship, and have in turn worked myself into a psychotic frenzy. I hate coy.
With most people, if the sex is bad, we're done. Here, it was okay, and I still want to give it the old college try. Problem is, now I'm left pining 1800 miles away, while he's courting the next leggy, sheepish, look-at-me-I'm-so-wasted-this-is-my-song! townie girl, coaxing her into his dark and brooding cave. I've totally let myself get carried away this time around...again.
"He doesn't want you." Remember this. Let this burn. A mantra, a credo that will keep me awake most nights now. And in the meantime, bed anyone who feigns the attention I crave from G.
Somwhere in Oklahoma I began convincing myself that the sex was just a fling. A one-shot deal with him. I held a conversation with myself: "He doesn't want you," followed by the unbearable reality that I was right.
It's not that the sex was any good. Shockingly mediocre at best. It's just that I feel so irrationally connected to an unobtainable entity. But of course I've hyperbolized the entire relationship, and have in turn worked myself into a psychotic frenzy. I hate coy.
With most people, if the sex is bad, we're done. Here, it was okay, and I still want to give it the old college try. Problem is, now I'm left pining 1800 miles away, while he's courting the next leggy, sheepish, look-at-me-I'm-so-wasted-this-is-my-song! townie girl, coaxing her into his dark and brooding cave. I've totally let myself get carried away this time around...again.
"He doesn't want you." Remember this. Let this burn. A mantra, a credo that will keep me awake most nights now. And in the meantime, bed anyone who feigns the attention I crave from G.
What is this for? Why should you care?
You shouldn't. Care, I mean. These blogs are a series of journal entries starting in August of 2008, just before I moved to Los Angeles. "What It Brings, For What It's Worth" was written just a few nights before I drove 3000 miles across the country to my new home. That was the mindset I traveled with, that was the mindset that persisted.
Read and comment at your own risk. I cannot be held responsible for potential disappointment, nausea, loathing, disgust, ambiguity, or empathy.
Perhaps someone will see themselves in me, and allow themselves recovery in the least painful manner possible. Perhaps someone can learn, as I obviously refuse.
Read and comment at your own risk. I cannot be held responsible for potential disappointment, nausea, loathing, disgust, ambiguity, or empathy.
Perhaps someone will see themselves in me, and allow themselves recovery in the least painful manner possible. Perhaps someone can learn, as I obviously refuse.
What It Brings, For What It's Worth
The Illness creeps up this night
For the past weekandmonthandyear
This decade (as it was inevitable so, so long ago)
It sounds like a drop of water, or sweat
It's salty and must be bitter
I'm told
But I recognize The Illness in the way it feels
That slick touch of envy and the sharp burn of denial
Quixotic eroticism in the face of Danger
That triumphantly waves,
Reflected back from a water of bile
As it brandishes a face of guilt
The Illness is at a front
Without explanation or apology
It could be greed or conscience or forgetfulness or fun
But the thrill no longer serves
As there was no thrill and it never appeared in any other form
So there must be that lavish hint of Danger in the air
With thick, soured perfumes
On which I choke
But all that is seen is laughter
Downwardly drowning
To skeletal bliss.
For the past weekandmonthandyear
This decade (as it was inevitable so, so long ago)
It sounds like a drop of water, or sweat
It's salty and must be bitter
I'm told
But I recognize The Illness in the way it feels
That slick touch of envy and the sharp burn of denial
Quixotic eroticism in the face of Danger
That triumphantly waves,
Reflected back from a water of bile
As it brandishes a face of guilt
The Illness is at a front
Without explanation or apology
It could be greed or conscience or forgetfulness or fun
But the thrill no longer serves
As there was no thrill and it never appeared in any other form
So there must be that lavish hint of Danger in the air
With thick, soured perfumes
On which I choke
But all that is seen is laughter
Downwardly drowning
To skeletal bliss.
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