o9) You only live once

Call it a divine realization.
Sitting outside, the sunlight beating down on me as it slowly sets, I realized, like some people do, that you do only live once.  There is only one life.  What else are we primping for?  Waiting for?

I'm tired of living like I'm expecting judgment.  Like every day, I'm waiting for something to happen, and I'm not sure what.  Why is it wrong to starve yourself?  Why is wrong to be hungry?  Why is it wrong to smoke?

Yeah, it all will kill you.  But that's the outcome anyway.

I've tasted life, and I'm not exactly craving more.  I want to do the things again that I loved.  The things that made me feel alive.  I want the things I want, and I'm tired of fear.

I'm sick of always waiting for something to happen.

I don't know what I'm going to do from here.  I've had dreams for a while, and no way to make them real.  No way to touch on the fantasy world in my head.  I'll never be anything successful.  I'll never be anything amazing.  I've realized that in these past few years.  All these high hopes and ambitions are never going to go come to fruition.

So why not make it count?

I'm not sure how.  I'm not sure why.  I'm not sure what happens from here.

But I only live once.

And maybe it'll be forever.  And maybe I'll die tomorrow.

But I'm tired of feeling like shit.  And I'm tired of craving.

It's time to breathe again.

Sometimes I wonder why my roomies (soon-to-be) ex wife thinks he and I are fucking.  Then I stumble out of the bathroom after a badass shift at work wearing nothing but a wife beater and boyshorts, pants in hand, without a care in the world.  I don't think she realizes that it has nothing to do with wanting to sexually entice anyone, and far more to do with the fact that I fucking hate my work pants after so long. 

I'm getting my new BodyBugg strap in the mail soon.  SUPER excited!

Tomorrow is my weigh in day for the BB program, as well.  I had a complete binge day, which is fine.  I just need to be at 135.  I just weighed in at 135.2, but this morning I was 134.2.  I'm sure sleep will get me down to where I need to be.  But whatever.  I'll get to where I need to be.  The point is, last week, I weighed in at 136.2, and the week before that at 138.  And when I left The Ex, I was at 146.  So it's happening, even if I am having a hard time seeing it.

Anyway, I need to go pay attention to my dogs.  They're wriggling around and wanting love.  They missed their mommy ♥

o8)

Breakfast: Two forkfills of a TV dinner, four cigarettes, an atrophex, and a good dose of anxiety and depression.

So far, that's all.




I learned my credit is bad today, after talking to a loan company about getting some money for a reconstructive surgery that I desperately need.  Need, as in, I've nearly sliced that part of myself and cauterized it, and would have, had I been able to find a piece of metal in the house that could be heated to the proper temperature without melting.  Ah, the days when I was at my worst.

It's not something I run the risk of doing now.  I like to think I've gotten my head a little more clear than that.



I'm applying for other jobs to save up the money.  And tempted to take an offer to do burlesque on line as a dominatrix.  I say burlesque because the type of outfit I would be wearing would be more along those lines, and I would be commanding men over webcam what do to themselves.  Not too glamorous, but the pay is amazing, from what I understand.



I just feel sort of exhausted.  I had told myself I wouldn't be writing in any of these sorts of blogs anymore.  I feel like I've been desperately grasping at straws of myself, and they've been crumbling to dust everytime my fingers lock around them.




I was in the hospital for what they suspected was a severe form of an STD, but they haven't told me what it is, yet.  I don't know.  Right now, I'm too tired to give a damn.






I just feel sort of empty.  Alone.  Solitary.

Whatever.

I don't really have it in me right now to be a good friend.  Or to be a good anything.  Girly seems to think otherwise.  I'm a selfish person.  And I close off on myself.  I stop reaching out.  I fold up inside, because it's the only thing I know how to do.  I tried so hard to be otherwise.  But it's not something that works very well.

I keep hearing the script played out in my head over and over and over again.  Thoughts given voice by countless others over the years, and I try to find out why I am this way.  What triggered it.  This inability to connect.  To care.  To see when I hurt others, or the effect I have on the people around me.

It's easier, I think, to stop existing as a person of the world.  To fold in, shut down, and just go through the motions.  But then I hurt more people.  And then I feel lost, because why are people trying to get close when I clearly don't want them to?
And then I get lonely, and reach out, and fuck up anyway.

I'm just...I don't know.

Late for work is what I am.
And this post is self pitying and pathetic.

Nothing to do now but get over it and fix it, isn't there?

So it goes.

Now For Something Completely Different--A Tattoo!

MY NEW INK! 

It says "Quod me Nutrit, Me Destruit" with the NEDA symbol underneath. 

o7) The Lie of Love

We're led to believe in the sanctity of marriage--the impugnable holiness of matrimony, relationships, and love.  Told that it is what matters most.  Taught by fairy tales, romance novels, fantasy novels, and even news outlets, that not only is it a requirement and force that overcomes all ailments, but a necessity for normalcy.  That without a prince or princess charming, we are nothing.  Worthless.  Meaningless.

Cinderella was nothing before she was rescued.

Snow White was a victim.

Harry Potter was only as powerful as he was because his parents loved him.

But what about when love fails?

What are we, when we are single?  When our parents don't love us for who we are?  What are the orphans worth, who are never loved by an adopted parent, a sibling, or genetic parentage?  Who are we, when our lives become devoid of devotion, and we lose the love of even ourselves?

The truth is that love?  Love is not the answer.  Love is a word--a feeling.  A concept.  Love is something that exists only philosophy.  This is not to say that there is no happily ever after.  It is to say that love is a chemical reaction, and love ceases to be.  There are divorces, and then those who push on, trying to maintain the false facade of affection long after the flame has died.

I believe we strive for it too young.  Seek to fulfill a hole inside of ourselves created by the fantasy that we must be loved to be worth anything.  And that to be loved, we must be perfect.  There is no affection for those perceived to be flawed.  Cinderella wasn't fat.  Snow White wasn't black.  Harry Potter's father never regretted him. 

We must stop seeking love from others.  Stop seeking love and acceptance from the world.  This is not to say that we must never hope to feel it.  But it is not, in all honesty, the end all and be all.  It does not determine our worth.  It does not determine the quality of us as human beings.  What it does determine is the quality of those we surround ourselves by.

If those around you do not love you, then find others who will.  If your parents do not accept you, do not adore you, then feel that pain, feel that agony, commit it to memory, and then love yourself instead.  It is not your fault.  The flaw lies not in you, your appearance, or in whatever side of you that you believe to be broken.
We are products of nature and nurture.  There are things inside of us that cannot be changed.  Parts of us that will forever remain the way they are.  But the rest is up to us.  We have been nurtured to feel a certain way.  TO believe that we must love, be loved, and that we must do it all before the age of 25.  God forbid, you're unmarried by 30.  There must be something horrible about you, no matter if you're a man or a woman!
We need to stop.
Stop thinking about forever.
Stop seeking validation--seeking love--from others.  Basing our worth on the accolades we receive from our peers.  It is all fine and dandy, but you don't receive those by craving it.  You receive those by not caring.

The true meaning of success is independence.  And the true worth of a person is measured only in the worth they place on themselves, and the way they live their life.

Love is secondary to who we are.  Love is a beautiful thing.  But Love? 
Love is a feeling.
And it can only be truly understood and appreciated when we learn to love ourselves.


.
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.
.
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Today, I refused to eat.
I felt bad about my weight.
And yet I meant it when I looked a pretty girl I took on a date in the eyes and said, "I do have some things I want to change, but I love me.  I'm happy with my body."

And I realized something.
Happiness doesn't equate to perfection, or contentment.  Loving myself doesn't mean I've reached the pinnacle of thin or recovery.  Love didn't cure me.  My ex's love didn't cure me, and loving myself hasn't cured me.
It's taught me to be okay with where I am.
Which has permitted me the power to change what I am. 

Being happy with where I am now doesn't mean I don't still want to strive for something better.
And it's nice to realize that even with my disorder, I can look in the mirror, admire my shape, and think, "Damn, I look good...."

After all, in my own mind, even perfection has room for improvement....

o6) 5 Pounds, New Politics, Sexual Trauma

Approx. 5 pounds lost in 7 days.
I don't feel much thinner, but there is a small measure of victory.  My clothes are fitting better.  My tummy is feeling smaller.

I've found out what my problem is when it comes to sex--it's that I am severely, truly, horribly damaged with my outlook on it.  I'm not comfortable with men, unless they're feminized.  I've had several dates and potential suitors, all of the masculine variety, but the only one I can consider dating is a male who looks very masculine, but...has sent me pictures of himself as he feels "he really is", which is dressed as woman.  A convincing woman.  And the thought of dominating him--of possessing him--of taking control, and making him fully subservient to me--spurred me on more than I ever thought it could.  What my past entails has ruined so much of traditional relationships, even in regards to women. 

I'm in my element with the other damaged, and so many of us are.  My current roommate is damaged by the same ex I have--a fellow participant in the cult.  His sex life has taken several blows due to what she put us through, and there is something infinitely comforting in having someone understand the words, "If ____ loved me, then sex wouldn't matter, would it?"

I've started another book.  This one I came up with last night at work.  It's going to be a few years in the writing.  It's a book on American Politics, and my viewpoint of it.  A Reinvention of the American Political System, if you will.  I'm going to start out by writing out my current beliefs, then I have to research the history of Democratics, Republicans, Socialists, Conservatives, and even the ancient Greeks beliefs of Civic Duty and the influence of prominent philosophers.  I also need to research the pharamceutical industries, the beef industries, food subsidies, healthcare policies and privatized hospitals, and the future of energy.

Needless to say, if I crack down, it's a good two, maybe three, years in the making.  Ugh.

The ex keeps calling me.  It's driving me up a wall.  I wake up, and the first thing i see is him, calling.  I hate waking up to that.

There is a world of words I wish to say, none of which presently rise to the occassion.  I blame exhaustion, and a severe lack of caffeine or adderall in my system.
Perhaps tomorrow will bring better results, hm?

o5) Fat laced cow flesh

Looked through my old before/after pictures, from 2008 to 2009.  From 197 to 121.  Then looked at the thinner ones.  119.  116.  You could start to see the indentation under my ribs.  The protrusion of hib bones.

I see myself now.
138.
A fat, gelatinous mass hiding the bones that make me pretty.
I was close to my spine peeking out.
Close to shoulder blades starting to be exposed.  A mere 13 pounds from my ultimate goal.
I want to cry.  To scream.
I've gone from 143 to 138.8 in around a week.  But today, I had a V8, 220 cals worth of a pasta dish, and then I had a prime rib and a quarter serving of fries.  The prime rib was like...800-900 calories.  But I just hit my period, and it was the only thing I could think to eat.  I needed the fatty meat so bad I was starting to shake.  I haven't been going over around 400 calories for three days now, and with the start of my period, I have low iron, potassium, and yeah....I felt so much better, but that meal was like, at least 1000 calories.  I'm at 1400. I want to cry.  I want to scream.  I'm so fat.  I'm so fucking fat.

I wasn't supposed to relapse.
I was supposed to be ok with food.
But I wasn't supposed to get fat, either.
You can't win, can you?

Oh god.  Oh god oh god oh god.

I'm going through my old blog.  Looking at all the followers.  So ANGRY that I have to give that up and start from scratch.
I'm never showing ANYONE in real life this thing again. 

Boy is trying to take my dog.  He claims "it's his dog too", but that's bullshit.  I absorbed the vet costs.  I did everything else.  Now he wants to visit with us tomorrow, and I don't think I can do it, even though I already promised.
Fuck.
I am so sick of all of this.
So fucking SICK.
I'm shaking.


Yesterday, I went from 141.2 down to 140.2.  Then I smoked a bowl and I binged when I was super stressed, and now I'm back to 141.2, and I know my period is close, and that's why my weight isn't moving, but I know it's also because i'm eating, and this whole recovery thing is completely shot to shit and I can't make it better.  My wall is now coated with thinspo and my mirror and white boards are all just fucked to hell with quotes and pictures and it's just...it's just terrible, but wonderful, and I think I'm going to be sick.
I hate this.
I hate him.
I fucking HATE him.
Why can't he just disappear?
WHY?

So much bullshit.
So much absolute bullshit.
FUCK.

o4) In Soviet Russia

A Christmas Tree in March.
It mocked me.  I swear it.  My new roommate--a friend I've had since the days of the cult, as equally fucked as I due to the crazy-ex who ran the psuedo-religious sect--has had it up since his wife left him around Christmas.  Standing over ten feet tall, and too wide around to reach the middle of it by shoving my arm in, he hasn't been able to remove it on his own.  As a result, the five cats his wife left him with have used it as a marking post, as well as the 80 pound dog she abandoned here as well.

It bugged the fuck out of me. 

There are a lot of things in this new setting that bother me.  The neighbor next door who has five families in a three bedroom house.  The fact that they have a child under two who was running up and down the street under her father's watchful eye with a handgun (a pistol, of all things--the sort that stores an extra bullet in the chamber, so even if the clip is out, it could still be loaded), even going so far as to just laugh as she put the end of it in her own mouth.  Or the people behind us, who live on a small plot of land with five chickens, a goat, a few kids, and two dogs.  But the Christmas tree was something that I could handle.  A symbol, for everything that's been bothering me.  A towering goliath that, if I could conquer, would mean I could handle more than a typical man.

A tree, twice my height.  Literally.

Piss soaked.  Chewed on.  Dry.  Forgotten.  Dead.

Falling apart.

It was like the relationship I had just gotten out of; beautiful when it was in season, and having lasted too long to remain a good thing.  And the challenge was like all of my life.  Being told it's impossible.  Being told I'm too small.  It was the monster in the room, a hazard waiting to go up in flames.  A reminder of things that should have been happy but never would be again.  In the past week since I've broken up with my ex, I've remained numb to almost everything, removed, like my Father always taught me.  I've stamped away the emotions until nothing is left but panic attacks that fade quickly under a strict grip and a sudden fear of food.  The feelings I hide manifesting in strange obsessions--such as the Christmas Tree.  As if it were truly so symbolic.  It made me insane.  It made me think too much. 

So I decided to kill it.

It took some struggle.  And much scratching of branches, some leg work, and a lot of god damned will.  But I took it down by myself.  Dragged it outside.  Dismantled the base.  Removed the star.  Then, in a fit of victory, I kicked it.  Not once, not twice, but multiple times, stomping on it like the ghosts it seemed to represent, allowing the rage that has been building for so long flow out.  How dare my ex use all the things I told him in confidence against me?  How dare he say that everything wrong in my life, I brought on myself.  How dare I let him hurt me like this?  How dare I be so stupid to let myself feel anything at all.  How dare that fucking tree infest so much of my mind that it seemed to mock me by scratching me whenever I walked into the living room, getting chewed on, acting like some sort of dangerous monument to all the shit I've been struggling with in my mind?

Of course, this tantrum didn't go unnoticed by the neighbors. 

Nor did my outburst of, "Impossible?  HA!  I'm Russian!  All Russians must know how to chop a tree, because in Soviet Russia, TREE CHOPS YOU!"

On a good note, the little toddler with the gun was quickly rushed away from where she was trying to play on our front lawn, and told strictly to "stay away from the crazy woman's home".

You take what you can get, I guess.

o3) Strange Rituals

Twitching, shoulders slumped, toes jumping.  The smell of a philly cheese steak.  Half.  Home made.  Portion sizes purposefully portioned out so that rather than three, it's six servings.  Technically only 1/3 of a serving.  The smell lingers.  Fingers twitch.  Mouth watering.  Salivating.  

Horrifying.

All the weight lost.  The movement, the running, made into nothing.

I need to eat.  I'll just eat a little.

You ate more than a little earlier.

You know what to do.

Flick of a lighter.

Deep inhale.

Hold for ten.

Lungs constrict, eyes water, body shivers, smoke pouring out on a ragged cough.  Limbs settling, I take a fortifying breath and reach for the meal.

I'm supposed to be in recovery.

Eating defeats her.  I must defeat her.

She can make the pain go away.

Chew.

Chew.

Chew.

My esophagus shudders as if in protest--as if it, too, is terrified by what is worming it's way down to the stomach.  I manage more bites, each one taken quick, chewed fast, swallowed faster, as if to devour it with utmost haste before the fear takes hold completely.  When the beast is slain, that sandwich eaten--when my edible Goliath lay masticated in my belly--I take a breath and try not to feel the way my stomach sticks out.  The way my breasts sit heavier on my chest.  How my back is softer, the flesh almost seeming to be preparing to form back into rolls.  I try not to feel how thick my thighs have gotten, or baggy my arms have become.  I only think of nutrition, the requirement to live, the reminder that the weight gain came from stress inspired binges with my ex.  

I try not to let the trembles hit, though a few break through.  A harder day.  But they are steadily becoming that way.

I take the pipe.  Take another hit.

The anxiety eases.  A part of me crows in victory at the knowledge of what my life has become.

I have trained myself to eat only when high.

So when I give up pot?

I'll give up food, too.

What roundabout bullshit.

o2) Collateral Damage

I find myself pulling at my clothing, tucking away the assets that make me desirable.

My breasts shame me.  The eyes that are drawn to them, the way people stare.  Trepidation sidles up beside me, an old companion, reminding me of precisely all the things that I despise about myself.  It is a nasty monster that tells me that Boy was right--I have brought it all on myself.  Perhaps if I hadn't developed so early.  Perhaps if I hadn't relied so heavily on those terrible things on my chest.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

A million "perhaps"-es.  

Hunger makes me tired.  Dizzy.

My limbs are weak. 

My legs are heavy.

I've eaten nothing.

Haven't stopped moving for ten hours.  Running.  Serving tables.  Playing nice.  Smiling.

It's not fair that smiling through pain--playing off your emotions so cleanly--doesn't burn more calories.  Hell, it's shocking it's not an Olympic sport.  I find the effort more exhausting than any run on a treadmill.  The sheer determination and willpower to keep moving is sometimes unbearable.

All I keep telling myself is the same simple credo.

"This too shall pass."

o1) Feel Her.

I can feel her calling to me.  Her siren song sung quietly in the back of my head.  She speaks of things that can never be--feelings that can never transpire.  I dream of a life sometimes where I cease to exist as a sexual being. Nothing but prepubescent lines and corners, pretty in the way of tom boy ten year olds or feminine boys.  I dream of never having to show my body again--never having to touch a relationship again.  I am weary.  I am exhausted.  And she uses the time to murmur thoughts into my mind.

Don't eat that.
Don't drink that.
The hunger will make you feel better.
The hunger will make everything go away.


She operates in every bite I take, spurred on by my misery.  By every sharp word and cruel barb he lashes out at me.  I opened up my soul to him, and he accuses me of all the bad things I was afraid I was.  He hurts me, he says, because I hurt him, while claiming he loves me in the same breath.  My ex.  Thank goodness.  Things are almost over.  Almost.  Just a little bit longer, and i have no need to deal with this again.

But still she lingers.
Still, I find myself hesitantly stepping on the scale.
Seeing my weight.
Thinking about how low I was before recovery.
Thinking about how much I want to say...just...put down the food.
Drop it.
A little bit at a time.
Cut back on certain foods.
Certain meals.
Certain things.

Not out of desire to make people want me.  I find myself becoming so afraid--terrified--of the prospect of people being attracted to me.  I want to scrub away any beauty off my flesh and become something invisible.  Something nonsexual.  A being of pure personality and intellect and just child-like cuteness that has nothing to do with sex.  Nothing that will compete with other women, or lure the lurid attentions of men.
I want to just stop existing in a way that forces me to define myself by my body.
I want to melt away into nothingness.  Until I am skin and bones, and then I crumble to the ground in a pile of ashes and forget that I even exist.

I am tired.
I am alone.
And when I am as such, I feel her then more than ever.  My constant companion.  My quiet voice in this solitude.  My sickly Ana.

Hunger makes the feelings go away...