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6.25.2013

it's ok. i'll be ok.

I skipped breakfast this morning. After skipping dinner last night. Then I skipped lunch.

I climb the steps to my front door, shaky and light. Twenty-eight hours without a morsel of food later and I'm finally feeling good about myself.

"You're so bright and cheerful all the time." My boss told me this morning. I laughed, but it felt as hollow as a plastic doll.

I put down my purse and look at the quiet kitchen. I creep inside even though no one else is home. I slowly open the drawer, take out a spoon, and get a spoonful of peanut butter. To get the shakiness to go away. I tell myself. I need it. I put the spoonful in my mouth and swallow, feeling the familiar grief at losing the emptiness. My hand shakes. Ok. It's ok. I'm ok.

"You are very attractive." A boy told me today as I was walking on my lunch break. Walking instead of eating. I glanced over at where he sat in his car at a red light. He grinned and gave me a thumbs up. I grinned back and kept walking, feeling pretty damn good.

The Mr. comes home with jalapeno Cheetos. I am flying high now. Food is my addiction, and that spoonful of peanut butter was my relapse. I eat a small handful. Then another. There's drama with our water line. The joys of owning a house. I eat another handful.

The water line drama gets sorted out, and I've eaten two servings of Cheetos. My stomach doesn't feel flat anymore. I feel like a barge. I should have my own atmosphere. I am enormous.

I slink up to my room, furious at myself. I get in a fight with the Mr. He leaves for band practice, and I sulk. Then I stomp back downstairs and grab a bottle of spiced rum.

I turn the music up. The buzz sweeps over me.

Ok. It's ok. I'll be ok. I'll just skip breakfast again tomorrow. And maybe lunch.

6.24.2013

of freedom

I have a new sense of resolve tonight.

Earlier today I was so disgusted with myself. I stood in front of the mirror and forced myself to look. To see what I've done with all my hard work.

I could have dissolved. God knows I wanted to.

But instead, I found determination. I worked out. I even lifted. I didn't eat a single thing for dinner. I didn't even drink anything. No food. No alcohol.

Free.

That's how I feel. I feel free. Happy. Light. Empty.

Dear Self, remember this. You can be strong.

6.20.2013

this is who I am


Last night I was getting ready for bed. 

My makeup was half smudged off. I was exhausted. It was late.

But I looked in the mirror and suddenly realized that I felt ok. 

So I took a picture to remind myself. 

And to show you that I do know how to smile.

My eyes are grey. I have a tiny mole above my lip and one on my chin. I have my father's nose, and his father's eyebrows. I don't remember what my natural hair color is, but my great great great grandmother had flaming red hair so I pretend. I am Irish and German and Czechoslovakian and some French. I am twenty-six years old. 

I am a disaster.

I am ok. 

6.18.2013

you're a wasp nest


Your eyes are broken bottles
And I'm afraid to ask
And all your wrath and cutting beauty
You're poison in the pretty glass
You're a wasp nest, you're a wasp nest.


You're all humming live wires under your killing clothes.
Get over here, I wanna kiss your skinny throat
You're a wasp nest, you're a wasp nest



I'm drinking a margarita for dinner. Pretending the calories don't exist because they're liquid. 

"You know how it is. The list never ends." 

My Dad said that, his voice stiff and angry. He said it on Father's Day when I sullenly called in the evening. He'd spent his entire special day trying to complete chores on my mother's list. I'd spent his entire special day trying to pretend that my father was dead.

The list never ends.

Do not know what's wrong with me,
Sours in the cup.
When I walk into a room,
I do not light it up.
Fuck.

So I stay down,
With my demons.

Sometimes I want to grab random strangers by the shoulders and shake them. 

"Why?" I would beg. "What is your secret? Why do you go on? Why?"

A friend jokes about wanting to kill himself. I rock back and forth on the swing I'm sitting on, pretending. 

The Mr. keeps asking me what's wrong. On Father's Day. I cannot find any words, so I experiment. Will he go away if I remain silent? Negative. I try making noncommittal noises. He persists. 

"Oh." He suddenly says, the pieces falling into place.

He wraps his arms around me. "I'm sorry." He whisper in my hair.

Fat tears fall onto my hands, but I don't make a sound.

Oh, when I lift you up
You feel like a hundred times yourself
I wish everybody knew
What's so great about you

Oh, but your love is such a swamp
You don't think before you jump
And I said I wouldn't get sucked in.

I pretend to eat lunch, but I walk instead. Down the road to the gas station where I buy a pack of gum. Normal people buy gum. 

But I'm buying it for lunch.

The next day I eat eight mini candy bars in a row. Then I make a margarita for dinner.

I am stronger than my hunger.
I am stronger than my hunger.
I am stronger.

Is this what you want? Do you want to be one of those skinny girls? Those girls who have perfect lives?

Don't.

Don't believe the lie.

I keep coming back here where everything slipped
But I will not spill my guts out

I don't need any help to be breakable, believe me
I know nobody else who can laugh along to any kind of joke
I won't need any help to be lonely when you leave me

It'll be easy to cover
Gather my skeletons far inside
It'll be summer in Dallas
Before you realize

That I'll never be
Anything you ever want me to be


*Song lyrics from various songs by The National


6.06.2013

if and when

After two months of searching, two months of horrible anxiety, horrible stress, I got a new job.

It's a good job. Exactly what I was hoping to find. My bosses seem great. I think I'll be good at it. It's a significant pay raise. It's even closer to my house than my old job. I could go on and on.

For almost exactly one day, I was relieved. I was giddy. Having that weight off my shoulders, I felt like I could breathe again.

But the weight didn't really go away. It just shifted.

I woke up the next day to realize that it was still there. I still have to fight the anxiety driven panic that claws it's way beneath my skin. I'm still drowning, sinking beneath the waves.

I am exhausted.

My life, my entire being, is such a lie. How would I even begin to unravel the mess? I have devoted my life, my entire life, to appearing to be a normal, well-adjusted person. I am so good at this act, that I have trapped myself in it. How do I ask for help when I can't get the words past my lips? How do I confess when the truth would look like such a ridiculous lie? 

...

I was at the library, returning a book after work. Outside it was grey and spitting a miserable attempt at rain. The librarian was taking his time, but he was old and I didn't mind. I stood there like a ghost, watching him. I'd cried the entire drive from work to the library, silent tears just rolling down my face and dripping off my chin. But I knew he couldn't tell. I'd looked in the mirror before coming inside. My makeup hadn't even smeared. And I suddenly just felt so heavy. My body felt like it was slowly turning to stone. I kept expecting the floor to crack beneath my feet and swallow me whole. 

I could feel the misery pouring off of me in waves, like miniature tsunamis. He didn't look at me. I could feel the coldness creeping down my chest, across my stomach, down my legs, and across the floor. He didn't notice a thing. I could feel the burning pain in my swollen eyes, the lump in my throat. 

What did he see?

Just a girl.

I am invisible.

...

I am a countdown to the day that I snap.

I think about killing myself as casually as other people consider their dinner options. 

I should stop at the store and get some more dish soap. Oh, and maybe when I get home I'll finally slit my wrists.

I don't even feel anything. 

I tell myself that I'll get help IF and WHEN.

IF and WHEN I actually ever attempt to kill myself. 

IF and WHEN I ever drop below 90 lbs. 

(HA. I'm funny.)

IF and WHEN I ever have a panic attack that puts me in the hospital.

I am so tired.

I'm sorry that I am so down all the time. The funny thing is that my real life and what I write would look like black and white if you ever saw both sides. I should have gone into acting. The truth is, I spend all of my energy trying to wear the mask I've created for myself. I have to work so hard all day long to look normal. To seem ok. To appear happy. And it weighs on me. It drags on me. And all the things I wish I could say crowd my chest and choke me until I write and write and write and pour it all out, all the black ash, the sticky sweet tar, the poison that I willingly swallow.

"Help me." I wish I could just say it. "Please help me. I'm not ok."