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Hanging over a toiler vomiting up cocktails, bran flakes, and countless shots of rum and vodka tends to bring the unavoidable truth into light; if only you could discard of all the evil in your head in the same sort of manner. Still heaving, the relief of ridding your body of all those toxins is quite overwhelming and perhaps what you imagine a religious epiphany or the suchlike to feel like. If the epiphany came after a six hour long booze up with your best friends in a caravan in south Wales. If only you felt like you deserved it.
Iíve always been fully aware that what I did was quite probably beyond evil, I doubt thereís anyone whoíd like to see me pay for my actions as much as I would, but I never thought I could be placed in the same ring as rapists and an abusing, abandoning, drunkard bastard of a father. That, after all, is what being lumped in the same sentence certainly seems to imply, anyhow. In a way, I always knew that what Iíd done was the very worst, but I figured my own confusion and bizarre way of caring might count for
Iím completely bored out of my mind but have decided in the past five minutes not to, as I was heading before, let this turn me into some sort of awful weepy monster . We have to remember that I am most likely suffering from PMT (and loneliness and paranoia) and that this will all pass at some point in the eventual future. Until then, rice cakes! And possibly a lazy day on my bed watching comedy dvds. I would go running except I already had a shower. I miss running. Perhaps the lack of exercise is to be blamed.
You can place all your hopes on brushing your teeth but in the end, whatís a little minty chocolate? Self-control is right out of the window these days, I tell ye. And, despite the tiny chunk containing probably less than 200 calories (not too bad for a midnight snack), the guilt is immense and the urge to go and shove a pair of fingers down your greedy throat is taking over any rational thoughts left in your head, until you notice how youíd much rather just pathetically cry and pledge not to do it again. Morning brings yet more failure.
There was some sort of dance, something really important. I think I was waiting to wake up, impatiently. Except, my head pounded and waking up, in hindsight, was a bad idea. It was almost like being drunk, when dream are merely images and thereís far too much going on. Perhaps cheese has the same effect as alcohol does on me. There are a whole lot of parallels, now I come to think of it. I feel fat and guilty and the next day (or few days) I feel like I have been kicked in the head over and over again.
In my dream, you ignored me. Not much different to how I feel things are when we see each other during waking hours, but probably rooted in paranoia nonetheless. I wondered if youíd forgotten who I was, or if this was some kind of professional thing; not getting too personal or familiar with clients, perhaps. That could explain a lot. You would probably make this all a whole lot easier; maybe Iíd know what to say or maybe youíd just know the right things to ask. I donít want to have to start it all over again with somebody new.
My mouthís a right state at the moment. Roughly a square inch of it is covered in sore lumps where Iíve nearly chewed my way to the other side; soon I may have to start sewing patches onto my face so as to avoid scaring small children (it would serve them right; they scare
). When I brush my teeth, I do so applying far too much force Ėthe dentist has been trying to tell me this for years- and more often than not at least one of my gums start bleeding, yet I never seem to learn from this.
Being out of routine doesnít suit me; having a set plan for my days, for my weeks, makes everything so much more comfortable and easy. I keep forgetting to write my 100 words for each day until the last few hours arrive and I hurriedly scribble down whatever comes to mind (though, regardless of time of day, thatís my general style anyhow). Iíve also managed to miss a pill, not noticing until I took the next, twenty four hours later. Iím not sure thatís ever happened to me before. I eat more and exercise less and yearn for 6am starts.
I havenít a clue where I stand at the moment; to be honest, have I ever? I donít understand why youíre the one thing I can always find something to say about, when Iím full of so many reservations and ill feelings, for lack of a better phrase (Ďillí doesnít quite cover the range at all). I sometimes wonder if I canít stop looking because I really need some sort of closure. As terrible as it is, I would much rather go back in time. Closure would be full of regret and goodbyes; I wish there wasnít space for that.
I couldnít stop the tears from coming when the nurse asked me for your details. To be fair, she attempted to comfort me, but I put the phone down as quickly as I could get her to shut up. The dog, the only other being in the house, did a far better job, licking my face while I sat on the carpet and cried. Normally, that would gross, but I got the feeling he was trying to help. All I could do was wait for you to be brought home from hospital; even then, you seemed completely distant from me.
I hate waiting for things; Iím not impatient, it just makes me nervous. Like, when youíre waiting to be called in at the doctorís or the dentist, itís impossible not to be constantly on edge, because someone else has total control over when you get called in, when you stand up, when you move, for Godís sake. Knowing that you have to react, Iíd rather be surprised. Appointments should be made without your prior knowledge and you should be tricked into attending them, in a camouflaged environment. Of course, the dentist scares me, so perhaps the shock would kill me.
I canít seem to recall a single dream I had last night. Thatís really odd for me, and so rare that itís somewhat disconcerting. Iím not entirely certain I even remembered them when I first woke up. Odd, perhaps itís catching. Still, itís only a minor niggle, far outweighed by the advantage of actually getting to sleep within an hour and not waking up until mid-morning. Most people feel safe in their own personal space, donít they? I sleep far worse in my own bed. Perhaps Iím too familiar with all the things in my room out to get me.
My skin feels all sorts of sore and emptiness; surround yourself with teddies and huge, comfy hoodies, it says. The weakness and wanting to sleep forever is quite usual; perhaps my emotions dictate my physical state more than anything else. Not that I feel sad, just drained and slightly more lifeless than I should; I came to the conclusion, whilst watching smoking tube-shaped buildings fly past the window, that, despite all evidence being in stark contrast, leaving is a happy thing. Not as happy as, say, arriving, but at least I
something to leave. And not
I have a slight aversion to the full view of any room in our house; sometimes (more likely, more logically) I check all around, in the hope that I'm still alone, that nothing's there waiting to get me. Often I don't even trust mirrors; I fear the reflection is hiding something awful standing behind me. But, occasionally I deliberately prevent myself from seeing; I don't want to see what
there. Whereas the looming, imaginary presence can be, with the wrong mindset and nervous disposition, terrifying, some days it's more comforting, resting on hope, to conjure it up for yourself.
Hello, insane amounts of sugar. Oddly, feelings of guilt and repulsion at self are only fleeting. And the urge to go and make myself throw up is minimal at best. It appears that, not only do I comfort eat, but I also eat in celebration and joy at not having to wait any longer for my exam results. Of course, it could just be a disguise; loneliness and boredom and discontent are lurking around somewhere, but Iím determined not to even give them an inch. Thereís no point ruining a perfectly good day and forgetting about my wonderful fluke grades.
Stupid brain, tricking me in the night. Whatever could it have been thinking? I already woke up crying once; was this supposed to make me feel better? Fooling me into believing Iíd helped. I dreamed we actually talked and that I, for once, knew what to do. Damn it, I even got a smile. Everything was right, I didnít even do anything stupid. I donít want to wake up if you do that to me again. Shame my brain probably isnít listening; itís so full of being far too busy to talk to me and wonít let me know anything.
Why on earth is that you Ďtreatí yourself with things which only end up making you feel bad? Calories and alcohol, they seem like such a good idea at the time. I really must stop doing this. I should have celebrated with a four mile run or a ten mile walk perhaps. Instead, here I am again drinking alone and bound to start getting all overly emotional and have horrible nightmares, as usually happens. Never mind. Iím an emotionally stable individual, damn it, and can cope with a little pina colada. Just maybe not a lot of pina colada, though.
I wrote an entry in my diary chronicling the upsides to sticking a blade in your thigh (or, for that matter, through a childís vocal chords) and knew it wouldnít quite make it here. You can only believe that for as long as you write it, perhaps not even as much as that, deep down. The final full stop is entirely in contempt of the passage; what felt like your most honest scribbling only a moment ago become a joke you share with only yourself; ink erases ink as you blot out the pathetically teenage ramblings so no one sees.
My mum told me recently that, when I was a baby, she stressed to my dad how important it was that they never say or imply I was over-weight at all; with a sister as skinny as mine, she decided it would be extremely easy for me to become concerned about my weight and that they would have to ďbe carefulĒ with me. Very sensible of her; but itíd just be nice if I didnít also have memories of being told by my own parents just how fat Iím getting and that Iíll end up ďas big as a houseĒ.
Attempting to write an entry in your head before you sleep is never a good idea. I wonder about writing the beginnings down, but Iím too lazy and convince myself that, this time, I will remember it in the morning. I never do, not exactly. It takes me about an hour to come up with what the entry concerned, and then eventually I might remember a few words. Itís probably better that way, starting a sort of fresh. Then you can say all the wonderfully retarded things that pop into your head and not analyse them before you click Ďsubmití.
Why is that you can travel the same distance, exactly the same distance, twice and though the clock shows it to have taken exactly the same amount of time each way, one feels like an eternity and the other feels like youíve barely sat down before youíre back home? Itís a bit like being on a really strong piece of elastic; the other end nailed down to where youíd least like to be. Time slows down when youíre waiting and canít go fast enough once there. The past is a squished-up speck in the distance; next week a whole millennium.
Today, we mourn the loss of the Nutella. I hope it finds the afterlife (ie, my digestive system) a more peaceful place than this one. Still, it lasted eight days, which is bloody good going for me. I think Iíve devoured a 400g pot of it in the space of three days before now. All I had for lunch was fruit, so I feel OK about all those calories. Sometimes, I feel I couldnít care less about how much I eat and how fat I get. Except even then, I canít stop rambling to myself about it in my head.
A guilty sense of relief, but nothing unexpected. I took a book (of the boring but necessary variety- if only you could take philosophy at A level without having to read the damn texts) with me; I anticipated an hour of only myself for company, and I was right. I feel like I should be worried, but at the same time I think Iíve simply been stood up. Either accidentally or on purpose, I donít mind either way. I tend to give you leeway; it may not seem like it but Iíve always excused behaviour simply because itís typically yours.
Luckily I just got rescued from my maths work for a whole hour (after which I have to go work, so thereís no point trying to cram a whole piece of maths into the few minutes I have now) by talking about arm pits, not deleting things, and English grammar. Itís nice to feel that someone actually wants to talk to you, because itís not a feeling that comes so easily all the time. Even if I canít help out with a foreign friendís questions about whether you should say Ďlearnedí or Ďlearntí because I donít even know that myself.
People donít like you if youíre fat and stupid; it ruins their pretty landscape. A great big lumbering blot on their near-invisible skinny landscape. I used to draw dotted lines around my body, planning what I would cut off with the big kitchen knife. I never got around to the cutting part; sure, blades are fun, but great chunks of meat, not so much. I feel so alone, but I know that this is my own fantasy; only Iím doing this to myself, no one else. I just mould them to fit in, their every action I interpret as hate.
My maths lies abandoned beneath my keyboard and Iím not even a third of the way through my text for next yearís philosophy class. I donít think I mind, thereís more important things, and Iím happy. I have pink and black furry booties and teddy bears and decaf coffee, and Iím damn well going to watch Futurama instead of doing the productive thing and read (or scan, as the case has been so far)
Beyond Good and Evil
by Friedrich Nietzsche. Because I feel peaceful and I canít be bothered to wind myself up; I do enough of that already.
Iíd really love to lose another stone, preferably a stone and a half. I canít be bothered to start running again yet; two weeks and Iíll be back in the routine of college and exercising will seem like a whole lot more fun that it does right now. Iíve managed to go a couple of month and only been running a few times and not actually put any weight on, so Iím good for another two weeks. I no longer mind how I look, most of the time, Iíd just like to give myself an extra boost if I can.
Most nights I do make an effort to drink lavender tea and take herbal remedy pills that are supposed to help you relax, but in the end, half a bottle of red wine is just so much more effective. And yummy, too. Iíd do it every night if it wasnít so impractical and possibly the sign of a future alcoholic. Itís just such a nice feeling, not having to wait hours before finally falling asleep, and then
asleep for the night. Perhaps I could get the doctor to prescribe me red wine. Apparently it does have some health benefits.
Apparently coffee is good for headaches. I always assumed that it would aggravate them; it supposedly dehydrates you and that can promotes heachaches, right? Still, I drink it lots when my head is giving me grief anyway, because it feel comforting. I had stabbing pains and earache at work tonight; at one point I thought I might keel over whilst cleaning the toilets, but it passed (and returned every so often when I wasnít expecting it). Never mind, theyíre not so bad or regular these days. Probably the lack of cheese and oestrogen. I think tonight, it was the weather.
I had the most vile dream. More vile than what I think of as The Nightmare, and more vile than the ones where I wake up screaming and crying and more vile than the ones where I see what happened to you. I deserve to die a grisly and agonising death right now. When I think of it, I want to hurt myself for conjuring up something so awful. No one should dream something so evil. I thought I couldnít write about the others; they were too terrible, I would see the words and I canít accept any of them.
Looking back at last night, I really should not write when drunk. Itís just so much easier then; as is sleep and merriment. My parents say I shouldnít be already drinking as much as they do, at my age. Iím not sure if theyíre trying to tell me that my liver is going to fail or that Iím going to become an alcoholic. The problem is, that itís lovely and helpful. They know that, or they wouldnít be the ones who canít go a night without a few drinks. Still, I can go without usually, so Iím OK for now.
The Tip Jar