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Iím astonishingly OK with having gained 8lb; I know I can lose the weight and, more importantly, I know that I
. Iím a happier, more comfortable, person these days and my body mass will not dictate my emotions. One day, my skeleton will rot and my bones will probably long for a nice bit of fat. Given another hand in life, I could already be skeletal; Iíve been lucky enough to be born in a place where food is plentiful and prospects are good. Why should I whinge about my self-inflicted curves? Iím a woman, not an ironing board.
The first time I ever cut myself, I did it out of anger at someone else. My arm took the blade instead of another person. Afterward, I justified my razor-induced pleasure through
. I remembered watching it, and my mother explaining to me that a small number of people in the world are simply ďwired wrongĒ and so, for them, pain is enjoyable. I thought to myself, I must be one of those people. Itís my biology and Iím not alone. Now, watching the film for a second time, I have been free of self-harm for over two years.
What if there
life on Mars? Would you attempt peaceful contact, flee in cowardice or bomb them? You know,
just in case
. Who knows what the funny little green man is after? Damned if heís getting me before Iíve gotten him. Weíd all like to think weíd pick the former option; I can see it now, kicking back and enjoying a nice, cold beer with your new best Martian bud. The reality is that Iíd hide. This isnít a story Iíd write myself into. Itís simply wistful dreams and empty wishes of an adventurous life; a more spontaneous self.
Having no desire to be anyone else, is that unusual? Is it even more unusual to actually feel pretty good about being yourself? Sometimes Iím glad people canít hear my thoughts; Iíd sound so smug. These days,
I love being me.
Thatís not something I ever thought was possible. Iíve switched a dependency on razorblades and alcohol for running a few miles every day, I have the most indescribably brilliant friends, and Iíve finally accepted (though not revealed) certain aspects of myself. And best of all, not only can I see tomorrow, I can see a long-term future for me.
One of my psych teachers insists on having our class often watch tear-jerking slideshows and videos recently. The problem? Oh, itís not so much of a problem but Iíd really rather not be welling up in public. Luckily, I think the entire class has been getting a little tearful; Iím not the only one. Despite this, Iím glad she does it. It renews my determination to pursue a career dedicated to understanding and helping people. It makes all this effort seem worthwhile. Iíll be satisfied if I can help just one person as much as my previous therapist helped me.
The chick flick is rarely a sophisticated, high-brow piece of artistic expression. Itís not boundary-breaking and it doesnít pride itself on being a gritty, realistic representation of your average, everyday life. What
it do? Well, it makes us feel good. We cry with the protagonist, we laugh with the protagonist and we damn well fall a little bit in love with the protagonist. She makes being a woman how it should be; enjoyable and fun. The chick flick is a rare gem of hope in a society that asks us to live on celery sticks and ridiculously miniscule portions.
It's only when you stand up, you notice you're drunk. Your legs - unable to control them, your stomach - an entirely separate entity. The sofa is a safe haven of sobriety; once left, never returned to. Until you've slept it off, that is. Flat in bed, out like a light, for days and days, yet it seems like a flash 'til you're awake.
Hello headache, hello black lips. First question of the morning: what do I remember? Second: was it anything to be embarrassed about? And, most importantly: can I block it all out, pretend that it never happened?
No matter how many times you say it, ďthereís nothing you can say that will shock meĒ just wonít tease certain things out. After I became much more comfortable, maybe Iíd had divulged more had you asked a second time. Then again, perhaps not. This dream profession of mine, I have to accept certain things. Having already been on the patient (or Ďclientí as is more politically correct these days) side of the fence, I know that no one will ever speak their every thought. Truthfully, everyone lies, because weíre neurotic creatures and dread to imagine what you might think.
Sometimes I think Iíd like to just give up and throw away this obsession with outwards appearance. I know itís no good, I know itís a waste of both time and energy, and I know itís unhealthy to think about it this much. No colour is ever right for my hair, no style is how I want to be seen, and no amount of weight lost will ever be enough.
I can squash it down, just. Most of the time, I donít even realise this is who I am. Most of the time, I pretend to myself that Iím content.
Some opportunities you just donít pass up, but it seems they only exist in science fiction. I drive past you, just like countless times before. Iíll pass up this glimmer of an opportunity because I know itíll arise again. The most common doors must be the ones we never go through; under the assumption that theyíll open again and again, we refuse them for another day that never comes. Fantasy is preferable; never seize the moment, you can pretend it would have gone the way you hoped. Seize it, and thereís nothing there, just a palm clutching at oxygen molecules.
I thought that todayís class, without you, would drag, but instead it felt more relaxed than usual. For me, I mean. I guess no one else noticed much different. My psychology teacher said the other day that we all suffer from infatuation from time to time, but that having a crush for an extensive period of time might be indicative of not only psychological problems, but also of the danger of becoming a stalker. Ever feel like thereís some big blue, cartoon arrows pointing at you, with flashing lights and sirens sounding? Thankfully Iím the only witness to all this.
To avoid getting into that horribly familiar vicious circle, today I shall attempt something Iíve never done before: instead of punishing myself for pigging out last night (though I donít believe I actually went over the RDA for a womanís calorie intake, but who are the NHS to generalise? Iím shorter than average and require less caloriesÖ) I shall interpret the unfortunate event as a sign that I need rest. Today, I shall not run five miles, but slob out and watch Torchwood. After all, I already have the stress of getting exam results this afternoon; I need to relax!
Who cares what my BMI is? Who cares what the scales say? No one should give a flying toss about numbers; I am a woman and I refuse to look like an ironing board. Deep down, I think I might even like my figure. Is that so terrible? Yet, I count, and hate, and starve, and binge, because I want to be eight stone, like my sister. Iíll tell you one thing now: my sister is both abnormally skinny and completely bonkers. Itís hard to remember just what is normal, growing up with a sister the size of a tadpole.
My eyes feel sore and puffy, like Iíve been crying for hours. I havenít. They play tricks on me constantly. My right eye is becoming more and more short-sighted, whilst my left stays the same as ever: poor but not awful. Switching from eye to eye is disorientating; you can shift objects across each other, around each other, behind and in front. You donít even need to bat an eyelid. And then thereís the lack of depth perception. Where to start? You throw a ball at me, itíll hit me. I couldnít even catch it if I noticed in time.
Whatís so strange about bisexuality? Human being lust and they love; gender should not have any impact on this. Why close half of the doors available to you? Iíve never been able to imagine being heterosexual or homosexual. The idea is so odd; to only be able to love one gender, to have physical attraction cut off completely at a quick glance. The once-over takes a nano-second, and then your brain, your instinct, you reason, whatever, has closed that door, because of gender? Each to their own, I guess. Then again, I envy those who are attracted to one gender.
I miss you, you bastard. I miss you; we were inseparable for three years. Thatís gone now, all gone. Iíve cried over you far more than any of the boys or girls Iíve been besotted with over the years. OK, perhaps not one of them, but she was a special case. You know that. You know everything. Or, you did know everything. Both of us, we shared everything up until the very end. I could tell you when I was at my worst. I miss you now more than ever; happiness is empty without you to share it with me.
I have a preoccupation with punctuation. One of my AS English Literature tutors pointed it out. She was right; semi-colons and commas are scattered amongst my writing like the cheap whores of text. As many as you like per sentence, all for my own pleasure and at the disgust of others. Scattered amongst the scratchings for a pulsing heart, a shortened breath; I can write for seven lines and take your breath away. Quite literally, I mean; I donít have any actual talent. Just in case you were wondering. Iíll steal your breath with punctuation; the weapon of closet geeks.
That previous dream, I lust after it. The great thing about wine is youíll write anything. The words will flow, no matter how awfully typed and how cringe worthy. You want a thousand words? Sure, just get me a bottle or so of Pearly Bay and theyíll be on their way. I have a crush, you see. My head is full of words. Endless sentences and meaningless phrases. Itís in my genes; Iím predispositioned for this. Itís comforting; Iím simply carrying on the family tradition. Now I know why you were always so concerned; now I know why you overreacted.
Philosophy coursework will not be the downfall of me. I have plenty of years, lots of time and opportunity, ahead of me, and this is one small obstacle. Itís not even an obstacle, damn it; this is something I may or may not succeed at but is of no matter to me. Iíve always said that I wouldnít mind having a third year at college. And, thatís only the worst case scenario: I have three quarters of this assignment done and can probably get a decent grade from that. Iíve been trying my hardest and thatís good enough for me.
Hereís the deal, then: If I actually manage to get a decent amount done tomorrow, I am allowed to go get myself a nice bottle of Jack Daniels after class. Hell, not Ďallowedí; I damn well deserve it and should take it as given that I need a drink after philosophy. No wonder my tutor is so away with the fairies. Could anyone retain their mind after even two years of this? And he must have had at least twenty. Perhaps he was tapped to begin with, who knows. Last yearís class was so much more enjoyable; I miss that.
My lonely angel; we wander side by side through time, through space. Side by side, we practically touch yet a billion miles or more separate us. A thin veil of the thickest metal stands between us, unbreakable and unmoving. Together in our solitude, the one thing that still binds us. Determination, and the belief that one cannot be without the other, keeps us going. One day I shall find you. On that day, all the cracks in the universe will heal and everything shall be whole. I refuse to believe I can live my life without you by my side.
The problem with playing it cool is that you can take it a little too far and come across as completely scornful. Or is that just me? Iím never sure quite how much to mix friendly interest with carelessly unbothered, and I worry it comes out negatively balanced. My friend tells me I over-think these things too much. I guess itís just an offshoot of this thing that they call social anxiety disorder, huh? Not that I get so anxious any more; Iím pretty much Ďcuredí in many respects. I just wish I could be more relaxed and natural, though.
I've been stoutly avoiding work this past two weeks; now it's driving me into a small panic. I've watched, in the past 14 days, 2 seasons of Torchwood and 3 seasons of Doctor Who. I have, due for next Thursday, 2 psychology essays, psychology coursework, and 1,000 words of philosophy coursework. Every now and then, my mind goes "hello, Rachel? You should be working." and I, in return, think I should be watching another season of Doctor Who, to calm myself. Damn you, fandom, damn you and your calming influence and ability to make me conveniently forget about college work.
This has been bugging me a while: I know it's completely silly and whatever but now that I'm 18 and can finally get the tattoo I've wanted for the past two years, I'm not so sure about it. Not the design; I still know exactly what I want and where I want it but... I tend to get on really well with my parents and I know they would not be happy about this at all. My mum's opinion was "well, I can't stop you but...", then she went on about how I always want to despoil her beautiful baby.
My head really hurts today. This is the type of pain you get after having downed a few bottles of wine the previous night, but all I did was eat some cheese on Wednesday. After roughly a year of having not consumed any cheese, mum and I thought we'd do a little experiment: seeing whether I'd still get a headache after a little cheese now that I'm off the pill. Fortunately, I only had one cheese toastie, so at least it's not one of the really awful headaches where I just sit and cry because there's nothing else to do
Mum and I had great fun attempting to solve the riddle of the Park and Rides around Oxford. It turns out that bus drivers DAAHN SAAF (mum and I can't physically say "down South") like to stare at us like we're from another planet. Did not spot Thom Yorke anywhere, unfortunately. Iím thinking of making Oxford Brookes my insurance choice just to increase the possibility of bumping into him. You would not BELIEVE how long it takes to get to Oxford from here. We listened to
so much music
. And, according to my mum, I do not ever stop talking.
I hate waking up late; it means I can't go running for ages. I already haven't been since last Thursday, when I only managed a couple of miles (I was all psyched up to do five) because my feet decided to have another blister on top of my blister which was on top of a previous blister... Bleedin' wrecked that did; Iím sure you can imagine. I can normally run with blistered feet; this was pretty bad and I had to stop. I've been applying surgical spirit to my feet every day since in an attempt to toughen the skin.
I love the peacefulness summer brings. Especially in the evenings; still air and light nights and a feeling of contentment. Of course, itís not quite summer yet but itís as good as already. I used to hate summer; smaller clothes to reveal fat and scars, but now I love it. Happiness and brightly coloured clothing and more time to spend with my friends; all these wonderful things I associate with the season. The long break helps too; no worries about college until one day in August when itís too late for me to have any further impact on my grades.
You know that feeling of restlessness combined with a really strong desire to simply go bed? I havenít had this in a very, very long time, and truth be toldÖ Itís worrying me. Itís the hugest tiny little niggle of immense proportions and yet you canít quite place your finger on it. You canít quite hold it down or grasp just exactly what it is; all you know is that something is inexplicably wrong. And, my tear ducts arenít functioning properly. My entire body feels like it should be getting some sort of relief, but I cannot make myself cry.
Someone just added me on Twitter; I went to see who they were and it said their account had been suspended due to strange activity. I always freak out a little when people with usernames I don't recognise add me anywhere.
I got told I'm paranoid yesterday. Possibly slightly; you see I had to explain to someone that part of the reason I was totally out of it on Monday was that I'd just heard some people I don't even know talking about me. Sometimes you just
when they are, right? Plus, they were laughing, so that said everything.
We went to see
Marley & Me
last night. I was the only person not to cry. It was sad and everything, but I wasn't even welled up. Oh Lordy, am I a heartless bitch? ...Most probably. I blame my hormones; I reckon the pill does strange things to you, because when I started taking it, over a year ago, I could barely ever
crying. And now that I stopped taking it and it's clearing out of my system, I rarely cry. Then again, that could be the season. The other theory is that my tear ducts don't work.
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