my look is art student in new york in the 90s who does porn to support her drug habit
I have no gag reflex.
Alyx and Phil offered to listen to me if I ever wanted to talk. I won’t, but I thanked them for the offer.
I’ve made a decision that fills me a lot of anxiety and dread. I’m not strong enough to follow through with it, but I must.
Not since my mother has a person been able to make me feel such anger and sadness at the same time. You deserve a roaring “fuck you” as I slam your head into a desk, followed by a very long hug.
"Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven’t met, but I don’t want to be an ant, you know? I mean, it’s like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continuously on ant auto-pilot with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient polite manner. “Here’s your change.” “Paper or plastic?” “Credit or debit?” “You want ketchup with that?” I don’t want a straw, I want real human moments. I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to be an ant, you know?"
- Waking Life (2001)
Work is draining only for this very reason. Today I had a conversation with strangers. Some only strangers because it takes a lot to really know someone, others because I’ve never spoken to them a day in my life, nor do I even know their name. We talked about traveling; all wanting to travel to India and Japan one day hopefully sooner than later. We talked about our interests, our lives, about our race, views on birthday’s, Saul Williams & Niggy Tardust. It was genuine, there was no sharing because we had to. Nothing was forced; we sat there all talking to each other because we could and wanted to.
I enjoy talking to people. Actually talking to people. Learning about their perspectives, their stories. I enjoy the few times I don’t have to be an ant.
sext: how much black are you wearing right now
It’s currently almost 2:30am in D.C.
It’s my last night staying in my friends apartment, and I’m using my inability to sleep to try and finish this paper I have due for Monday.
Quick glance to my left, and through the window I can see a couple having sex on their couch. I stared at them for longer than I needed to.
I’m getting up early to go to a museum before I leave, because why not. I really should be asleep.
The temptation to resort to my most wretched vice is overwhelming. I want to so badly, if only to relieve myself of this cloud of melancholy that has been looming over my head all week. It was left over from last week, which was left over from the week before, and so on for maybe 3 months.
But you know, it’s not going to change a damn thing. Doing, or not doing, anything will not actually fix my situation, or better yet, fix it to my liking. It won’t actually bring me any happiness. It virtually changes nothing, except the way I may feel for 5 minutes. Of course, I only feel worse 5 minutes later, so you have to wonder if this is more counter productive than anything.
It’s strange, this past week I have found myself in unusually high spirits. Something about the change in the weather, but I feel more optimistic about existence in general. I want to live each day, despite how I feel, I want to live, and be sentient, and experience what I can. I feel like the world is my oyster, and I have only just begun some amazing journey.
I know, it doesn’t sound like me. Imagine feeling like that, but also having the nagging feeling of sadness claw it’s way up from the abyss to try and drag you down. I’m not trying to be poetic here, that’s really what it feels like, for me.
This week had a lot of things bum me out, and I don’t want to care. I don’t want to feel anything, but I do. It’s rather painful to have to do deal with, almost to the point where it hurts physically. I can’t really describe the place I’m in now. I’ve barely been eating or sleeping. Maybe this isn’t even what’d I call progress then, maybe I’ve just gotten worse.
Time ain’t gonna cure you honey. Time don’t give a shit.
‘I tried bulimia once.’
There’s nothing quite as lovely as a thoughtful message from someone who understands:
’Sorry you’re going through this, I tried bulimia once and it sucked.’
Bulimia does suck. The sky is also blue, and the world round.
But darling, you did not try bulimia once.
Forgive me if I’m callous, but I can’t dig up much sympathy for someone who believes gagging once and deciding it’s icky is ’bulimia’. Sure, it’s never a good thing to try to make yourself sick, unless you’ve just been poisoned. And thinking purging is a viable option isn’t exactly healthy.
But sticking your fingers down your throat and coughing and then going OH MY GOD EW is not bulimia. Fasting for a day and then ‘fainting’ in the hallway is not anorexia. And ‘getting so desperate I seriously considered anorexia or bulimia’ isn’t an eating disorder.
Bulimia is a speeding train with no brakes, bingeing and purging and bingeing and purging no matter how broke you are or how disgusting the food is or what you should be doing. It’s gorging until you can barely stand, puking until you bleed, and the city could burn to the ground and when it was over you’d still be standing in the ashes, bingeing and purging.
Anorexia is a wall of blue-gray ice, a miswired translation code that turns appetite into disgust, a terror you don’t understand, a fear so real you can see it and hear it and kiss it goodnight, an illogical logic that rewrites everything and you know you need to eat and maybe you even really want to eat but you just can’t because if you did everything would fall apart.
Desperation is digging through the garbage for nothing-something-anything to stuff in your face because you have to binge and purge right now. Desperation is standing frozen in the aisle of the grocery store for minutes/hours/years, and then buying the same calorie-free crap you always buy because you can’t eat it if it’s not safe. Desperation is swallowing laxatives like normal people swallow candy, just because you have to be empty.
And you can’t ’consider anorexia and bulimia’, as though they were for sale at the pharmacy between agoraphobia and cyclothymia.
You didn’t ‘try bulimia once’.
It’s not a diet, and it’s not a choice.