July 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

Technicolor

Technicolor

Advertisements

watermelon

July 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

I’m back to drinking black coffee. Still a full pot, sometimes I get stressed and forget to have any caffeine. I end up thinking I’m terribly ill (more likely, just hungover) and in fact, it’s just my caffeine withdrawals. I remember when I used to get horribly hungover, either by drinking too much or my really horrible bulimic days of all day binging and purging until I inevitably crashed onto a floor in my apartment somewhere. I’m probably very lucky that it never happened on my walks to the grocery store during these times. Maybe the adrenaline rush kept me going enough. In most cases, it was likely the purging that would do it, dehydrating and fucking up my electrolytes like crazy.

In either case, I was always horribly sick in the morning. Enough to keep me from getting out of bed, finding myself light headed and woozy to stand for too long, let alone walk to the kitchen to make myself a pot of coffee. It would hurt my hand as the pot filled under the tap with water. I broke a decent amount of them in my time. I always knew that I’d feel infinitesimally better after a caffeine fix in my body, but it would take me hours and hours.

I’m planning on being productive. As much as I can. I really should get back to my painting, especially some of the pieces that have involved anatomy, now that I have access again to some of the virtual anatomy resources on the web with my return to Queens in the fall. I’ve been focusing on the writing stuff I’m doing for my prof/counselor in Belleville. She wants me to write about….me, really. I’ve been able to access all of the journal articles I’ve needed my Queen’s registration for as well, so I’ve been obsessively downloading and reading articles on eating disorders, sexual abuse, social phobias, mental illness and the like. It’s been exciting for me because I’ve always been able to spend an inordinate amount of time reading article after article or page after page on Wikipedia or something similar about various topics, one piece leading to links of another and another. I’ve even gone through a good couple of hours reading about compression fractures and spinal injuries caused my seizures, since my goddam back still hurts a month after my little episode of medication withdrawal. Stupid me. BUT, I’ve always been slightly touched with hypochondria, so I keep becoming nervous that I cracked my spine somewhere, or herniated a disc. But then, I’m usually scared of doctors and having my body touched that I just pretend to relax, relieving my anxiety by reading these articles somehow, even though that might seem counterintuitive.

I remember when I learned in swimming lessons years and years ago, about someone who jumped into a pool and landed on the bottom feet first. They’d cracked their spine and had never known, because of the way she’d landed. They only discovered the injury when she ended up admitting herself to the hospital for back pain. That’s not me. I could have ended up sicker and sicker or dead so many times these past few years but I just keep on ticking. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I’m in my 20s, aren’t all of us supposed to believe our young selves invincible?

Trophy Wife

July 12, 2014 § Leave a comment

I had a lovely idea of this weekend. My parents have been away, last night at a concert, today to go to apartment viewings with my brother in Toronto. I wanted to have ex boyfriend over to hot tub and swim in the pool and lie on the grass and pick raspberries from our gardens. Wine drinking and sex and nakedness, warm summer air making us sweat, wet hair sticking to our chests and backs.

In my head, of course, I imagine myself thin and bony. In reality I would be covered up during all of this. I’m, instead, drinking wine too early with my coffee and I’m making fucking bacon. I’m really craving meat lately. In honesty, I think it’s because I rarely eat meat, but it still terrifies me that one day I’ll become pregnant.

The last doctor I saw, to discuss my seizure and to schedule my EEG, of course, asked me about birth control. Because there’s none prescribed in my records and I’m almost 24, so obviously I’m having sex I suppose? Birth control, which I’ve only been on once at 17 for a measly three months made me insane. HA, more than I already was. But he scared me talking about condoms being at 70 something percent effective. What happened to the figure in my head of 97%? But with spermicide, it’s as effective as the pill. In Sudbury though, such and such a person was terrified because I was about to get my period and for some reason he thought that made it more likely for me to be pregnant. Which is wrong. I know it’s more unlikely, but not impossible depending on when your fucking egg drops, if it’s early, whatever. I don’t want to start rambling about shit I’ve had to study in the reproductive curriculums of bio and physiology etc etc.

I’m still scared. I’m always scared. I feel my breasts, and I wonder if they feel bigger than they should. I’m mostly losing weight, so that shouldn’t be the reason, so what is it? But of course, I pass it off to paranoia.

July 11, 2014 § Leave a comment

I’m a very bad girlfriend. I’ve warned people before. At certain phases I think I can handle it. Or perhaps, I meet someone that I actually feel like will make me better. Which is, in itself a horrible motivation to get involved with someone. But again, that’s why I’m a shit girlfriend. I’ve very bad at relationships, anything long term that involves feelings and trust. I’m very bad at both.

I wonder if I would have dated the most recent ex if I had been slightly better resume-wise, if I wasn’t as much of an alcoholic vomiting invalid. I used to date assholes who thought highly of themselves, sorry, that I also thought so highly of themselves…who treated me like shit. They might not have even, some of them just played on my own whining. I wouldn’t have sex with them….or rather, I would, but I would never be there. I remember all of these instances in third person. They can have sex with me but I had to be in certain positions, I had to be rigid and disconnected or I couldn’t. I was too much, I hated feeling anyway. Do what you want and fuck off. And who wants to fuck someone like that?

I feel better about certain things, but I don’t know how to….mediate the rest. I became more comfortable in a way just…being. But then I felt numb in a way, and now I drink too much to feel? Or let whoever fuck around with me, hurt me, to…feel? I don’t know. I’m not a fucking psychiatrist.

Sometimes I’m worried after studying sociopathy because I feel like I lack empathy. I can understand how people feel, but I still feel like two people. Pretending that certain parts of me don’t exist. And I forget them and I don’t feel guilty.

Clambake Pt. 2

July 11, 2014 § Leave a comment

I’ve been watching and rewatching Game of Thrones for days, weeks. I’m obsessed. I’ve eaten a carrot and a tomato so far today. I had to wake up fucking early for my therapy session. ONE of my many sessions. I’m a busy busy lunatic. Tomato, carrot, milk in my coffee. My parents are going to the Arrogant Worms concert that’s in Campbellford tonight, as well as dinner and that leaves me free to cab down to get my evening’s licquor. Which will turn into….my weekend’s licquor. They have to go down to Toronto for apartment showings with my brother tomorrow as well so I can be drunk for a good couple days. Which promises some very jumbled blog posts to follow. I hope to only consume these approx. 80 calories until then, and then only wine. And my poisoned body will hopefully fall asleep quickly and I’ll still lose all this fucking excess weight.

I still want to be a bony white bird girl. In dirty wife beaters and cut offs, covered in nosebleeds and charcoal and paint, unbrushed hair, clean face, dark makeup, dark nails. Those beaded orange slippers that I’m very slowly wearing away. I want to see my ribs and my collar again, I want my shoulderblades to just out of my skin like wings.

My therapist today told me to write a memoir, whether I publish or not. Although that would be terrifying, putting my life and its horrors on paper. Of course, they are all my horrors, the ones I’ve created after the few things done to me. I think I’ve had it so easy, relatively. It’s scarier to be honest, and have the opinions and acts towards others, real people, flesh and blood that will most likely hear of me in this tiny shit town and throughout my tiny shit family, and will read about themselves and be hurt and disgusted by my depictions more than they already are.

Out of all the shit I’ve done to myself and to them, this might actually offer some kind of positive outcome from it all. Who fucking knows? I need to change my nail polish before I blog again.

Clambake

July 10, 2014 § Leave a comment

Since I’m so terrible at coming up with titles, I’m going to title them with the names of my nailpolishes I’m wearing. I chew them off almost everyday so it seems fitting. Also, I’m such a bitchy image-obsessed bitch, why not? I shouldn’t use derogatory expletives.

After dinner tonight, Steve started talking about an employee that works for him who became very emotional over a story of a man who murdered four children (were they his ex’s children, I’m not sure) because he was angry at his ex (I think, I’m not actually sure now in recollection) and killed them. And I started in on the fact that…horrible things always happen. My mom knows…but I started discussing journalists I’ve read about who’ve followed with their cameras, while mobs kicked and mollified heads of foreign victims. Some of whom, if I recall, were photographers, and therefore involved in media in the same vicinity as said journalists. How they were terrified, but also needed to keep following it all because no one from more affluent countries would care as much as if they saw it in video…they were disgusted, could have died….and I think of reading about the accounts of Rwanda…no one from outside countries seemed to come in to help until they saw video accounts of the horror. And I understand…

And my fucking mother “They might have just wanted a story”

I argued….a bit. But I was tired. If you wanted a story so much….you could find something easier to make headlines than the fear of death and having to watch someone’s head battered into a battered mulch.

Where Am I?

You are currently viewing the archives for July, 2014 at the Bulimic Baker.