Cure for the common Breakfast

August 29, 2014 § Leave a comment

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I know if I was happier, if I was feeling more whole or whatever fucking word they use to describe ‘remission’ of mental illness and bullshit at therapy sessions, that I wouldn’t be such a shit person. I wouldn’t feel this need to fuck everyone over in all the ways I do.

At the retreat I went to in February, going through all of the other womens’ experiences with sexual abuse, my roommate and I felt so similarly about all the people who’d abused us, taken advantage of us, whatever. They were people too, who’d gone through shitty experiences, had doubts about their capabilities, themselves as people, the same as us. And going back to whoever first violated us, or anyone for that matter, I’m sure they’ve gone through their own shit, been hurt and fucked up by someone else. An endless fucking cycle.

And I feel awful because I do that to people now. Or always have. And I don’t want to hurt anyone, wherein they end up hurting other people in similar ways, projecting the shit I’ve projected on them, blah blah.

I’m angry that any of it ever starts, and causes so much shit to keep happening and happening to people who don’t deserve it. And I hate that I hurt people, that I feel some need to have relationships with people who I want to treat me like shit. Those are the only people that I ever feel the pressure to be a very good friend or girlfriend, knowing they don’t like or love me as much as I feel for them, so I need to try and prove myself. And then the poor people I know care about me, and especially the men and boys I’ve let love me, knowing they really do, I end up doing all I can to hurt them, to steal and manipulate them, to tease and break them, seeing how much they put up with, how much I can test the boundaries of their feelings for me. Hurting the people who love me the most, foresaking any real intimacy.

Everyone’s getting married, everyone’s graduated and has gone to jobs or grad schools and I’m still sick and deranged, drinking and throwing up and avoiding any responsibility. I’m newly 24 and the older I get, the more inadequate and…young I feel. Or immature in a way, undeserving of a place in the world as a 24 year old. I should be out of my house, I should be healthy and happy and working and loving someone properly. I should have money, an ability to live for myself, and not to act out, and I’m still fucking terrified of being an adult. I can’t fathom being able to keep a job, to manage my finances and pay my bills. Part of this is an affectation I’m sure, but part of it is very real, coming from experience.

I know I can’t live alone. I isolate myself, and end up feeling empty and terrified of myself and the outside of my apartment. I can hole up and stop feeling capable of leaving my room, sometimes even my bed, without drowning my fears out with alcohol and pills.

It’s incredibly depressing to think about some of the times I’ve felt the happiest, however shallow that feeling has been for me, in the past couple of years. Those were the times when I’d get the heady rush of starvation, where I’d be pushed by some internal force to put on my face, and put on my nicest boots and coat, cover my bloodshot eyes with sunglasses and run to the licquor store first, buy bottles and bottles of wine and gin, then walk across the street to the grocery store, listening to the ticking time clock in my head, thoughts only focused on whatever list of foods I’d become obsessed with at that time. For a while it was cabbage rolls and those stuffed little wontons. Even now, I can picture that Food Basics store that I frequented so often during my really bad years, all of the aisles, the specific locations of my favourite foods.

Words even seem difficult to me, trying to put the emotion and desire into letters and phrases to adequately describe how essential, how desperate I was for these items at the time. The thump of my heart beating into my throat as I circled and circled under those fluorescent lights.

Very cheap ramen noodles that I’d boil and cover with sundried tomatoes and olives and this Greek seasoning and this sundried tomato greek dressing

One of those giant family sized trays of ready made cabbage rolls

Both cheddar and mozzarella cheese curds

Pre made greek pasta salad and this Caprese salad with those giant penne noodles, very similar to my own version as above

packages and packages of Kraft Dinner, usually the white cheddar kind if I found it fast enough

Oreos and dried apples with the red wine because I’d read about it in Marya Hornbacher’s Wasted

Tofu that I’d always plan on keeping for my ‘good’ days but would always end up eating too fast with the rest of it

Popcorn

Tons of canned soups with crackers, that would usually be the last thing I’d eat before throwing up, filling the soup bowls with as many crackers as I could, mashing them up with a spoon, sometimes melting cheese if I decided to take the time to heat it up

Now that I’m home, I don’t have as much of an option of getting what I want. Although that maybe makes it all the more exciting when I find something I really want to binge on in the freezer or fridge. Recently I spent a ton of money on ready made wraps, a chicken ceasar and some other spicy meat something or other, cheese curds and peameal bacon, bags of candies. One of the really good days, I’d just gotten my period and I’d been starving for a while and was desperately craving meat I’m sure, as I was absolutely ecstatic upon finding a half a ham in our freezer and bacon. I’ve gotten into making tuna casserole like my Mom makes, macaroni baked in mushroom soup, with a chopped onion, peas and topped with a shit load of shredded cheese, melting all over it all. Eating an entire family sized serving and throwing up a vile grey mush.

I miss being cold and quiet and productive, when I just didn’t eat. I miss the Adderall or Vyvanse or whatever other ADHD drug that I used to buy in huge amounts from friends and strangers on campus, before I moved away from campus and my dealers. That all began first year when I just wanted to binge study, and practically everyone I knew popped the study pills like candy. I just kept going because I could be insanely productive and HAPPY on them, and I’d never want to eat and I could forget about food really, because I was happy to read and write and study through the rush of dopamine I’d be pumping myself with, and I’d end up dropping ten pounds in a week without even thinking about it.

Now I’m just fat and disgusting, spending too much time with my hands down my throat, drinking till I’m a sloppy ugly drunk, hating myself and wanting it all to be over, for me to go back to…some idealized version of myself that probably never existed.

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