I'm standing on a lawn watching people walk past when I realize how far I am from my dorm. Then I wonder how I even got here. Did I walk? Why? What am I doing here? I'm so tired. I lay down and phone my mom. The grass itches but I am so, so tired.
Sometimes I wonder how I get from class to class. All those stairs, my thighs burn (Still sore from two hours of yoga the day before) as I step, one foot in front of another. Did I go to work today? Spend 5 minutes looking for half of a bagel before realizing I must have eaten it.
Fell asleep in more classes today, I have no idea what the lectures were on. Still getting more than 8 hours of sleep a night, still drinking multiple cups of coffee (medicine by now). Vitamins, pill cocktail. Eating to some extent, no appetite, robot food. Nutrients! Vain attempts to slow the decay.
Apathetic- the pessimistic fever has broken but the exhaustion remains. I want more than anything to crawl under the covers and rot.
I walked past one of the tables that had been set up for NEDAW this week (complete with triggering pictures, health warnings, and ambitious "There is Hope" pamphlets) to see three overweight women looking at the display. Okay, nothing wrong with that. I'm all for education. And you never know, disorders come in all sizes. Then one of the women points a picture of an emaciated girl, naked, bent over and hugging her knees. You know, that picture.
"That's disgusting!" (shocked oohs from other girls and murmurs of agreement) "I don't know why people would do that, it doesn't look good."
Considering I was already verging on a mental breakdown this morning, I wanted to punch her. I felt distinctly disgusting, even though I'm physically much healthier. I wanted to punch all of them, then jump off a building. Things are so bad right now and I can't do anything other than sleep and hate everything (including myself, bien sur!)
At the first few notes of the old familiar melody chills run up my body and my eyes close to savor the moment, the memories that come rushing back of the last time I heard this song. Flashbacks of driving in the rain and smoking on the roof of parking garages, green tea under a blanket, laying on my bed in the dark staring at the ceiling. Always alone, except for the tune. Someone I used to know, nostalgia comforts like a lover in my veins. I've given up focusing on schoolwork even though I skipped class to do so and in this moment I'd like nothing more than to be a decibel, pure energy of the moment and nothing more.
Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. Generally I'm rather fond of this season because of it's emphasis on quiet, reflection, and honesty- but lately thinking about it just makes me feel guilty. And dirty. Maybe it wouldn't be such an issue if I wasn't such a quasi-Christian in quasi-recovery pretending to be a quasi-intellectual. Maybe things would be better if I could wholeheartedly commit myself to something, anything.
I used to fast on Ash Wednesday. But then at some point I got too good at this fasting thing and it changed from being about the acceptance and subjection of needing food to the outright denial that I needed food at all- the prideful disgust of all things physical. This is stupid, naturally. We are both physical and spiritual, mental, emotional... we are very complicated but interrelated and one part cannot exist without the others. Physical cannot be taken out of the equation (however unfortunate this may be).
The weather is unusually contradictory to the somber holiday today and surprised me this morning with the first mildly pleasant morning in weeks. I hate that it is once again spring because that means we are in the death throws of winter. Winter is the only time I feel like my head is clear and still enough to think. But of course, like life, this is irreversibly and unstoppably cyclical.
I was out late (/early) last night and I'm taking tonight for myself. My roommate is working and the boy is out and I've got starbucks (tall soy misto two splendas which is still a tad too hot) and Pulp Fiction. There's no food in my dorm but I'm considering the virtue of the small pieces of dark chocolate on my shelf, which causes me no anxiety. I'm not usually one for romance but this is shaping up to be a lovely evening.
I'm on eating disorder watch by my RA. Are you kidding me?
When I am well I begin to wonder if there is actually any such thing as right or wrong or if it only beneficial and less beneficial. How could something be inherently right or wrong when we made up the rules ourselves? There is a concept of natural law, but for the most part, our rules are frivolous self-imposed restrictions that we think keep us sane but in actuality only band-aid the problem. Will eating snack an hour early matter to me in a month? I'm hungry. My body knows better than my mind does but I try to work through things that must be felt with logic. It's like a blind leading a mute, when they would get much faster to wherever they are going hand in hand. I pretend that if I can follow small rules I am successful, when rather stumbling and tripping down any path will get me where I end up. Just keep your eyes open and your chin up, kid.
I don't know where I'm going but I begin to see that there is nothing wrong with that, those with plans get them destroyed more often than not. I know what feels good now and what feels right and I tentatively trust it. I'm not looking for happiness but I am looking for insight- to know myself and to know the world. "Wanting" is a foreign concept but if I say the word to myself and I get a pressure, an excitement of blood, in my chest I hear my soul through the only outlet I allow it. I don't know if I've ever lived in the moment before (albeit car crashes and the black hole vortex of the soul's 3am) and it is frightening.
I'm not happy but I don't want to be. I'm happy about that. I want (yes, the want of excitement in the arteries of my chest) to not regret but to grow. Nothing is wrong nor right. It frustrates me that the english language only has one word for regret which implies that we wish something had gone differently, and not a word for an unpleasant occurence (which of course, is inevitable) that has made us different. Different is good, it is building layers upon layers like topography of character complexity. Everything is learning. Momentum.
Through the window of these glasses
flickering streetlights dance and twirl
soft in the the cold december evening
like ghosts of dead sugarplum faries
lovely and fragile
beautiful as the hollow shell of our ideals
romantic pipe dreams stacked in a bottomless hole
building a ladder to some ambiguous concept
you call it redemption but I see
blue bruised knuckles and vertibrae
and long fingers of ribs clasping your heart
don't you see- beauty can't save you
What would life be like if I loved my flaws as well as my fortes?