Today's word is LIES.
All lies. Lies lies lies. I have fooled myself into thinking I can recover from this. I am so painfully torn between wanting to shed myself of this debilitating, festering shell of a disease and sinking further into the chaotic beauty of size double zero.
I want it. So bad. So much. I can taste it on my tongue, stronger than the food I have to eat every day.
I wrote this in May. I think it succinctly and accurately describes how I feel to this present day, so I'll share it with you, my non-existent followers:
Lately I have felt disconnected from reality, delirious. I stare at people, but I can't see them, I hear what they're saying, but I don't understand. I've become trapped in my own little world in my head that only seems to be able to truly express itself here. Sometimes I feel like the whole world is watching me, judging me all the time. Sometimes I revisit reality and realize that no one actually cares.
I'm scared they'll hear the water running and know I am disgracing my body again. But at the same time they're whispering behind the door downstairs, hoping that the sound of the running water will drown out their insults about my mother. She is honest with me. They act as if I don't know he's in court again fighting to take away child support, kick us out of the house we can't afford.
They must know I can hear their whispers. Or maybe I'm just delusional again to think that everything is in some way related back to me. Sure, this is child support, and I am the child, but no one hates me. They hate each other. They hate each other so much that they don't even notice me, ears pressed against the hardwood listening the tones and inflections of every hushed syllable as if I know what they're saying, as if my own delusions set the record straight.
For now I am drifting. I have my music, the sun, and my legs that will take me as far as my arms will push them. I don't subscribe to a genre, but a feeling. Music needs to be deep-rooted in eye opening emotion and passion. When you can feel it breathing in your core, that's music. When you feel as if you could close your mouth and never take another breath again because the song will carry you along. And you're running and you're running. You can't remember if you've opened your mouth, or how many laps you've ran, or if the world is spinning or you are. It's that delirium. That is where I am.
Although, my delirium is heavier now. I am weighed down by infinite sadness. I haven't heard from my friends in weeks, and slowly I'm pulling away. I tell myself if they really care they'll put in the effort. I'm tired of one-sided friendships. But I've stopped talking to them and they finally want to see me and "hang out."
I will not fall so easily. How much longer do I have to pretend I don't need friends before they all abandon me for good? I want to cry out WHAT HAPPENED? What does your new "bestie" do for you that I can't? Am I not cheerful enough? Smart enough? Fun enough? Nice enough for you? Why do you always leave me for someone else? Why? What happened? What did I DO? When will I be the perfect friend for somebody?
Anybody.
Is anybody there?
It's been almost a month since I've done anything social.
I am fazing.
By the time I arrive at University I will have seen their faces for the very last time. These faulty friendships will be officially and permanently terminated.
Goodbye forever.
There's a voice screaming in my head. LOVE ME! nothing. WANT ME! nothing. HUG ME! nothing. NOTICE ME! crickets. I am silenced by my own guilt. I do not deserve the company of others. I do not deserve to have friends or be happy. These are the products of a lovable person. I am not lovable. I am a liar and a bad friend.
I am a cactus.
I am ugly and prickly and repel all things lively and beautiful. I survive on nothing.
I want to run away and live on a farm in a foreign country where no one knows my face or understands the gibberish I speak. I want to melt away in the heat of a summer prairie landscape. I want to float away in the clouds. I want to escape everything, my poisoned brain.
I am a prisoner.
I need to be punished.
Torture me again, my friend.
I deserve it.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
ONE
Today's word is ONE.
And for once, today's word comes with a bit of a smile.
I wake up hungry and tired. Finley is crying again. How can I be hungry? I ate so much food yesterday. Well, hungry is always a good sign. It means it wasn't enough. Enough means I'll stay fat forever.
I take too long to get ready before work, pack my food for the day, and skip out on breakfast. What decent person could eat more than two meals a day anyway? I hate breakfast. The first meal always ruins my day. Why ruin it so early?
It's freezing outside. Cloudy and windy. If I could shoot the messenger and blow the weather network's brains out. I am a popsicle. It's hardly what anyone would call summer. I want to crawl back into bed.
My hair is frightful.
I get to work. This camp has more teenagers than the last. They're new to puberty and still stick thin. I tell myself it won't last in order to soothe my jealousy. I force down my lunch. A garden burger and some cherries (300). My green tea pill gives me a queasy jittery feeling in my stomach. I'm getting a cold, but I refuse to accept it. I can't get sick. I need to work.
Camp ends. I have two hours to kill before my shift at the cinema. I'm already downtown so I wander aimlessly. I give myself a mental note. NO MORE SPENDING.
You stupid idiot. You can't spend money and save it at the same time.
I cannot be entrusted with anything.
I ruin everything I touch.
I end up at the shitty downtown mall. There are fewer packs of LGs milling about outside now that they've imposed the new smoking law. What good is loitering if you can't enjoy a nice cigarette?
I refuse to smoke again.
It's dirtier than I am.
Window shopping gets boring quickly. I find myself trying on clothes I refuse to buy (NO MORE SPENDING YOU FUCKING IDIOT). I come across some jean skirts on a sale rack. The first one I grab calls out to me. Pick me.
Size ONE!
There's no way. I put it up to my hips and it looks like it will fit. No, it can't. In the change room I am ecstatic. Size one, with some room for comfort. I stare at myself forever, ignore the pissed off sales lady when I leave without making a purchase.Size one with some room for comfort.
It was a fluke.
It had to be.
The denim was stretchy.
Then I realize...I have a mission! I go to the other stores in the mall and pick out size ones and extra smalls. I stare longingly at the zeros and double zeros, but why suffer the embarrassment?
I slide on a pair of size one dress pants. They fit. Nervously, I lift up my shirt to see the damage. But...nothing.
No fat spilling over the edges. No frat boy beer belly. The first success in a very long time. It felt...good.
And nothing has felt that good in a long time. But it makes me wonder, if size one is the only thing that makes me feel good and size zero and double zero are the only things that I truly strive for, then how in the world am I supposed to get better?
When does the light bulb go off?
The one that shatters my illogical fallacies.
SMASH...
And I'm cured.
I go to the cinema and fake a smile for the customers. I'm exhausted. I need a break.
Work work work. How can I help you, would you like the larger size for fifty cents more, anything else with that, do you have a membership card, shovel popcorn, squirt butter, one more squirt, shovel popcorn, , squirt squirt squirt, bills, change close the till, smile, have a nice day. REPEAT. I am a machine.
My brain is somewhere far away.
SLAM!
I'm back in reality. Two girls are deciding on what pop they want to get with their combo. And I get that...feeling. That eerie feeling that chills you to the bones. When reality hits you a little too hard and you find yourself wondering what the point of going to the cinema is. And what the point of pop is. And what the point of anything is. It's all too bizarre to be true. It's all a waste. We've created too much. When does it all end in one apocalyptic blockbuster-worthy finale?
My head hurts again.
Life scares me.
My brain scares me.
I get home and have some half-assed conversation about the future with a friend on Facebook chat. It feels like I haven't seen her in years. I am retreating. I am putting on my hermit shell for the millionth time.
My social life is closed for business.
And I like it that way.
I am a size one.
And for once, things aren't so bad.
One may be the loneliest number, but I like it that way.
Who needs the extra bulk?
And for once, today's word comes with a bit of a smile.
I wake up hungry and tired. Finley is crying again. How can I be hungry? I ate so much food yesterday. Well, hungry is always a good sign. It means it wasn't enough. Enough means I'll stay fat forever.
I take too long to get ready before work, pack my food for the day, and skip out on breakfast. What decent person could eat more than two meals a day anyway? I hate breakfast. The first meal always ruins my day. Why ruin it so early?
It's freezing outside. Cloudy and windy. If I could shoot the messenger and blow the weather network's brains out. I am a popsicle. It's hardly what anyone would call summer. I want to crawl back into bed.
My hair is frightful.
I get to work. This camp has more teenagers than the last. They're new to puberty and still stick thin. I tell myself it won't last in order to soothe my jealousy. I force down my lunch. A garden burger and some cherries (300). My green tea pill gives me a queasy jittery feeling in my stomach. I'm getting a cold, but I refuse to accept it. I can't get sick. I need to work.
Camp ends. I have two hours to kill before my shift at the cinema. I'm already downtown so I wander aimlessly. I give myself a mental note. NO MORE SPENDING.
You stupid idiot. You can't spend money and save it at the same time.
I cannot be entrusted with anything.
I ruin everything I touch.
I end up at the shitty downtown mall. There are fewer packs of LGs milling about outside now that they've imposed the new smoking law. What good is loitering if you can't enjoy a nice cigarette?
I refuse to smoke again.
It's dirtier than I am.
Window shopping gets boring quickly. I find myself trying on clothes I refuse to buy (NO MORE SPENDING YOU FUCKING IDIOT). I come across some jean skirts on a sale rack. The first one I grab calls out to me. Pick me.
Size ONE!
There's no way. I put it up to my hips and it looks like it will fit. No, it can't. In the change room I am ecstatic. Size one, with some room for comfort. I stare at myself forever, ignore the pissed off sales lady when I leave without making a purchase.Size one with some room for comfort.
It was a fluke.
It had to be.
The denim was stretchy.
Then I realize...I have a mission! I go to the other stores in the mall and pick out size ones and extra smalls. I stare longingly at the zeros and double zeros, but why suffer the embarrassment?
I slide on a pair of size one dress pants. They fit. Nervously, I lift up my shirt to see the damage. But...nothing.
No fat spilling over the edges. No frat boy beer belly. The first success in a very long time. It felt...good.
And nothing has felt that good in a long time. But it makes me wonder, if size one is the only thing that makes me feel good and size zero and double zero are the only things that I truly strive for, then how in the world am I supposed to get better?
When does the light bulb go off?
The one that shatters my illogical fallacies.
SMASH...
And I'm cured.
I go to the cinema and fake a smile for the customers. I'm exhausted. I need a break.
Work work work. How can I help you, would you like the larger size for fifty cents more, anything else with that, do you have a membership card, shovel popcorn, squirt butter, one more squirt, shovel popcorn, , squirt squirt squirt, bills, change close the till, smile, have a nice day. REPEAT. I am a machine.
My brain is somewhere far away.
SLAM!
I'm back in reality. Two girls are deciding on what pop they want to get with their combo. And I get that...feeling. That eerie feeling that chills you to the bones. When reality hits you a little too hard and you find yourself wondering what the point of going to the cinema is. And what the point of pop is. And what the point of anything is. It's all too bizarre to be true. It's all a waste. We've created too much. When does it all end in one apocalyptic blockbuster-worthy finale?
My head hurts again.
Life scares me.
My brain scares me.
I get home and have some half-assed conversation about the future with a friend on Facebook chat. It feels like I haven't seen her in years. I am retreating. I am putting on my hermit shell for the millionth time.
My social life is closed for business.
And I like it that way.
I am a size one.
And for once, things aren't so bad.
One may be the loneliest number, but I like it that way.
Who needs the extra bulk?
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
FINLEY
Today's word is FINLEY.
Finley
Surname
Gender: Boy
Origin: Gaelic
Meaning: Fair Warrior
Pronounced: FINlee
Form of: Fionnlagh
Finley was born last night at 10:58 pm. I have a brother. He is exactly seventeen years and eleven months younger than me. I will be eighteen in less than a month. I can buy porn, vote, make my own decisions. I wonder if Finley would be up for switching places...
I set my alarm at 3:30 this morning so that I can get up and go to the hospital early before work. At seven I feel like gouging my eyes out with a melon-baller. It's the kind of tired that makes your face ache. I have to wake up. Wake up! Finley's here. I feel unloving. I feel like I need five more minutes.
An hour later I get up and phone the father. I lie and say I'm ready to go and he shows up shortly after. I scramble to assemble myself and we drive to the hospital. He looks more haggard than I do. I'm scared I'll have to pretend he's not the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I'm scared I'll have to stop myself from gawking at his splotchy red cone head.
Finley's sleeping in a plastic bin like the kind we store nacho chips in at the cinema. He's swaddled in a sexist blue blanket from the hospital, a knitted cap on his head. He's beautiful, unbiased and unaffected by the world around him. I want to hold him. But I'll drop him. I'll be a shit sister. He won't even know my name when I come over to visit. He is the kind of thing I imagine I must have been. It's sad to think what the world can do to something so pure and beautiful. You don't even need poverty or AIDS or cancer to poison a baby. All you need is puberty. He won't be cute forever.
I hold him for a while until it's time to be nursed (he, not I). He's the most boring, yet captivating thing I've ever laid eyes on. I wonder if he's more entertaining sleeping, or if I should teach him a few acrobatics. In the cafeteria I practice calling him "he" instead of "it."
"It" is real now.
It can breathe and make little chirpy noises.
He is Finley.
I go to work. It's the local acting school. I assist with the summer camps and edit the camp videos. It's the same mediocre kids doing the same commercials, same scenes from the same movies, same slates. I find myself getting jealous over a ten-year-old's waist. I mentally slap myself. I am so pathetic. I am jealous of a child. I am the girl who should never have been let out of the womb.
Finley had it right when he tried to strangle himself with the umbilical cord. It doesn't get any better out in the real world.
INTERMISSION
Somewhere between utter boredom, overwhelming solitude, and a crashed server I resume my blog-worthy thoughts. It's been a few days. I've thought about killing myself, skipped a few meals, cried myself to sleep, wished I was someone else. Nothing special. Nothing new.
All I can hear now is the sound of a baby crying, muffled by the whirring of my weary hard drive. I'm burning CDs. I bought a discman at Value Village for twenty five bucks. Two lost iPods in two months. I am as wasteful as the money I throw away on the things I can never keep in tact.
I am the girl who has to pretend discmans are retro. Has to — like I'm poor, or something. I'm not poor. I'm just another middle class spoiled brat who doesn't know the value of money and has been raised to financially fail in the adult world.
I am an adult in 22 days.
I feel like it will take 22 years before I am grown up.
I am scared of growing up. I am scared of responsibility, failure, mortgages, family. I am scared I'll die old and bitter or young and stupid. I can't decide which is worse. I'm not looking for everything to make sense, but at what point does it all sink in? I've been alive for almost 18 years and all I have to do is look at a stop light and think so, this is how far we've come...
But for what?
What is a stop light? A laptop? A banana? A squirrel? A human being? A god? ANYTHING?
It scares me to think of how short life is and how there are no second chances. It scares me to think it's all for nothing. But it's not for nothing. It's for something. People who love life love it because it's all for something, but I don't have that something. Where's my something? And I don't mean stamp collecting or bee keeping or ballet or hockey. A real something. That thaws your soul.
So I'm scared. Always have been.
When I was younger, after 9/11, I was so paranoid of EVERYTHING that I couldn't sleep. I'd cry because I could really feel it in my bones. That was the night I would die. Then the next night. And the next night. And the... I'd hear the cat thumping about outside my door, piss myself thinking it was a burglar. Every night I thought I was going to die.
I cannot function. I am paralyzed between unripe cynicism and catastrophic uncertainty.
I am my own worst migraine. I wish I could turn my brain off.
Blip.
Off. Done. Mute. But, my dreams are no vacation. My thoughts will never rest.
"Who questions much, shall learn much, and retain much"
Sir Francis Bacon.
My head if full of questions, yet I feel empty. I have retained nothing but the fear that clings to my mind and the fat that clings to my body.
I am nowhere.
I am nothing.
Finley
Surname
Gender: Boy
Origin: Gaelic
Meaning: Fair Warrior
Pronounced: FINlee
Form of: Fionnlagh
Finley was born last night at 10:58 pm. I have a brother. He is exactly seventeen years and eleven months younger than me. I will be eighteen in less than a month. I can buy porn, vote, make my own decisions. I wonder if Finley would be up for switching places...
I set my alarm at 3:30 this morning so that I can get up and go to the hospital early before work. At seven I feel like gouging my eyes out with a melon-baller. It's the kind of tired that makes your face ache. I have to wake up. Wake up! Finley's here. I feel unloving. I feel like I need five more minutes.
An hour later I get up and phone the father. I lie and say I'm ready to go and he shows up shortly after. I scramble to assemble myself and we drive to the hospital. He looks more haggard than I do. I'm scared I'll have to pretend he's not the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I'm scared I'll have to stop myself from gawking at his splotchy red cone head.
Finley's sleeping in a plastic bin like the kind we store nacho chips in at the cinema. He's swaddled in a sexist blue blanket from the hospital, a knitted cap on his head. He's beautiful, unbiased and unaffected by the world around him. I want to hold him. But I'll drop him. I'll be a shit sister. He won't even know my name when I come over to visit. He is the kind of thing I imagine I must have been. It's sad to think what the world can do to something so pure and beautiful. You don't even need poverty or AIDS or cancer to poison a baby. All you need is puberty. He won't be cute forever.
I hold him for a while until it's time to be nursed (he, not I). He's the most boring, yet captivating thing I've ever laid eyes on. I wonder if he's more entertaining sleeping, or if I should teach him a few acrobatics. In the cafeteria I practice calling him "he" instead of "it."
"It" is real now.
It can breathe and make little chirpy noises.
He is Finley.
I go to work. It's the local acting school. I assist with the summer camps and edit the camp videos. It's the same mediocre kids doing the same commercials, same scenes from the same movies, same slates. I find myself getting jealous over a ten-year-old's waist. I mentally slap myself. I am so pathetic. I am jealous of a child. I am the girl who should never have been let out of the womb.
Finley had it right when he tried to strangle himself with the umbilical cord. It doesn't get any better out in the real world.
INTERMISSION
Somewhere between utter boredom, overwhelming solitude, and a crashed server I resume my blog-worthy thoughts. It's been a few days. I've thought about killing myself, skipped a few meals, cried myself to sleep, wished I was someone else. Nothing special. Nothing new.
All I can hear now is the sound of a baby crying, muffled by the whirring of my weary hard drive. I'm burning CDs. I bought a discman at Value Village for twenty five bucks. Two lost iPods in two months. I am as wasteful as the money I throw away on the things I can never keep in tact.
I am the girl who has to pretend discmans are retro. Has to — like I'm poor, or something. I'm not poor. I'm just another middle class spoiled brat who doesn't know the value of money and has been raised to financially fail in the adult world.
I am an adult in 22 days.
I feel like it will take 22 years before I am grown up.
I am scared of growing up. I am scared of responsibility, failure, mortgages, family. I am scared I'll die old and bitter or young and stupid. I can't decide which is worse. I'm not looking for everything to make sense, but at what point does it all sink in? I've been alive for almost 18 years and all I have to do is look at a stop light and think so, this is how far we've come...
But for what?
What is a stop light? A laptop? A banana? A squirrel? A human being? A god? ANYTHING?
It scares me to think of how short life is and how there are no second chances. It scares me to think it's all for nothing. But it's not for nothing. It's for something. People who love life love it because it's all for something, but I don't have that something. Where's my something? And I don't mean stamp collecting or bee keeping or ballet or hockey. A real something. That thaws your soul.
So I'm scared. Always have been.
When I was younger, after 9/11, I was so paranoid of EVERYTHING that I couldn't sleep. I'd cry because I could really feel it in my bones. That was the night I would die. Then the next night. And the next night. And the... I'd hear the cat thumping about outside my door, piss myself thinking it was a burglar. Every night I thought I was going to die.
I cannot function. I am paralyzed between unripe cynicism and catastrophic uncertainty.
I am my own worst migraine. I wish I could turn my brain off.
Blip.
Off. Done. Mute. But, my dreams are no vacation. My thoughts will never rest.
"Who questions much, shall learn much, and retain much"
Sir Francis Bacon.
My head if full of questions, yet I feel empty. I have retained nothing but the fear that clings to my mind and the fat that clings to my body.
I am nowhere.
I am nothing.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
BROKEN
Today's word is BROKEN.
I cannot be fixed. I am the trinket held together with tape and a thin hope. I am the girl who sits in therapy, digs her nails into her meaty flesh to drown out the fear. Fear it might actually work.
But it won't work. I cannot be cured. Eat this, not that, so much of one thing, but no, not the other, not too little either. I eat out of a measuring cup. If it wasn't pathetic it would be "modern." I am trendy and dying, but at least I am not a dying trend. I am the girl with the fashionable clothes. I only wish they fit me properly.
My "minimal meal plan" is the devil disguised as a stark and malnourished version of the Canadian Food Guide. My nutritionist wants me to get better, thinks I want to get better. I am three meals a day, three snacks, and plenty of fatty calories. I am the failure who can't handle three meals, three snacks, and plenty of fatty calories. I am the girl who still pukes when her mom leaves the house to go to the grocery store. I am the girl who reeks of lies. I will never be good enough. I will never be proud of my honesty. I will never be honest.
I go to a party. Not a real party, one of those adult social gatherings where people bring chips and dip, get tipsy, and talk about the weather. The kind where you have to hide out in the kids room with the people who are ten years younger than you because you're too much of a chicken to converse with the adults.
I'm an adult in exactly one month.
So why do I feel so childish?
I find the play room for a child that doesn't even exist. There is a bin full of plastic food. I am hungry and my third meal has yet to be consumed. Downstairs there is a feast of fatty appys spilling across the counter. My lack of self-control kills me. I pull out everything I'm too afraid to eat from the bin. Ice cream cones, French fries, pizza, doughnuts. I fill my mini cup with invisible vodka. I get drunk and fat off the displeasing taste of plastic. In my head it tastes like heaven.
It seems cruel to me to keep a child's room after the child has grown up. I sit in the fantastical realm of primary colours with my plastic binge and feel horribly raw and taunted. I want to be a child again. I want to go back, I whisper. I am the girl pathetic enough to talk to herself. I don't want to be a grown up. Take back the month, the years, all the times everything went horribly wrong, the day I grew into a hideous over-sized beast. Time is anything but my friend.
Robin mills about the party. she is the woman the mother wants me to speak with. She is supposed to be my ray of hope, the inspiration that recovery is actually possible.
R-O-B-I-N
Her name is like poison on my tongue. I hope our paths never cross again. She is the kind of woman that looks proud of her body. Maybe recovery is possible. But I would never want to be that fat. I'm already too fat as it is. My stomach continues to bulge past my hips. I want to iron it flat.
I try talking with the grown-ups. Everyone wants to know what the plans are for next year. It's like when you repeat a word over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until it loses its meaning. Journalism, journalism, journalism. What a stupid idea! I hope that within the next four years I learn to like it more than I do now.
JOURNALISM
It sounds fake.
Why is it that the things that make me happy are the ones that can't be molded into careers? Why can't I want to be a doctor? Cure cancer? Save the world? Save someone from doing their own taxes? Music makes me happy. Theatre makes me happy. Film makes me happy. Writing makes me happy.
Three men were shot outside a local convenience store last night. Police say.....
No. Not that kind of writing. The kind with soul and feeling. You need to feel something or you're as dead as the people you report on.
It's morning now and the mother is off to the organic market. I hate my meal plan. I want to skip breakfast so badly. I should be trying harder. It's too hard when you wake up and feel that chocolate chip cookie from the night before suctioned to your stomach. GET IT OFF. I want it off. Food is my enemy. It is stronger than I.
I wish I could strip myself of this vanity. At the party the night before I watch the trailer for a feature film I helped do craft services for. It's a wrap party. It looks beautiful. Everyone looks beautiful. I find myself wishing I was in it...just so that I could be beautiful too.
I would do anything to make myself look good. I thought that graduation would be my day to feel like a princess. Everyone looked majestic. I was the girl people told looked pretty out of pure obligation. I was the girl included in the "everyone looks so great" by default. I bet that even in front of that gorgeous new camera, a skilled hair and makeup artist trailing behind me, a sleek and slimming wardrobe clinging to my over-sized body, a DOP with a great eye and talent for making beautiful people look stunning, I would still photograph as an ugly fool.
The camera cannot save me. Music cannot save me. Journalism cannot save me. I am too scared to jump in the deep end. But I'm too big for the kiddy pool. everything is crammed and uncomfortable. I can't breathe, can't think, can't feel. I'm numb, pressed against the sides, warm water and pee overflowing around me. But it's safe it's comforting. I don't want to leave.
I won't grow up,
(I won't grow up)
I don't want to go to school.
(I don't want to go to school)
Just to learn to be a parrot,
(Just to learn to be a parrot)
And recite a silly rule.
(And recite a silly rule)
If growing up means
It would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree,
I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up
Not me!
Not me.
I cannot be fixed. I am the trinket held together with tape and a thin hope. I am the girl who sits in therapy, digs her nails into her meaty flesh to drown out the fear. Fear it might actually work.
But it won't work. I cannot be cured. Eat this, not that, so much of one thing, but no, not the other, not too little either. I eat out of a measuring cup. If it wasn't pathetic it would be "modern." I am trendy and dying, but at least I am not a dying trend. I am the girl with the fashionable clothes. I only wish they fit me properly.
My "minimal meal plan" is the devil disguised as a stark and malnourished version of the Canadian Food Guide. My nutritionist wants me to get better, thinks I want to get better. I am three meals a day, three snacks, and plenty of fatty calories. I am the failure who can't handle three meals, three snacks, and plenty of fatty calories. I am the girl who still pukes when her mom leaves the house to go to the grocery store. I am the girl who reeks of lies. I will never be good enough. I will never be proud of my honesty. I will never be honest.
I go to a party. Not a real party, one of those adult social gatherings where people bring chips and dip, get tipsy, and talk about the weather. The kind where you have to hide out in the kids room with the people who are ten years younger than you because you're too much of a chicken to converse with the adults.
I'm an adult in exactly one month.
So why do I feel so childish?
I find the play room for a child that doesn't even exist. There is a bin full of plastic food. I am hungry and my third meal has yet to be consumed. Downstairs there is a feast of fatty appys spilling across the counter. My lack of self-control kills me. I pull out everything I'm too afraid to eat from the bin. Ice cream cones, French fries, pizza, doughnuts. I fill my mini cup with invisible vodka. I get drunk and fat off the displeasing taste of plastic. In my head it tastes like heaven.
It seems cruel to me to keep a child's room after the child has grown up. I sit in the fantastical realm of primary colours with my plastic binge and feel horribly raw and taunted. I want to be a child again. I want to go back, I whisper. I am the girl pathetic enough to talk to herself. I don't want to be a grown up. Take back the month, the years, all the times everything went horribly wrong, the day I grew into a hideous over-sized beast. Time is anything but my friend.
Robin mills about the party. she is the woman the mother wants me to speak with. She is supposed to be my ray of hope, the inspiration that recovery is actually possible.
R-O-B-I-N
Her name is like poison on my tongue. I hope our paths never cross again. She is the kind of woman that looks proud of her body. Maybe recovery is possible. But I would never want to be that fat. I'm already too fat as it is. My stomach continues to bulge past my hips. I want to iron it flat.
I try talking with the grown-ups. Everyone wants to know what the plans are for next year. It's like when you repeat a word over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until it loses its meaning. Journalism, journalism, journalism. What a stupid idea! I hope that within the next four years I learn to like it more than I do now.
JOURNALISM
It sounds fake.
Why is it that the things that make me happy are the ones that can't be molded into careers? Why can't I want to be a doctor? Cure cancer? Save the world? Save someone from doing their own taxes? Music makes me happy. Theatre makes me happy. Film makes me happy. Writing makes me happy.
Three men were shot outside a local convenience store last night. Police say.....
No. Not that kind of writing. The kind with soul and feeling. You need to feel something or you're as dead as the people you report on.
It's morning now and the mother is off to the organic market. I hate my meal plan. I want to skip breakfast so badly. I should be trying harder. It's too hard when you wake up and feel that chocolate chip cookie from the night before suctioned to your stomach. GET IT OFF. I want it off. Food is my enemy. It is stronger than I.
I wish I could strip myself of this vanity. At the party the night before I watch the trailer for a feature film I helped do craft services for. It's a wrap party. It looks beautiful. Everyone looks beautiful. I find myself wishing I was in it...just so that I could be beautiful too.
I would do anything to make myself look good. I thought that graduation would be my day to feel like a princess. Everyone looked majestic. I was the girl people told looked pretty out of pure obligation. I was the girl included in the "everyone looks so great" by default. I bet that even in front of that gorgeous new camera, a skilled hair and makeup artist trailing behind me, a sleek and slimming wardrobe clinging to my over-sized body, a DOP with a great eye and talent for making beautiful people look stunning, I would still photograph as an ugly fool.
The camera cannot save me. Music cannot save me. Journalism cannot save me. I am too scared to jump in the deep end. But I'm too big for the kiddy pool. everything is crammed and uncomfortable. I can't breathe, can't think, can't feel. I'm numb, pressed against the sides, warm water and pee overflowing around me. But it's safe it's comforting. I don't want to leave.
I won't grow up,
(I won't grow up)
I don't want to go to school.
(I don't want to go to school)
Just to learn to be a parrot,
(Just to learn to be a parrot)
And recite a silly rule.
(And recite a silly rule)
If growing up means
It would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree,
I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up
Not me!
Not me.
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