on liking:
its all good until you become the deterrent. up until that point, the situation might be shitty but there’s always the chance that you can make it better, you can step in and be the hero or even just be in the right place at the right time. once a mind is made up about you, though, and its made up wrong, its really hard to change it. blah.
why can’t we all live happily and not be annoyed with silly things like sadness or hopelessness? O right, because then we wouldn’t be human. dang.
For Guys: an excuse to drink and then get a girl to rub her ass against your crotch for upwards of 2 hours, if all goes well ending in rapid, embarrassed sex in an unfamiliar back room, followed by weeks or possibly even months of worrying about running into that girl again. Except at other Frat Parties, when the worry becomes a faint hope that if you DO run into her again, you will be able to get another 2 hours of crotch-rubbing out of her and maybe even sex, though no guarantees.
For Girls: an excuse to dress up, look nice, try on several different outfit combinations with all of your friends, talk loudly in the hallways about it, take pictures, try to get all the cute boys you know in the dorm to tell you how pretty you look, pretend to get upset when they don’t seem that interested, invite them out to the party, spend at least another half hour second-guessing your outfit based on the weather, the distance to the frat, the time at which you plan to get back, and how much vomit you think may be involved in the night’s events. (This all happens before the girl even gets to the party.) AT the Frat Party, the primary activities include dancing to the shitty music with all of your girlfriends, “putting your hands up” when they “play your song”, making fun of guys that try to dance with you, drinking a few beers, eventually getting tipsy enough to let a guy dance with you, asking your friends in a very obvious manner if the guy is cute, and eventually rubbing your ass into his crotch because you know thats what he wants and he COULD be the future father of your children and also maybe a doctor with a lot of money one day but thats getting your hopes up a little high.
For Lesbians and/or Bicurious girls: all of the above stated for the “Girls” category, plus a chance to make out with that pretty girl from down the hall after she gets drunk. She will claim not to remember it, but you know she liked it. Though, come to think of it, she may have only liked it because she thought that all the straight guys around her would think it was a turn-on. Meh.
For Gay Guys: An excuse to drink your sexual orientation away.
i am not a fan.
*******LOOKING back over this, I think I was a little harsh on Lesbians and Bicuri girls, especially since at least 2 of the people I love most in the world right now fall into that category. However, as a gay guy, they remain somewhat of a mystery to me. Yeah I know you’d think it would be a similar situation, but I’m never sure, so I just based my criticisms on what I’ve actually seen instead of what I’d like to or hoped to see. And what I have seen isn’t necessarily accurate. But, again, girls in general are a bigger mystery to me than chemistry, and I do not understand chemistry at all. SO my apologies to anybody, particularly any Bicuri or Lesbian girls, who may consider taking offense to my comments. It was not my intention. I’m sure you are all wonderful and wholesome people.
I think my comments on straight people were right on though, if I do say so myself.
i’ll stop with those titles now.
I have no motivation to do ANYTHING (oh god another pointless ranting post)(just kidding, i’ll spare all 2.3 of you that will ever read this).
I have discovered an easy way to make cheap mochas that will last you through not 1 all nighter, but 2 or even 3 if need be (hah weren’t expecting that were you). All you need is access to chocolate, hot water, and $1.75 worth of coffee of your choice. My chosen chocolate medium has so far been swiss miss hot coco powder: I fill a mug up 2/3 of the way with hot water, toss in a packet of SMHCP, and then fill the rest of the cup up with organic coffee. 1 large cup of coffee has lasted me through 8 of these mochas, and I’m only about halfway through the cup. I think this mocha method is very effective because it only delivers small amounts of caffein at a time, over long periods of time, to keep you zombie-grade functional for longer than you thought possible. Another perk of this method is diabetes, since you conssume approximately 8 million grams of sugar per SMHCP packet.
In other news, so geological time line of this blog, with major events BEFORE the blog’s creation in brackets:
And thats pretty much about where we stand. Just thought that might be interesting…I have some ideas but I’m still letting them ferment. idk maybe you’ll see, maybe not. I think, maybe, something can come of it. vamos a ver, vamos a ver…
OSHIT I HAVE A LAB DUE TOMORROW thanks alot internetz.
yay im posting again! not that anybody particularly cares. and honestly this is probably gonna be a one time thing cus im kinda bored. But i did make an observation recently that i would love to share with the 2 people that will ever read this:
college is stupid. at least i think it is. we pay lots of money to go learn “valuable things” that will hopefully help us be…successful? in life? but…define successful. Can you be successful and also completely miserable? maybe, but I think that defeats the point of being successful. my point is that i’m majoring in something I love, but i also love at least 2 other big things that are either academic or related, yet i simply dont have time to do either of them. i’m majoring in biology…biology is awesome. but so are languages and music. i have a list of a handful of languages i want to learn or continue with, but i simply dont have time. hell, i could teach myself them, i don’t need a class, but i dont have time, thanks to a bitchload of biomajor requirements that have NOTHING TO DO WITH BIOLOGY. i also dont have time to play music. well, actually im making time, but iv only been a college freshman for a month and my grade is already suffering because im not letting myself sacrifice my musical ability. so instead of doing chem homework last night i jammed with beautiful people. but even that “act of defiance” (as my dad says) cant happen very often because theres simply so much work to do. fuck.
i will not let it control me tho. Iv not been sleeping very much, cus i find it more productive to finish class busy work late at night whne i can barely function, and do more important (to me anyway) stuff like learning swahili or playing music when im awake. and if this post sounds confused, its cus like i just said im functioning off not much sleep.
anywayz nice to be posting again, watever, ttyl
Long time no write/see/read/etc!!
Hi, everyone and anyone who might stumble across this!
It’s hard for me to jump right in to what I need to say, because It’s slightly mindblowing and entirely incredible. However, I’m going to attempt this jump regardless, because it makes me brilliantly happy to write.
IT IS SUMMER. I AM HEALTHY. I AM HAPPY. I AM LIVING FOR MYSELF. CUANDO ME LEVANTO, ME SONRIO! I write and play tennis and run and blow bubbles and eat and drink and plant daylilies and kiss without worrying about this and this and that and that. I feel better. I feel like that freshman girl who bounced into Social studies every morning and received compliments about how happy she always looked.
Today I had a doctors appointment, and I was told that not only are my “numbers good” but I seem happier than my doctor has ever seen me before. I love knowing that I can step into my boyfriend’s – who has been with me all this way- car and know I’m me, and no one else, I can change and have and will.
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Change the things I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference.” -Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut.
During the morning I eat breakfast, maybe play tennis, go for a walk, pet my dog. I read, read, read, check my email, play some harp, and read some more. I have lunch when I get hungry, then I read and read and listen to a lecture and read, for my own enjoyment, my own sake, my own learning. Afternoons are either friendship filled, or abra caddabra relaxing filled, or a thunderstorm balls itself up just for my appreciation. I watch the rain come by from my porch.
“For Me” (June 22nd)
One of the slow nights, with intermediate weather and nothing planned. Time for yourself: to read, bathe, glow, dance, think. You don’t choose this dusky activity, you body does for you. Mine chose to sit by the phone, reading, slowly, mere paragraphs per minute.
You could sense it was one of those nights: where you want to write, you’re filled with the words, but the glue you’ve been using to stick them together is missing. Your mind is lying still, and allusions, syntax, shrapnel from the book you’re half in spin around you. Galaxies of diction, splashing colors, aeons of dedication, sailboats, dreams of diving and mudslides and truth, truth, galaxies of truth, moving gently around you.
Your body might shift every so often, because bits of you fall asleep. But all positions are comfortable: sprawled on your stomach, simply sitting, or a bound up pretzel-like yoga pose that is somehow stretching muscles you forgot you had. They are all comfortable, because your mind is.
It gets later, later, but the time glides. Still mentally rock climbing through your book, you remember, plan, imagine, and forget, draping your thoughts over an invisible stand. What is the result? A few words, jotted down, because you know you’ll need them to capture how this feels. You want, carefully want, to write it all down, maintain it: you don’t want to solidify it. And so you bookmark your place and scratch about seven words, quickly, so the night doesn’t fall apart while you’re concentrating too hard. Your senses, so vibrantly aware of the world any other time, are sweet and calm and mellowed: It doesn’t matter that you smell strawberries. It doesn’t matter that your window is open and the air blowing fairylike through is exactly one degree cooler than your humid room.
Sure, you look around and see the poetry books, and know there is magic in the world. You could step into the bathroom and look into your own eyes, see them flash, and know there is magic. You could turn on the radio and hear distant magic strained through your ears. But you don’t, because this is magic, right here, right now, but with the gliding time effect, there is never a present. The moment has already been created! You are alive forever because this is your magic, and you are reliving it, over and over! It is always in the past: the minute you imagine a present, it is gone! You love it: time is nothing, because all it creates is immortality.
You feel like staying up late and sleeping at the same time. You wish you were more alone, outside, mixing up the stars and lightning bugs. But it would be alright, too, if you were in someone’s arms. Luckily the magic makes it so that there is nothing you desire; why should you anyway? This is the first summer night where you feel as if everything is shining, silvergold and glazed and holy.
You feel wildfire, spitfire, life-love-time-fire in your back; you want to sprint forever because your body is spread out and trembling, ready, waiting. But you stay, lying on your floor, tasting imagined lemon drop… and everything is ancient.
You feel quietly dazzled, you feel lovely, and calmly brilliant. Ready for anything, but knowing there is nothing to be ready for. You can do what you like, think how you want! But all we do, because it is all we need to do, is roll over, and read another page of the book. The night is too perfect, sweet is the night air, tomorrow is never tomorrow, and by the time you finish this page… you know exactly, exactly how it feels.
Hello!
I was speaking via gmail chat with Duncan last night, and he asked me how things were going. I responded with something along the lines of “Not incredibly, but they’re going!”
I wish I could re-express that. Things are going WELL. Right now, I’m in sunny, flat, extended-golf-course-esque Florida. My mom, younger brother and I are here visiting my hilarious retired grandparents. This is our second full day.
How are things going? Things are AMAZING. I’m EATING. Last night, I had ICE CREAM. Yesterday I had BREAKFAST. I went biking for the sake of biking, not for the sake of burning calories.
I’m sitting here, with my laptop on the glass deck table, with quiet sun on my arms and warm wind moving the wisps of my hair. I’m wearing a pink tanktop. I’m wearing white shorts. I’m comfortable.
I paused. I’m not thinking only positive thoughts. I feel large. These shorts were too big for me a while ago. It makes me gulp and get scary urges and mentally shiver. But it’s okay. It is.
The day we left for FL I had a doctors appointment. I had a new female doctor, and I ADORE HER. She was simultaneously professional and personable, which is exactly what I want and need from really any caregiver. First, a nurse took my height, weight, and blood pressure. I knew this was coming, so I preemptively asked if they could blind weigh me– weigh me so that I couldn’t see the number (and in turn flip fuck at the scale and have a panic attack right before flying). The nurse gave me a surprised but slightly sympathetic look and said sure. My blood pressure was higher than it has been in recent checkups, but I think it’s fine, because I’m getting less head rushes and I’m no longer fainting. (It was 102/86, for those of you who care =] )
During my physical, the only thing that was tricky/triggering was when the doctor saw scars from self-harm. She sort of went ” *poke* *poke* Sooo, these are marks from cutting….?” And it was awkward for a minute. Not dwelling on that, she continued and concluded that I didn’t have to have any lab work done! (YES!) She said my BMI is on the high end of perfectly healthy, but it’s totally fine, because most people who suddenly start eating normally and keeping it down gain weight. Apparently I gained a lot of weight during the baaad stages of bulimia because of delayed gastric emptying. Basically, my stomach/other organs sort of expected me to throw everything up, so when I didn’t, they just let the food chill there. Zap, see bad stomach aches, more bingeing… bad
Do you go to sleep with a smile, and wake up with the same? I DO. And it’s an incredible feeling.
I opened my eyes on Wednesday morning, and saw the sun shining on the hillside. I grinned, did a sun salutation on my new, purple, yoga mat, and went to shower. I returned to my room to find that in the 13 minutes it had taken me to shower, the sky had closed up with clouds. My initial reaction was to mentally pout: I want the sun! But I shook my reassembled self and said “I don’t need the sun to shine, because it is shining in my heart and in my head!”.
That was my quote of the day.
I went to treatment for about 9 days. Some of it was bullshit, but I really benefitted. I feel like myself again; I’m living for ME, and not anyone else. A lot of what I need/want/informed my treatment team of became clearer to me. I need my parents to ask how I feel, not just question my behaviors. I need to focus on myself: working for myself, playing music for myself, running or reading or doing handsprings or kissing or attending lectures, FOR MYSELF. I don’t care how selfish that is! It’s my work, my motivation, my recovery. I’m so ready.
[D] and I are in one of those incredible stages in our relationship where we love each other so much, we could spend hours and hours just sitting and grinning stupidly at each other. He’s my best friend, plus a snuggle/cuddle buddy, with a bonus of being a teacher/coach/intellectual source, and a supporting, understanding, laid back, perfect guy. He got in the Brown, Dartmouth, Olin, Harvey Mudd, UVM, and Johns Hopkins.. however, I’m taking credit for getting him into Dartmouth– that peer review essay I wrote for him was incredible. ;)
So, anyone who reads this, I’m back from treatment and I plan to be posting incredibly positive, motivating, cheerful sentiments instead of my previously depressing posts. I encourage you to drop in every so often, especially if you’d like a “Yo, LIFE ROCKS” with a detailed explanation of why it does.
Reason no. 1: The Daffodils are starting to come up.
I remember the preacher, father, clad in brown
Recalling his story of his faded home town
The boy who thought his life was waste
Who believed himself done: never a taste.
A play of friends strew roadside late night
Knowing, knowing, holding on tight.
Headlights, daring, bright in his face
Wild eyes warned of this one reckless race.
Four, three, two run onto the road
And dash, jump, response loving and old.
Friendship irreparable, love graced with loss,
Dan, Dan, Dan, your grave mellow with moss.
Who is to say, God, fate, or mistrust,
Your memory lives through your body to dust.
In saving his life, you sacrificed yours:
As I think and sputter and hurry my chores
As I dream and hate and wonder why,
I imagine the gleam in everyones eye.
Preacher spoke, and few truly heard.
They rustled in seats and spoke the word.
Amen.
This poem was crappily written in… lessee. 4 minutes. HA. For clarification, I had a semi-flashback to a time in NZ. My brothers and I attended a catholic school for the first year we were there, and there were random mass/ceremony/communion type things every so often. At once, in the gorgeous, calm chapel, a guest priest came in and told us a story about being a good samaritan. He segwayed into a very personal story. I will recount it… a very abridged version.
Preacher knew a family, and was very close to them. The son, whose name he never revealed, was chronically depressed. His family divorced, financials became a problem, everything basically blew up in his face. His group of friends had been noticing some changes, and were suspicious he was going to attempt suicide. Fearful for his safety and health, they kept a close eye on him, supporting him in every way they knew how.
One night, they were at a party, and all trouped out together to get some air, and they ended up standing on the corner of the street. It was a brilliant summer night, but X person was not doing well. His close friend, Dan, had particularly noticed this.
A car came along. X attempted to throw himself in front of it. Amazingly, incredibly, selflessly, Dan threw X out of the way, but didn’t save himself in time. Dan, in saving his friend, was killed by the impact from the car.
I remember sitting in my dark blue shirt, kneeling. My legs had fallen asleep. My hair was frizzy and it was hot in the chapel. But I felt this story so deeply, so caringly, I started crying, and I mentally whispered a message to Dan.
I don’t know anything anymore. What an awful post. I CAN’T EVEN WRITE ANY MORE.
As the few of you who actually care may have noticed, Bron and I have not been very active recently. This is going to be a very short post, but I felt like I should probably throw an update on here to let everybody know how things are going.
Bron and I have a very good friend named Haley. We have probably mentioned her somewhere on here, though most likely under the psuedonym [h] or [H] or something. Anyways, Haley is not in a good place. She’s dealing with a lot of shit, and the sheer magnitude of it is staggering. Out of respect for her privacy, I of course am not going to go into detail, but one of the things occupying Bron and myself is the fact that we are very worried about Haley. This past weekend she had a very bad episode, and is now in some clinic or treatment center somewhere. As far as I know, she doesn’t have much contact with the outside world, and we don’t know exactly how long she will be there for.
At least she’s safe. I refuse to say “at least she’s alive” because I refuse to admit that there could ever have been the possibility of that being a question. So at least she’s safe.
Come back soon Haley, you’re in our thoughts.
Warning: After writing this, I’m realizing it’s probably pretty triggering an scary. I talk vividly about bingeing and purging, so if it freaks you out, don’t continue for your own benefit, please!
Also, I really, really wish I had the guts to let my brother read this. I wish I could just TELL him when I need his help. I remember one night in particular, sitting in bed, knowing I was so close to suicide it was insane. But also knowing that if I walked into his room, he could help me. Just thinking that got me through the night. I wish he knew.
Sundays used to be those slow, ready days where I slept in, laid around, drank tea and played harp. Now they are the days I mentally scream, and I binge my face off and then puke until I’m lighter than I was in the morning.
I’m getting really worried. I’m going through AN/BN periods: I don’t eat, am scared to eat, hate everything about food, for four days…and then break, die, snap, and eat and puke and eat and puke and then eat and get caught puking and have four thousand calories left in me.
I need to write how intensely horrible bingeing is.
Overeating is nothing like this; it’s a million times more painful, physically and mentally. Overeating is feeling like maybe you should have stuck with one hot dog. Just “uncomfortably full”.
Bingeing is torture. It’s a fucking ordeal. I’ve consumed upwards of 14,000 calories in one sitting. Running backwards and slipping in my kitchen, eating peanut butter with a spoon, a gallon of ice cream, 10 apples, an entire box of lofthouse cookies, family sized box of macaroni and cheese, four million glasses of water and milk and cider and juice. And I can’t stop, I can’t, a box of frozen waffles, leftover chinese food, what am I doing when I don’t even like this? Toast with butter and jelly and more toast and 7 bowls of cereal doused in milk, and look at the table, it’s wrappers and crumbs and gone, gone, I can’t find anything.
And then comes the guilt. I should be guilty: I am. Every time. I’m consumed, utterly, in the plastic feeling. Not only guilt: hate. Uncomfortableness. I sit, still, panting, feeling my heart thud, thud, thud, so slowly. My distended stomach makes me look like I’m 8 months pregnant. My body is stinging and I can feel food start to digest and bile rising in my throat. I have to wait a minute for this to subside, subside, so I can stagger upstairs. I’m hurting so much, so much, I’m lonely, ugly, ungrateful, hurtful, poisonous. I’m drowning in the food, meals, calories I ate. I can’t think. I haven’t thought throughout the whole binge. I’m numb, except for the pain, need, greed, confused head.
A few more glasses of water, and I move to this freshfreshfresh disgust with myself. If the family members who care are home, I turn on the shower and while it heats up, I undress.
You cannot, cannot, cannot imagine anything like the anguish I experience looking in the mirror. My heart clenches and heat spreads through my tight chest. I see the scars, everywhere, purple and red and dark red, colors that belong in a sunset and not on my body. The scar, faded slightly, screaming “FAT” to me. I know I was fat when I wrote it, but I can’t begin to explain what I am now. This isn’t body dystrophia. I reached the highest weight I ever have on Tuesday. All I am is fat and swollen and puffed and red. Stomach bruised from punching and pushing to help with the purging, even before I’ve started.
And I know this will hurt me, and I know I have to, and the release is freakishly worth it to me.
I stick my hand own my throat and fuck the back of it. Over and over again, until it orgasms and leaves me defenseless and wishing again.
The shaking starts, but I know I’m far from done. I’ve only been in the shower for five minutes. It’s harder, now, because my stomach is emptier, and the clenched muscle wants to hold on. I can’t breathe, I can’t, and this is my fault (these are my fingers down my throat). I feel the acid, now, and I feel it sting the bleeding sore on my knuckle. But not everything has come up, it won’t, that’s probably 3000 calories left in my body.
The water is burning, now. I turn it hotter because obviously I deserve this. My body, body, body, is red and steaming and swollen.
After 20 minutes in the shower, I hear banging on the door and I know I’m caught. I wonder if I can lie my way out of it, but my only real worry is that I didn’t have time to get everything up. I wish there was something I wasn’t failing at.
I lie to mom. Brush my red face with cold water, get dressed, pin my unwashed hair up, walk out of the bathroom. Smile. I’m fine.
I’m dizzy. This never stops. The blackness when I stand up or sit down. The stars that wink at me. Cycle thoughts and deadweight nightmares. I wake up, these nights, with stabbing pains everywhere. I don’t know where they start. My chest is tight, my body is the size of Kansas. The stabbing pains hurt my heart, most: i can feel the blood moving through it. Very vividly. It’s very strange.
Yesterday I had a handful of sour patch kids. Previously my favorite candy, they caused me physical pain. My teeth have virtually no enamel: eating something so sweet now hurts my entire jaw so much I almost fainted. It was rather like having someone slam a steel rob into all my roots.
The back of my throat is a nightmare. I cough blood sometimes: but eating hurts, now, and purging even more. Sour patch kids burnt and stung going down, but he was watching me, so I had to finish.
Today was an odd purge: my nose bled. It’s never happened before. I wonder why I’m not more worried.
I wish I had more positive subjects to expound upon. The words I use, spitting them out, not fully saying what I mean, because I need new words besides “hate”, “anguish”, and “guilt” to describe how I feel, get tangled up and spurt-scatter themselves across the keyboard.
Showers, a blue nalgene bottle, perfume, my necklace. White porcelain fishbowl, old toothbrush, blood towel. Back bent and eyes streaming, black waxy hair and dead, dead hands. Burnt out feelings and I wonder when I’m empty.
Because once I’m empty, I miss being full. Once I’m filled, again, with this warm mush of acidic love, I miss being empty, and so I empty myself.
