Babble

            My life is one big blur right now - everything moving really, really fast. So fast. Too fast. I can’t keep up. I can’t think straight. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t do enough. I can’t even write down my thoughts coherently because everything makes sense and nothing makes sense all at the same time and it all comes out messy and icky and jumbled and weird. I can’t remember times or dates or the order of things or the order of words.

All I know is that every so often I’ll get a clear moments of lucidity where I know for sure who I am and where I am and who I’m with and what I’m doing and what I’m saying and what they’re saying. And I love those moments. I live for them. I wait for them every day. I hold on to them as proof that I’m not crazy. That I’m alive and real and normal and fine. That I’m not beyond hope. That I’m not beyond help.

But those moments haven’t been coming up as often as I’d like lately. Most of the time I just feel lost. Confused. Disoriented. Afraid. Irritable. Excitable. Overwhelmed. Ashamed. Muddled. Murky. Like I’m spinning in circles round and round and round and round and no matter what I do I can’t make the world stand still. I can’t make myself stand still.

            Eating too much, drinking too much, smoking too much, spending too much. All I do is run away. And the more I run, the more I need to run. From dark thoughts and dark feelings and dark fears and dark plans. But the more I need to run, the less I am able to. Ugh. I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m saying or why I just went into all that.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone off my meds.

Sleep Deprivation

                Damn insomnia! I tossed and turned for eight hours last night. Again. Now I’m so tired, I can’t even think straight. Not a great way to start the day. It really pisses me off. I’m so fucking sick of this shit! When I get home at the end of the day, I’m always exhausted.  Physically and mentally. Burned out, worn out, weary, drained. And all I want to do is give my brain and feet and back and shoulders a nice, long, well-deserved break. But my body and mind simply refuse to follow orders and shut down - they just keep going and going and going like the freakin’ energizer bunny!

It’s like I lay down and suddenly, all those little neurotic thoughts and worries and fears that I managed to outrun during the day, catch up to me and ambush me and attack me with all the reasons why I should dread waking up in the morning. Like I’m subconsciously trying to make the night last as long as possible because I just don’t want to face the upcoming day. Like my mind doesn’t want to take a break from reality because then it will have to return at some point and may not survive the shock of re-entry.

It’s like it’s an unbearable, never-ending, inescapable, self-propelling cycle. Because the less sleep I get, the more worthless I am at my job the next day, and the more I worry that I’m going to get fired for being such a terrible employee and the less sleep I get the following night. And it just goes round and round and round. Because that's a legitimate fear. I mean, if I get fired I won’t be able to find another job because, let’s face it, even getting this job was a fucking miracle and what are the chances I’ll get two miracles in a row (especially when I never appreciated the first one as much as I should have) and it’s not like I have enough talent or education or experience to qualify for any job without some kind of divine intervention from the universe.

And since I won’t be able to find another job, I’ll have no income and I won’t be able to pay rent and I’ll have to give up my apartment and get rid of all my possessions (like I did last year). I don’t know anyone that I can stand who would take me in for any substantial period of time – least of all my parents, unless I was willing to grovel and suck up and kiss ass and relinquish all the control over my life that I fought so hard to obtain in the first place, which I never would be – so inevitably I’ll end up homeless and then I really won’t be able to get a job or a place to live and eventually I’ll just wind up drifting around the country – a complete and utter failure like I always knew I would be - until one day, I’ll die alone on the side of the road somewhere, dirty and gross and smelling like disappointment and futility.

Maybe I should take a sleeping pill tonight. Or the whole bottle. Then I could sleep for a really long time…

Insanity

My life is crazy right now. And no matter what I do, I just can't seem to get a grip. My diet was going really well off and on all week. Then I took my mom out on Friday to celebrate Mothers Day. And I didn't want to spoil the evening by not eating and her being worried, so I ate. A ton. I probably could have gotten away with eating less. But once I started I couldn't stop. Story of my life.

Then Saturday night I got together with this guy I met last week. I was checking him out as he walked past me and he caught me. He smiled. I smiled. Then he gave me his number. We talked on the phone. He seemed nice enough and I liked the attention and I've been wanting to fuck someone new ever since my boyfriend and I broke up.  Plus he has access to some awesome shit and I like that. So, he came over last night. We stayed up talking till early in the morning and then watched half of a movie. It was really fun. I was actually having a good time. By then, though, I was getting pretty sleepy and really just wanted him to leave so I could strip off my clothes, crawl into bed, and curl up under my nice comfy blanket. 

So I started hinting that I was tired and he needed to leave. I kept saying how exhausted I was, and yawning, and stretching, and drifting off while he was talking... but I swear to god this guy couldn't take a hint. Although it's possible that maybe he was getting the hint and simply refusing to acknowledge it. Because after a while, I started to suspect that he knew that I wanted him to leave – I mean, he wasn’t stupid and I was making it pretty obvious - but didn't want to go and knew that I wasn't the type of person who would be direct about it. (But that could be me being paranoid. I always think that other people are purposely trying to take advantage of me or use me or manipulate me.) And it might just be me, but I think that is really fucking rude! So I started to get kind of angry. I'm not a confrontational person and I hate it when people ignore my polite cues, because then it forces me to either be assertive (aka mean and bitchy) about it, or just let them have their way. Then I feel like I'm being bullied and manipulated and I really don't fucking appreciate it!!!

Finally he says "do you want me to go or do you want me to spend the night?" And I go "I think you should leave. I'm just really tired and I need to sleep." So he nods and I'm thinking Yes! Fucking finally! He's finally on his way out the door and now I can go to bed! Yipee! Little did I know he was not on his way out the door. In fact, it took him an hour and a half to actually leave.

First I started to clean up. I brought my computer and dvd player back into the bedroom. I put the bottle of vodka back in the freezer and my chaser in the fridge. I emptied the ashtrays. I rinsed out our glasses. And the whole time he was just sitting back on the couch staring at me. Not making any move to get up and gather his shit and put his shoes on and walk out the door. And I knew he was waiting for me to get so uncomfortable that I would change my mind and let him stay just because of the awkwardness of the situation (which he created on purpose for that reason). Or for me to jump on him and start pulling off his pants because he thinks he’s sooo fucking irresistible. And that pissed me off even more. I will not - I repeat WILL NOT - be pressured in my own fucking home.

I tried to be nice about the whole thing - I really did. But I was mad. And I'm still mad. I just think that is so fucking incredibly rude. And such a fucking turnoff. And he left some shit at my house so I had to see him again the next day. UGH. This time I was prepared though. I made up some excuse that I had to leave right away (I told him I had to run over to a friend’s house and pick up some shit I left over there and that was going to be the only time she’d be home all week so no I couldn’t go some other time and he really couldn’t come with because I had to talk to her about something personal and important while I was there…) And it still took him forty-five minutes to leave. God that irritates me.

Anyways, after he finally, finally left - right as I was about to punch him senseless and just drag him out the fucking door – I sat in the kitchen and stared at the cupboard. I was so hungry I could barely stand it. I hadn't eaten all day (to make up for that binge-fest the night before) and I was shaking. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to stuff my face, I don't know. But I binged. AGAIN. Then I cried.

FUCK!!!
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!
GODFUCKINGDAMNIT!!!
I HATE MYSELF AND I HATE MY STUPID FUCKING PATHETIC LIFE!!!
WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS?!?
WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!?

I made mac and cheese - the only food I even had in my cupboards - and ate two huge bowls of it. Then throughout the night and into the next morning I kept reaching in the fridge, grabbing a big cold handful of it, and just shoving it in my mouth like a fucking feral animal. Over and over again. God I really hate myself. I binged all day Sunday. I don’t know why, I just couldn’t stop. Then this morning I binged some more. If I keep this up I’m going to have to start puking or using laxatives or something. I can’t think of any other ways to deal with this problem. I’m out of solutions. I’m out of answers. I’m out of hope. I’m fat, full, bloated and sick to my stomach… but all I feel is really, really empty.

What's Been Going On

Well a lot has been happening lately. First of all, it’s been another crazy week at work, which somehow seems to make the days feel so much longer and fatter and heavier. Yuck. I thought that after last week things would kind of calm down around here, but it turns out that the big event I spent all last week helping to prepare for wasn’t on Monday morning like I thought it was going to be. It was on Wednesday night.

Which gave everyone a few extra days to obsess about all the miniscule details. And instead of being over and done with, the strain from last week was simply carried over into this one. Everyone was still rushing to get ready, still crabby and tense and exhausted, still pawning off a bunch of menial tasks onto me, simply because they know I can’t say no. I hate that.

So my week has been covered in stress and sprinkled with persistent worry, crippling anxiety, and overwhelming fear.  All of it over my inability to deal with life and make good choices, my lack of educational and professional success, my unstable personality and rocky relationships, my angry explosive outbursts, my compulsive eating and sleeping habits, my failing attempt to connect with any other human being, and my chronically pervasive discontentment. Among other things. Ugh.

The other thing that happened was my boyfriend and I broke up. Well, technically we decided to "take a break," but I don’t plan on us ever getting back together. At first I was kind of bummed. That I had ruined yet another relationship. That I was going to be alone. But the more I thought about it the more I realized that it was something to celebrate. Because even though it’s always sad breaking up with someone, being free and independent again is exactly what I need right now. And not to sound heartless, but I am so fucking glad we aren’t a couple anymore! I feel so much better. Like I can breathe again.

                And I’ve already met some new boys. Yummy…

                As far as my diet goes, I think I've been doing a pretty good job. I’ve had a few slips with binging but the food diary has been helping with that a lot. It really keeps me accountable. To reality. To the universe. To myself. For example, if I nibble on food all day, I force myself to write down every little thing I eat. Because at the end of the day, looking at that huge long list (even though everything is in small amounts) makes me want to crawl into a huge hole and die. And then I think twice the next time I find myself thinking “Oh, I’ll just have a tiny bit.”

It also makes me think twice before I binge because forcing myself to write out all the food I’ve eaten afterward is like torture. Seriously. And not only that, but physically seeing it on paper makes it impossible for me to lie to myself that I didn’t really eat that much. I can’t rationalize it or deny it or pretend that I never did it. There it is in black and white. And then I think twice the next time I find myself reaching for the cupboard.

I've also been trying hard not to be so hard on myself. Because that's when I just give up. And I don't want to do that. I set impossibly high expectations for myself and then when I don't reach them, I beat myself up. I truly believe that if I can just keep getting up and trying again - over and over no matter how many times it takes - eventually I will get it right. 

So I tell myself that it's not about being perfect - it's about making progress. I tell myself that screwing up is okay, as long as you keep doing your best and putting one foot in front of the other. I've been telling myself that all week, trying to have a better, more positive attitude. I wonder how many times I'll have to say it before I really believe it.

I’m still drinking every night. It helps distract me from my sugar cravings. It helps me sleep. It helps me feel peaceful and happy and hopeful. It's the one part of my day I actually enjoy. But part of me wonders if I’m headed down a dangerous road again. Should I be drinking this much? This often? Because I definitly do not want to go back to where I was a year or two ago.

I mean, I’m just now finally starting to "get my life back on track." I have an apartment. I have a job. I don't have a bunch of stupid, drama-inducing, chaos-attracting friends anymore. I don't do a bunch of drugs anymore. I don't act completely insane all the time anymore. I mean, I know that drinking can affect my meds and set off my mental problems, but drinking the way I am now without all the other shit that got me in trouble... can that really be such a bad thing?

I think I just have to learn how to drink properly and in moderation. How to have a healthy mindset about it. How to drink like a responsible adult instead of a stupid kid. The thing is, when I started drinking again I told myself I would only do it once a month. Then it became once every two weeks then once every week. Then only on weekends, then only at night. It progressed a little too quickly into drinking every night again.

But the thing is, nothing bad has happened. Because I don’t drive anymore, I didn’t go anywhere and I didn’t invite anyone over because I don’t really have any friends. So maybe drinking never really was the problem. Maybe it was all that other shit. And I’m glad all that other shit is gone. Because to be honest, I don’t miss it. Not like I missed drinking.

Big Long Ramble

                It was ridiculously windy and rainy this morning. And from inside my apartment, I didn’t realize just how windy and rainy it was, so I went to work with my flimsy little pocket umbrella, long baggy jeans and a paper-thin zip up hoody. I was completely soaked by the time I arrived and threw the umbrella in the trash. Stupid fucking piece of shit! Talk about useless. Talk about incompetent. Talk about pathetic and inadequate and worthless…
                I don’t know if I’m talking about me or the umbrella.
                I saw one of those bible thumpers on the corner this morning. At seven o'clock. I was wrestling with my umbrella - which was getting tossed about by the wind like a fucking napkin - and trying to unwrap a new pack of cigarettes (because like the retard I am I left mine at home… grrr). She had a raincoat on and another lady by her side holding an umbrella and was swaying a bible around trying to keep it dry and shouting something about god. Something about jesus and love and the forgiveness of sins. I’m not sure. The wind was really loud and the traffic was really loud and the rain was really loud. And I wasn’t paying much attention.

All I thought when I saw her was: wow, that’s some serious dedication. Then I looked at myself – one hand holding an umbrella, twisting it around, trying to get it to stop flying inside out every two seconds and protect me at least a little from the rain, one hand holding cigarettes, trying to pack them and yank off the plastic and get one out and keep it dry, and a lighter gripped between my teeth. I broke my umbrella, I got totally drenched and I almost got hit by a few cars while trying to cross the street. But I got my cigarette. And I was happy. And it was worth it.

                Wow. That’s some serious dedication.
                The cigarette was the only thing that made the walk to work bearable. The only thing that made the getting out of bed and the trudging through the rain and the thought of facing the day and the week and the rest of my life bearable on this stormy Monday morning. And it occurred to me that maybe that’s how religious people feel about their beliefs. And maybe that’s why they do all those things (which seem crazy to the rest of us) in order to support and strengthen and share their beliefs, no matter how many people throw garbage at them or make fun of them or yell at them to shut up and go home.

Those beliefs make life bearable for them. Just like drinking and smoking and dieting and fucking and cutting and working out and sleeping make life bearable for me. For some people it’s a fancy car and a big house and and nice clothes and lots of money. For some people it’s having a cause to fight for or a movement to be a part of. For some people its writing. For some people its animals. For some it’s a successful career. And maybe we aren’t all as different as we think we are. Maybe we’re all just looking for a way to make life a little more bearable.

                I know I am.
                This weekend was bittersweet. The good part was that I successfully fasted all day Saturday and Sunday and bought a notebook that I’m using as a food journal, starting today. This morning I ate a bowl of instant oatmeal. It was 160 calories. That’s all I plan on eating today. I stocked up on naked juices, slim fast, protein shakes, vitamin waters, etc. My goal is to remain on a purely liquid diet as much as possible and when I absolutely need to eat – when I’m about to pass out or too shaky to work – I will eat non-junk food and as little as possible.

I’m not stupid enough to think that I can just go forever without eating (too bad) but I would like to lose some initial weight, regain some freedom over food (and not be a slave to my appetite and cravings and binging desires) and drastically lower my average calorie intake per day, per week, and per month. I’m sick of this binging-starving-binging-starving-binging-starving-cutting cycle. I just want to settle down into the thin-person lifestyle and stay there forever. And then I will finally be happy.      

                The bad part of the weekend (sort of) is that my boyfriend and I broke up. But it’s not that I didn’t want us to break up. I mean, I’ve known for a while that we should –that it would be the right thing to do. I just could never get up the courage to tell him. (I’m not a very assertive person. I have trouble saying no to people. I’m always terrified of letting them down and disappointing them and hurting their feelings.) And he just loved me so much.

But he also wanted and expected and needed so much from me. I don’t think he did it consciously or purposely or with malicious intent, but I think he sensed that I was kind of a pushover so he saw the chance to be with someone where he would almost always get his way. And I think that’s the real reason he “loved” me – because he knew he could turn me into what he wanted me to be. He could mold me into his idea of the perfect girlfriend. He just didn’t count on me getting sick of it and not cooperating.

                So even though deep down, I think it’s for the best, I can’t help but have doubts. I can’t help but wonder if I’m just paranoid and fucked up and so insane that I imagined or created or caused all the problems I thought we had. Because the cycle of our relationship followed the same exact pattern as all my previous relationships have in the past and not just the romantic ones. This is exactly how it works in all my relationships – parents, friends, boyfriends, coworkers, neighbors, even pets. (My family turned my cat against me.)

That’s why I don’t have a lot of friends. That’s (partly) why I don’t talk to anyone in my family (except my mom). That’s why I burn bridges and cut people out of my life and change my number and move around and bounce around from group to group, waiting for people who will bring out a different side of me. And I always tell myself that everyone else is to blame. My boyfriend was manipulative and needy, my dad was trying to control me, my friend was using me and talking behind my back, my coworker pawns off all her menial work on me because she knows I’m a sucker and she makes fun of me for it when I’m not around.  

I always tell myself that when I can just find the right group of people, I will be able to act the way everyone else does toward others. When I can just find the right boy I will be able to feel the way everyone else does toward others. It’s just because I haven’t found good friends yet. I haven't met a good boy. All the people around me are the ones to blame for our relationship ending or becoming negative.  

But if that’s true then why am I the only common denominator among all my failed relationships? Am I really such a moody, crazy, mixed-up, alcoholic sociopath that I can’t even maintain one single healthy relationship and run every potentially healthy relationship into the ground?

                Ugh. I’m beginning to think so.

Overcast

                I find it very comforting when the weather when matches my mood. Like I’m in sync with the universe or something. Like the buildings and the sidewalks and the grass and the trees and the birds and the worms all know exactly how I’m feeling… because they’re feeling that way too. Like I’m a little less alone.
                I woke up this morning to gray skies and a chilly breeze and the pitter patter of rain outside my window. By the time I left for work, the rain had stopped, but the skies were still murky - all cried out, but now drained and dreary and weary and bleak.
                I guess I’m not the only one.
                Lately, I’ve been watching this girl that is me – and also not me – just go to work and go home and go to bed. Every day. Day after day. Blowing off people who think they’re her friends. Not keeping important appointments. Letting her phone ring and ring and go to voicemail. Erasing voicemails without even listening to them.

Ignoring the boyfriend and the boyfriend’s friends and the friends with benefits and the boys from work and the boys in the city. (The desire to fuck is completely gone – too much exertion, too much trouble, too much worry. Too much obsessing over her hideous naked body and her stomach and her flab and her cuts and her breath and her hair and her legs and her armpits and her pussy.)

Telling people she’s out and about, she’s busy, she’s babysitting, she’s at a party, a movie, a concert. When she’s really sitting in bed at home talking to herself, talking to people on the screen, laughing and arguing and joking with imaginary people in her own head. Binging on junk food. Drinking herself to sleep. Waking up feeling gross and sick and embarrassed and stupid.

I know I’m watching her sink further and further into gray. I want to help her but I don’t know how. Because I know that deep down, she’s just really, really tired. Of everything. And that part of her – part of me – has found some solace in the isolation that depression brings and a sense of rest in the laziness and serenity in the lonely silence.

See, all I ever want to do anymore is sleep. Or eat. Or drink. Or watch TV. Or work on a puzzle. Or stare at the ceiling. Anything mindless, that doesn’t require me to think or cause me to worry or force me to expel any energy. I already feel like I don’t have enough to go around.

Interacting with other people is too strenuous. Leaving the apartment is too intimidating. Dealing with problems and responsibilities is too overwhelming. The safety and security of being tucked away from the world and not having to participate in it is too addicting. And the longer I huddle in my own little world, the less I want to leave it. The less I want to return to the real world. The less I think I even should.

And the more I start to wonder if I ever, ever will.

Sleeping Beauty

Well, so far this week is off to a great start. Sunday afternoon I had sex with one of my boyfriend's best friends… again. (Goddamnit! Why do I keep doing that?!) Then Sunday night I got drunk by myself and woke up at three in the morning soaked in my own urine. (Awesome.)

I went to work Monday morning with the world's worst hangover, feeling shitty and achy and exhausted all day and basically just wanting to curl up into a little ball and hide. Then I binged like crazy, effectively ruining all the progress I made over the weekend and confirming that which I already suspected - that I’m a big fat fucking failure. To top it all off, I ended the day by having to tramp back and forth from the laundry room till well past midnight, so I could wash my sheets and pillows and blankets and clothes and mattress.

It’s only Tuesday and I already can’t wait for the weekend.  Except for the fact that, in order to get to the weekend and enjoy it, I have to accomplish everything I need to at work, get all my appointments out of the way, and hopefully stick to my diet so I can be on my way to being nice and thin when the sun comes out and it's time to relax.

I swear, sometimes life feels so unbearably overwhelming, I start to think I won't be able to handle it. I just want to go to sleep and wake up a few years from now. And by then, maybe my life will be different. Maybe my job will be different. Maybe my body will be different. Maybe I will be different.

And when I say different, I really mean better.