tangents

When I grow up I want to be an astronaut. I hope there'll be a great green light flashing in my face, a nice notice in the mail or a bubble on my screen to tell me when this happens. I hope someone would bother tpo inform me when I become a Grown Up. Maybe I should have had a big birthday party on my 18th, the type with all the ceremonies and the candles and roses and alcohol. If there was ever a tunnel that I could crawl through and emerge as a fully functioning totally not depressed adult, it would probably be hidden by the Powers That Be underneath layers of tulle. The tunnel would be guarded by trolls and a door locked twice but both unlockable with the point of a stiletto heel (also a great tool to stab the troll to death as well). Maybe I'm supposed to be a Grown U[p now, and by denying myself that fancy schmancy ritual I've denied myself passage into the Land of the Responsible and Okay.

It's alright, I spent my birthday the best I could. I went to the spa and all day I thought really really hard about why I should not walk into traffic. Maybe I should think really really hard again because I seem to have forgotten all the reasons I didn't write down but recited mentally. Except that I'm not thin enough to die. I should lose some weight. I want to go for a jog.

Oh here's another, I've just remembered: I want to be an astronaut. I want to see the world from outside of it. I want to see if there's anything worth going back to or staying for. I want to feel weightless, my god what I would pay or study or design or research just to float in the air. I want to be alone with nothing but nothing and then I want to die. Wait no sorry veered a bit off course there, nope. I just want to go to space.

Shortly after I fell sick and even less time after my father decided he was tired of having a sick daughter and I should just get better already since it was getting on his nerves, I decided I wanted to tell my dad that I wanted to be an astronaut, just to have some fresh material for car screaming matches.

Wow I sound like such an angry little brat.

It's a stupid dream but it's what I wake up for. A simplified chain of events after I lost my only reason for breathing (for the past 6 months it had been to lose weight and look skinny for prom) would have several steps, ending in Get To Space, each punctuated with a very very serious 'or die'.

But now I've gained back the weight and I should be talking about why I want to go to space, not why I want to lose inches and pounds. But here I am again, talking about a sickness and a sadness I claim to have but have no proof for. What's stopping everyone from calling me out and screaming liar liar pants on fire? Someone should. Stop letting me pretend that I have a problem when obviously I'm absolutely fine, a perfect healthy weight.

I want to get below 100 again. Then 90. Then 80. And then I will be happy and then I will not need to go to space anymore. But I wish I was stronger, I wish this was an exam I could study for since things are so much harder now and I am cracking and made of plaster and this weight is too much I want it gone. I can't I can't I can't and also I've forgotten to take my medicine and now I want to stop writing because this sounds ugly and I can't I can't I can't anymore

baseless complaints

No one ever tells me that I need to 'eat a bit more' anymore, that I 'need some more meat on my bones'. I get it. I have a surplus of meat on my bones, I know. I can feel the added weight with every lift and fall of my feet. I can feel everyone who knew me when I was thin, I can feel them as if their stares were a part of me. Oh, they are thinking or whispering to the people who they like enough to let stand close to them, she's gained so much weight since last year. Maybe they will call me a poor thing. I don't want to be a poor thing. I want to be a thin girl, that is the adjective-noun combination I crave for.

Yesterday I didn't eat anything at all except three or four or five (my god no wonder I've gained weight, I'm so terrible at control) sips of a cafe americano. And water. And if crying and scratching and jumping out of bed to get away from nightmares counts as cardio, then I had a pretty good workout yesterday as well. I lost   a whole entire big fat kilogram.

But I look in the mirror and my thighs are still not small enough. The circumference of my upper arms when measured by graded tape or my own phalanges, it's not a number that I am comfortable with. The problem is compounded, the problem being how conscious I am of the surplus and how heavy and weighed down my poor poor bones feel, this problem is compounded by my idiotic glances into reflective surfaces. My god I need to lose more weight. I should never eat again.

speaking of apology and confession

It's really kind of hilarious how easy it is to fool my parents. Oh yes mum, please buy me fruits. I've already eaten. I'm not hungry. Don't mind me just getting a second serving. Can I have some more eggs, bread, rice, cheese, peanut butter, soup, calories, calories, food food food? I'm totally better, totally fine. I love eating. Gonna go exercise. Can I have some money to go grocery shopping? I want to bake cakes.

But here is the trick: I am going to let the fruits rot and spit out the bread and throw away the eggs and I didn't really eat and I gave the cat my dinner. I'm not practicing yoga, not really. I'm locking the door to my room because I cannot be interrupted, not right now. I am stretching. I am exercising. I am studying. These moments are crucial. I need to be surrounded by four walls and alone with a reflective piece of hell, I need to see what exactly I am. I am my fingers making a closed circle around my upper arm, I am my rib cage and collarbone, I am the brave vertebrae that push out of my skin, I am hips and tendon, I am numbers. Despite what my birth certificate and online profiles claim, my real name is pronounced in inches and pounds. 

Darling father, I cried when you ordered pizza and asked me if I wanted to do more modeling jobs because I'm so anchored down by my flesh. It's pulling me underwater, despite the fact that fat is supposed to float. These tears are salty because they are bits of ocean spilling out of me. If I was a mermaid and my vocal cords worked even when submerged I would tell you that I am not better. That things are worse. That my face and bones hurt because I am angry all the time with them. Your darling little angel got sick because she wanted to be gorgeous for prom and then she got better and then she got worse. The end of this story is that she will die, not that she will be cured. She gained weight and lost control and she, I mean I, will trade her mind in bits and pieces in order to get back a firm grip on something anything oh no oh please.

Better is not fatter. Better is not a place or a smile or a goal weight. Better is not a healthy range. Better is impossible. All I've gotten out of recovery is extra flesh and people commenting on how much 'healthier I look'. This makes me want to set myself on fire. Once you see it, it being the truth about food, there is really no way to go back. Sweet, salty, sour, spicy and regret.

(But do you know what the worst part is? The icing on the cake and the cherry on top and the salt in my wounds is that I don't look sick anymore so I can't be sick anymore. What right do I have to complain about fat and to think about food and to cry when I eat so goddamn much? The answer is none, no, not at all. I should just shut my mouth and get back in control and stop whining like a little shit.)