In November, the rain is grey.
It is not November, but I am so afraid of it. It will be in London, walking down along a grey Thames, my head bitterly cold, sweating sickly under my collar, face patchy, makeup smudged and trying desperately to lie for me. Clawing off my suit of repulsiveness, using mirrors to abuse myself, I will ache from carrying books and books that I can never read.
I am so afraid of seeing November. I will be failing at success, pretending to be an angel with sewn on polyester wings. The scars will be purple in the cold and I will be proud. Ah yes, it made me strong.
In November, I will have returned to the dance studio, singing ‘Lean on me’, shapeless, pale, disgusting. The bare, bleak world of grey where I sewed my skirt over in pain, ignorant of how hurtful the bitching truth would be.
Why do you do it? ‘I do it so it feels like hell, I do it so it feels REAL’.
It keeps me alive. It gives me an identity; an isolating force from my body which helps myself to stand alone.
It is an expression: ‘an art, like everything else.’
He took my hand and kissed the smell of sickness on my fingers. He took up my arm in disbelief, ‘I think you stress too much. Why don’t we go and chill out.’
I had to laugh. I pulled my arm away and told him I was doing him a favour.
I did it when I was 15, down, down, refusing all the marks of womanhood. It was not a part of me, it was a thing, it was not a part of me. I was a child, shrinking down to regress, into my fathers arms, surely.
They let me fade out of their records, pump my blood with colourful placebos, forget and let me rot, pump me again, forget and let me rot. I book an appointment. Cancel. Forget. Lie. I decided to write a letter so I can sit there and make no sense and hear the logic that I refuse to process. I wrote no letter.
I spent six months in waiting rooms, ‘being so brave’, taking the first step of admitting, and it’s all so easy from here. I spent an hour every week sitting across the table from a woman who made me feel like the stupidest girl in the world. I couldn’t help but hate her as I gushed my thanks and gave her my genuine, heartfelt smile. I book an appointment. Cancel. Forget. Lie.
Yeah I fucked up.
I've ripped my arms to shreds. No neat rows of cuts like before. Slashing. Like a horror movie.
I ate it all. Pushed my way though a drunken throng to the supermarket, buying all the food. Eating. Chocolate, bread rolls, cereal, icecream, crisps, noodles, sandwiches. All of it.
Thowing up until I took the pain.
I regret nothing, except staying alive.
It is not November, but I am so afraid of it. It will be in London, walking down along a grey Thames, my head bitterly cold, sweating sickly under my collar, face patchy, makeup smudged and trying desperately to lie for me. Clawing off my suit of repulsiveness, using mirrors to abuse myself, I will ache from carrying books and books that I can never read.
I am so afraid of seeing November. I will be failing at success, pretending to be an angel with sewn on polyester wings. The scars will be purple in the cold and I will be proud. Ah yes, it made me strong.
In November, I will have returned to the dance studio, singing ‘Lean on me’, shapeless, pale, disgusting. The bare, bleak world of grey where I sewed my skirt over in pain, ignorant of how hurtful the bitching truth would be.
Why do you do it? ‘I do it so it feels like hell, I do it so it feels REAL’.
It keeps me alive. It gives me an identity; an isolating force from my body which helps myself to stand alone.
It is an expression: ‘an art, like everything else.’
He took my hand and kissed the smell of sickness on my fingers. He took up my arm in disbelief, ‘I think you stress too much. Why don’t we go and chill out.’
I had to laugh. I pulled my arm away and told him I was doing him a favour.
I did it when I was 15, down, down, refusing all the marks of womanhood. It was not a part of me, it was a thing, it was not a part of me. I was a child, shrinking down to regress, into my fathers arms, surely.
They let me fade out of their records, pump my blood with colourful placebos, forget and let me rot, pump me again, forget and let me rot. I book an appointment. Cancel. Forget. Lie. I decided to write a letter so I can sit there and make no sense and hear the logic that I refuse to process. I wrote no letter.
I spent six months in waiting rooms, ‘being so brave’, taking the first step of admitting, and it’s all so easy from here. I spent an hour every week sitting across the table from a woman who made me feel like the stupidest girl in the world. I couldn’t help but hate her as I gushed my thanks and gave her my genuine, heartfelt smile. I book an appointment. Cancel. Forget. Lie.
Yeah I fucked up.
I've ripped my arms to shreds. No neat rows of cuts like before. Slashing. Like a horror movie.
I ate it all. Pushed my way though a drunken throng to the supermarket, buying all the food. Eating. Chocolate, bread rolls, cereal, icecream, crisps, noodles, sandwiches. All of it.
Thowing up until I took the pain.
I regret nothing, except staying alive.
‘I do it so it feels like hell, I do it so it feels REAL... It is an expression: an art, like everything else.’
ReplyDeleteOphelia. Darling. Let's do this. Let's just stop eating. Let's stop living for food. Let's start living for life.
Not next week. Not tomorrow. Now.
I've added you on MSN. We'll talk sometime.
Stay strong hun. Xxx