Skip to main content

'I do it so it feels like hell'

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.

Comments

  1. ‘I do it so it feels like hell, I do it so it feels REAL... It is an expression: an art, like everything else.’

    Ophelia. 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

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Don't be anonymous, leave a name at least so I can identify you back :)

Popular posts from this blog

"Here I am, sane and dry"

"I stayed there, staring at myself in the glass. What do I want to cry about?.... On the contrary, it's when l am quite sane like this, when I have had a couple of extra drinks and am quite sane, that I realize how lucky I am.
Saved, rescued, fished-up, half drowned, out of the deep, dark river, dry clothes, hair shampooed and set. Nobody would know I had ever been in it. Except, of course, that there always remains something. Yes, there always remains something....Never mind, here I am, sane and dry, with my place to hide in. What more do I want?....I'm a bit of an automaton, but sane, surely - dry, cold and sane. Now I have forgotten about dark streets, dark rivers, the pain, the struggle and the drowning...."
Jean Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight

Love. Sick.

And finally, today, I cried; soaked the tissues and pillowcase like I had been longing to do for weeks. The most I had been able to manage recently had been dry crying with a scrunched up face and aching heart. Such relief now to be able to physically release emotions other than vomit.

What words do I use to write about the last few weeks? Crippling, torturous anxiety, studying for finance exams, exercising and exercising, bingeing and vomiting, seeing Gareth, fucking Gareth, hating Gareth, exercising and exercising, bingeing and vomiting. Overcome by the fear and confusion and heartache. Studying for finance exams, but really just exercising and bingeing and vomiting.


The exams are done now and I have been free from those chains for a week - definitely alleviating a great deal of the pressure from my mental crumbling. I was close to slipping back under into the darkness. The darkness of having complete loss of control, complete loss of everything to the sickness in my brain.
days …

Wanting

We both knew what we wanted - of that there is absolutely no doubt.
We didn't have to say anything, from the start of the week, right up until the point where I was naked in his bed; we both knew.
About two weeks ago Gareth and a few of our colleagues had arranged to have a night out this Friday. We had a pretty tight knit group of 6 who often lunched together at work, but this was one of the few times we were actually going out together. From Monday Gareth was pestering me like he had before:  "Are you coming out on Friday, are we going out out, are we gonna have a big one..."  "Yes", I had replied, "of course." And I booked my waxing appointment and blowdry for Friday lunch, my mind made up about what I wanted.  I had been thinking what would I regret more; sleeping with him or not sleeping with him. I decided on the latter. I'd not been with anyone since Joe left in January and more than that, thoughts of Gareth were continually running through…