Interim

I love having an eating disorder.
I must do.
Else why would I do it. You don't do something you don't want to.

I didn't want to do my job. I quit.
It's easy...

If I take the job at the Investment Bank, I'm moving out, I'm going 'back on the crazy, fit men and alcohol'.
If I turn the job down, I'm staying here with my Mum, and reading books.

I choose to live. Or I choose to stop living.
I told my Mum my choices. So after shouting at me for wasting money on rent she has stopped speaking to me and pretends I don't exist.
(Yes. This is what I deal with.)

If it wasn't for my Mum I'd have jumped. I live so that she doesn't have to bear anymore loss or suffering in her life. But she kills me in another way.
Yeah.
I never write much about her. I won't now.


I want to live, you know. I want it back.
I opened up my cupboard and ran my hands through my vast collection of beautiful dresses and clothes. Stacks of shoes, dainty accessories, shelves of cosmetics – all from a lost era. I don't need them any more - not now I've stopped living.  I wear the same patterns of shirt and skirt and shoes to work. I scrape my hair back. I wear glasses and foundation. No contact lenses, no careful make up, no changing hairstyles, no pretty dresses.

All the ‘props’ are not needed anymore – for I have no man in the audience. I got down off the stage, I stripped away the costume, the mask, because I had nobody to act for - nobody to watch me.

Isn’t that dreadful – I can only be bothered to live for a man.
After Alex left my life I made a conscious effort to get away from the world around me to try and find a source of happiness inside myself - and it isn’t there. And that's why I want to live again.
Live.
Live?
Well, I was more alive than I am now.
a source of happiness... alcohol. men. clubs. dresses.


Violence. Violence keeps cropping up. I keep craving violence.
I don't want to commit suicide, I want to be killed, murdered.
I keep visioning someone plunging a knife between my ribs - in- out. I can hear the sound of it. The swift action. The crumble.
I want someone to beat me up until I'm bruised all over. Today I cut myself accidentally - it was more euphoric than self-harm.
I keep feeling two hands on my upper chest pinning me down. Yes, I want that. Hands sliding up towards my throat...harder.
They are always man's hands. Alex's hands... I want it to be Alex.

I've never had these thoughts or visions before. It's all linked to the dream about D last week, somehow. I don't know what it means.


I spoke to another idiot today who thinks I'm going to meet up with him for drinks when he's back in the country at Christmas. I have to sleep in a cold big double bed was his last message.
No.
It's beyond stupid now. I reply out of politeness. And so they hunt. 

That's some brilliant stage show they must have been watching before