Food poisoning.
Binge last night led to me being hunched over a toilet vomiting and violently ill. Over a gallon. I have puked up over a gallon. I know this, because I had to use a bucket...since...well...yeah. You can't puke into a toilet when you're on it? TMI, really, TMI, but whatev. Units of measurement are important.

Yuuuuck.
It's either food poisoning or Noro virus. I'm sticking with food poisoning. I had all my favorites last night and the thought of them makes me start dry heaving. HOORAH.


I feel so gross.
My whole body ACHES. Especially my legs. I keep collapsing on the bathroom floor and whimpering, then crawling into the tub until the heat makes me puke again.




I had to cancel my clients today at the gym. Am pissed. Have to cancel tomorrow, methinks. Also, calling out to my other job, too. Yuuuuuck.
Food fails.
Hahaha, funny, though, because I was telling myself, "FOOD IS POISON" all day yesterday.
LOOKS LIKE I WAS RIGHT.
Feels like I ate arsenic, cyanide, and ass.


DELICIOUS.





ILUALL.
Going tocurl up again and DIE. Will be back when I'm resurrected.

kthnx
♥ PrettyWreck ♥

I am the biggest fucking waste of breath alive.
I am such a failure.
A fat
disgusting
obese
fucking failure.
I have no right even breathe sometimes.
I'm disgusting.
I'm unclean.
I'm impure.
I'm filled with food.
I'm filled with preservatives.
I'm filled with filth.
There is nothing good about me.

Just another piece of garbage.
Another piece of fat marbled low grade meat.



I hate me so much right now.

Apparently I'm a bear.

I am a bear.
Apparently, from the Southern Hemisphere, for I am preparing for winter by eating my weight in bad food.





I'm nearing my period. I think I'm supposed to be hitting it today, because I really am that fucking tired.




I actually went COED. Went to 711, grabbed four cookies, a hot dog, and a big gulp of pepsi. Ate one cookie, and threw the other out the window on the way home, then hid the evidence. Had to stop myself from pulling over and eating ALL OF IT so no one would see me coming in with it to my house. But...I'm not falling into those habits again.




Need to stop eating.
Just so damn tired, blah.
Oh well.
I've been having PMS for the past week. If I don't start bleeding today, someone is getting shanked in the face.

Changing.

I notice the changes in myself subtly.
Not the physical.
No.
I can't see that. And I know it's not changing. My waist is still vascillating between 26 to 26.25 inches. Today was a migraine binge, so I know my weight will only get worse. But I'm under the 127 mark this morning, which is what I need. Which is where I want to be. Which is where I'm required to be. I need to be at 122 by month's end, which I'm not sure will happen, but prayers are prayers, and sometimes, that's all we can do.
It's not the physical.
Hell. It's not even so much the emotional.

It's the personality.
Authority.
I've worked for years in security. Worked as a supervisor. I've never actually felt like I was potent. Like I had any form of confidence. I second guessed myself constantly. Felt diminutive despite my weight. Felt large and obese and foolish wearing the uniform of a rent a cop. I'd hunch over and hide my head. I'd tug at my hair, or stay hidden behind my computer. I'd lose my cool and let people have power over me.
I'd never felt like I knew what was going on. I was ineffective. I was nothing.




But now I'm not.
I see it in how I act. How I walk. My head held up. Calm and cool authority, clear headed, even while in pain. A sardonic twisted half smile, a quirk of the brows, a stare down that makes men nearly a foot taller than me slightly quail. The unquestioning realization that people desire a defined leader, and will listen to someone who appears to have no doubt in what they want or what they demand of themselves. I step in when those higher up than me start to stutter and second guess, wavering in their conviction. And it's in ridiculous little things. Smooth words poured out to convince a person that we're not kicking them off campus in a friendly manner, but that they want to leave. Or in having the courage to walk up to the announcers booth, head held high, and demand they do something (when previously I had been shot down). It's in the intonations to my voice, the slight movement of my hands, and the way I don't feel shaken after confrontations. We just had to remove a large group of people from property. They became angry, jittery. One of them tried to make demands. I didn't waiver. I didn't make excuses. I told them to go. I stood my ground. I didn't doubt my ability. I didn't doubt why. I didn't say "it's the policy" or "it's not me, it's just how it has to be," or anything like that. I stood there, smirked, quirked a brow, and said very simply, "Please remove yourselves from this property, and have a great day, sir."




I look my bosses in the eyes. I don't dance around my requests anymore. I say them straight out. I talk back, but with respect. I'm not afraid of saying what I want to the faces of my supervisors. I told one to fuck himself, and instead of getting fired, I got what I wanted. It's in how you act, how you move. How you roll your shoulders or how the words slide off your tongue. It's in the level of respect you carry, the approach to the insult, the follow up to the compliment, and the positioning of your fingers against your bones. It's in the sweetness to your smile and the hardness to your eyes.

It's in the confidence to your walk, and the ability to make the snap choices in your mind.
Never question.
Never waiver.
But never decline the chance to accept fault with grace.
Bow when you must, when humility will serve you. Take responsibility. Keep your integrity.
But never let your pride falter.
At least not in front of others.

These are the keys to what I am discovering is my new personality.
My new motion through life.
As if I'm breaking out of my flesh.
There is a trembling insecurity that lives inside of me, hating myself and my weight. But there is a smooth, intelligent, graceful, commanding woman that is developing on the out. She has no fears, and she does mistakes. She is not perfected yet. But she slides like molten metal and hardened steel across the world around her. A bubbly, bouncing, happy, firm, authoritative, powerful presence that is learning how to move the world through her fingers and weave the web of her life to how she wants. She cares for others and takes care of them. She cushions them, pampers them, ensures they are well. She is femininity epitomized in that essence--she touches and coos, mothers and nurtures, yearning to help all be safe yet help them fly on their own. But she is the lionness. The huntress. Stalking and egotistical. Careful to never expend too much energy to leave herself vulnerable. She is the lightening storm that can light a blaze. The rains that can flood or heal. She is the catalyst to society and the lives of those she intercepts. I am not sure what her aim or purpose is, but I feel as if when she is honed, she will remake the very foundationof reality about her.

She is becoming who I am meant to be.
I am becoming who I want to be. Who I was designed to be.
Who I desire to be.





There is no clear road ahead. There is a path, and I will walk it. There is still me--the stumbling and slightly awkward young woman with no idea what she is doing, often times overwhelmed by thoughts. But these days of thoughtless activity--of training and being the expert, of having clients depend solely on me, and of them relying on expertise I truly had no idea I had--have allowed my body to move unhindered by the obstacle that is conscious thought produced by the unseen mind. When I am pressured, when I am busy, when I have not a single chance to breathe, is when I am at my best.
Hand me an hour to perform a three minute task, and you will have it rushed and failed, perhaps put off until the very end.
Give me three minutes to perform a task that would take most people an hour, and you will see work that will blow your mind.




Free me from the chains that live in my head. The plague of words and constant insecurities that drown me. Give me a chance to move on instinct and the person who lives in my soul, and I am a winner who steps over failures, ready for the next opportunity to succeed.
Give me a moment to linger on the times when I have fallen, and you will see a person who is too afraid to even try.




There is something glorious I wish I could unlock in my mind.
Something that I think, if given the chance, would astound even myself.
One day I will tape it.
I will become it.
I will mould myself to be Her--the vision of not superiority, but of non-being--of existing--of living--of breathing--of true worth. A vision of what I should be. What my potential says I am capable of once again becoming.


It will take time.
And it will be scary.
But one day,
perhaps one day,
you will hear my name,
and you will say,
"If only I learned to fly like she did....."

....right.

In the end, you are exactly--what you are.

Put on a wig with a million curls,

put the highest heeled boots on your feet,

yet you remain in the end just what you are.

Mephistopheles, from the novel "Faust"

I love that line. I was looking for something to include in this entry and it just FIT.
I binged very badly last night. Shot up to 127 when I woke up at 4am. Didn't bother checking my weight again until after I got back from job 1, and was down to 125.8. Not sure what's going on, or if I can care anymore. I should avoid the scale for a while.




I'm very tired.
Haven't had a chance to go pick up the orajel yet.
Yesterday was just...I don't know what it was. I went home and just...didn't think. I wasn't even hungry. I just ate. Like, I knew I wanted to starve, but it didn't hit that what I was doing was taking in calories. It just didn't click.
My head is in no place to handle these things right now! I am sick. And I need a nap.
Ho hum.


Whine whine whine.
If any of you loved me, you would come here right. now., at this very instant, and let my fat ass flop on you and nap, provided I didn't kill you with my MASSIVE WEIGHT. I could totally crush a grown man with my obesity.


...or at least a toddler. Maybe a teenager. Perhaps a small woman?
I could at least smother a man with my thigh fat....
...why am I now picturing the schematics of this?



....now YOU are picturing the schematics of this.
Aren't you?
Admit it.
You're visualizing how it would happen....



......mmmm....blubbery death.....









Right. Anyway. Where was I?
I had a point to this.
I think.
In all truth, I lost it somewhere along the way. Today has been odd, to say the very least. Apparently, a guy who has been my friends for years has decided he is in love with me, and if he can't have me, then he will settle for no woman! So I received a message today (that my client I was training saw when she grabbed my phone to check the time) asking how gay it made him if he swallowed, or if it made him gayer that he let the guy cum on his face......
.....luckily she was liberal, and was cracking up. I was horrified when I saw what happened, and then realized that he was telling me, essentially, that he was now doing a guy.
Because I'm the only girl he wants.
The man who quite possibly loves breasts more than I do.
I don't know if I'm flattered, or insulted, that I've turned a man gay....
....huh.




My life really is kind of unique, isn't it? I forget sometimes. But it's where I live. This sort of thing isn't as uncommon here as one might imagine. But I live in a place where our Mayor once was interrupted during an interview to be told that the cleaning crew was having a hard time fetching the strippers panties off of his moose head in his office....welcome to my home town.


When I first went to another major metropolitan area, I was so confused because there was a controversy over a billboard that showed cleavage.
I was confused.
Because a billboard I had seen on my way out of town had a woman who was completely naked except for stars over her nips, and words written across that area. I was like, "....that's...indecent?"


Magnificent, I tell you. Surrounded by glamor, perfection, and pantie clad moose heads. And men who decide to jump into homosexual relationships as acts of rebellion. Hoorah!

Love my life.






Wow, whatever the point was to this entry, I'm quite certain I missed it.
Oh well.
I'll think of it later, and then be too lazy to write another entry.



♥ PrettyWreck ♥

I got 99 problems but a meal ain't one....

...oh yeah, that's right. I went there. I MADE THE SONG THINSPO WITH ONE CHANGE OF WORDS. YEEEEEAAAAAAH.


SO
I went to the Maury show!!!







Apparently, I'm your Daddy.

SHAZAAAM.

Okay, done now XD



Yesterday was some serious nonsense with that colon cleanse stuff. Thinking of taking more today, but it left me bloated and all yuck. So I might give it a day off to let my body return to normal. 124.4lb's today, which is after doing some pretty hard exercising, laxxies, restricting (which kinda failed near the end there because of my typical shit with ambien binging, FUCK), and then going to the park. It was a cold night, and I was pleased about that, because I got to wear my leg warmers, arm warmers, and a cute leather jacket I salvaged from the lost and found before it got dumped in the trash.

Well...not sure where they were going to dump it. But I snagged it before they could take it away. Bebe brand. Brown leather. Still has the new smell to it. I'm very pleased with my acquisition.




Though now I feel guilty. They donate all of the clothing and stuff to houses for battered women. There were a billion fucking coats, but this one is really NICE and my boss pulled it out because I didn't get the Armani one last time since he forgot, and he wanted to make it up to me. So...I'm not a bad person for keeping it, am I?



Right?







Yuck.
Hate moral quandaries.
Why can't I be vain and greedy?
It's not like I could have less friends than I do now.


...wait! I could. Curses upon it all!




One of my friends I met with last night had just gotten back from Disney Land. She told me her boyfriend was pissed because he was sick when I called. He apparently said to her and a guy named C, "It's not fair. The one time Pretty wants to hang out, and I'm fucking sick. I can never get her to come hang out with us!"



I sort of just stared at my friend for a few minutes and asked really confused, "...you mean he really wants me there? I thought I was sort of like just another faceless person in the big group or something."
To which my friend got this confused look on her face and said, "...we talk about you all the time. C has been hearing about you for months before he met you. We're always telling him how funny you are, and P [her boyfriend] has told him that you're hot...."

I made a confused noise. Sat back and looked out the window of her car at the park we were chilling in. It was sort of...strange...to realize that people might actually WANT to be around me.....

AND NOW FOR YOUR READING PLEASURE
99 Problems (at least a little bit of the song) as interpreted by PrettyWreck


I got the hunger role on the food patrol
Fat that wanna make sure my casket's closed
Docs and critics they say she's "Getting Too Close"
I'm from the hunger side, fatass, it's the life I chose
If you grew up with Big Mac smell in ya nose
You'd be fighting for thin and refraining from dough
I'm like fuck critics you can kiss my whole asshole
If you don't like my ribcage you can keep your lips closed
I don't eat beef or meat or go to dinner shows
They don't serve Vegan foods or any shit SO
Mags glamourize the disappearing ass
So advertisers can give 'em more bones for ads, fuckers
I don't know what you take me as,
Or understand the will power that anorexia has
I'm from obese to underweight and I ain't done
I got 99 problems but a meal ain't one
Hit me


99 problems but a meal ain't one
If you're havin' fat problems i feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a meal ain't one
Hit me





AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Okay, I officially need a life.
THIS POST ACHIEVES WHOLE NEW LEVELS OF LAME
BUT YOU KNOW YOU LOVE IT!




God I just read through that and it was so lame I facepalmed.
So why, if I am so embarassed, am I gonna share it???



BECAUSE.
I tots can.
HEED IT.

♥ ♥ ♥ PrettyWreck ♥ ♥ ♥

New Lows...not in the good way.

Yesterday, I binged.
Binged.
And Binged some more.




Oh, then I binged MORE. Like....way more.
Lots and lots more.
Like, as in, I went from 123.8 to 126.6 today.
Holy crumpets, yo.



Partway through it, between points when mys tomach was so distended it was hard, and when it was just full enough to be uncomfortable but to let me eat more....between digging the cookies out of the trashcan to shove in my mouth with ice cream, and searching for bleach to coat the rest of the thrown out food in so I would at least vomit it up if I ate it out of the trash again....I started looking up information on how possible it is to cauterize taste buds.



Apparently, not very possible. In fact, the tongue regenerates too quickly for permanent damage to truly occur. The way to kill tastebuds is through nuerological damage, as what you SEE on your tongue, isn't the tastebuds. A "tastebud" actually is part of a coating of something like slime that comes out of your tongue, produced by the intrinsic nerves, that conducts taste. So really, tastebuds are not physical.
The point is, I was actually to the point where I was going to try and cauterize my tongue to destroy my ability to taste.
Looks like I'm going to have to rely on orajel, won't I?

Think I'm going to try relying on an orajel and baby food diet. Gotta try to hide the baby food and make out like I'm really eating, but just keep my tongue coated in orajel, and yeah....
Gonna go buy the baby food tonight.
That's the diet for next week.
Let's see how much I lose.

Anyway, signing off for now. Gotta clean and then gotta go running. Need to get these fucking calories off of me.

Anorexia and the Zombie Apocalypse: How It Can Help

How Anorexia/ED will benefit you in the impending Zombie Apocalypse.

1. When food stores run dry, you will already be used to going for long periods of time without eating and maintaining a high level of functionality, giving you a leg up over your more bloated counterparts.
2. When the need for food becomes desperate, the obese will be eaten by their fellow humans first. (read: nobody wants a skinny cow.)
3. You will be able to find hiding places easier in the rubble of civilization, squeezing into smaller holes.
4. Less clothing to keep you covered, making it easier to find items for warmth.
5. While zombies may be slow, their endurance is killer. You'll be able to run faster to get away over longer distances, while our fatter counterparts can only huff and puff sprint a few feet before collapsing into a sweaty pile of zombie-feast.
6. You'll be able to stay cooler, longer, in the radioactive heat of the unnatural summer.
7. You'll be able to find more clothes that fit during the radioactive, frozen, unnatural winters.
8. If you're already skin and bones, you can rub yourself in dirty and head exploded zombies, and blend in with the enemy horde in the event of being surrounded.
9. You can fit through smaller windows, air ducts, and holes, in order to find shelter in abandoned buildings.
10. Packs of feral dogs will be less likely to find you delicious.
11. There will be no electricity to power your hoover round scooter.
12. You'll already have good gym clothes/durable shoes to assist in a speedy escape from the undead, brain hungry hordes.
13. You won't have a hard time reaching behind you to pull out your gun in order to shoot a member of said horde in the face.
14. You won't have as much of a distance to pull said gun when performing said killing action.
15. Unlike our more rotund counterparts, you will not have the smell that comes from sweat gathering in your fat roles to lure the zombie masses to your hiding spot, or draw the attention of wild, ravenous beasts.
16. You'll most likely be used to strenuous bouts of exercise.
17. When you are infected with the post apocalyptic super bug, it'll be okay--you'll be used to throwing up that often. And besides, your body is trained to function on depleted nutrients, thereby allowing you to ride it out.
18. Unlike the average decadence of the typical person, those with ED's are used to deprivation and control, giving us that extra one-up in the adjustment period, meaning we're used to being denied of even the most primitive and basic of comforts.
19. When fossil fuel stores have run out, we'll already be used to walking from place to place.
20. Those with ED's already have a decided lack of self preservation, making us more risky, determined, ruthless, and demanding on our bodies, giving us that extra drive required to not only survive, but thrive, when the Zombie Apocalypse comes.



So there you have it.
The most convincing argument I have ever written as to why my ED is helpful, essential, and a good method of planning for the future.
How will YOUR current lifestyle prepare you for the impending Zombie Apocalypse?

---

Off topic, and not as humorous, but I think one of my clients is being abused by her husband. If not physically, then emotionally.
I'm trying to decide how to handle this, or if it's even my place.
I need to talk to my boss tomorrow and see what he says.

....WAT?!

"Let me be completely honest about my intentions here. I want to mold you to take over my spot."
"...oh?"
"Yeah. I want you to take over the management post here for training."
"Where are you going?"
"I want to go to a better club. I'm not exactly certain yet, as there's a few I have in mind. We're waiting until June to see where some people are transferring to. But we need to get you to these classes, we need to get you more certifications, and I really want to sit down here and talk to you about how we work all of these numbers. They already know I've picked you, and I think you'd be great in this post."







Three weeks.
Three weeks.
That's how long I've been seriously working there. Maybe a month?
Three weeks.




By the end of this year, I could have a job where I'm earning upwards of 54k a year. Which...considering I don't have a college degree?
I could be working a job doing what I love.
I could be spending my time at a gym. Working out. Organizing. Managing a team. Really inspiring people. Being active, and being able to make decisions, to guide a group, and to have a post that would mean something.
To have a post that would pay some awesome, dough, too.
It's not the job I want forever, but it would show me how to run a business, what the overhead would be, the schematics of hiring, the whole nine yards.



It's not set in stone yet, and I really need to make sure to keep my game up. There's two more trainers we're going to be hiring on here soon, and I seriously want to make sure that I keep myself shining above the newbies, so the post will be a guarantee for me.
I just got blown away when he told me that.
I need to make sure I have my shit set out straight.
That I'm gonna be good to take this job.
Holy hell, you guys.



Holy shit.




If it goes through?
SHA-FUCKING-ZAAAAM BITCHES! I WILL RULE!

Keep talking. We're all mad here. Mad as hatters, one might say.

One must make one's self superior to humanity, in power, in loftiness of soul,--in contempt. -Nietzsche

As a child, I read. Book upon book, page upon page, devouring the words put in front of me. My brother--bless his heart, he and I are amazingly close now--used to try and convince me I couldn't. I remember being in first grade, with "White Fang" held on my lap, sitting rapt in my doorway. It was my favorite place, for some reason. I think because it was easier to run away--I wasn't trapped in my room, nor was I exposed in the hallway. He would grab the book from me and point to words.

"What's this one say?"
"'It'."
"No it doesn't!"

Yes...it did.

I would be embarassed. I think that's when I started questioning reality. How did I know I was reading? How did I know I wasn't making it up as I went along? What was real? The words I perceived? Was my mind that strange?

As we got older, we had reading hours in school. Fourth grade, I first picked up Romeo and Juliet. My teacher didn't believe me when she saw me reading it, and claimed I could never understand. She asked me to read her a passage, and tell her what it meant.
I chose the scene where Mercutio is first taking Romeo to the party where he meets his Juliet. Explained it to her. I remember how quiet she got, looking at me with a strange, speculative stare. She then started pulling me in every lunch, asking me to talk to her about the books.
Romeo and Juliet. Hamlet. Othello.
I devoured them.

Mr. Stein was our Librarian. He left that year. I would hide in the library during all free hours, because I was so afraid of the other children. I was social to an extent, but by this point, I was already depressed. He used to sneak me books during the book fairs that I could keep, or special order ones to rent. I remember his last day, he called me over, his aging form large and kind. He gave me a children's book. "Rupert Goes to the Dentist."

"You're still a little kid, PrettyWreck. Act like one sometimes."



It still is my favorite book. I have it hidden away.



By the end of fifth grade, I had read Shakespeare's collections. I performed a Sonnet as an audition to an art's academy. In science and english, I scored in the upper 99th percentile for my standardized tests. I wrote my first book in the sixth grade. Wrote four more the summer before seventh. They were nowhere near Shakespeare's quality, but they were mine. By the time Jr. High ended, I had memorized two different dictionaries.

And then I remember hearing those words.

"Honey...you really should try to act a little simpler. People won't like you if you're too smart."







I wasn't liked much anyway.
I blamed that.
And so I stopped being smart.




There are other contributing factors. Drugs killed off a lot of my brain, I think. I stopped doing my word exercises, no longer read the novels I loved, hid away my Stein and Longfellow my Junior year and picked up the cheesy books my classmates were reading. I stopped being the 13 year old who had her nose buried in Dickens, Vonnegut, or Huxley, and became the vivacious strange little goth with a love of prescription drugs and ICP. I stopped reading, and started trying to fit in with others.
My writing suffered.
And then greatest blows came when people I had known I was always better than started getting better scores than me on essays.



So I gave up.

Even now, when I talk, I carefully tailor my words and purposefully forget things. This blog started out much the same, where I think I tried very, very, very hard to not ever, ever talk like the words sound in my head. There's always a certain flow and rhythm that I learned when I was a child, and it honestly humiliates me. I don't feel like it's anything worth reading. I feel pretentious, and falsely superior in some ways. Like I'm somehow trying to be better than everyone, and I'm not. It's just how the words in my head sound. They flow in me like poetry, because that's what I wrote for so many years. It what I was published with. It's what I lived off of. Everything follows an obsessive rhythm, and if it stumbles, my brain screeches to a halt and has to fix it, and I think I'm the only who hears the beating of the drums as the words go.
Slave labor.
Row, Row, Row,
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,
Write, Write, Write.
Starve, Starve, Starve.




What do I starve for?
To control the past?
To attone for what was done to me?
To become more like the image of what I think people want to see?
To eradicate the last vestiges of me?
The girl who sat with her nose in Othello in the fifth grade, toes curled in excitement while reading Hamlet, eyes wide. "ALAS! Poor Yorick, I knew him well!" The one who wanted to be the Count of Monte Cristo instead of a lead character in Clueless or Legally Blond?
The girl who doesn't laugh as often as she puts out, and prefers philosophy to video games?
Who can stay up all night engrossed in a physics book?



I'm not smart.
I don't want to pretend to be.
It's why I hate the way I write. The way I talk. Because I feel like it comes off as pretentious. Like no one will like me if I act the way my brain actually demands I be. I have to be what people want. The skinny girl. The ditzy girl. The one who doesn't know what a Nhilist is, the one who hasn't, by the age of fourteen, counted herself amongst the Hyperboreans. The one who doesn't have the dictionary of angels and demons memorized, nor can quote you facts and scriptures from religions dating back to the beginning of written time.


There is, in truth, some booksmarts there.
But I am not quick.
I always scored second best on my biology exams.
I never went to class or turned in homework, always getting C's.
I never managed to get above a 98% on my essays.
I never managed to truly understand Kant in my philosophy classes.
I never really got Calculus.
I still have a hard time with math.

I'm slow.
I'm not very smart.
I'm not trying to say I am.
What I'm saying, is that I've done all of this, and I talk a certain way, but I'm still not good enough. And I don't understand why any of you like these entries or read them, but I love you so, so, so very much for doing so. I love you so very much for leaving me such beautiful comments and making me smile, when yes, at one point, I may have had potential, but I'm not sure where it went. I've read all these things, and I've hidden all my words, and I've hidden the flow of the thoughts in my mind, but only because my intelligence isn't real.
My mother said, "People won't like you if act smart."
Act, being the key word.
I'm not.
It's not honest.
It's not true.
I'm just me.
This is all just...just me.

...thank you for reading it. For accepting it.
I adore you all.

And your words will always make me smile. ♥

"First the day after tomorrow must come for me. Some men are born posthumously." - Nietzsche


"I've thrown my body away in vain attempts to convince myself my soul isn't attached." - A Will Is The Way

I have lost!
Not weight, but inches. And in the midst of my period bloat, after binging on KFC yesterday.
Hoo.Rah. Working as a trainer, apparently, has the benefit of letting me get in exercise, by challenging some of my male sessions! Today, I challenged a coworker named M. Sort of challenged. I did the workouts with him, and when they were too strenuous, I pretended like I was just checking his form. Overall, in the past week and a half? I've gone from 26.5 waist to 26. My hips went from 31.25 to 30.75. That's all I know so far, because I didn't do any major measurements on the rest of my body. I'm going to ask another female trainer to take down my stats, probably sometime in the next week.


I feel like I need to explain a little bit about my therapist.
I'm not going to her to recover from my disorder. On the contrary--I'm going to her because I'm having problems functioning with it. Granted, I understand she's going to try to alter my diet, but she and I have already clearly established that me fixing my eating habits is not on the top of my agenda, and the best thing that she can do to help me is to keep my head steady enough so that I have the presence of mind to 1) Take my multivitamin, 2) Keep what I do eat balanced and heavily laden with nutrients, 3) Prevent behaviors and mood fluctuations that lead to excessive binges and therefor, depression.

I told her about my eating disorder not because I'm in there for treatment of it, but because I cannot expect to get the help I need without being honest about every aspect of my life. There are things I cannot even say on here, where anonimity is king, for fear that if I die, and someone sees this who I know, they'll...well...they'll read it. And they'll know.
There are words I can never say.
Things that happened.
Things that made me a victim.
She needs to know what the results are. What the outcome is. The heavy control I have over myself. The forced patterns and repetition. The obsessive behaviors mingled with the helpless disorganization.

"I don't think you're as badly mangled in your thoughts as you believe you are. They're jumbled and fast, yes, but that's not a bad thing. It's the sign of a creative mind."




She told me she wants me to write my life story. She wants me to start putting things into written word, and that I can share them with her. I've already started, but the fact that she pressed, after only two sessions, to see me express myself in an artistic sense, rather than the rigidly conforming linear pattern that most others would? I couldn't help but smile.

Though the meal plan she set out for me to make is difficult.
I reminded her that I could make it...but I can't promise I will follow it. She told me, "I don't want you to follow it. I want you to step outside of yourself and start to analyze yourself as if you're your own client. I'm not doing this to make you eat. I'm doing this to help you remember what your outside perspective is like. You're stuck in your head."



So yeah. I told her. Everything.
Because, well, I want her to know what I mean when I talk. And I want her to be prepared, because if she encounters another with something like me, then I can promise there won't be the same open line of communication.
Would any of you have the courage to tell a medical professional, who specializes in dissecting your emotions--your very actions and words--about everything with the community? About everything you feel? About how food makes you think?
About the monsters in your past?
The things that haunt you still?


....didn't think so.
Normally, I wouldn't. I still don't. I only did this because I have no other choice.
I have the courage because I have no other option.
It's talk.
Or it's die.




To be honest, I'm not ready to die yet.





Uuuhm, I had other things to say.


Oh, yeah, G. Sexy McFuckHisFace. Sir BangMeHard of Longdickinson.
He told me the other day,
"Ever since I've met you, I couldn't think of anything else but how I've wanted to throw you on the bed and wreck you."

.....oh dear. Yes, please!
But I told him no.
He doesn't want a relationship.
So...I don't do casual sex.
I plan to find a way to convince him otherwise.
That, or find someone better. Girl or guy, whatever.
Point is, he's hot as all can be, and yes, my libido goes insane around him. But the difference between me and most other girls who would bow to the demands of a solid mass of flesh, muscle, attraction, and perfection? Well...that difference?
Is I have standards.
I have a sense of self worth.
I may not think much of myself, but I was raised being told one thing, and no matter how down on myself I feel, the fact still remains...
...I'm BETTER than anyone you've ever had. I'm BETTER than anyone you'll ever meet. I am the superior being. And I am worth every inch of devotion given to me.

While I don't believe it of myself, for some reason, I can't help but demand other people treat me that way.
No matter how much I hate me, I can't tolerate other people acting the same.
How very strange.






This entry just irritated me.
I've been doing that a lot lately.
I really, really irritate me.
All my entries sound dramatic. Boring. Without personality. Too colorfuly written or something. Pompous? Arrogant?
I used to get told by my friends and parents "Stop using such big words! You'll lose friends that way!"
Depression makes me too artistic, and it also makes me emo.




I should change my background to dark things and skulls and blood tears and talk about slitting my wrists and listen to Fall Out Boy and Dashboard and other emo music ALL DAY and sit here and WEEP MY HEART OUT.
WOE IS ME!
WOE I SAY!





Dear god, someone smack me.

Coming clean

...is what I did. With my therapist today. Second appointment.
I told her. Everything.
She didn't charge me any extra to let me stay there an hour after our appointment ended. She heard about the abuse. About the ED. About the imaginary friends when I was little. The obsessive movements I have, the anger issues, the disregard for safety, the constant fear. I told her my religion. I told her my take on mental disorders. I told her about Ana, and how she talks inside of my head. I told her about my fear of waffles, and my unending hateful relationship with nutritional information. I told her what i hear when I eat. I told her how hard it is for me to start eating.
How impossible it is to stop.

I go back on Thursday.


The sessions are only $10 a piece, without insurance, because of my income.
It's in a bad part of town. But this is the place I drove to after my nervous breakdown, and I'm lucky I did. The waiting list is generally 3 months before you can even get put on the list. Apparently, I was such a dire case, that my therapist is personally pulling extra hours to make sure I get the treatment necessary.
She told me was honestly going to commit me on Friday, but she was nervous about how it would affect me, and knew the process right now would be too long, and it would make me worse than I was. She admitted she was afraid I wouldn't come back, or that I would have really hurt myself over the weekend, and that she had doubts the whole time about whether she had made the right decisions to not hospitalize me right there. I thanked her. Promised I'd be back.

I told her about thinspo. What ProAna is. Told her that without my girls, I wouldn't have made it this far--that it sounds terrible, but people outside don't tend to understand that it's an unending flow of support, nonjudgmental, welcoming--the balance to the cruel self loathing and the evil voice that flits through us, telling us how terrible we are. I told her how people will always give you the information you want, and the exchange is so open and free, that it lets you actually make informed decisions and go about your self destruction in the least destructive way possible. And that it's okay to say "I want to get better", because they encourage and support even that. That I'd never met a person actually wanting other people to become like this. That it is just...the only place I feel completely accepted.



She typically deals with drug addictions.
I'm her second case of an eating disorder in her whole career, and she's been doing this for a while. She made it seem like her other was an ex addict, or else an addict. I told her I don't mind. She's my first eating disorder therapist, so we can be newbies at this together.
It's just nice to have someone I can tell everything to.
She doesn't give terrible feedback. She's honest. She smiles a lot. She's warm.
She seems like she's really concerned.
I'm not going to look too deep into the motives.
I just know I left today feeling...not manically happy, like i get, where my impulses are shattered. But not the despondent feeling I've had for the past month. I left feeling lighter. Relieved. I left feeling like I had hope again.
No, I may not be ready to get better and get over my eating disorder. Maybe that will come in time.
Maybe I'll learn how to handle it better.
But I'm ready to stop hearing these terrible things in my head. I'm ready to stop dying.




Speaking of death.
I saw it today.
There was an accident. I saw them as they were pulling the man from his Sears van, his work shirt ripped open, his chest heaving up and down with that liquid movement that comes only when the ribs have been cracked and broken from vigorous CPR, rising and falling with each breath forced in his mouth by the manual ventilation bag. I saw it right after it happened, with only EMS and Fire there, and two cops. They were dragging the bodies out from a wreck that didn't appear too terrible at first glance, but the man was clearly not there. There was nothing in his body.

I hope he made it.

But when I went by on my way home, it was clear he hadn't. Or else, someone else had died there. But perhaps, hopefully, I'm wrong, and this was just that strange of an accident...but they had the whole intersection blocked off by police, with crime scene and traffic investigation units there. They had the white sheets out. The evidence van. Nearly two and a half hours later. And still, they were picking up.
It should have bothered me. And it did. I felt bad for him.
Death is lonely. Quick. Sudden. Terrifying. You could be holding the hand of your one true love, and still be completely and utterly by yourself. They can't follow you into that gaping vacuum of space--that endless, infinite beyond--and it would be lonely. How frightening to face it by yourself, and maybe that's what all of life is there to prepare us for--that moment when we face the greatest obstacle of them all and step out of our selves, and into the unknown world that awaits.
But death is over in an instant. All it takes is that last spark of the brain, and while the process is quick, the ending is often times relegated to mere seconds of fading electrical activity and then nothing. The deceased don't have to stare at their bodies after, nor deal with the sudden loss that comes when you realize you can never speak to a person again. You can never hear their voice say "I love you" or their arms hug you, or never have that conversation you thought you'd always have time to. The dead do not hold regrets over never forgiving, or forgetting to give a hug on the way out. They don't have to face the photographs and the clearing of personal affairs, and the horrible process of burying the body, and living, wondering what would have been different if things had just changed the tiniest bit.



It's the living that face that task.
I feel not bad for the dead, but those they leave on this world. Those who have to come to grips with all that's gone and all that will never be.
Those are the ones who suffer the most.






This post...is shockingly morbid.
My goodness.
Sorry you guys.
I had some interesting things to write, but I forgot them all now.
Good luck, stay strong. I had a binge last night, but I'm starving it off today. Only got up to 123.8, which is VERY GOOD for a binge night. So hopefully, I can knock it back down to 123 or something. Only need to be 122 to meet my goal for this month.


Have fun, dollies.
Starve on.
Or don't.
Recover. Eat on!
If that's your choice and your goal.
Either way, I love you all, and support you no matter your goals. Just like you all have supported me.


♥ ♥ ♥ PrettyWreck ♥ ♥ ♥

Hungry Hungry Hippos.

In my head I have the tune to the Badger Dance song (Badger-badger-badger-badger-badger-MUSHROOM MUSHROOM!), but the words are different. "Hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry--DON'T BINGE DON'T BINGE!"

I even got the little dance goin' on. I am AWESOME.

Managed to not gain a huge amount, and I'm about a week out from my period's start. I'm tired, starving, and I know I'm close to my period, because my hormones are going nuts, and I'm restricting and exercising, but gaining. I'm only at 123.4 this morning. But after my period, if I stay strong, there's a chance I can ride the quick-loss-train down into the teens, again. HOORAH! I want to be 122 at least by the end of this month. And I want to be 117 by the end of June.
But I won't think that far ahead. Because then I'll be depressed that I'm not losing faster.

Yuck.



I got two client's this weekend at the gym, and made a killing in sales. Well...I didn't do it alone. That's what I like about that place. It was a team thing. Everything I get confused on, other people are there to help me get answers to, and make me not-look-stupid. They're all fantastic, and I told one guy I owed him oral sex, but since the Jew in me can't eat pork, I'd have to give him pie instead.




Fun part?
My first official client is restrictive eating disorder with exercise-purging tendencies.




Uuuuhm.....hello irony?
she doesn't admit it, and I don't think she knows it. But I'm carefully monitoring her diet to make sure she eats over 1300 calories a day at minimum, while burning about 2000. She's super active, so it's not hard to get her there, but yeah.
On Sunday was her intake. I sat there lecturing her about the dangers of malnutrition and under eating, and then I had to go Wendy's. Got a Chicken To Go wrap, because I was eating with boss and HotPants, and then after I ate it, I promptly went into the bathroom and tried to purge it out. It didn't work. But this was after sitting there working on a plan with my boss on how to curb her disordered behavior. "This purging thing she's doing with exercise is dangerous...."
Then promptly trying to purge a chicken dish.
Followed by an over hour long bout of intense cardio, and a forty five minute bout of Hoola Hooping.
And being pissed i went over 700 calories.
Hoo-Rah.

Excuse me while I go have sex with my hypocrisy.
But as a friend says--I'm really good at giving advice, just not very good at taking it.





This whole training thing is exhausting. Not because of the physical activity demands. But because there's no such thing as a day off. I spend my time literally with all hours at the gym. I have to switch my personality to accommodate every person who walks through the door, and every client. Even the most subtle changes to ensure I'm behaving in a way that brings out only the best in them. I can never be tired, never be down, never be anything but energetic, outgoing, bubbly, quick witted, and with answers at the ready. I have to be the person constantly in control, with no doubt or question of my own abilities, ready with not just a Plan A, but a Plan B, C, D, and E, and I have to never, ever, ever act in a way that gives anybody around me even a single moment to question my authority or confidence in myself, as it will lead them to questioning both.





Do you know how much that takes out of you?




A lot. I'll tell you that. It's a lot. It's more than I ever thought possible.
I never understood what people meant when they say that it gets draining to wear a mask all the time, but now I get it. I feel like I'm giving myself bipolar, to be honest. I spend so much time pretending, that when I'm done, I just crumple.

I'm looking to get another job so I can quit my security one. All I want is something easy, where I get paid good tips, don't have to be an authority, or have any control really. Where it's mostly mindless, fast paced, and the hours go by. I want to work as a server at a sports bar or something. Get good tips in three or four days of work (hopefully only three), and give myself more time to not only train, but to have a social life again. If I could just...have that time where I don't need to think? Don't need to function? Just...let my body do the tricks?
I could do that.
It would be a relief.




I got offered a job at a place that's called a Male Pampering Botique. Some people call it a whore house, but unlike most in that area, it's not really a whore house. All it is, is a place where guys go and get the company of sexy women, get served drinks, get hand fed food, and have a girl they can talk to. My job would be to sit in a window and lure people in, most of the time just watching movies and hanging out. Then, when a client comes, I'd bring him something to drink (it's no alcohol), take him through the gym, sit in a bikini with him in the steam room, or else go back to a private room to give him a massage, hand feed him some fruits, and just be there to listen to him talk. All of the rooms are "open air", meaning that if I made a noise for help, it would come and QUICK, and they're all monitored, to make sure nothing untoward happens. I know one of the guards there, and he says that they just lost a girl, and that I would get "eaten up" because I'm "so short, and so skinny" and it would "be a serious draw for most of the guys who go there". To me, I have no problem with it. Especially considering that working one weekend? I could make $1000. Granted, a lot of guys THINK it's a whore house until they realize there's no happy ending but...fuck that. You know what? If I could work there just for six months, and make something like $4000/month, and pay off not just my bills, but also like...pay for my newest certifications, and also a boob job? I need one so bad. I would feel so much better about myself if my tits weren't as terrible as they are. But a boob job, and maybe get the skin on my arms, legs, and stomach tightened.... Hm. I'd need, for the breasts and skin, about $30,000.
So...$2000/month toward bills. I'd have the money in 15 months. Plus, I would be getting more at my training job as I get better certs and get more clients (If I work 60 only hours a month that would be $840/month). So actually, in about a year I'd have the money to pay for it all up front. And most places will just cut off about $10k if you pay upfront for all services.




I hope I get the job.
I seriously do. Because then, fuck, I could even do something else like phone sex, which they have a place for that down a few doors from it. And that pays something like $500 for two days worth of work at only like, 4 hours a day. So yeah. It's not the most glamorous, but I'm at that point in life where all I want is to have money, and pay for school. It's not like I'm going to be letting people touch me, and if pervs want to throw away their hard earned cash for something like that?
That's not my problem.
And if I could be earning $6000/month for less than 24 hours of work a week, not including my trainer job (which would put me around $6700/month), I'd be earning almost as much as my dad. I could pay for my surgery, pay off my bills, get my car fixed, go back to school, put a good amount into savings, and yeah.

Things would be fucking great.




So let's hope I get it.
Because let's just be honest, you guys.
A girl has to do what a girl has to do.
And I'd rather be doing that than stripping. Or else be working minimum wage for the rest of my life praying that I can afford school one day.

Screaming PrettyWreck, sleepiness, and novels

I have to say,
having a full and complete all out nervous breakdown is more tiring than I thought it would be.


I wanted to write something poetic about it. But let's be honest--I don't have the greatest talent with words, anyway, much less when I'm trying. I feel like I spew random verbs, nouns, adverbs, and other structural components all over the page (with some random punctuation thrown in--add a prayer that I'm using it all in the proper order and format--blend on high 24 seconds and bake!) and hope it makes sense.
My head doesn't make sense, most of the time, though!

But yeah, onto the nervous break down I had. Kazehana is my new hero, because she txt'ed me all through it. I wound up screaming in my car, then laughing and sobbing at the same time. Hyperventilated myself straight to nearly passing out, and found myself in the middle of a community counseling center being rushed in as a crisis case, and about a hairs breadth away from being committed. I wasn't full out suicidal--I was just...falling. I've been falling. And today it hit. Hard. Like, all of the emotions that have been building and building behind the dam of mind since I was a little girl just crashed out, and I was going to drown. I've never felt anything so completely overwhelming, and by the time i was at the center, I really did think I was going to die. I was so utterly cold and dizzy, and logically, I knew I was breathing too much, but it was so miserable and terrifying and I couldn't fathom that it would ever, ever get better. But as soon as I forced myself calm...it did. It eventually faded, and I realized I was okay, and that it was all in my head.
Which is rather symbolic, isn't it?

I feel better now. I'm going to be seeing a therapist now, I think, and she's not going to make me go to one that works only with Eating Disorders. Quite the contrary. Unlike every other place I've attempted, this one actually thinks it's the underlying issues that are more pressing and need to be addressed. Like the fact that I panic at the idea of being touched, or that I was in a cult where the leader still stalks me, and I'm not comfortable using my real name and still can't go to certain parts of town without constantly looking over my shoulder to see if they're there or not....
...all the little things that drive me up a wall, like my fear of anyone getting close. My insecurity. All the things in my past. It's not the food that's driving me insane.
It's everything that the food is hiding.



So I'm happy with that.
I don't want to talk about my eating habits.
Ever.
I want to talk about the things that are underneath. The monsters that got exposed as I stripped away the layers and layers of fat that kept them imprisoned.
Maybe when I tackle those demons, I'll feel more comfortable worrying about tackling what I shove in my gob.




On another note, I'm now thoroughly tired. And according to my body bugg, my nervous breakdown constituted as a 30 minute bout of moderate exercise.
Which is, quite honestly, awesome.



So, you guys don't need to worry about me. I'm doing better, and I'm going to hopefully be going to a therapist, because if I can't, I don't know what's going to happen to me. I don't know what's going on in my head, but I know I need help. I can't run from my past anymore, or the terrible things from it that keep weighing me down. And this crush has proven that. The fact that I am so overwhelmed and terrified by just feeling like I have a sexual attraction to someone? That it moves me that violently? Is a sign that I'm really, really fucked up. Because most people can find someone sexy, and not have it devestate their world.
But when sex is to you what it is to me?
When it leaves you as vulnerable?
When it makes you feel as weak?
As afraid?
When the idea of intimacy = vulnerability = pain?
Not very cool.

Also, I lost 4 pounds yesterday. Part water weight, but the rest i chock up to the BodyBugg making me HYPER FREAKING AWARE of every move I made.
I burned off something like 2800 calories yesterday, and ate only 750. So...yaaay!
I'm at 1398 burned today, and 37 consumed.
I'll be happy just getting up to like, 1700, because I don't think I have the energy--mentally or physically--to work out tonight.
I just need a good, long sleep.
126.6 to 122.6 today.
Hooorah.

Take that, binges.
(Please don't come back and make me eat again!)






Also, iluall so hard.
Thank you so much for all of your support.
I never realize how much I need someone until I read your comments and don't feel so alone anymore. I hope one day I can meet at least some of you in person! It would be fantastic.
I...well...fuck it.
If anyone plans a vacation to Northern Arizona, Las Vegas, or certain parts of LA, let me know. I'll just say--I live somewhere VERY close to that general proximity, and it would be awesome to actually know people IRL who go through this, too.
♥
I ADORE YOU ALL!


PrettyWreck


(PS: I've started on a book--a Mea Culpa, aka, memoire, aka random story thing that's written in a very odd way, about a person with eating disorders...so...hopefully I'll have it finished by the end of the year, and then maybe I'll try and publish it, or just do self publishing. Either way, I'll keep you all updated!)

...and I can't fucking swim....

A silence in shock.
Confusion.
This is why I don't like to feel.
Wanting. Scared. Vulnerable.
It opens you up to more than just that.
But to feeling everything.


I'm tired of being afraid.
I'm tired of not knowing how to handle emotions.
And I'm tired of how strongly they overwhelm me when they hit.




I'm never going to be suitable to inflict myself on someone. All I can think is "Why would I be like that? Why would I make someone handle all my baggage?"
I really have achieved what my username set me out to be when I started this blog.

I am a Pretty Wreck.

I am PrettyWreck.

I am not Z. I am not my names. I am not any of them but this Pretty Wreck inside of me. I have become a beast outside of my flesh, eaten alive by own my own hunger and constant satiety of it, haunted by my memories and fears and the remnants of the abuse that i have been through.
A cold and numb creature, jumping from addiction to addiction, desperately craving the strength of someone else to wrap their arms around me for a minute and let me know that it's okay...dear god, it's okay, I'm not alone anymore. But there's no one here to hug me when I need it. No one I can go to but my own hard bed--the concrete futon with a faux foam topper, and stuffed animals I've had for nearly ten years, and clutch them and cry. I can imagine what it would be like to have someone else be strong for me for a little bit, but I don't even have friends who's shoulders I can lean on.
I've distanced myself from even then.


I'm isolated.
And when I need a hug--when I need to know I'm not alone--I don't know where to go.
Nobody feels right.
The ones who I could turn to, I don't think will ever understand the gravity of the situation. Others I don't think I could stand for them to see it.


I feel like such a contradiction of emotions.
A contradiction of self definitions.
How is it that I've lost all this weight, but hate myself more than ever now?
I hear all the time that I don't see how hot I am. That I don't know that I'm a ten, or whatever.
But what they don't know is that it's a mask.
I wear my pain well. I wear my slowly approaching death like a second skin, draped like a burial shroud of the finest silk about my being. A slow and steady charming grin that has all the depth and warmth of a funerary mist. I am the seductive dying whisper of a woman--a bare remnant of what I once was--a mockery of what I could have been. A laughing phantom who's mirth quickly turns to screams as the dawn begins to burn away the last of their remains...

...I see the demon that lies beneath. The decay.
My body is still heavy.
I am still overweight.
I still have so much fat.
And it's surprising I can feel this full when inside, I'm so fucking empty.



It's not just the eating disorder.
No.
Ana has showed me more than that.
It was never the eating disorder that did this to me, but on the contrary, it was me. It is more than jsut food intake, but my past. It is not my relationship with the edible, but the existential. The eternal. But more than that, the internal. The history that dogs my steps. The memories that leave me shaking in revulsion at the thoughts of being touched. The actions that have left me cold and numb and feeling like I'm never damaged enough to seek out help, and the same insecurities that, when I do, make it easy to look me over because I laugh it off so well.
Behind this grin I'm sobbing.
Can't you see?
I never learned to swim.
I'm not fucking waving out here in the sea.
I'm drowning.




Watch.
Me.
Sink.

Post #300

Blog started at: 187lb's
Weight today: 125.2 (faaaaattttyyyy from binge, yesterday)
Time I've had the blog: 1 year, 1 month, 10 days (I think?)
Posts to date: 300, apparently.

Hoorah.
I write way too much.




Lusty McLusterson--Awesome McCocksome--SmellGood Fragarson--aka, G (the guy I wrote the "OMFG I NEED TO MAKE PASSIONATE NOMFUL SEXINGS WITH HIS FLESH!" entry about) told me today that I should have given him my number sooner, because he thinks we should have hung out last night smoking Hookah. I, for one, am in complete agreement with this observation.
I'm a little surprised. A little confused.
I pondered the thought that perhaps--perhaps!--he likes me as much as I like him.
Maybe, just maybe, the interest is returned....

It confused me.
I actually had to sit back.
Consider this prospect.
Could it be?
Could it really be?





Damn it. I'm into him.

I can deny it all I like, and trust me, I'm denying it pretty hard. But the fact still remains that I, the lover of the pink taco, the efficianado of breasts, likes something that is sorely lacking in both. Now, granted, I have played around with the idea before, and have even gone on dates with people who lack both. But I've never lusted. His sister is a lesbian, which put a whole kink in the situation (what if I wind up wanting to latch onto his sister??), but today, sitting there and talking to him, I realized that even knowing I could have him with boobs if I aimed for the sister...I wanted him just as he was.
Which was strange.
There's always something I want to change people.

I don't with him.
He has big ears. He has strong features. He has an oddly shaped head. And I adore it. He has a body that's a little out of proportion, and a voice that's deep as sin, and somehow, he wears all of it perfectly well. He seems insecure, and a little wounded. A good man who's currently got a bit of bad influence, and sitting here at my other job, I can still smell his cologne on me just from sitting across the desk from him. Typically, when there's a chance a guy likes me back, I stop liking them, and get bored. I like men only as long as I can chase them, but once i have them, I'm on to the next. Women, I like, so long as I can own them. Once they fight back...
...well, that just makes it all the more fun, doesn't it?
Hoorah possessive qualities.

But with him, I didn't want to run away or be bored when I realized I might be able to have him.
I wanted to pursue him more.
I wanted to take his hands--large and fucking strong (he can squeeze together 300lb's worth of resistance with one hand)--and kiss over his palms and all the callouses. I wanted to rub the back of his neck, or wrap my arms around him from behind while he sat, and see him look at me with the affection that just irritates me coming from others. Part of me felt the urge to kick the display on the desk aside and demand, "Why are we still playing this? We both know where this is going. Let's just say fuck it and act like we're meant to."




It's an odd feeling.
Like I can see the outcome of events if things go well, and I know that I want it to be there. I can screw it up still. But I want to jump through the introductions and straight to the good part. Straight to where I don't have to hold back if I want to straddle his hips and bite his Adam's Apple and hear his deep voice rumble out in a helpless, breathless, needy, pleading moan. Straight to where he doesn't have to worry about grabbing me leaving bruises, because fuck, I like the idea that he's strong enough to bruise me. That he could throw me, toss me, man handle me, and fuck me within an inch of my life if he so chose to.
He was complaining his last ex hated the marks he left, and he never meant to do it--she was anemic, and he forgets his own strength sometimes.
I was shocked at how hungry the idea of that made me. I wanted to tell him that if he gave them to me, I wouldn't be angry, or even hide them--on the contrary, I'd demand he left them where everyone could see. Fingerprints around my wrists, bites on my shoulders, grip marks on my arms...the very thought of being physically marked and claimed makes something primitive in me shiver with delight.

I like instincts. I like baseless, senseless, vicious lust and hunger. I like what we become when we forget about principles or expectations and just follow what we think would feel good.




He's a good guy, too.
I see it in him.
I don't know why. He hasn't done anything exceptional. But things he says makes me think it. But more than that, it's instinct. I'm around him, and I watch him, and just how he acts is considerate. He moves in a way that doesn't speak of arrogance that's naturally born, but something that's learned. He speaks in a way of someone who's been damaged, and could be dangerous, but could also be good. Someone who is, at the core, a good person. And I think...I think perhaps the reason I'm so intrigued by him...
...I feel like I could be proud of him.
Like I could truly, truly respect him.
Like there could be more than lust.
Like there could be true affection.
Appreciation.
Respect.

He wouldn't walk behind me, but beside me, and I would do the same.
I like to hear him talk.
To listen to him.

It doesn't damage shit that his voice is just straight up god damned sexy.
Hot damn.






Annnnd post 300 is about a boy.






Also
MADNESS?
THIS
IS
SPAAARTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Need to know

To do tonight:
Throw out bag with wayward electronics.
Try to put away laundry.



Dear followers:
Do any of you live on the West Coast of the USA? Maybe in the SoCal/SoNV/NorthAZ area?

...then it hit me that, yeah, I am gonna die...

Launch.
Run.
Skid.
Stop.
Change directions.
Launch.
Run.
Skid.
Stop.
Change directions.

Back, forth, back, forth.
Suicides in the backyard; one two three, stop, one two three, stop, one two three four, stop, one two three four, stop.
Back forth, back, forth, backforthbackforth, faster, faster, heart pounding, full cycle, start again. One, two, one, one, two, stop. Pushups, 25, quick, quick, no waiting. Launch bottom half off ground, handstand to back bend, too weak for full hand stand, too unpracticed for graceful moves, land hard, back to pushups, suicides again.


....left arm goes numb.
Knees give out.
Kiss of cold concrete.




Fifteen minutes is all I got.
My fingers are purple.
My chest got tight.
I thought I was having a heart attack.
I'm past the point of hunger.
My body aches but I feel no pain in my stomach.
Diet pills, adderall, caffeinne, and water, quell the need to eat. My body screams it's effects. I'm fighting another infection that could go to kidneys, rationing my various left over antibiotics so I don't have to go to the doctor. I'm dizzy often, my knees are always hurting, my legs always weak. I'm running on borrowed energy, dropping weight like crazy, and I no longer care.

It's like for a while there, the promise of treatment alone was enough to make me try to get better. The hope of help was enough to inspire me to eat.

Now it's gone.
And it's like I'm too afraid to try anymore.

Eating no longer bothers me.
The migraines no longer scare me.
The fear of hunger pains are gone.
I am not depressed by this, though I should be.
I am not fully terrified of this, though I should be.


I think that I will become another statistic. I see this in myself. Another one of the many that die from related complications from thsi sort of disease. I'll never be the 60lb's that will send people into fear. But it will be subtle. Laying there, fearing a heart attack, I realized, yeah, yeah, this will probably kill me if I keep going.
But that didn't bother me.
What bothered me was that I didn't have the strength to get up and keep running through the pain in my chest.
That my legs wouldn't listen when I told them more.

It happened before.
But this time, I didn't cry because I wanted to stop.
I just got angry because I wanted to keep going.



I need to start working out more, if all I can do is fifteen minutes high intensity before thinking I'm going to have a heart attack.

Obviously, I fail.





My head is very sick.
Dear new readers:
Don't be inspired by me.
It's like finding the sight of a burning monk a beautiful thing, and lighting yourself on fire in tribute. It's morbid. You're watching someone die. And all your admiration will get you is a quick eruption into that same hellish inferno.



Seeeexxxxyyyyyy.

I'm gonna go collapse now, and ponder ways to get an inhaler, or to try and find a way to buy some nitro tabs, in case, you know, I really do have a heart attack...or if this is actually a precurser to that dreaded thing.



PS, psych appointment on Monday.
I weigh 10 pounds less than last time, not that it'll matter.
Whatever.
All he can do is give me more pills, and if he cuts me off, I'll ahve to find someone else.
They can't help me. I can't afford their help.
So they can't even give it.
It's okay, though.
They're used to turning a blind eye as their patients burn.


Like the symbol of the pheonix.
Only we starve away until there's nothing left to resurrect--nothing but fine ashes scattered to the wind.

Why are you shaking?

123.4 today.



I'm kind of scared to go into work.
Because yesterday, something happened, and I'm not sure how to cope.


I felt something.

Ridiculous, isn't it? But if you've followed me at all, you know...I'm kind of numb. I feel things at a different level from people. It hits, and then it's gone. Nothing rattles me, or really knocks me off kilter. It's like, I feel self loathing, but the hatred never sinks in. I feel attraction, but it's like a surface cut--itches a bit, then fades completely. I see people as hot. I see them as fun to play with for a few days. And then they're gone. Total unattachment.

It's part of what a therapist believed was Borderline Personality Disorder brought on by Trauma, or even could be some PTSD. Is it strange to say that? My last relationship pushed me so severely over the edge of my already tetchy emotional line that I am that severely damaged from it. I just don't feel anymore. I haven't really felt anything soul shaking or body consuming for almost a full five years now.

I've ditched best friends without shedding a tear. Dropped girlfriends or boyfriends with only a slight longing before there's a complete indifference. I've become a person who's in control of all relationships. Nobody touches me during sex, or gets to touch me too much. I do the touching. I do the controlling. I never go mindless. I fake orgasms to get them off of me, then throw them down and completely, utterly, and fully destroy their coherency. I take hours stripping them of everything until they're blubbering, begging, whimpering masses, naked, exposed, and vulnerable, and I...?
Well, generally, I don't ever even take my clothes off.

I see people who are attractive and imagine what I'd like to do to them. Then I get bored, and go away.



I've had soul shattering physical reactions to only two people in all of my life--reactions that have left me trembling and starved. Perhaps three, if you count K, the girl I was in love with, who is with her now fiancee, a girl called J. But even K never inspired in me something that left me dry mouthed and without a clear thought. And every reaction has been to a girl.



But yesterday, I felt lust.
Hard. Vicious.
Caused by a man.




I've seen him many times. I work with him, but never spoken with him. He's manager of another department. Built like a god with his muscles, and with a pretty face. But I never really thought of him as attractive or my type. Then yesterday, I got locked in an office with him. His smell hit me strong as a freight train--addictive, expensive cologne, that made my skin prickle and goosebumps erupt on my flesh (numbness of emotions means I have a certain weakness with certain senses, smell being on of them). Then he spoke, and his voice was low. Deep and rumbling. A certain purr. Something you never would imagine existed. I had never heard him speak.
He asked when I was going to train him.
I told him whenever he wanted me to.
And that I'd ride him hard when I did.

I don't think he got the reference, since we were talking in front of another girl i had just trained, and indicated that I meant like i had worked her.
But it was terrifying. This feeling of sudden lust. All the blood rushed to the surface of my skin. I was dizzy, desperate, and whereas I had been freezing, I was suddenly hot. Like they describe in books. I left pretty quick after, jumped into my car, and realized...I was aroused. And that thinking about him is what was doing it, and that unlike every other time in my life, I wanted to get off to him, imagining what he would look like over me, those thick arms straining, my nails gouging into his back. I imagined what his mouth would feel like on me, on my bare skin. And it was terrifying how much I liked the idea. So I changed it to something equally delicious and much safer--how that confident, deep voice would sound pouring out of his lips in a helpless whimper. How he would look tied down, my mouth sucking and biting down his abdomen and to his hips, nibbling his hipbones, scraping my teeth along his inner thigh....


....the fantasy lasted for hours, even at my other job. They never last that long. But I never have felt something that extreme.



And he's out of my league. A million miles out. And probably taken. They always are.
And he's also a coworker.
And I'm just not very pretty compared to him.



And I found a t.A.T.u song called "Craving", that says it beautifully.
I always want what I can't have,
I always need what I don't want.

Talk about being the epitome of my love life and my struggled with my ED.





Which is another reason i could never be with someone like him.
Who am I to inflict the horror that is inside of me, on someone who moves me in such a strong way? Someone like him?
He has the smile of a good guy. Comes off as one, too.
Comes off as dominant as fuck.




I wonder if he'd fight me for dominance in bed. Or if he'd just take it.
If he'd like when I struggled to get on top of him.
Or if he'd render me too incoherent to try...
...that thought is absolutely terrifying.
I hate being helpless.



I want to be helpless.
And I want to know I'm safe.




He's so beyond anything I could ever deserve.


Lots of other things happened yesterday.
Not sure what they all mean.
There was a lesson,
but I'm sure I missed it.
The rest is too depressing or too esoteric to really get into, so I'll stop now.
I hope you all have a great day,
and that your smiles are genuine.

Wish me luck in facing the one thing I fear the most--feeling things.

124.2.
Love the post-period after burn. Gonna try and ride this down as low as I can before the inevitable plateau here in about a week or two.

Breakfast today: 2/10's of an apple, Mega-T Green Tea pills, black coffee, three sips orange juice, and water.


I've stopped eating breakfast for the most part. Up at 6am, and I don't touch food until about 4 or 5pm.
If I do eat anything, it's usually a couple bites of fruit (three slices of a whole strawberry with a touch of low calorie cream, part of a mandarin orange, part of an apple), or else just a coffee with some 15 calorie cocoa in it (this is not the coffee I drink with the fruit, but in place of the fruit). Today is an anomalie, to have apple slices with something as heavy as PB, but I woke up starving, and nothing else would sate. I figure it's better than binging on high cal protein bars at work.
Although, I find it odd that I now consider this to be a big meal to start the day with... Hm.

I find if I eat less in the morning, and center most of my food right before I get home from work, I'm actually less likely to binge at night. I've been cutting back on that drastically. Though I'm still guilty of winding up with a spoon in the peanutbutter jar with the hershey's chocolate chips next to me. I can stop after just a teaspoon full or two of the deadly, fattening combo, rather than the whole fucking lot of them. And I've started to adjust my intake so that it doesn't push me severely over my limit. Yesterday I got to about 900 after the peanutbutter thing, which is acceptable, considering 1000 tends to be the limit.

Sometimes, looking at my breakfasts, I wonder what it would be like if I went onto Supersize VS Superskinny, and how someone would react to my diet. Then I think of myself on some supersized diet, and I nearly hyperventilate.
Funny, how just the thought is enough to cause that much fear.

Anyway, off to go get ready. I have a client today!

♥
PrettyWreck

Morpheus

Vicodin Vicodin Vicodin
Perkoset.
Strange words to be stuck in my head. Got nothing to do with them. They're just there. Words that get put on auto when you're tired, and you start to think, and you're trying to get your head moving so you can get things done. You try to tell your brain shit--to get some sort of running dialogue. Like providing cues to an actor on stage who's about ready to go into a full tilt improv skit before suddenly turning into a mute.
The light dims in your silent head. You try to come up with a scene to inspire the actor of your mind to move.
....random word gets thrown out. Stuck on repeat. The actor latches onto it. Repeats it. As if it can't figure out what it is, what it means, or what it has to do with the situation, but is endlessly fascinated.
Like back in your Jr High English class, when you first learned the word "Discombobulated", and found yourself giggling over it for hours on end at a sleepover as you and your best friend attempted to stay up until dawn, despite Morpheus tugging tantalizingly at your consciousness.

Vicodin.
Vicodin.
Morpheus.
...silence.

My brain shifts. Moves. Falls still.
Perfect meditation, if it were purposeful. The sounds of the closed circuit televisions hum around me in the office. The only interruption to the steady hum the "tap tap--pause--taptaptap...tap tap," of my fingers on the keyboard as I type. I feel as if I should be a writer in some new age movie. Rather than a type writer and a cigarette, I hold a laptop and an organic orange juice. Give me a trendy cup of nonfat soy mocha, double shot of espresso, and I'd rank right up there with...well...are there any trend-fag famous writers yet?




Screw that.
I'd rather be a Stein or a Longfellow. Or a Hemmingway. Drunk, miserable, long lived, and brilliant.
Tortured.
But brilliant.



My sleep has suffered.
I don't know why I do it to myself.
Three hours a night. On purpose.
I could have gotten more.
But I didn't.
I see the time slipping by.
But I don't heed it.
Hour
by hour
by painstaking hour.
My eyes start to blur.
My lids start to tremble.
Head...falling forward.......
....back starting to slump.........
.......jerking up.
Shaking myself awake.
Looking at the clock. I should go to bed. Still finding something else to occupy my time. Something else to make the day less hollow.
Three hours of sleep is enough, right?




Hands pressed to a stomach that's flattening.
Eyes glued to this screen like a magnet, mind blank, leaving me all too aware of my body.
The way my collar feels against my throat
or how the skin feels, there, tingling, making me want to grab at it. Wrap my hand around it and protect it, because I can feel the air brushing the skin, heightening the phobia of being touched over my jugular.
Eyelashes tangling with each stuttered blink, off rhythm, feeling like spiderwebs at the corners. Work pants rubbing hipbones that feel sharper, irritating against the thick fabric and sharp edged belt. Shoes heavy (two pounds, according to the scale at work), dangling, twitching, laces loose. Neck...neck uncomfortable. Always uncomfortable.
The sure sign of sleep deprivation for me.
That feeling like I need to press my fists to my neck and cover it. Hide it. Pinch at it, protect it, cover it.
Sure as a single word being stuck in repeat in my brain.
Vicodin...
...protect the throat...
....vicodin...
...protect the throat....
....vicodin....
......protect the throat......

Eyes heavy, the lull of the computers in the back...




I need to sleep, but as soon as my bed is in sight, sleep will be forgotten in lieu of more interesting pursuits, such as trying to decide how to pass the time....

...so it goes.