FLUX. (seasand) wrote in ed_ucate,

There is nowhere to start because I find this has no end. my body is still unsatisfactory.

I hate and love food, stuff myself and starve myself, fuck and die, fuck and die, I am unhealthy, ruining my insides, and often times I wish I could turn myself inside out, putting my gallbladder and spleen to use as a shield for my imperative belly button, epidermis, pores and freckles.

I look giant or miniscule and fluctuate all the time. I eat 200 calories a day or 7,000, and still can’t find balance. Every pound a glory or a death, and these days I keep the scale shoved far back behind the pile of towels and strewn underwear, so that I can grasp at scraps of sanity, but I can’t go on much more this way, and often times when gagging from the constant unending nausea that follows most meals, I wretch so hard that my field of vision fills with what looks to be crushed stars, or sparkling bits of electric ash, and I fear I’ll fall backwards into the bathtub and leave only impact marks that look like dripping poppies.

“Here Lies your girl: Death by Food, or Lack there of, Depending on the day.”

I sat facing my lover on the couch last night, at nearly 1 a.m., snot trickling from my nose and eyes bloodshot, telling him I was so horrified of food, and of no food, and of food situations, and my insides, and my outsides, that I wanted to kill myself, and I felt as drastic as I did at fourteen about the whole matter. Asking him to keep me from myself. Begging him to give me directives constantly about what to eat, how to eat, where to eat, how many bites to take, when to begin taking the bites, whether to fast, give up, start over, grow as big as a house, shrink as small as a thimble. I demanded in sobs that he tell me exactly what and how to do, and wouldn’t raise my eyes to look at him, I felt wrecked because I had failed my current regimen of cleansing and fasting. wrecked to my fingertips and split ends.

what do the words “Just So.” mean? why do they always apply, to me, my undertakings, my expectations. What are rituals? Where were they conjured and where did they start? And why at four did I insist on spinning six times before entering my bath, and why at 21 do I comment that bread crust makes your hair curl, and why can no food be hot, and no food be cold, and everything must be luke warm, except water, which must be mixed with ice or I won’t touch it, and why must I sniff tomatoes before eating them, and why can I only eat yogurt with teaspoons not table spoons, and why my compulsions to eat seafood because it repulses me the same why I feel compelled to eat cockroaches whenever I spot them because I loathe and fear them . . .

and why this fear of lettuce? always hearing my mother speak too loud in a cafe when I was a girl: “it goes right through you, makes me run to the bathroom” whenever I view it, I hear her voice, her tight, brassy voice “goes right through you.” and I think of lettuce in my colon and won’t even look at the stuff and feel my stomach flip when I watch someone eat it, and pickles are safe food, and olives are safe food (except black because they taste vaguely of mint and pine and I don’t know why)

and I must inspect every label, and ask for nutritional information at every restaurant (not to check calories, oh no, no no) to obsessively scan every ingredient in every dish I plan to eat for MSG, which I fear more than rats, or car crashes, or sudden death, or atheist schools of thought, or being locked in a box, or having my throat slit, or oceans where you can see no land, above and beyond and stronger and more vivid than all of those is my fear of MSG. Because of the day it was explained to me and the word “savory” was used and I thought of syrupy asian food on a buffet tray and imagined my brain being manipulated by chemical savoriness, and I quivered and wanted to clean myself out so well that I only vomited greenish yellow bile just to know I was truly empty of it all.

and they pump me from age fourteen on with red pills, yellow and green pills, stark white pills, beige pills, bright baby blue pills, peach pills, me pills, you pills, in a box with a fox pills, always pills from morning to night pills, wake up pills, go to bed pills, reuptake pills, and maybe a shot or a shock, but I’m no crazy, no more than any other crazy, and no pill ever made me give up on food.

you say you hate food, but you don’t hate food, you love food, you fear food, and no little pill fixes that. no little pill gives you a new way to survive.

do you know when I’m the most healthy? Do you know when I’m the most okay?

When I keep a notebook full of my daily intake, every day, and every bite, and every finger grazed across the whip cream goes in that book, and I count.

I count, every 50 calories is a point, and I’m aloud so many points a day, and I measure, table and tea spoons, ounces and servings, bites and licks, sniffs and sips. and if I am good, I am good, and if I am bad, I am bad, and if I cannot keep this journal, this diary (with my green pen, with the fluid ink that I don’t have to press too hard with) I gorge or starve and cannot keep myself sane. And will it always be this way? I can’t say.

but I won’t ever be diagnosed again, because my daddy is the Diagnostic King, and my favorite book was the DSM from the time I was big enough to drag the book down and cart it off under a table where I wouldn’t be disturbed and read the words I knew “female, time, sex, attention, persons, the, and, them, “

and daddy what is this word?


and daddy what is this word?


and daddy what is this word?


and daddy what is this word?


and soon I wore my diagnoses so heavy, so proud, a project for my daddy, a worry for my daddy, and daddy what is this symptom? and daddy what is this side effect, and daddy another pill please.

no I won’t be diagnosed, and I say that with much less passion or fervor than expected, I cannot survive more diagnosis, and if my life is ordered and I cripple myself with “Just So-ish” standards, and ritualistic bullshit, fine fine fine with me. I choose that. I choose a notebook in my pocket with “two finger fulls cream cheese- 2.5 points”.

It will even out. I have this man, my foolish (or holy) man, who loves me.

Can you imagine a man seeing all this on paper, and seeing it all day to day, real and bloated and putrid in his face, and choosing it? Choosing it for life.

He is crazy. I am blessed.

so is he, he’s a freak too. But mine. and all of you too, my freaks and heroes.

it’s too early, and too late together, I should leave you with a bit of song, but tonight I hate pretty packages, I hate all my good endings, I hate all my shams.

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