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100 Things
DiaryReviews!
03.03.04 + 4:59 p.m.
This is adjustment. You had discarded your favorite disguise for a time, and put it on again to discover that moths have eaten through the most protective areas. Your former tricks of smoke and mirrors have revealed themselves to be nothing more than that … smoke and mirrors. You reach for your tools with the familiar automatic blindness and robotically go through the motions of mask and magic, expecting the usual relief. But when the act is done, you are just sad and heavy. You have lost your blindness. You never thought it would be so painful to lose the negative.
This awareness is a good thing you remind yourself. It is almost good that you attempted to restage your old act of shooting yourself out of a cannon. It’s good, because this time you could hear yourself screaming, you felt anger and anxiety in anticipation of the impending crash-landing, you felt something. You still feel the Something.
You drag your limbless body up the stairs from the subway to the street level, where you wait for the bus and watch the peoplethings roll across traffic lanes. Your stomach feels like a bucket of rocks suspended by chains from your shoulders. You don’t feel your feet treading the ground. You can’t decide whether your hair against your neck is soft or prickly.
At the same time, everything is a little bit exquisite.
You have been betrayed by your own artifice, and flounder for cover. In the meantime, you are left with what? A mouthful of cavities. An acid-scalded throat that stings with the contact of red wine. A stomach that hates food, and doesn’t know what to do with it. A head that despises the sleep your body begs for. Eyes that can barely see your own image unless its being warped by a funhouse mirror. An insatiable loneliness from which you once distracted yourself by continually gorging and siphoning from your gut. You don’t remember ordering these things, but you must have signed for them, because here they are in a tightly wrapped package.
How do you fix this? You think that sleep might seem more welcoming if there was another person in your bed whose belly you could drape your arm over, but that wouldn’t take care of everything. You’re wise enough to know that. In the meantime, you are left with the meantime.
You wait for the scar tissue to heal. In the meantime, you trade your old disguise for a new one consisting of second-person narrative and overdone metaphor that’s been smeared on with a trowel. Haw haw.
Listen to your voice.
One more thing, please:
BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS! BULIMIA TIPS!
There.
Now, I hope any of you punks who are directed here daily via an internet search for the above phrase will read this page and realize it’s not fucking worth it. Please get some help. This isn’t glamorous. The illness is potentially fatal, and trust me, the recovery is no picnic, either. There are bigger issues at hand.
You want tingly escapism? Go smoke some pot, fer chrissake. I'm sorry. Believe me, I don't mean to trivialize. As a sufferer, I implore you: Please. Get help.
Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05
I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05
Here I Am - 08.02.05
One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05
Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05
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