The misdiagnosis.

'Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news?'
...
'The good news is that I'm not dying today,' she said.

The 'burn-out' and stress-related stomach ulcer was a misdiagnosis. She has stage 3/4 brain cancer. It is inoperable; the cancer is living and growing in the connective tissue that holds her mind, the rings and folds of tissue that contain the essence of her, together. She is being biopsied on Monday but it is just seeking confirmation of what they already know; she is dying... six months to two years. That is how long she has to live. She's my best friend. She's my best friend. I love her. And she is dying. Dying soon. Dying now. Time has already begin to run out. 'She was my best friend.'



in that sleep of death
what dreams may come

Since this is what this blog is about I feel compelled to add that my binging and purging is out of control. Out. Of. Control. Perhaps so I can hold up my body, like an offering, as if to say: "Look. Do you see? I could not do anything for you, I could not unmake this thing, or undo, or plaster over, paint it up, throw it out, let it go, ignore it until it went away. So I did something, anything, unmade myself, tore up the inside, wittled down the outside, reassambled me. I made myself into something better so that you could go with pride saying 'She was my friend.'" I know she would think I'm silly. But I would say; 'I love you... and I had to do something.'

I don't know. I do not know what to do. Nothing. Something. Either way it cannot change the future. It has already been set in motion. The deadline has been brought forward.

They say 'I will try to fix you.'
Why.
Why try?
It doesn't matter.
Nothing I could attempt;
any kind of living
or
any kind of dying.
None of it will make the slightest bit of difference.
It's over.
It's over - now - though we haven't even begun.
I'm sorry.
I love you
and
I'm so so sorry.
For you.
For me.
For family.
For friends.
For everyone who mourns the unfairness of life
knowing there is no reason
and no justice
and no God
and that we are alone
and powerless
and defeatable
indefensible
and
dispensable.
I love you.

She's broken.

I'm trying.
I know it doesn't look like it.
But I'm trying.

It's 01:08 am. I binged again. Earlier this evening. It started off slowly, the binge monster slowly stepping it up from a casual stroll in my mind to a gentle jog, the kind of unthreatening behaviour that doesn't really forearm you against the fact that it's about to turn that slow gallop into a full-tilt-fucking-sprint.

I do believe the phrase 'excuses are for people who need them' is applicable here. Regardless; I'm about to make my excuses.

It started on the way back from the hospital. In the car, sitting next to a friend as she drove, I began to crave sugar. Coke Zero. Mmmm, I thought, I want kilojoule-less goodness. Okay. No. Breathe. Have a piece of gum.

Got home. Sat down next to the mother. Avoided telling her that my best friend - who I love very much even though she is a very difficult person to love - has had a breakdown (although she's kind of been having it in slow motion for about 6 months it seems) and has been hospitalised, that her body doesn't work properly, and her mind doesn't work properly, that although she sounds almost like herself she is somehow unrecognisable. She thinks blue is red, she repeats herself over and over, she vomits blood on the bed-linen. And I'm really scared. I'm scared by what's happening to her. Scared they can't fix her. Scared for her. Scared by thoughts of being without her. Scared because there may be something else seriously wrong with her. Scared because she's in a Surgical Ward 1, looking beautific in white (just like my grandmother before she died), waving her hands while she talks - so normal - except the translucent line of the drip sways and bobs along with her gestures. I'm scared by the blood tests and the scheduled brain scan. I'm scared by the look of anxious love on her mother's face. I want them to know what's wrong. Because once you've found the problem you can treat it. But what if she's right? What if she is just "broken", as she says, and she can't be fixed?

Anxiety.

Threw the gum in the bin. Told myself I'd have a cup of tea. Opened the fridge to see whether we had the no-fat milk I want (I need). Ostensibly that's why I opened the fridge. Open. See container of tinned pears. Grab. Rinse pear of sugary juice (why, even when I binge, do I still behave in a restrictive way? it makes no damn sense!). Pear gone. Didn't make her not be sick. Didn't fix what was broken. Neither did the three slices of tinned pineapple. The sundried tomatoes. The other pear half. The salted peanuts. The chocolate. The crisps. Or the three chocolate milkshakes.

Dissapointment. Sadness. Anxiety. Emptiness. Can't cry. Empty. But full. Body full. Swollen. Hurts. Wrong. Mistake. Error. Hate self. Didn't fix it. Powerless. Foolish. Enemy. Purge.

I vomited and vomited and vomited. Slowly and methodically teasing as much of that crap out of my system as I could.

Afterword I scrubbed the toilet, then jumped on the scale. Still maintaining just above 60 kg.

You have no idea how much - how deeply - it saddens me to say that.

Food never fixes anything. Why do I even bother? Why do I do it? Why do I make the same mistake over and over and over and over. And she's all alone, in hospital, bored or asleep, in shitty, sterile, air-conditioned, uncomforting room, on a single, isolated bed, trapped by her body and her mind and her leash-like drip.

Why can't I learn how to cope without food? Why can't I be free? Why can't we be free?

Going to go have a cigarrette.
And hope for better days.

shit (I am a piece of)

Wow.
I can't believe how badly I've fucked up.
Was 59 on Sat morning.
Now going on 63.
It's fucking Tues morning.
Stop binging.
Stop purging.
Regain control.
-
I already binged this morning.
And I can never seem to purge properly anymore.
Gag reflex is fucked.
-
So I'm pretending I'm sick.
And fasting until I'm better.
ie.
59.
-
How did I let this happen?
Why would I do this to myself?
I thought.
After a massive night of drinking on Friday.
And waking up at 59.
and being so happy about it
and taking it for granted.
IDIOT
that I could have a 'controlled binge'
(as if there is such a thing!)
and just get back on track.
But I just undid all my work
in three days
-
I am so depressed
mostly because I was that goddamn stupid
so so so incredibly stupid
-
So three major errors
(1) overconfidence: you are never 'safe' at your weight,
it can be regained in an instant,
no food is worth it!
(2) drinking leads to the above and also inspires binging
avoid it!
(3) there is no such thing as a 'one day off' or whatever binge
eating just makes you crave more foor!
-
okay
okay
breathe
i can do this
OMG I AM FREAKING OUT
MUST FAST
FAST
FAST
FAST

The Fuckbuddy and I

Felice Fawn
Damn
Ain't she fuckin' fabulous.

Its 10:58 pm, day three of the diet. CW: 61kg. I've lost 1.5ish kgs in 3 days. This bodes well. But I guess that could then be equated with 'a sense of foreboding'.

So yes (did ya geddit?) this title is an allusion to 'The King and I'. Of course 'The Fuckbuddy and I' lacks the epic romantic content of that novel but makes up for it in other categories. Or atleast it did (but that's a story for another day).Why is he relevant? Well: Yesterday he asked me to send him a picture of myself to show to a curious friend. (Who knows why she was curious? Your guess is as good as mine.) And I've become a bit obsessed with that picture. Yes of myself! I know. So narcissistic.

He asked me for the picture and I was immediately in a flap. Hot. Hot. Must look hot in picture. Anxiety. Teeth grinding. Panic fluttering. Quickly: hair somewhat sloppily sorta-straightened/tamed, cover hormone induced zits around mouth, also conceal redness around nose (remember to re-insert piercing), and hide deep dark bruisome half moons beneath eyes. Tinted lipgloss. Mascara. A touch of eyeliner. The hair not too perfect. The face not too overdone. I'm wearing a simple dark blue racer-back tank top. Gather up my thin hair and position it over one shoulder. It's messy. Hopefully resembling the 'just fucked look'. I don't smile. I purse my lips ever so slightly. Stick out my already (thank nature) prominent and defined square jaw. Tilting my head down to create a shadow that will prevent my pale skin from giving me the appearance of a chinless worm. I open my eyes wide (but not too wide, I wouldn"t want to appear as though I had just been anally probed) and look upward into the mirror. And take the picture. Crap. It's crap. Repeat. Ah!

Now through some strange allignment of luck and lighting I look really good in this picture. Sexy even. Beautiful even. My body conceals half of my left arm, so I seem thinner. The light permeats the gap between my camera-holding arm, so I seem thinner. Gravity has concealed the flab hanging from that arm, so, again, I seem thinner. My fingers, which curl over my phone, depressing the centre key mid-shot, seem delicate, poised yet relaxed, and most importantly; thin.

Obviously it's all fake. The make-up. The orchestration. The breathe held and head positioned. It's total bullshit. Artifice. Artificial. And I wish, more than anything, that I was that girl - the girl in the photograph - every second of every day. I stare at it and stare at it. She's beautiful. She's me. But she's not. Made-up. Captured. One instant of beauty in perhaps a lifetime. I can't believe that's me! I shouldn't; because she's not.

Fuck you fuckbuddy, fuck you, and thank you. Thank you for not being ashamed of sleeping with me. For being willing to show a photograph of me to another human being. One random person who I don't know and who's opinion I shouldn't care about. But of course I do. Fuckfuckfuck loathsome horrible body and face and mouth and neck and sternum and knees and elbows and teeth and claws. Fuck it all. And fuck you photograph girl: who refuses to exist but only purses her lips, almost green eyes wide open, staring, staring, staring into the mirror, trying to sell herself as sexy and confident, covered in grime, beaten up and body contorted, trying to please a person who wants only to fuck but doesn't give one.

Give a f**k?
Didn't think so.

Today's intake:
It was a bad bad day. Not as bad as they can be. But still not good, not good at all.
Firstly: I have to confess.
Must add a cup of earl grey with milk and two pickles to last night's intake.
Okay: Today.
One cup earl grey with milk.
Brunch of salad (corn, soy, cucumber, tomato, tabasco, lemon, pepper).
A lot of coke zero.
Chocolate cereal.
Oats.
Soy protein with tabasco and hummus.
Two ricecakes with chilli, hummus, tomato, cucumber, salt, pepper.
One teaspoon peanut butter.
3 ricecakes with peanut butter.
*purge*
More chocalate cereal.
One pistachio.
One giant matzah cracker with hummus.
... And I still found/maintained 61. Thank you body! (You fucked up worthless piece of shit.)

*do better*

Girl disgusted by GW. Please help!

I need advice here. Please comment, I would appreciate it so much! *thank you lovely persons*

The ever elusive thigh gap.
*sigh*

Today.
1/8 cup vomiliciously sweet muesli with water
1 cup black coffee
2 ricecakes with soy polony, tomato, cucumber, salt, pepper, tobasco
+- 12 cucumber sticks/crudites/you know what I mean
about 1/2 cup of juice (took three swigs from the bottle, damn sugar cravings)
1 honey & rooibos slim slab (about 70 cal)

Firstly, this 'about' and '+-' bullshit has got to stop. I mean; just drinking from a bottle of fruit juice? When the measuring equipment is right there? Entirely unnacceptable.

On a second unrelated point: my goal weight disturbs me. I know what's out there okay. All you peoples striving for 90 pounds. Well at this point I'm a fatty striving for 110 pounds (excuse me, I work in kilograms). So yes, I need (desperately) to be 55kgs (about 120 pounds) which is still just revolting in this place's vocabularly of 'I may have/do have/want to have/do not want to have an eating disorder' (sorry, that has a somewhat bitchy tone but I do not mean it like that at all,  it's just hard to find the words to summarise, categorise or label a blogspace that it filled with so many different but equally lovely people). Then I less-desperately (although actually pretty desperately in the broad spectrum of desperation) want to be 50 (110 pounds). 'Holy Fuck' some of you might say (I imagine). 'She is happy with that tub-of-lard goal weight... what a fuckin' poser.' And you may well be right. Any yet 45 just seems ridiculously low. But then I look at a friend of mine - who I'm pretty sure is taller than me - who already weighs about 53kgs (I think) and *I can't believe this* neither I nor normal society would consider her to be overly thin. She has a belly! A paunch! At 53! Oh. My. God. It's like why don't you just take all hope and let Pavorotti sit on it. Until it has been smothered into non-existance. I mean... she weighs less than my initial GW?!?! But I don't want to look like her :(

Was I a complete fool for thinking that I'd 'look good' at 55? Am I a fool for thinking that 50, when I consider that extreme but no-one else does, will look acceptable. Of course I want to be an emaciated little waif! Of course I do! But how in God's name will I ever weigh 45???? That is very low. Right? Isn't it? I don't know anymore.

My BMI at 55 would be 21.5.
Yip retardedly, repugnantly normal.
And, yes, that used to be what I wanted.

My BMI at 50 would be 19.5.
Now that just sounds so much better.
Just delicious.

At 45: 17.6.
Completely underweight.
And yet, seeing that number, mmm, I get an intense thrill.

But right now I just need to focus on where I'm at: approximately 62.
A bmi of 24.2.
Barely escaping the 'overweight' range.
*vomit*
How completely disgusting.

I realise now that I'm exactly where I was - in terms of my mental state - as I was at the end of 2010.
Completely dissatisfied with my appearance.
As in: I might as well erase my prior HW from my mind (75ish) and rewrite it as 62.
Because I feel like I'm starting all over again from the beginning.
I feel fat. Scratch that. When I look in the mirror, hell any reflective surface (as one does), I look fat.
Yes I'm technically at a 'normal' body weight.
But who the hell wants to be normal?
I used to think there are only 'skinny' girls and 'fat' girls.
Now I realise we come in fat, normal, thin and very thin or skinny.
I want to be skinny.
Not normal.
Not just satisfied or moderately confident.
I want to be tiny.
I weigh 62, and I'm completely unimpressed by that, depressed and desperate even.
I want to reach 55 as of yesterday.
And then I want to strive for 50 and see what that feels like; how my bones will wear only 50 kilograms of bodily mass.
And then I can see.
Right?
What do you think?

This is what I want.
Hip bones that could cut a loaf of bread.
As if anyone eats bread anymore!
*psshhhht*
;)

Day 1

CW = 62 (but just)

Gaga OohLahLah Baby
Just put your paws up!!!

Today's consumption:
allowed
1/8 cup muesli
2 rice cakes wth marmite
1 x salad (beetroot, cucumber, corn, tomato, soy polony, lemon juice)
herbal tea
not allowed
about 12 rice crackers (approx 100 cal :( )
alot of yoghurt, probably nearly 2 cups *sigh*
beverages: two cups of tea with milk, one of these with sugar
observations
I was starving by 'supper time' (I ate at about 5:30pm) and thus moved on to rice crackers and delicious sweet (craving) yoghurt. Also notice that the prohibited dairy consumptions (tea and yoghurt) occurred outside of allotted 'meals'. This is why having a social life makes controlling these things so much harder. Although I only ordered tea at 'lunch' (having eaten my rice cakes before leaving home) while my friends had beer, normal coke, chicken wraps, pizza and spring rolls I still had milk and sugar with said tea. I then went with two of them to check out their new flat, was feeling slightly weak and fainty but was too busy too just wait out the hunger. Then got home and immediately went to the kitchen; made salad and scoffed it. Instead of drinking water and waiting to feel full I just thought 'well, I have to get those crackers out the house some time' (hello! throw them away!) and ate them... I then proceeded to my dad's choc chip yoghurt; measuring out and eating a half-cup at a time which is pointless as I consumed (actually licked clean) the whole tub. *sigh*

Tomorrow I must be perfect!

2012: The year of the GW. (CW@63)

Well. The terrifying thing about this year is that, now that I'm not an obese-fuck (just a fat-fuck), my GW is actually in sight. Within the grasp of my gnarly little paws. I'm still undecided as to what that GW is. 55kg? or 50? God 50 sounds amazing. 50 would mean that I lost a third of myself: 25kgs. It also means that I'm about half way... sigh... But! no need to make a decision right now. Just need to hit that 7.5kgs in the next 42 days (lectures start on 13 Feb). That's 5 days a kg. Tough but do-able. It requires no stuff ups.

Today:
pickle
about 12 rice crackers
about 3/4 cup corn
about 3/4 cup fruit juice
1 carrot
1/2 slice melon

hmmmm, gonna make a 2012 diet page in an attempt to kick my (fat) ass into gear
*I am not created, I make myself each day... and I'm a little monster so I can do whatever the fuck I want*