You know when you know

Sexy.
A blunt fringe and antlers. Who knew?
Sometimes I think my mind is sprouting horns.

You know?

Or do I? I keep on waiting for a turning point in my pattern of self-abuse. I want - desperately - to be back in a uber-restrictive space. But now that I think about it; I fucking hated myself then. I was 'in love' (infatuated) with somebody who made me feel, through no fault of his own (other than run-of-the-mill assholism), totally worthless. He is very talented, very opinionated, intelligent, and has possibly the best style on any boy I've ever seen outside of a magazine or some subtly-lit tumblr post. What other people see; malapropisms, self-consciousness, immaturity and jeans that are too tight. What I saw: Jesus his damn self. Minted in gold and covered in chocolate.

Was there a part of me, a part tainted by the mouldy rot of ednos, that liked the constant self-flagellation of 'loving' somebody whose presence in my life fed the rot on a daily basis. A constant supply of putrid self-loathing, based on the fact that he 'didn't want me' (he later kissed me, told me he had been 'completely infatuated' and 'in love' with me, then rejected me in favour of a fat-racist-opera-singer, all in one evening, no jokes). So he did want me! Oh (says I) but not enough! (What did I really expect from him?) It just proves: I'm a worthless piece of shit. Doesn't it?

Of course, snooze-fest, it's the same old shit with what's-his-face. Except he slept with me. Which is unfortunate.

Now in a parrallel but also bisecting universe: These feelings of false love are part of my abuse, my ed, but they are also like my love for the ed itself. I aspire... I fail... I feel unworthy... and WHAM we are back where we started: Eating. Hating. Purging. Hating. Hate feeds the ednos. Ednos is refueled. WHAM. Down 58. Breathe. Wham; blink thrice and I'm almost 63. Hate. Rinse. Repeat.

Someone (who I will not credit or link because her article was written in a much more positive context that I would not like to associate with this blog) had this to say of her past abusive relationship: "What I remember was that there was some sort of valor in being dedicated to someone really troubled. There was something very powerful about the feeling of being needed. I confused that feeling with love." 


I think I've confused my hate with love. I don't need to lovelovelove (oprah style) myself but I just want to feel okay; to feel like I can be happy when life offers me happiness! My self-absorption-fat-obsession is not a show of love, of 'I'll help-you-hold-you-guide-you to your goal weight'. My disorder does not love me. My disorder is not thin me, or motivated me, or goal-orientated me. It is a bitch. It is a the raging mess of parenting fails, hard times, genetic stuff-ups, bullying, media, rejection, hurts and failures that suffocates the part of me that just wants to live and be okay. I thought that telling myself how crap I am would help me loose weight. It won't.


I can relate to the feelings of that quotable person above easily. But mine are not feelings for a person. They are for my ed. I have never externalised or personified my ed to the extent that some others seem to have: I do not identify the negative thoughts about food, body, and self worth as belonging to 'Ana' or anything like that. But in a way this is what makes my relationship with this part of myself really tricky. It's indistinguishable from the rest of me. I can't just shut-it up or ignore it because I can't always recognise it; it has no distinctive sound or flavour or colour or taste. It's only when I'm in the pit of self-loathing, the seventh rung of ed hell, that I can look back and see how far from balanced I am. I also can't erase what I've told myself or believed about myself. The hurt of 'you're a disgusting fat pig and everyone secretly laughs at you and hates you and you are a pathetic excuse for a human being' still cuts me up, compounded by my knowledge that those thoughts themselves are 'petty, indulgent, narcissistic, unoriginal' and whatever other venom I can chuck at myself.

I feel like I'm digging one hole, frenzedly chucking the muck over my shoulder, then being like 'ohhhmyfuuucccckinggaaaawwwwdd there's a god damn hole in my psyche!', spinning around, only to start digging a hole through the rubble, down, down, down, flinging the muck back into the prior hole.... then... 'ohmyfuck where did this hole come from!?!!?!' and spinning around and re-chucking all the old filth back in the other direction agaaaaiiin. Basically I spend my life excavating in the barren wasteland of my own averageness. Shifting filth around. So if you came and interrupted me; you would think it's the same hole! No. Same mental muck. Hole number 54 000 000. No wonder it's exhausting.

So: I thought that telling myself how crap I am will help me loose weight. It won't. Not this time. You know what will help? Hah? It's a shocking piece of advice: Go on a fucking diet.

Go on a diet like a normal person would. It doesn't have to be a normal diet (gawd forbid, you have a eating disorder, dahling). But don't let this self-hate stop you from achieving your goals. I deserve to feel better about myself. Some people can convince themselves to love themselves the way they are. I am not one of those people. I love fashion. I love collar bones and rib bones. I want to be a size 6. Why can't I? Why shouldn't I? I'm not stupid: I can do it as strictly as I possibly can whilst still trying to get my fats, my omegas, my nut oils. That stuff. I can't be perfect. But I can try my best. I cannot accept myself the way I am. I don't want to be dedicated to my troubled parts because it gives me a sense of being loved and needed! I don't want to be in this abusive relationship with myself any longer. And since I am both parties in the relationship I don't see why we need to break up: I just need to calm down and let the muck settle where it may.