excuses

I’m exhausted.  I barely slept last night.  My brother and his wife took me out to diner and a movie.  We saw 27 Dresses and ate at Cafe le Coq in Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago.  It was really quite lovely of them.  I spent most of the evening wanting to be asleep.  I kept forgetting to focus on every little thing they said.  It was difficult faking it last night…but I managed to convince.

I know I said that I wouldn’t pretend anymore, but how can I break the habit.  It’s so difficult to just give up in front of everyone.  When they are all counting on you to be brave and take your medicine and work your treatment, it’s so difficult to pack it in and see the rejection on their faces, the shame they feel for you for not fighting like hell.

I don’t want to keep hurting the people that I love. 

I want sleep.  I don’t this world to be real anymore.  I want to talk myself out of it.  I want to walk away from here.  I want to start anew.  I want to be someone I’ve never met but always looked up to.

impatience

I’ve been avoiding this blog, and keeping to my happy blog, because I’ve been putting on faces for the world. But it’s time to let the darkness stretch it’s evil wings. The emptiness inside me is waking, threatening to swallow whole everything that I have accomplished in all these years. I want to tear and slash at my arms again. I want to wreak havoc against my skin…the only part of myself that I don’t despise.

I don’t know what to say to the faces that beg me to be the good girl. I don’t want to be her anymore. I never wanted to be her to begin with. I’ve been playing a game with myself, where I half pretend that I’m happy living the life that they all want me to live. I’m tired…oh, so tired, of putting on these blank expressions. I’m tired of lying to you and me. I haven’t pleased any of us. I don’t think I ever will.

I’m not completely sure where all the desperation comes from. But it crawls beneath my skin like spiders laying eggs. Something I need to cut out or burn out or claw out, just get out…somehow…sometimes.

But sometimes it’s quiet and I can stay awake without feeling that only sleep is peace…and then the thoughts that follow from there. But I’m here now, not quite at the breaking point, finding it hard to find a reason why I would want to stay awake. I run toward sleep any chance I get, or stare up at the ceiling with my mind lost.

The world keeps spinning. People go to work every day. People date. People get married. People watch television, read books, run marathons. All the while I sit here, waiting for the day, patiently waiting. Because I have no hope no matter how much I pretend that I do. If I had hope I would do something about my weight. If I had hope I would do something about school. If I had hope I would not have given up when she died. But she died and she took me with her. So I might be here. But I’m just waiting, patiently waiting…for the day I die.

blue

I don’t really know what to write about but I need to write because I’m feeling lonely.  I find that these words can be so comforting, when I can’t talk to anyone around me I just talk to myself and push the lonely desperation into a corner. 

I need friends but I can’t imagine how to find any.  I’m not the kind of person who leaves her house.  Even when I do leave, I wouldn’t know how to start up a conversation with a total stranger, in fact I avoid them at all costs.   All the judgment involved in interacting with other people is far too freightening.  I can’t imagine I’m alone in all of this.

titles are overrated

@245lbs

I have lost far too much to be worried about all the weight that I have gained.  I’ve lost my mother, my grandfather, the people I called friends, jobs, education, my memory, the relationship I had with my brother, the trust I placed in my father…I could go on, but you get the point.

My weight is my crutch and my burden.  Food is the love of my life and my alienation from love.  Not because no one can love me but because I can not love myself.  And this is where I’m wrong, it’s not just because of my weight, it’s because of so much more.

But my weight is the most obvious, so my poor body takes all the blame.  In fact, the worse I feel about myself or my situation, the more I need to eat so that I can hate myself for something other than what’s on the inside.  I’m terrified to look at the horrible person I’ll see when I look into these eyes and see the true me.  The one responsible for the state of my life.

This person, me, I am the one.

I am the coward.

I am the one who pushed my brother away.

I am the irresponsible one.

I am the one who chased after a man she knew was engaged, she knew didn’t love her.

I am not a good person.

I don’t deserve sympathy, I deserve the things I’ve suffered.  Instead of complaining about them I have to own up to them and live with their consequences because I am not a child any longer.

Taking all my self hatred out on my body is such a cop out.  Willing myself into a heart attack, killing myself slowly through food and cigarettes because I don’t have the nerve to do it proper…pathetic, unworthy, completely something I would do.

This is not the person I had hoped to be.  I completely disgust myself, the more I get to know myself.

an introduction to harshness

@225lbs

I’ve been to see plenty of sites with the similar attitudes to NAAFA, as well as to a few FA blogs and I guess that was supposed to help with the self esteem thing but the truth is, fuck, I was, in some ways, happier at 258 lbs. Happier in my self-imposed ignorance. Yeah, there it is, there is the sad silly truth that I stumbled on in the course of the last week, I was happier when I was outgrowing my size 24′s. I was happier when I was pissed that I couldn’t fit into pretty clothes. I was happier when I KNEW that no man could see me as attractive, that I was doomed to the lonely life of “June”, the huge, pink shirt wearing, little dog having, dependent on her family being, Fat-Ass-Pathetic-June. huhhh!!! This was me. *Deep breathe here please*

Yeah, I was happier then and do you want to know why, it’s as simple as this, I didn’t have to think about it. Sure, every now and then I’d have my single girl’s mourning session for the relationship that could have been. The traditional sad music in the car to which I could scream along my sorrows while sucking on my love replacement, nicotine. Then the exquisite something savory in a restaurant of my own choosing, if I was up to a public outing (with my favorite book in tow of course, it’s embarrassing enough to be seen in public fat and alone, worse still fat and alone, eating!) The climax to my mourning session would of course be the sad romance flick, this part is mandatory. Here we get to cry our eyes out and dream about someone loving us. Ha!!! But this will never happen! This thought has little meaning and is largely accepted as fact when I’m at 258lbs and climbing. But at 225 and trying to drop, FUCK!!!

The enemy climbed into my head and for a few days I dared to hope. I forgot the most important thing about me. Aside from being hispanic, from being a girl, from having large breasts, from having hazel eyes, from having curly hair and full lips and olive skin…

I am a Fat Girl!!!