Tag Archives: self-destructive

The Fitted Sheet

Putting a fitted sheet on a mattress fucking sucks. I swear it’s the workout of a marathon in one room.

You try that whole “diagonal sides first”; the whole “back sides first”; whatever other “trick” you got from family or Youtube. They make it look so simple. A breeze. Obviously a fucking simpleton should be able to get a damn fitted sheet onto their fucking mattress.

That’s the metaphor of my life right now.

I have this ~~life~~ “fitted sheet” that is well-worn, perhaps a bit faded. The pattern is super funky. Couple decades old.

But it’s mine. And I’ve heard it isn’t easy to get another.

I also have this ~~brain~~ “mattress” that I think may have somehow obtained the incorrect size. I’m not sure whether I meant for a full instead of a queen or maybe I need a king?

Honestly, it’s sort of hard to tell whether the mattress is too large or the fitted sheet is too small. Or perhaps the opposite. It’s all just wibbly-wobbly.

No matter how much I fucking groan and shove and twist into all sorts of fun shapes, the damn sheet never seems to fit properly onto the mattress.

I think I’m going to have to saw a corner off. Which is a bit sad, as I love this “mattress”. I don’t want another. I don’t want to really change it. To trade it out for something else. This one is just so familiar, despite the stains and weird lumps and sort of frayed bits on the corners. The whispers in the stuffing and the smudged sort of writing in spots that never seems to rub out.

If I can get the sheet on after cutting a corner off the mattress, then I can just face the weird malformed corner to the wall so no one visiting can tell.

Problem solved, right?

Rose-Tinted Lies

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**(EXTRA Trigger warning for blunt and not pretty ED talk)**

The glow and flame and burst of light you think you’ll have. The silver insides, the fluttering clean, the glorious empty, the lightly skipping steps of a person who is perfectly thin.

It’s a rose-tinted lie.

Here’s what an eating disorder really is for me:

It’s two am and I wake up with those sudden feelings of self-hatred and the flab seems to be clinging, clinging, Something has to be done. It doesn’t matter that work is in the morning and I really shouldn’t be a shell at work. I reach for the pills.

It’s living a life where measurement of pills are dolled out by shakes of a bottle and tosses into a shaking palm. Proper dosage is only “more”.

It’s making sure I have enough ephedrine to curb the hunger pains and exhaustion. It’s reading the articles that talk about it being mostly outlawed because when it was coupled with caffeine and aspirin it caused dramatic weight loss (and a lot of health problems). And my only reaction is “gotta get some low-dose aspirin”.

It’s telling people I love eating hot sauce straight because I’m a weird nut about spicy food; when it’s really because it acts as a natural laxative and adds next to no calories. And loving that it burns the shit out of my tongue so I don’t want to eat more.

It’s the burning and painful tenderness of my behind after I’ve had a particular violent bought with the laxative effects.

It’s sobbing in the middle of a weekend afternoon because I desperately want to bake something (baking being my secret passion) but knowing I’m not seeing anyone soon that I could pawn the results off on. So I have to stop myself from doing it. Otherwise I’ll just eat the results and cow’s don’t deserve desserts.

It’s being a little happy deep down when a particularly nasty migraine results in multiple days of vomiting.

It’s hating myself so deeply, so darkly, in a twisting thorn of rage, for the days after those migraines where I can’t eat enough.

It’s telling coworkers that I ate before I came to work and I would prefer to just work through lunch.

It’s shaking and trembling in the bathroom after those handful of laxatives, the cramping in my stomach so bad that I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.

It’s unexplained bruises and scratches when I wake up in the morning. The only clue is a echoing cry of despairing self-hatred in the back of head. It is almost childlike.

It’s hearing my best friend tell me I look like a pinup model in a swim suit and wishing, just wishing, that I could see myself that way. I’m not dumb, I know my eyes are broken.

It’s hearing my mother say “You would never treat another person the horrible way you treat yourself” and being stunned into silence by the truth of it. I am my own worse enemy.

It’s hoping, hoping, hoping that something will change. But nothing ever does.

It’s a rose-tinted lie.

Third Wheel

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I’ve been feeling like a third wheel lately.

Basically, Army and I are over with. We haven’t even spoken for a couple weeks now. I don’t really want to talk about the details on this post. Sorry.

Anyway, pretty much all of my friends have a partner and I’m finding it difficult and uncomfortable to hang out with them. It’s giving parts of me some triggering twitches and urges to “correct the problem” (as only Charlotte can).

But I don’t want that.

I want to be alone. I want to be on my own.

But I just…I just wish I had more social opportunities that didn’t involve couples.

It isn’t that they’re affectionate or macking on each other in front of me. In fact, sometimes I am only hanging out with one person out of the “pair”.

But it still feels like I’m missing an arm and they’re whole and perfect. Then they keep doing all these things with their two arms and trying to get me to join in and I’m like “I have only one arm…” but they don’t hear me or notice that I’m incapable.

Maybe that explains it?

I’m not sure.

All I know is I feel a bit dead inside lately and it’s worrying me because when I get this dead feeling, it means some sort of self-destructive fiasco usually follow. I am trying hard to keep a lid on Charlotte but she really dislike feeling ugly and unwanted. She always feels the need to prove that she can entice and ensnare.

But I don’t want to. I really don’t. I just want to….

I don’t know what I want.

I just want it to stop.