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Thread: Sanity now and beyond me - Violence Undone

  1. #11
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    London Calling
    February 16, 2004

    I just changed the sheets on my bed.
    I spent most of this past weekend curled up trying to sleep off the plague, and somewhere along the line I managed to sweat out that fucking fever in the process. Of course the byproduct of this is that my sheets are abso-fucking-trashed. So I changed them. And now my whole room is leopard print. I have to wonder what Adonis would think --will think-- when he's sharing a room with me again. I don't think I ever asked him his opinion on leopard print before.

    Anyway. Yesterday I finally got around to going out for a little while. I didn't have any plans or a destination in mind or anything, I was just fucking sick of the color scheme and tired of feeling like the barely-dead. So I dragged myself upright, did my best to look presentable, and headed out into the day.

    This is how I found Solomon standing at a payphone.

    I haven't seen Sol or thought about him in awhile now -- the whole reconciliation process has pretty much eclipsed everything else in my head because I'm a stupid girl like that (-- I can admit it now but I'll still kick your ass for calling me on it--) and then with having Faye here there wasn't much time to think about things. Seeing him.. it was kinda funny. His face all lit up and he wrapped his arms around me in this giant bear hug that was all warm and close and suddenly... suddenly I really fucking missed seeing him around. There's something so refreshing about catching up with your friends, and having them be exactly the way you expected them to be. We went and had a drink together, shot the shit for a little while, then he upped and left again in classic Solomon style.

    Apparently.. he's gone home to London. Took that guy Gin Shock with him. It was sad, kinda, because just when I realized how much I'd missed him I found out I was going to keep on missing him. That's the way things go though, isn't it? So many entrances, so many exits. Loki the revolving fucking door.

    He kissed me. Well, not really. More like he brushed the side of my mouth with his lips. I don't know why that lingers with me now, but it does. Funny.. when he told me he was going home to London and he didn't know how long he'd be gone... I had the strangest urge to kiss him back. Just.. because. I don't think it was romantic or sexual or .... I don't know what the fuck it was except that I could still taste him through the bourbon (no matter what he says) and I wanted to taste him again.

    Dangerous thoughts, stupid girl. Don't cut yourself to ribbons again just because you can.

    And yet...

    I told him I'd never been to London. He told me I should visit. This is just so much bullshit among casual acquaintances except for the fact that the boys from the Last Dance (Happy Birthday Jeff.) are apparently embarking on a British Isles tour here in two weeks and Rick called me last week to see if I wanted to go. I haven't called him back yet 'cause I'm a fucking slack ass but I was leaning towards no.

    And yet...

    It couldn't be for very long. And it couldn't be until next week, either. Because I discovered in checking my messages today that -- surprise!-- I have a gig on Friday. (Picking up one's life midsentence is a complicated, dizzying art.) What's funny about that is that the band opening for us? Is Oblique. Aynn's band. I went into work this afternoon about the same time he was getting back from his lunchbreak and it was crazy because we both looked at each other and said "Hey! Did you know we're playing together this weeke-" and then we both laughed because of how one-track our minds have become. It's frightening that the only other person in this city who thinks and talks just fucking like me is... a gay man. It amuses me further that we've never actually played together before, even after all this time. Should be interesting. I really need to get my shit together and start working on a new album. I need to focus on all the things I've been letting slide here lately and try to put myself back into some semblance of working order.

    I need to call Adonis... though I admit I'm a little aggravated. In a sudden freak girlish twist I sent him something cute and stupid the other day...and even though I wasn't expecting a response to it...I guess I was kinda hoping for one anyway. He's like that, though. Everytime my mind gets fierce the look in his eyes comes back to me and I'm shellshocked dumbstruck trying to remember how to breathe all over again. This shit is absolutely maddening in the most divine slowly agonizing sort of way.

    And yet...

    He said he'd call me from London. I don't believe him.

    and yet...

  2. #12
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    Midafternoon sunlight sprawled unevenly across the room, tie dying twisted sheets in dappling alternatives of gold and gray. 'Girl tangled like a neglected toy, some unruly little brother's stick-limbed action figure snarling at odd angles in the flowing second-hand silk of a pretty princess dress-up gown.

    Even sleeping, there was a tension in that alabaster brow, a potential energy of tightly coiled springs that hung like a floating question mark just above her bed. To her left, a black cat stretched herself out to fill up a square shaft of sunlight in that faintly luminous silence. Everything was quiet, peaceful. Still. Which meant that only one thing could happen.

    Jarring jangled clatter of tiny electronic bells forced consciousness where there had been none, confusion writing itself in vivid neon into every dark shadow of the slumbering mind. Jolted upright and squinting in the sunlight, Loki reached for the offending article, punching absentee-ballot blind at any button at all just to make it shut up. Another ten seconds before she figured out what she was holding and lifted it to her ear, voice husky with sleep and the whispered phantoms of dwindling dreams.

    "... 'Lo?"

    A pause. A smile cracked caffiene-starved lips.

    "... Hey, Sol. How's London?"

  3. #13
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    Soundcheck was long, and boring. Especially after a combined eleven hours on a plane. The stop- start of misfired sequencing, the repetitive drone of system check analysis. "Try one again. That's not it. Try two. Are you sure that was two? Damn. Try six then." Rick, the guitarist and designated manager, looked so serious in his concentration, perfectly pencilled brows squeezing together over narrowing blue pinpoint eyes in striking anachronism to his pigtailed pink dreads. This was Rick the unfabulous, the irritated, the adult, the engineer.

    Peter the red mowhawked drummer was asleep in a chair, drool layering the filmy countertop in glisten as he clutched dead-fingered desperately unconscious to a lukewarm bottle of mediocre beer.

    Which left the bleach blonde blue eyed California singer with his heavy-etched rings of black makeup and incongruous surfer tan sprawled listlessly on the floor. Doing his best impression of an inebriated scarecrow, glassy eyed with fatigue and apathy. Vocal check was the only thing left to run through before the band could go to their hotel, which left Loki and Jeff endeavoring at cross purposes as they waited on the more technical types to figure out the sound.

    She lay on her stomach on top of one of the booth tables, booted ankles crossed above her as inverted legs meandered aimlessly, long braided dreads spilled around her like a seasick Medusa on ecstacy, a pout pursing pale lips.

    "Try again." A hand lifted into space from the floor gestured that she should be memorizing the lyrics by now.
    "What? I like my version better." A feigned sulk as mismatched eyes were narrowed in his general direction.

    Just then a figure passed between them, carrying a clipboard and muttering notes to himself. Kittenishly petulant, the east coast implant in this west coast goth band batted teasingly at a fiber optic extension. Rick grimaced more than he grinned, shaking his head with a tired smile as he hurried on his way. Turning her attention back to Jeff, girl fired off a one-brow salute with a lolling one-shouldered shrug.

    "...He just gave me that 'not now Daddy's busy' look he gives CJ...."
    "That's because you're practically CJ's age."
    "Yeah... to you, maybe. You're practically old enough to be my dad."
    This wasn't true, actually, but it merited the launching of a balled up paper wrapping assault, anyway. Loki dodged the badly calculated throw with a scrunching up of her nose and stuck her triple-studded tongue out at him. The utmost in sophisticated disdain.

    "Tease." He commented, making those famous rockstar eyes at her. It worked so well on the groupies.
    "I know, duck." Her smile was saccharine and sticky sweet. ".. S'why we're still friends."

    Girl left him staring as she hauled herself upright, pushing off from the table top once she managed to get her netherlimbs facing in the right direction. Fingers raked through tangled dreads as she brushed road dust from her black-et-zipper pants before heading for the door.
    "Where y'goin?" This was from Rick, ever authoritarian when he was in professional mode.
    "To make a phone call. I'll be right back."

    Echoing bootsteps carried her down the back stairs into the bathroom alley, where the payphones were. It was Loki's turn to squint and focus, trying to apply minimalistic American skills to a European payphone. Once she got it worked out, a call was being put through to the Strand Hotel.

    "Um... hey. I need to reach one of your guests."
    "Yes. His name is Solom----" strange eyes went wide. "..fuck. What the hell is his last name? Solomon..... er, well. He's staying in the same room as Gin Shock. Can you connect me to Gin Shock?" Fingers crossed on baited breath, waiting for the ring to go through.

    A sigh of relief was cut short by the interruption of the concierge desk.
    "M'sorry, Miss. But no one's answering."
    Loki shifted the phone from one ear to the other, glancing out what grease-smeared windows were available to her into the wreckage of inner city London. He could be... anywhere out there.
    "Miss? ... Would y'like to leave a message for him, then?"
    "Oh, um... yeah. Tell him.... Tell Solomon that the enemy's in town. Thanks."

  4. #14
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    Frustration
    March 5, 2004

    If I walk down this hallway
    Tonight, it's too quiet
    So I pad through the dark
    And call you on the phone
    Push your old numbers
    And let your house ring
    Till I wake your ghost

    Let him walk down your hallway
    It's not that quiet
    Slide down your receiver
    Sprint across the wire
    Follow my number
    Slide into my hand

    Its the blaze across my nightgown
    It's the phone's ring
    I think last night
    You were driving circles around me

    I can't drink this coffee
    Till I put you in my closet
    Let him shoot me down
    Let him call me off
    I take it from his whisper
    Your not that tough

    It's the blaze across my nightgown
    It's the phone's ring
    I think last night (you were in my dreams)
    You were driving circles around me


    * * *

    I just woke up from the most awkward dream.
    Well, mostly it was just frustrating. It's only awkward because I haven't slept alone in like a week. I wish that was as interesting as it sounds. Unfortunately, I've been sharing a hotel bed with Rick, the married with two kids guitarist of the band I'm touring with right now.

    In England.

    I dreamt...that I was hanging out with Solomon. We were just cutting up and goofing off the way we always do, it was real low key and easy going. We were staying in some hotel, a bunch of my other friends were around, and for whatever reason he was helping me carry a bunch of stuff back to my room. We get there, and we're alone, and we kinda started fooling around. It was hot. Real fucking hot. I've never had a dream like that before in my life. So we're fooling around, and he says something to the effect of 'so do you want to do this?' (...which is, quite suddenly, oddly reminiscent of Jonny. How fucking bizarre. Ugh. anyway--)...and I remember thinking to myself 'hell yes I want to do this' and I know my body for damn sure wanted to do this .... and I hear myself telling him no anyway. Telling him no because I have a boyfriend.

    .....I'm faithful to you in my goddamn dreams and I'm not even fucking with you!?

    And I know I'm dreaming and I'm raging at my dreamself not to say such stupid things and I'm listening to myself do it anyway and ...there's nothing I can do about it. I woke up so fucking frustrated I don't even know what to do with myself, which is unfortunate given current company. I'm sitting here locked up in the bathroom of this dingy little hotel room that reeks of cigarette smoke even though it's supposed to be nonsmoking because Jeff's always got to be the fucking rockstar... and I've got Jeff in the next bed over mumbling in his sleep and Rick passed out cold on the other side of the bed I'm supposed to be in and...everything just feels so fucking surreal.

    I've never had a sex dream in my life. ('Course, this doesn't really count either. But it was about to be! Who knows... I might even have enjoyed it.) I don't have a fucking boyfriend. (Though I readily admit that I'd be there in a fucking heartbeat if you'd just fucking ask for me again.) I haven't seen or talked to Sol since I've been here --- not that there's been much time between gigs anyway-- so it wasn't that.... I don't know what the fuck it was. Jesus I'm saying fuck alot this morning.

    I think I need to get laid already. Jeff's been volunteering... but uh. No. I don't know what to do with myself, though. Maybe I'll get dressed up and wander the streets for awhile, see what I can see. I can't sleep like this... and I'm scared to go back to sleep for fear of what I'll do. I wish I knew...anyone in this city. Anyone I could call. (Anyone who would answer the phone, anyway.) I wish you were here. I wish Solomon was here. (This is becoming something of a dichotomy in my head but I'm refusing to deal with that right now.) I wish I had a beer. I wish I had seven beers. I wish I could meet a beautiful stranger and fuck him blind ---oh wait, did that already, look where it got me??

    For years I've been able to disassociate this part of myself from the rest of me; disconnect from my body and just stop recognizing the things it thinks it wants. Now... I don't know what you did to me but some part of your energy infected me, and even after all this time it won't let go. I hunger. I lust. I crave. It's even showing up in my subconscious now. It's wandering the fearscape of my dreams. I have to find an outlet for all this madness before I do something stupid.

    Well, that's it. I'm going out. This bathroom is making me feel claustrophobic--I'm a caged jungle cat and I think I must be in heat or something. It looks like rain out there, maybe I'll go soak myself to the skin and hope this burning washes away with the ashes.

  5. #15
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    ...and I don't have a drinking problem,
    'cept when I can't get a drink.
    1078510678 uresbadass
    you can name your poison
    go on ahead and make some noise
    I ain't sentimental
    This ain't a purchase, it's a rental.

  6. #16
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    tired of sleeping alone but more tired of sleeping without room to move.
    pass the covers, please, and while you're at it, could you please believe:
    i want you to stay AND i want you to go away.
    i need you here with me, to make me strong, to make me weak at the knees.
    i need you to leave, to show you're strong, too,
    this goes and comes as often as my little construct of ideas will appease
    the hungry morning sickness of a freshly worn groove in the bed.
    the sweaty slick curve of your chest as it meets with a seemingly stray
    caress, as you touch me here, i want to lock you out when i let you in.
    you penetrate, you punch a hole where the heart's worn thin.

  7. #17
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    03/21/04

    Did you ever feel like the whole universe was contracting? Like it was folding in on itself several layers at a time? Like it seemed to be trying to compact its entire contents into one tiny square inch of space just to see if it could be done?

    ....ever feel like you were standing in that one tiny square inch of space?

    Damn the Equinox. This balancing act is going to flatten me completely, I'm sure of it.

  8. #18
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    Breathing Room
    March 24, 2004


    "I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets..."


    Europe was good to me. The tour was brief but gruelling, and honestly I love that. Keeping up a wicked pace is hard on the body, mentally draining, and ultimately good for the soul. One night in Oxford we went to an afterparty at some club after the show and, tired as I was, I danced and danced until I fell over, and then I got up and danced some more. Later, at the hotel, I was accused of being 'wasted', but for once I wasn't. Drunk on my own divine physical exhaustion, maybe, but that's it.

    The whole experience left me empty. There is something exquisitely delicious about using up every part of yourself -- draining yourself of all your resources -- everything that makes you you-- sucking yourself dry -- cracking open the blackened fire-scorched case of your ribcage and dumping everything out.

    It leaves you empty. Hollow. Void. Contextless. It's like being a shot glass. Pour out your contents. (Preferably down some poor intoxicated bastard's throat---oh the innuendo!) Wash yourself up, dry yourself off and wait to see what strange combination of potentially flammable ingredients fills you up next.


    "Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets..."


    I never saw Solomon. There simply wasn't time. Moving from place to place -- usually with just minutes to spare -- there was hardly ever room to breathe, much less waste the breath talking to someone else. Hell, I never even had time to write stuff down but for a dream here or a song I'm working on there. I'm not upset about it. I'd have liked to have seen him, obviously, but it would likely have had the type of consequences that I'm probably not in a mental place to deal with right now. And the flipside of that is that if for whatever reason it hadn't?-- well that probably would have crushed me. So it's best to leave it open, to give myself the option to dream of things that could have been. That could still be. Dreams like that can't hurt you. These days my imagination is probably safer anyway.

    The downtime that I did have, I spent wandering. I managed to miss pretty much every tourist attraction ever (which is hard to do in England) -- I spent the quiet hours roaming back alleys and seedy joints, getting back to my thug roots and making friends with the scarred slick grease stained underbelly of city after city older than time.


    "I've been raising up my hands -- Drive another nail in"


    Probably the coolest thing about the trip -- besides the whole getting to rock out and break myself for hundreds of strangers who won't ever know my name -- were the shows we did in Scotland. That was a last minute extra-dates-added bonus detour that came together out of nowhere and another plus for me. We had a day to rest for travel -- and I used it to rent myself a bike. Hired some wheels, purchased a map, and off I went into the hills to find the family manor.

    Thanateros Keep is so unbelievably gorgeous that it's breathtaking. Straight out of a fairytale, it's a giant old moss covered stone and granite fortress looking compound set high in mountains that are so unbelievably green they're practically electric. The sheer vibrancy of color is almost eyewatering. There's even the cliched covering of rolling, ground hugging mist accumulated in the little valleys. It's big, invincible, decaying... and beautiful.

    And technically speaking, it's mine.

    I've never really met Mom's side of the family -- she's never really talked about them much and it seems like most of them are dead or disappeared anyway. Nobody lives at the Keep anymore, and while the family still holds all the deeds, there's some sort of agreement with the historical society to arrange for private tours. There happened to be one going on when I walked in -- which naturally confused people considerably, even more when they figured out who I am. I tagged along on the tour for awhile - it's absurd to think about strangers knowing more about what's supposed to be yours than you do -- and it was funny to see their pained polite expressions when I wandered off on my own. (They're not used to having to let people do that.) I ended up hanging out on the roof for several hours -- just laying there, letting the cold from that ancient heavy stone seep through my clothing, steal into my bones and take me over. I lay there letting the sky and the amazing green of the highlands overwhelm my vision, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I let myself think about my heritage.


    "--Got enough guilt to start my own religion."

    <font color="#060101" size="1">[ March 24, 2004 09:47 PM: Message edited by: khaoticbliss ]</font>

  9. #19
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    04/18


    I'm feeling so fucking domestic these days.

    I've quit mourning. I've quit obsessing. I've quit getting myself all worked up over stupid things I can't change. I've quit... getting my hopes up. I think I've quit smoking, too....

    do I love him any less? Of course not.

    I've been having dreams about him here lately. Nothing too dramatic... just these long intimate conversations we keep having in my head. Like, in one of them, I dreamt that he came to me the night before he was getting married, basically asking me to talk him out of it. I did, we held each other. In another, we were attending the same event together. At one point I demanded that he come closer to me, and when he did I told him that it was because I needed a hug, and he was the most available at the time. In yet another, he asked me why I was holding back. I couldn't find my voice or look him in the eye, so I wrote a message on a chalk board instead. I remember every little detail of writing that message. The effort it took, the way the chalk felt on my fingers, the resistance of that brittle-sturdy board...

    I can't act like a whore in front of you.

    What does all this mean? No fucking clue. It's so close to the surface, now. I woke up this morning to discover that somehow in my sleep I'd managed to unhook the chain around my neck. I found his ring on my hand again.

    .....so anyway.

    I went to the doctor the other day, because I don't seem to be putting on any weight at all since my last episode, and because of all those other little side effects of anorexia. I went to see a nutritionist, who of course tried to make me go to a psychiatrist. I had to explain to him that I'm well aware of my issues and their sources and I don't care to dwell on them any further. I just want to not look like a well preserved corpse anymore. So we argued some, and in the end he put me on a diet.

    Sounds kinda weird, I know. But the idea is that if I operate on a well regimented schedule then I can't forget to eat anymore. Most of the food that I'm supposed to be eating has to be cooked, too, which is supposed to like...help me develop a healthy relationship with the whole process again, or something. I think the rationale reads something to the effect of me enjoying the process of eating because I learn to take pride in my accomplishments in the kitchen. Something about how if I become a killer chef I'll gain confidence... or something. I don't know, really. I just don't want my fucking hair falling out again. In the meantime I'm doing all sorts of crazy housewife type things --- marinating steaks and boiling shrimp in wine, going to the grocery store and planning out my meals at least a few days in advance. You should see me, whoever you are. You wouldn't recognize me anymore.

    I just sorta wish I had someone to cook for, sometimes. That would be a whole lot more motivating than just cooking for myself. Maybe I'll start going over to Mom's or something and cooking there.

    Fuck, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

  10. #20
    Inactive Member khaoticbliss's Avatar
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    Number Poisoning
    04/27

    So.. the diet thing seems to be going pretty well.

    My doctor calls me every couple of days to see what I've been eating and to remind me to weigh myself. It seems I've put on one whole pound (oh my!) and while he says he's proud of me, I can tell he's still suspicious that I'm not eating as often as I should. I tried to explain to him that I don't really gain weight anymore since the accident but I don't think he understands.

    But anyway. ...one of the things the doctor has informed me I should try (since I won't go get actual therapy) is to join some online support groups for girls with eating disorders. He started to give me a couple of websites, which I listened to without actually hearing, and I told him I'd see what I could do. Then I told him I had to let him go because otherwise I was going to burn my rice.

    I'm such a bitch sometimes.

    I didn't think much of it at the time. I've never really been one to sit around and talk about my issues, much less with people I don't even know. But I couldn't sleep last night, and I didn't have anything better to do, so I signed on to see what I could see.

    What I found... it horrified me. I was up until like seven in the morning, reading through some of these communities...and what I saw just made me ache. These poor girls...I want to hug every single one of them. I want to find whatever rusted barb, black and festering and refusing to heal, got embedded in their chests and rip it clean, cauterize the wounds. These girls.. they're not like me in that I have no idea where they're coming from. I can't figure out what makes them think the way they do.

    I read entry after entry of girls -- young girls, for the most part, most of them were barely sixteen-- encouraging each other as they embarked on ever lengthening fasts. Trading tips on how to hide the fact that you're not eating from your family. Secrets about how to 'make up' for blowing your goal. Commiserating over how awful it is to have your parents figure out what you're doing and force you to eat.

    And the numbers... they're all obsessed with numbers. Every entry includes statistics---current weight, lowest weight, highest weight, short term goal weight, long term goal weight. The numbers are so random, too. One girl admitted to being compulsive about the numbers--how her weight couldn't end in an odd number unless it was a 3 or a 5. How she considered 103 acceptable but 105 was as much as she'd ever weigh no matter what. Not a single one of them -- regardless of height -- had a long term goal weight that was over a hundred pounds.

    It made me sick. It made me sad. It made me fight to try and understand.

    I'm anorexic, yes. I fit all the clinical definitions down to maintaining a bodyweight that is less than 85% what my frame should carry. The idea of food, most days, makes me feel physically ill. I relish the control I feel when my body craves and I deny it.

    But never because I thought it would make me beautiful. All these girls... they go on and on about how "if I could just reach 88 again... eighty eight was beautiful. Eighty eight was perfect. I want to be perfect..." They called their wasted, emaciated frames 'perfect'. One of them even wrote, "..I may always be a disaster, but at least I'll be beautifully emaciated." Several of them echo the same sentiments, scoffing at the danger of their habits. They all accept the fact that what they're doing may well kill them, '...but at least I'll leave a pretty corpse.'

    What makes these girls and women think like this?

    I don't think I've weighed myself on purpose ever in my life. These girls seem to do it twice a day. I've never had a goal weight -- I never cared what I weighed. Me-- I was trying to starve myself into oblivion. I figured that if I just kept wasting away I'd eventually disappear, and that's what I wanted. To disappear. I figured that my bones were stronger than my squishy soft bits, and that if I retreated into the protective cage of my skeleton, then nothing could ever hurt or affect me again. That's what I wanted -- the numbness. The emptiness. The barely tenuous grasp on this existence that would allow me to fade into the background and ultimately vanish. It had nothing to do with being able to buy 'that small size' or smiling to myself when I could count my ribs. I never accused my arms of being fat. I never looked at my body when it was ten pounds heavier than it is right now and declared myself a slob. I never cried for days because I ate a piece of chicken and it tasted 'too fatty'.

    The paranoia. The way they count the numbers on the labels obsessively -- always the fucking numbers!-- the way they make absolutely sure they don't consume more than three hundred calories a day. The way they're rotting their teeth out on diet coke because it has no calories and the caffiene keeps their failing systems alert. The way they only use half a packet of fat free dressing on a salad because they're sure that the ingredients list is lying to them. Always sure that there's more calories in what they're consuming than what the FDA is willing to tell them.

    It makes my heart hurt.
    And it gets worse.

    One of these communities I was leafing through -- jesus it makes my eyes burn just thinking about it -- they try to support each other with encouragement and what they call 'thinspiration' -- pictures they've found on the internet of what they consider 'beautiful'; skinny women they want to emulate. Kate Moss comes up alot. (..and they actually joked about how one of the pictures posted made Kate's thighs look 'chubby'....) a French model named Gemma... all these pictures of stick thin supermodels---and then, to my absolute horror and devastation...

    me.

    I'm staring at a picture of myself.

    It's from some article I did awhile back in Prick magazine. The pictures in the article are of my body, and because of the tattoos I'm showcasing, I'm not wearing much. A black bra, some little vinyl shorts. I'm looking at this picture of myself, only just beginning to realize just how unbelievably unhealthy I look, and I'm reading over the commentary these girls have posted. 'I wonder how much she weighs.' 'gosh I wish I could look like that.' 'I wonder what her secret is.'

    ...They think I'm perfect because I'm razorblade thin. They really honestly seem to think that if they looked like I do (and some of them already do!) that their lives would be wonderful and they'd never be upset. It hurts so bad I almost feel like crying.

    ...my secret, girls, is that I have an unbelievable capacity for self destruction. My secret is a raging death wish.

    Right now I wish I had died.
    At least then I'd be a good example.

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