Ah... Man, Luke is on heat... for the last week or so. Timing not so good. I keep sayyyin', I'm so fucken constipated, man, I can hardly sit, he's like, oh whatever, I'ma fuck you anyway. He's so good, I just turn to jelly. I can't say no to that bitch. I woke up this morning and he already had a finger in my ass. I was like, oof, okaaaay! Yeeehhaaaa, let's go. Ride me. Haha. To be honest, the fucking is kinda helping to get things moving, but not enough. I feel so sick and bloated and gross. And not to mention while trying to push that shit out I feel like I could pass out. Shit, that's how Elvis died, right there. But I hate the needing to go to the toilet right after fucking, because I'd rather just be lazy for a bit. Like, I don't have the energy to try to shit after that. Egh. Really annoying. It's gotta come out sooner or later. I have a fucking brick in there.
God. That isn't even the hardest thing about recovery. I feel so sick after eating, and during, and last night, I started feeling sick just knowing that I was about to eat.
Right. Well, the following writing, I actually wrote last night but then got distracted chatting to Dustin and then went and fucked off in the middle of that conversation and god, you know, I never finish anything. Actually I've written about five entries that I've not finished and not posted. Most of them are sexual; like I said, Luke is on heat, so I have a lot of material to work with, here. But I don't want to post them in their draft-like state. And I'll never finish them, either, so they'll never be posted. Neverrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Muaha. Anyway. This is a NOT sexual post from last night.
26 January 2010. Invasion Day.
I know I promised my “Beer O’clock Seduction” writ would appear hear today, to celebrate Australia Day, but a) Australia Day is not something I ever fucking celebrate. Celebrating murder, rape, stealing children from their mother’s arms? No. What was I thinking? Fuck Australia Day. (hello and welcome to my values. I don’t have many, so enjoy them when they do appear).
b) I never keep promises, anyway. Why do I bother even trying to?
I was just laying here, laying back here, laying down on the bed, my bed? Our bed? His bed. My bed is in storage. Whatever. I was laying here, feeling hot (temperature-wise…), I was wearing a shirt (and pants, stop perverting my completely innocent entry, goddamn invisible audience of which I am so awkwardly aware) and the buttons were undone, and for whatever reason I started touching my chest, and noticed my ribs, I could feel them there. All the way up there. All the way up to my collar bone. I could feel each individual ridge. I looked down, and I could see them there.
I don’t often look at my body. I do, and I don’t. I look at it. But I don’t see it. I look at the bruises on my body all the time. They’re everywhere. I’m still baffled at the constant bruises on top of my feet and on the back of my hands. They’re there all the time. It’s not a one-off injury. Something is hitting my feet and hands there, making them bruised, and I have no idea what it is. Not to mention to bruises dotted all the way up and down my legs and arms. On the corners of my ankle bones. On the inside of my knees. My hip bones. Right at the bottom of my spine. Right at the very top of my spine. And of course, at random intervals all the way down my spine, and on my ribs either side of my spine.
I look at my bruises. I look at my scars. I don’t see the body on which they rest. Those bruises, those scars, those are mine. This body? I don’t know. Just some awful thing.
…I …I just don’t … I can’t. I love… I need my anorexia. I’m comfortable with the word. The label. Anorexic. Yeah. I can see that I’m anorexic. Anorexic is what I am. I have anorexia. I have an eating disorder. *sigh* I weigh a massive 58kg.
I was ashamed when my parents found me. I was embarrassed by the entire situation. I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t think I was gay. I was just fooling around with some asshole from school. I didn’t think I was actually GAY. I just didn’t think of it like that. I considered myself pretty damn bisexual but I didn’t see any permanency in that. The way I saw it is the way I always see everything. I don’t think of consequences. I don’t consider the future. Back then, being a stupid teenager, a spoilt fucking rich kid, I did what the fuck I wanted, when I wanted, where I wanted. There were no consequences, in my mind. If I wanted to make out with a guy, what did it matter? I knew my parents would hate it, but what did I care if my parents found out? Excellent! Another way to piss them off! Another way to spit in their face. Just goes to show how shallow I was, and am. And how … ha. How wrong I was about everything. I knew my parents didn’t like me but I goddamn assumed that they loved me. Boy, it all came crashing down that day. My little bubble of a world. A nice little reality check in its place. Out, get out, we think it’s best if you leave, we’ve discussed it, your father and I, we think you should leave. Get. Out. Of this house. And the guy on the end of the cock I’d been enjoying? Turned against me like everybody else. Sure, I got kicked out of home. But ultimately, I ran away. Because I didn’t want anybody to know. Because if I was going to have nothing left, I didn’t want to be constantly reminded of it. And I didn’t want to hear, all the time, Aaron, didn’t your parents kick you out of home? I could see it. I was already a fucking freak at school, but that was by my own design. I needed to get the fuck out. I don’t blame myself for running away. I would have killed myself, surely, if I didn’t get out of that bloody city.
When I figured out where to go and who to contact when I got there, I managed to pull together enough cash for a one-way ticket to nowhere. And I’m still. Here. Today.
Eight years ago, my friends. Eight years ago. I had a fleeting thought. I had many fleeting thoughts. Biggest thought was how much I goddamn hated myself. I had all this independence now, all this power, I could do what the fuck I wanted for real now, and I didn’t know where to start, and I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t know why this was happening. My fleeting thought was that I could stand to lose some weight. I remember lifting up my shirt and looking at my stomach. I think I was in the bathroom at the time. I remember the precise thought: salad for dinner tonight. And I certainly didn’t starve myself straight away. But that – I never considered my weight before. I’ve never been told I’m fat. I’d never been teased about my weight. I was tall and … well, you know, average build. Actually I was particularly skinny as a kid. I remember my grandmother used to make fun of how skinny I was.
Writing that sucked. Especially because it felt like I was writing somebody else’s story. Because I never think of that. I tell the short version. Even this version is very much cut down. I don’t want to think of the rest. I mean fuck I didn’t get beaten to a bloody pulp or anything. Just, no, fuck it, I’m not going to talk about it. Now that I’ve written it down, I can go on forgetting all about it. Of course I have to give it to my therapist because that’s what she told me to think about. And I guess we’ll spend countless hours talking about it, now.
I wanted them to notice me.
I wanted them to see the pain I was in.
I still want them to see how much they fucked me up.
I want them to care. I want them to feel guilt. But I KNOW THEY WON’T. That’s what SUCKS THE MOST. I could fucking slit my wrists right in front of them and they’d shrug and walk away. I could win a fucking nobel prize and they’d shrug and walk away. Because I’m nothing to them. Because I don’t exist. And that is what they’ve told me, several times over the past eight years. So goddamn no, it’s not all in my head. But I still want them to know me. To see me. I don’t know why I care. I just can’t help it. I just want them to see that I am a fucking person. Fucking up when you’re sixteen is normal, goddammit. They shouldn’t have had children. They shouldn’t have. They never wanted any. They hit thirty and thought oh fuck I guess we’d better start laying some eggs. I’m not sorry for not fitting into the perfect life they’d spent ten years making for themselves. They should have just got themselves a fucking dog. |
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