Full of Emptiness...

Here I am, forcing myself to stay away from the bathroom and willing my stomach to hurry up and digest just a little bit faster so even if I do get up and try and purge, the contents will already be in my intestines and I'll be shit out of luck.

Isn't that ridiculous?

Know what else is something I'm having a hard time dealing with? I want to be happy...I even have more moments that feel, well...OK. "Normal." Pleasant, even. It just sucks because I'm alone. I have no real friends. Hell, I've changed numbers and locations and residences so often in the last 5 years my own family doesn't even know where exactly I am right now. I keep running from my sordid, depressing past thinking I can leave the gloom behind and just reinvent myself.

It works...for a while, at least. But then the old familiar feelings of inadequacy, loneliness and guilt come from the depths of my despair and I find myself right back in some wormhole of self-hating. I wonder what is wrong with me and if I'll ever really find someone who understands and cares about me. If I'll ever have another person to share my highs with, my thoughts, my aspirations...I used to also wonder who would be there for me when I was at my worst - would I suffer alone behind closed doors and have to wipe the misery away and paint on a fake fucking smile, day in and day out for the rest of my goddamn life until I die, just like my poor mother? Jeezus christe, what the hell would keep me from killing myself if that was the case??

Thankfully, I found the wonderful world of Twitter, and just go on there and say whatever the fuck I feel like saying and all the nasty little things on my mind as they pop up, so that's a good release/outlet for my negativity. But still, for my positive moments? They didn't used to be so few and far between before. When I was younger, I was still hopeful. I still had daydreams of finding my own Tuxedo Kamen or being the Chi Chi to some dreamy Goku, or having my own English Patient to take care and fall madly in love with...I was such a naive little nerd.

Now, I'm like: meh. I'm one big :-| since I saw just how stupid and ugly the world can be and usually is. I just had to turn my emotions off, become a hardened, stereotypical Bitch, and shuffle through my days. I was focused on my ED and controlling the abuse I put my body through, because I felt so powerless as to the way others treated me and made me feel small (but not physically small, I'm still fat/huge) and ineffective.

Then, I had a breakthrough. I won that stupid lawsuit against that POS slumlord ex-judge/psycho con-artist and I felt like Samson with a new head full of weave in: who the fuck could stop me if I was determined? I don't need anyone but myself and my will of steel to get through this fucking life. I mean, try as I may, I can never escape myself, right? I'm not psycho. I know I'm not. All those stupid hospital stays and anti-depressants were nothing but money pits that made a bunch of people richer and made me even more depressed at just how shitty some other people's lives are. Especially when the fucking medical staff all but tsked at me and told me to get my shit together and suck it up, cos my life isn't so bad and I was way too young to give up just yet.

And in a sense, they were right. I knew then and still know now that no fucking pill was going to make the world a better place - that's my fucking issue. The *rest* of the world brings me down - the violence, the crime, the racism, the sexism, the injustice, the bigotry, the misogyny, the xenophobia, the judging, the...I could go fucking on forever. Why the fuck should *I* dope myself up on some caustic shit just so I can cope with my racist in-laws calling me an animal and pretending I don't exist because I have more melanin in my skin than they do?

Are you fucking kidding me?

No, I'll pass.

Instead, I finally said: to hell with my loser husband. He fucks both younger, stupid girls and older, pathetic women because he himself is a loser. He can't ever be with someone his own age that's intelligent because she's smart enough to see that he's a cad and not worth anyone's time who is not a total burnout herself. What kind of idiot would I be to still stay with him if I'm trying to get my life in order and overcome the years of isolation and subtle rejections I felt. If I truly believe that there's nothing wrong with me, that I deserve happiness as much as the next person, that despite not having any discernible chest and just a small, scraggly little afro, that I'm still a beautiful enough woman in my own right (no more and no less than any other female walking on this planet, at least. Shit.), why the hell would I still put up with any bullshit in my life?

Not just from my fake husband, either - but from anyone? I've always been a propenent of speaking my mind and the more I saw in the news about family members or neighbor's who would give interviews after someone died or was gone or killed themselves, the more I realized there's no point in keeping shit to yourself. The people yammering away in the camera would always say "but we had no idea!" "We never knew." "Such-and-such always *seemed* to be..." Like, what the fuck? Did these people really not know the person, or was the person just that good at hiding what was going on? I'd never want to wind up dead in my car somewhere and have some asshole give an official statement like: Well, she was just so happy and I can't imagine what could have happened! I would come back from the dead and slap the shit out of whoever would say that cos it would be a fucking lie. And I'm pretty sure anyone who really knows me, or even knows me in passing, knows what shit I can't stand and what gets my goat.

Anyway, what the fuck am I even saying? Oh yes: so I've conquered my demons somewhat in that I'm not actively trying to kill myself and won't do anything sudden like jumping off a bridge, or wading out into the ocean to drown, or gassing myself in the bathroom with charcoals. Too much room for error and I don't want to wind up brain-dead or paralyzed.

So. That leaves me with possibly 80 more years to live. Knowing my luck all the preservatives and shit I've eaten will keep me on Earth until forever and a day somehow so I need to find out how to not be miserable every day, right? While I do have some pretty shitty cards in my hand, there's still the rest of the deck to go through, right? There's the possibility that I'll get even more crappy cards, but then there's the possibility that I won't. Basically, I need to just deal with what I have in front of me and what I can control and give the :-| to the shit that I can't.

If staying in and watching nerdy shows and reading random articles and doing techie stuff makes me happy, then so be it. Yes, it's not exactly how I'd like to spend my nights, but part of me is happy and that's better than none of me being happy, right? So what I don't have a best friend. I didn't come into this world fucking joined at the hip to some other person's kid, right? When push comes to shove all you can rely on is yourself, and even that is fallible, right?

Once I lower my expectations, more things seem to be less irritating or surprising. While it sounds kind of bad, and I guess it is, maybe my standards were just ridiculous ideals to begin with. Perhaps I took things too literally as a child and believed those who told me not to judge a book by its cover, and that there's someone for everyone out there, and that we're all the same. Maybe that stuff doesn't apply all the time: some hos are just hos, maybe there is a mate for everyone but maybe you'll die before you find him, and perhaps we're all the same in that we all have flaws and imperfections.

I don't have some pithy little way to tie this up. I probably should have written this in my journal but it would have taken too long. Anyway! I had an OK day even though it was uneventful and I'm slacking off at work. I have a feeling I'm either a) going to go to Japan and not come back or b) become so nonchalant about my job that I just quit. That's another big shortcoming of mine: I'm either super gung-ho or I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass about things. Starving for six days or gorging six pounds of food I don't even like. I really need to work on moderation. And concise bog entries -__-"

Days Off Are Tough

Since I have no friends and have momentarily given up on getting anything that I want in life so I can focus my energy on just not jumping off my hotel room's balcony, needless to say I've got quite a bit of free time on my hands and this makes it hard to a) not sleep all day and b) not eat all day. Ideally I should just lock myself in the steam room for 8 hours and be done with it all but I have to remember that it is not *my* private little torture chamber and really I don't have a right to get snippy at all the other people poking about, wondering how I can stay inside for so long.

So I steamed last night and early this morning and have just been locked inside my room, which (for now) is safe because I have nothing to eat or drink (other than a bottle of beer and 2 bottles of champagne) and don't want to miss any of these dysfunctional fuck ups' stories on television. It's a super whack way to spend one's time, I know, but whatever. Who really knows what's going on behind all these other closed doors anyway? Plus, there's been a nasty wave of vog hanging around the island that's fucking killing my sinuses/throat. It's been so irritated I cut down my puking (meh, for like a day or two) because I couldn't deal with how it was affecting my voice.

You know what's horrible? I eat out of boredom. I don't know what else to do with myself and it gives me a routine: get up to get the food, agonize over what to eat (is it spicy? How will it taste coming back up? Will I absorb the salt/fat quickly? How fast will I digest it? Etc.), eat eat eat, feel defeated/lethargic/comatose, battle with myself about throwing up, finally throw up, feel cold and crawl under the covers and wonder why I continue to waste money like this. But I know exactly how it got this bad: I'm lonely and have no outlet for my feelings or frustrations. Nobody wants to hear about another person's shit because chances are they have their own and really can't be bothered to take on some new burden. I get it. People are very self-centered these days...isolating ourselves to the point of madness in the way that we don't care about those around us. We see suffering and misery every day and are just numb to it. Heck, I'm numb to my own pathetic life to the point where it doesn't even seem real.

Anyway, time to weigh myself for the 7th time today. Maybe I magically lost another pound somehow through sighing and willing myself to be back down to a 00. I just really want my legs to be 18 inches again. How I let them get so fat (left is 19" and the right is fucking 19.5" like wtf you can't even be symmetrical in your failure??) is beyond me and a testament to what I loser I am but I'm trying. I've seen how far I can push myself, I know how low I can go and I'm nowhere close. I need to stop the bullshit and keep going to the steam room and just sit for at least an hour a day. No excuses, just results.

Fat Again, Time to Write About It

Not much has changed since this time last year: I'm still fat, still hate my thighs, still wasting money eating and vomiting and laying in bed alone. A year older and am I any happier?

Definitely not but at least I have finally come to terms with my sham of a marriage. My "husband" made it super clear that he will never love me the way I would like and that's that. So I made it super clear that I will expect half of his earnings for as long as he's in America. After all, he would not be where he is now without my anorexic ass so he can just keep funding my binge food. At least it won't be my money going down the drain.

I had a fling with an Israeli guy for a few months - don't ask me why. He had slightly jacked up teeth, was going bald - well, practically already there - and had no direction in life. In hindsight, it was a waste of my time and as usual, I let it go on for far too long. At first, it was just nice to feel wanted and to get some decent dick whenever I wanted. But then he got too serious, always talking about his parents and his family and bringing up religion and monogamy. I was like, "ummmm....did you forget that I'm still married to a dog? I'm technically a cheating whore and you're an adulterer and you wanna talk about monogamy?" Anyway, he was just a loser at the end of it all. He was fired from his job and lost his apartment and car that came with it. I foolishly told him he could stay in my little cubicle of a place if he needed to, but never thought the day would actually come that he would take me up on my offer. What a bad idea!

He was there for almost a month (with a week break while he went to another island to do more of nothing) and I had no privacy and no time to myself. This meant no thinspo, no purging, no binging my feelings of inadequacy and frustrations out. In addition to not having an outlet for my disordered emotions, I now had to eat with this fucker all the time and of course I started to gain. Damn I'm glad he's gone. He had a nice body when I first met him but after a few months even his crazy abs were going away and so was my fleeting attraction to him. I thought he would keep me from slacking off and getting fat and it was the complete opposite. He left for South America and I was really sad for a few days because while he was a major bum, he was company at least.

But after I realized what useless drifter he was, I quickly got over it and stopped talking to him. Actually, only after he said he didn't think we would meet up in January to travel to all the countries he kept telling me he wanted to see with me, was when I finally was like: ok, why the fuck am I still talking to this idiot? Oh, did I mention he always wanted his dick sucked but never wanted to go down on me? He said he tried it once on a woman and wasn't a fan. Excuse me? Then kindly get your penis out of my face before I bite it and spit it in the trash. The nerve of some people.

Where is this post going? Nowhere fast, apparently. Anyway, that's a brief catch up of what's been going on. I was mentally preparing to toss all my shit and fly to some new place and live off my "husband's" dime for half a year and see where the wind takes me, and now I'm back at square one: living in a hotel like a nomad and willing my thighs to go away. At least I'm not suicidal and I have my own car this time around (not renting - yiyuh!). I've also stopped giving two shits about my job and the fact that I wasted half my life being a kid genius with "so much potential" when I could have just not given a fuck earlier and wound up still a disappointing failure.

On that note, I'm going to hit the toilet once more and settle in for some crap television (aren't I witty?) and thinspiration. I need to take advantage of the hotel's sauna before I possibly move in two weeks. As Ana is my witness I want to get under 110 so I can stop having my fucking period.