I can’t sleep.
I can’t write. Except, of course, I am writing. And I sleep some. Fits and starts. Fifteen minutes here, two hours there. Awake in-between. Awake so often. I have permanent bags under my eyes, something the self-loathing of the eating disorder loves to latch on to.
It’s because I’m fat, of course. If I was thin, everything would be fine. If I was thin, I would sleep. The new pillow helped not at all.
The problem with the eating disorder’s logic is I’m only fat in my eating disorder’s eyes. I’m not emaciated which is what the eating disorder requires. Anything not skeletal is fat. Doubly unfortunately, her voice gets louder when I’m lacking sleep.
I hate myself. I hate my life.
The eating disorder isn’t the only voice.
The hateful thoughts are constant. I remind myself they aren’t true. I don’t hate myself. Well, I kind of do but the part of me that’s just me and not neurotic, the little bit that hangs on reminds me that the hatred, although it feels real, isn’t real. It’s built on sand.
I’m earning my air. It’s almost desperate but I’m productive. In an ultimately meaningless sort of way. Is it an effort to prove I bring value to the world? Is it an effort to perfect the surrounds so thoughts and emotions get easier? Who knows?
I do know that exerting physical effort also makes me feel guilty. Why am I not doing more to meet the emotional needs of everyone in my circle – who are apparently all content with the amount of effort they exert? Logic would suggest that the level of interaction is fine. But then what would I do with the stick?
Stuff, however, is getting done. Closets are organized to pristine beauty. I’ve attacked the garage, the storeroom, the spare rooms, and my own spaces. Junk is gone. Some junk is gone. There’s always more. Culling is hard for the sentimental. But hooks and shelves and storage has been added. I’m moving towards the “after” photo although my half-hearted efforts at minimalism are doomed.
I like stuff.
Source of another stick. You know, failure as a person, destroying the planet. That kind of thing. It’s hard when you’re always wrong. It would be nice if the effort I put into correcting thoughts showed up as cut biceps.
I made my mother cry yesterday. That was perfect. That stick is enormous. I’ve been picking on her lately. I don’t know why.
She called and asked how I was. I told her I had a bit of a headache. I’d had exactly zero sleep the night before (this is part of my justification). She made some crack about me being hungover and I lost it. It’s a whole bunch of things and I just couldn’t.
What a thing to say! I said. Why would you say something like that to me?
Of course, it was a joke. She didn’t mean anything. But I upset her. I apologized. She apologized. I said I was sorry; I blamed the shortness on the depression, which is true. I said she couldn’t have known, which is untrue, which she admitted. Everyone knows I’m struggling. But depression is on the inside and people can’t see it.
Maybe that’s why part of me was hoping the cancer had come back. Cancer is something people understand. They get it, sort of. With depression, when it flares, when I struggle, there’s an element of “still” from the world. You’re still depressed?
No one asks if you still have cancer. But, no phone call. Three days. When the news is bad, the response is prompt. So, no news is good news, for all my anxiety is trying to tell me that the news is, in fact, so bad, the doctors have never encountered anything like it and are struggling to figure out a way to communicate the truth. Or that maybe the results fell off the table and are hiding under the laboratory desks, where they’ll be discovered in a few weeks by a conscientious janitor.
I always wondered what those belated discoveries of things under desks and shelves said about the general cleaning protocols, but that never comes up in movies.
Physical illness offers not only understandable excuses but a potential way out. I’m tired. I had a good week which turned out to be the eye of my particular storm. Talk about cruel. Hopes rise only to be dashed on the rocks of reality.
I hate myself today. I hate everything about myself. Every atom. The way I look, the way I think, my life, my lack of talent for anything, my failure as a human. The thoughts circle as I walk, as I sit, as I obsessively check for rib bones, as I paint the rocks, and organize the kitchen cupboards, and go for walks, and sit outside and take in the fresh air.
The meds aren’t working, the talking isn’t working, the doing what I’m supposed to do isn’t working and the possibility of living for another fifty years feeling this way every day is dire.
And boring. Back here again. I bet diabetics get incredibly bored. Chronic is difficult. Battle fatigue is just one of reasons.
Maybe I just need to develop a good snarl.