it would make a scene, I suspect, if I caused among those who are surrounding me the kind of pain I carry (not to brag, she said with false humility, but there’s a fair bit trapped inside) (and honestly, they own much of it). the blood spatter, however, would make extra work for our waitress, and service workers are overworked, underpaid, borderline-slave labour. … Continue reading Not what I want.
I used to think I was a new soul. I don’t believe in reincarnation, except when I do, which then is in a vague, don’t think about the details much, kind of way. I decided on “new soul” because I don’t feel like I’ve been here before. Except I have this thing where I hate my neck being touched. I don’t like necklaces, I can’t … Continue reading My neuralgia has flared up: I’m waiting for locusts.
I’m not journaling. The pretty notebook I use to share my thoughts and feelings in lies nearby on the floor. I’m only feet away from getting it done, but my avoidant-urge is strong, my counselor’s admonishments about the importance of letting things out notwithstanding. I’d blame my depression, but using that as an excuse when it’s a chronic condition is as valid as blaming my … Continue reading Not journaling, definitely not crying.
I binged yesterday. Except I didn’t. That is, I binged, but it was a regular binge, not a bulimia binge. The difference is in quality and quantity, both important factors. Quantity especially. When it comes to numbers, a bulimic binge can be a different kind of animal. [i] I remember listening to my friends as they talked about their pig-out sessions. A whole bag of … Continue reading I binged yesterday.
From Famine to Feast. 