like me

In my grief, I have been struggling to deal with the constant triggers that have arisen. Learning to process my emotions without relying on negative body image and other forms of self-hatred is difficult. Trying to do so while grieving around people who do not believe in what I am trying to do makes it feel insurmountable.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like there is anyone looking to save me. Color me disappointed. I guess I don’t need saving. Kindness towards myself would probably go a lot further than a man with a hero complex buying me flowers. I do still like flowers though.

I had nightmares last night about losing weight. In my dreams, I decided it was the only way I could live with myself. It all felt too real because it once was reality, a living nightmare.

What else can I expect with so many triggers around me? I’m trying though and that is going to have to count for something in my mind.

I have to take what I have and build upon it. That’s the situation no matter how you slice it or dice it. It could be worse, could be better.

Guess what though? I showed up today again. I couldn’t write a blog that wouldn’t be successful or so I thought. I’m officially writing an unsuccessful blog. And, to be honest, it is quite fun. Never thought it could be this fun being mediocre.

x

definitely maybe

I didn’t write anything yesterday. I thought about it last night, but played a video game instead. I told myself there is no point. I’m sad because two close relatives of mine have passed away this year, the rest of us are living through a pandemic, and I cannot get a handle on my own self-hatred.

My life keeps becoming harder. I’ve been assured that even though life becomes harder, I will become stronger. However, it seems that I merely become fatter and more depressed. I would be more accepting of this situation if the fatness and depression emboldened me a bit. I could handle not exuding the stereotype of a strong person if I at least felt strong, but I don’t feel that either.

I want constant attention, but have basically no one to talk to about my feelings. Now, I have this blog, but I don’t want to write about my feelings. That sounds hard and boring and like it would open me up to more judgement and judgement’s best friend, shame.

I guess I showed up today. Part of me feels like sabotaging because I missed yesterday. That’s the perfectionism talking. Don’t mind her. She’s a bit nosy.

I wrote yet another post that sucks. I desperately want someone to tell me this doesn’t suck, but how can anyone tell me that when nobody reads this? There’s a chicken and egg conundrum for you.

See you tomorrow.

Probably.

Most likely.

I don’t know how

I don’t know how to keep showing up here. I don’t know how to become a writer. I don’t know how to accept that I want to write.

I don’t know how to write anything, except for the same self-effacing blurb over and over and over again. Gosh, I’m so annoyed by this process that I’m going to end it here.

My body image is out of whack. My self-loathing is about to peak. I’m annoyed about petty things in the face of tragedy. And, I cannot deal with fighting with myself tonight over a blog.

rest in peace

I hope you sleep well. It was an honor to know you.

xo

a complex

Today, my dentist told me that I should keep up the good work. I felt proud that she may have noticed my consistent flossing. I’m not going to focus on what it might mean to be an adult who is seeking praise from a dentist once per year. Sometimes twice.

Move along, Wishbone.

I told you I would write. I didn’t promise anything more.

insecure people

I’m watching a trashy reality television show right now because it helps me feel better about trying and failing at writing this blog.

I look forward to this show in particular because it shows how dysfunctional long-distance relationships are. The subjects start out the season so excited to talk about their fairytale romances. Of course, in classic reality television fashion, it all falls apart. That’s when the vultures circle around the dashed dreams of the participants.

I justify it because you have to be a narcissist to some degree to put yourself on a show like that, right? They like the attention no matter what, right?

Sometimes, I’m not sure. I find myself reading into why I watch this show week after week. I’m smug and tense at the beginning of the season when I worry if any of them are perhaps a lone golden couple who slipped through the cracks of the greedy television producers to find their way to some rare moment of true love, projected to a world of lonely viewers to watch longingly and resentfully. Luckily, we are now in the comfortable stages where dysfunction has emerged.

I don’t have to read into all of this, but I keep going back to it. Truthfully, I don’t think that I could ever fall in love. I don’t think that anyone could ever fall in love with me. I imagine it, but I don’t ever believe it.

I feel like I just punched myself in the gut right now, so I’ll have to stop and let my nerves settle.

streaky windows

I don’t want to write at all, but I have a decent streak going here. What’s the point of writing something so mediocre though? Even for the Goddess of Mediocrity?

I guess that was my point though, right?

Let it be mediocre. At least, you’re trying each and every day.

somebody I love is very ill

I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders and it is light as a feather. However, the shadow it casts on my eyes is long and unflinching. I’m fidgeting in the waiting room of purgatory, hoping my grandmother gets rejected and sent back to Earth. I’m afraid I will walk home empty-handed this time around.

I know I will walk home empty-handed this time around. I know the diagnosis and the symptoms are becoming more evident. The death is growing outward from her gut.

I’m not ready, but God isn’t listening. Or, maybe, I’m the one who is ignoring the message. It is almost over. Ma perché?

I haven’t learned any cinematic life lessons. No wisdom has been bestowed upon me. Everyone understands the type of pain I’m experiencing, but nobody wants to show it. I want to say I’m lost and confused, but I see it all clearly, don’t I?

I’m alone and in pain and surrounded by people that deny their own pain. It makes me feel even worse because I judge myself for falling apart even though the situation is so bleak and so sad and so predictable in the most heartbreaking way.

The Grim Reaper is driving down the parkway. He’s slow, but he’s definitely on the road right about now. I hope he takes a detour, but he won’t. I hope he loses his list and has to turn back to check with his secretary, but he’s too meticulous for such an amateur mistake.

Denial sounds really idyllic right now. I wish it were an opt-in kind of situation. The pain feels too brutal and too genuine. Is that a thing? Too genuine. I don’t like it. I want to do anything to avoid it, but I can’t think of a single thing to do. Except write this: a meaningless, rambling blog post about a meaningless day. Forgive me, but I have to call this meaningless because I want a chance to deny the gravity too. I want to pretend I don’t see the writing on the wall either. There is so much meaning in this day: in how I could hardly move or talk or eat. I don’t know the words for it though: depression sounds too clinical and heartache sounds too romanticized. There is a meaning beyond cheap words and cookie-cutter symbolism, but all I have to offer are dollar-store metaphors.

I can’t quite reach it for you or for myself. I can only point in its direction. I think that is enough as I imagine you have been here too.

getting there

Today, I was in much better spirits. I was able to complete some work. Of course, it was not the sky high expectations I had set, but I did get things done.

I have plenty of time, but I have felt anxious and behind for most of today. I’m trying to rest my mind, so I do not want to put the added pressure of writing something thoughtful here today.

Cheers to trying!

Gosh. I’m embarrassed about how hopeful I sound. I can handle the embarrassment though.

bad mood (the remix)

Today was a rough day. I could complete only one hour of work. Tomorrow, I will try again.

I was triggered today and had a meltdown. I was fortunate to have someone to talk to. I am grateful for that.

I’m nervous about tomorrow. I want to get a solid amount of work done. I want to sleep well. I want to eat well.

I have hope for tonight and tomorrow.

I’m proofreading this and I feel super critical about this post. Frankly, I think this writing is awkward and sucks.

I guess that’s going to be good enough for today: some awkward writing that sucks. So what?

Still there, Wishbone?

I hope so. See you tomorrow whether or not it is a good day.

bad mood

I’m in a bad mood. I received some hard news today. It has been a hard year and this news is unwelcome.

I want to be alone.

I do not want to share.

I wish there was someone I could share with. Maybe, that could be you, Wishbone.

I won’t try though.

I don’t know how long I’ll be in a bad mood for.

I’m giving myself credit for writing about it albeit in an incredibly vague way.

x

Wishbone

I want to write no matter what, but I also only want to write what other people will like.

Huh?

Why do I care that nobody reads this blog? I didn’t make any effort at all to acquire visitors. Acquire. Sounds so corporate, but I think you know what you mean. I didn’t seek anyone out and nobody showed up.

There were a few views of this blog. However, those visits appear to be accidents because I have yet to update the Contact page here, so it appears on the search results when you are looking for this theme.

I didn’t change the Contact page because it depresses me to even think about doing that. The fictitious woman of this template theme is more interesting than me. Gosh, that’s so sad to admit. It’s like I’m keeping the black-and-white stock images in the frames and hanging them on the wall because I think the generic models have better imaginary lives than me. Sad, so sad, but so true.

True in my head at least. I’m not pretending that any of this is rational. I can make something interesting with my life or even with today. Unfortunately, I feel numbed on life most of the time. I mostly care about how little I care. I’m aware of the depressive nature of these thoughts and I have been addressing all of this, so don’t worry, my nonexistent reader.

Maybe, I should give my nonexistent reader a name. I like Wishbone because I really enjoyed that show as a kid. In case you don’t know, dear, Wishbone was a television show about a dog - guess what his name was? - who would go on adventures where he would play famous characters from classic literature, like Oliver Twist. This was not a cartoon by the way. There was a legit dog “acting” amongst human actors.

Anyway, good night, Wishbone.

Hopefully, you’ll be back tomorrow to read some more. I promise to be back tomorrow to write some more.

x

placeholder

I feel like a slug, inching around, dragging my belly. However far I’ll go will not be far at all. I don’t know if it is the heat, the time of year, the pandemic, my ongoing depression, or all of the above.

I put pressure on myself to fix this situation, but what is broken?

There is no perfect job, perfect body, or perfect soulmate. I can have something genuine in my life instead of always frowning upon anything deemed imperfect, which winds up being everything.

I chase so many aesthetic goals that I mix them up. I want a lot of stuff, but I also want minimalist clean lines. Then, I wonder if I ever wanted either of them let alone both at once. Frankly, do I care about any of this?

Do I care about the accent walls? Really?

Do I care about trendy neighborhoods? What does that even mean?

When did I become so fluent in bullshit?

My fixation on perfection is a placeholder for my life. I can’t go there because I’m not thin and pretty enough. I can’t say this because I’m not smart enough. I can’t try this because I’m not trained enough. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

I can’t be perfect either, but I somehow make time to keep trying for that pointless goal.

I want to remove the placeholder though I’m scared.

I’m scared to see what exists under or outside of my fantasy perfection.

Not too scared though.

x

not as good as the book

Life is not like a movie. Thank goodness. Can you imagine having only ninety-five minutes to sort all of this out?

Someone close to me is dying slowly. I do not mean that as a metaphor. She is under consistent supervision and medical care. The diagnosis is terminal.

It is very surreal to see her. Her time is limited, but none us knows by how much. She is also elderly, so it is not altogether a shock. In some ways, I’m being forced to confront what already is. Everyone has a finite time period. Yet, it is hard applying that logic.

I don’t want logic right now. I want an exception to mortality. I want a one-way ticket out of hard thoughts about hard topics that have no answers.

I want someone to tell me the exact right thing to put this all into perspective, but that person does not exist and those words are not meant to be written.

Not tonight.

Maybe, I’m meant to write some words right now. Not the exact right words. Just something earnest.

Maybe, I can meet a hard situation with softness. I won’t pop like a balloon at the next sharp object.

wasted

I’m afraid that I have wasted every moment of my life, including this one right now. I’m also afraid that I will waste every future moment worried about wasting the subsequent moment.

I have read that this is indicative of anxiety and that this can be addressed.

Then, I think about the previous sentence and worry that I’m the only one who will not be able to address it.

The techniques and methods could work for every human in the entire world, but not for me.

Hope is an option for everyone, except me.

Writing a blog is a hobby available to anyone with internet connection, excluding - you get the point.

I might want to treat myself at least the way that I treat everyone else.

If you - nonexistent reader - told me you wanted to start a blog in your spare time and that you privately wanted to be a writer, I wouldn’t think you were the strangest person on the planet. Why do I believe that about myself? I wouldn’t tell you that anyone without a monetized blog is a loser that nobody likes. Why do I think that every time I come here to post?

No wonder it is so hard for me to write here. With all those insults, it’s incredible that I even showed up here today at all.

Here’s to this moment, wasted or not.

x

the letter you will never read

When you talk to me about your meal prepping and your quinoa and your bloating, I hear a legacy of hatred in between your breaths. You sound upbeat, even optimistic, about how these choices will change your life for the better. I could be part of it too if I give it a shot.

What you don’t seem to recognize is that I have already given that lifestyle a million chances. Eating clean is the same as eating less is the same as eating nothing is the same as gastric bypass is the same as intermittent fasting is the same as liposuction is the same as banging your head against a brick wall. I don’t need to try this new thing because it is not new at all.

Forcing myself to change because I’m a woman and our culture normalized hatred of women a long time ago and we haven’t gotten around to changing it outside of enfranchisement is not what I want to be doing with my life. It once was. If you can’t beat them, join them, right? The problem was that I could never join them. I never hated myself skinny enough or tan enough or talkative enough or sexy enough or witty enough or subdued enough. Humanity always betrayed the lie.

It is not about the vegetables. It is not about the exercise bike. It is about how the vegetables and the exercise bike are meant to define you. How you are good now because you ate this, not that. Then, you are bad because you ate that, not this. However, you can also be bad if you always eat this, not that, because that makes you unrelatable.

You’re better than this because everyone is better than this. Everyone is superior to listening to thousands of advertisements every single day because that is the only way to experience culture at this point.

I’ll tell you what should be more organic: our culture. We should grow it at home instead of outsourcing to a music industry that divorces sexuality from humanity, to a film industry that packages advertisement as art products, to a government that polices and marginalizes, and to a health industry that shames those it was once tasked with saving.

Instead, you buy more organic broccoli, snap a photo for your internet nutritionist, and count the calories like chalk on a prison wall. You cannot trick your body with gimmicks or micronutrients. You are here because our ancestors survived famine (by storing fat), survived pregnancy and childbirth (by storing fat), and trekked across the world (in search of food). You punish yourself for the gift you have received.

Why can’t you look like a photoshoot-ready corpse? I don’t know. Probably because your body is prepared to save your life over and over again even as you are hellbent to starve yourself into oblivion. If our ancestors looked like the idols the media forces down our throats, then we would all be dead. Emaciated, malnourished people generally do not survive famines or war or eighteenth-century ocean crossings.

The only words I have to say to my body today are thank you. I know that is not what you would say to my body, but my body has not saved you from the hell that has consumed me. In the past, I would have expressed more gratitude toward the family, classmates, and teachers that humiliated me than I would toward myself. Those days have come and gone.

I’d rather do anything else than starve myself today. I’d rather do anything else than look at pictures of soulless celebrities today. I’d rather do anything else than pay for my own torture.

yikes

I wish I had already written something today.

I wish I had written something that I could be so proud of that I would look forward to editing it tomorrow.

I wish I could write something that would move you. You would say: “Wow! She really gets me. I wish I could write like that.”

I’d demurely shake my head and mumble: “Oh, that was so random! I can’t even believe I did that!”

Gosh. That whole fantasy is such a vomit.

I probably have one thousand wholesome fantasies about how I could be a writer who is excellent at writing. I would dodder around like an endearing female version of a Hugh Grant character while mumbling about how I’m so silly and didn’t even realize what a genius I am. It reeks of aggrandizement masquerading as self-effacing humor. Or, are those one and the same?

See? See why I didn’t want to write anything at all today?

I shouldn’t reveal how my fantasies about writing are unbearably cliché and how I’m simultaneously self-aware about it all. Yet, I’m still engaging in another cliché by telling you about how opposed to cliches I am. I really am not like the other girls, eh?

I think it would be cool to be an emo sometimes. Just in my feelings and moody out in public. Do any emo people ever wish they were like me? Like, is there some emo girl out there who is thinking about how it could be cool to be uptight and rigid and struggle with devastatingly low self-worth? That would be fun in a grass is greener on the other side kind of way. Maybe, we could have a Freaky Friday scenario and learn some life lessons over the course of ninety light-hearted minutes.

Anyway, I didn’t want to write any of this, but I did. And, I quite enjoyed writing it though not nearly enough to look forward to tomorrow. Now, all I have to do is acknowledge and resist my urge to tear it all to shreds.

don’t be daft

I’m so utterly annoyed right now. It might be the global pandemic. It might be my anxious and depressive thoughts. It might be the constant body image triggers. I don’t know, but I need to learn better ways to help myself through this time.

My primary go-to mechanism is to blame myself for the conflicts around me. It feels awful, but awful has felt comfortable for a long time.

I want to have my own space where I do not have to walk through a minefield of triggers daily. It is so hard to work through my inner conflicts when the causes of those issues are surrounding me everyday.

I understand that physically running away from your problems will not solve them, but how can I blame anyone from trying? Staying in one place and working through it all is exhausting. I see why few people choose this option.

Denial and running away both seem like preferable options right about now. Unfortunately, I’m square in the middle of my issues and trudging through tons of mud. I don’t mean that in a gritty way. I mean that in a slow waddle through thick molasses-type mud that doesn’t pin you down but just slows you tremendously and make you desperately want a shower but there is no shower in such a muddy area so you give up on the idea of a shower and resolve to be covered in mud for virtually forever but you remember what showers are like which makes it difficult to not think about showers. You know. Sort of like that feeling?

12:02 a.m.

Just missed.

By only two minutes too.

More than that though when you consider that I completely forgot.

Still here though.

I want to quit already

I don’t want to write. I don’t want to write. I don’t want to write.

I wrote that multiple times to fill the space.

I want to quit because I feel like a failure.

I am annoying myself with all this self-negation.

I don’t like filling the page with this, but this is all that is coming out.

I want to quit. There’s my message for today.

Maybe, I’ll have a different message tomorrow.

I would certainly like that.

I’m going to give myself another chance tomorrow to write.

I won’t quit.

Maybe, I’ll even like what I have to say tomorrow.

Or the next day after that.

Who knows?

I certainly don’t!

Might as well wait and see.