so the queen died
serving our country for 70 years is pretty iconic.
First September I don't start at school. I'm so happy man, it's autumn, it's crisp and the sky is as blue as the eyes I carry.
Bob Marley is currently playing three little birds in my ear, trying to forget the fact I'm going to work and take advantage of the fact I'm feeling something other than depressed.
I'd say jazz music wasn't as successful as chocolate, but jazz music has less calories. The smell of coconut was equally as desirable, so was iced coffee and the painful pleasure from plucking the skin off my lips. Christmas is an unlikeable holiday of mine, birthdays even worse and Halloween is just a must have religion in itself...I can be anyone.
I love sex, a little too much. I love being touched and the way my body jolts at tickles by the end of his fingertips. I've been taught sex isn't an outside feeling that I was tricked at fifteen. Unloved and truly abused from what I thought the purpose of sex meant. I don't blame Alex, we were both learning. I don't think I hate him anymore for what he did.
I like my body. I've found a method to mould my thoughts into believing my arms fit perfection and love the muscles that remain in my legs. Although I'm a lot weaker than I used to be. Since stopping dance, and my freedom to food, my legs part a little, similarly to the way my lips curl when I sleep. But I love the way my feet don't fill my moms shoes, equally how they overlap the edges of her heels. I love how it feels to outgrow parts of her.
I still hate my forehead.
I control where I am and how I am at all times. The shift of responsibilities are so drastic nowadays. How I get place from place, money, the concept of time. It's all so overrated. And it's all down to me, unmonitored and unsupervised. But I love college. I do love parts of this time in my life.
However, I don't love the way I spiral. I don't love the way I lose control of my mind. I don't like bingeing with food I can't fit in my body. It's exhausting, but I can't help it. I don't like the way it burns the skin of my throat to throw it back up to the surface. I don't like the guilt. I want to hate food. I want to not enjoy sugar the way I do. I want to find another binge. I want to be happy enough not to be addicted to anything.
I know how bad it is. I realise the way my heart palpitates at a different rhythm to before I entertain bingeing. I hate the fact I'm not able to control it, I'm disgusted quite frankly. Therapists don't help because they ask me what they could help me with, what I'd like them to do. I'm not able to respond with the right answer, as I'm in utter disguise to how the fuck I'm supposed to help myself.
I can't speak to my dad. He wouldn't understand how serious this is, how serious I've realised it's becoming. How long I've been doing it. I can't speak to someone at college, I could be referred to a clinic. I can't speak to my friends. If I'm honest I'm starting to realise my favourite people are turning into lessons of the future.
I quit my job.
I wasn't getting paid enough, and the managers didn't value my commitment to becoming vulnerable on the way home every night.
I really like facing the opposite way to where I'm going on a train. I like the mesmerising feeling of the unknown, unplanned, unpredictable. I admitted my eating disorder to Emily yesterday, I can't tell you how painfully degrading yet utterly relieving it was. I hated for her to think of me as weak, as anything but superior to her small world - like a mother she no longer has. I forgot to be her sister. She's growing up, of course she speaks about boys and sex and the world. She's not the girl I thought of years ago, sitting there speaking to her genuinely, watching her face form into a smile - her smile is no longer the same, neither are her eyes. I'd forgotten to watch her grow as my sister, I'd forgotten to speak as much as listen. I'd forgotten to but in to her excitement and ask what he looks like, bicker about stealing my clothes or cry over something utterly stupid. I'd forgotten to mention that stripes and spots don't go, I'd forgot to emphasise how perfect her body looks in dresses, how pretty her hair was tied up. I forgot to learn her, I forgot to be with her. I forgot to enjoy my sister, I forgot to love the time I got with her. No matter how little, no matter how petty.
Because that's what we should have been, as children... perfectly petty.
