I've gotten another potential tutor interested in essay marking. Tops off my day of getting a book for review, job interview offer, computer training and volunteer oppurtunities with the police.
After replying to the potential tutee, I went downstairs to fill my water bottle. I then realised that my lower back was in quite an amount of pain. There is a local meeting that I am pondering whether to go to. I have about 45 mins to decide. I am fairly resolute in my decision to go. Since my back was in a great amount of pain, I thought it were a good idea to take out the clutch from the shed so that I can walk to the venue.
Upon going upstairs with my water bottle, I saw that my parents were both indisposed with the television downstairs. The loud, ubiquitous television that hides away your thoughts and your feelings. Completely consumes you in such a way that your autonomy is, even for a moment, obliterated.
So I decided to purge. I tried to make it quick. At first the vomit came without even the fingers to stimulate. It was a little trickle of food and then black and orange-red liquid death flowed out, in explosive orgasmic bursts. I tried to make it as quiet as possible but I was faced with the challenge of uncontrollable and suffocating bursts of vomit throwign itself out of me.
I wondered to myself why I am doing it, I'm not 'upset' in the conventional sense. I suppose it's never far from the surface. I feel like its the small cracks that are getting at me. Not the big rocks that hit me and upset me, but the niggling, straining, excrutiating things that are not even on the level of my awareness.
I looked up at myself after purging. My thoughts are so articulate, so lucid, so elegant. The throbbing pain in my chest, the dryness of my teeth and the bitter unforgettable taste of utter death on my mouth. I stared at myself in the mirror looking hardly glamorous, but it felt glamorous. I FELT ALIVE.
You couldn't possibly understand how dead I feel. I think that many people live with this death inside them. This feeling of being mediocre and inarticulate. The feeling of speaking sentences that are only functional; never exploring the intellectual, philosophical or aesthetic domain of non-utilitarian speech. Where our talk and ideas and action reaches and aspires to lofty ideals and goals instead of dull and droll goals of earning money and routinised pleasurable activities which only serve as a spiritual gin, a pacifier upon this otherwise meaningless existence.
The only joy in life is learning. Why does no one see that? The only greatness is in self-improvement and self-bettering. Bettering of not only your own life (which comes first), but that of your community and the world. Where have my ideals gone? They were destroed as the real world crushed and pacified me. Depression is the feeling that I am aware. Depression is the realisation that I'm really awake, and I am not being crushed and oppressed by the masses.
I don't know why I purge. I can't find a 'rational' reason, or even an emotional need. It jsut seems like something, genetic. It seems like something, forced. Forced beyond even my conscious or conative self. It's like the real me wants to come out. The thin me.
The angst that I feel. The relief that I experience as I release that liquid death. The purity it gives my soul.
I am not sure I can tell people that I've started purging again.
It's funny. I have increasingly told people that I've been bulimic. If I don't tell them now, I feel like hiding my secret will give me power. I feel tired now. My body weak, fatigued.
I dont know if I want to go out tonight. I've done enough today. It's okay to finish early. It's okay to rest.
Mia isn't like a lover to me, she's more like a part of me. Mia is a thing, an presence that is helping to uncover the real me.
The real me...that sounds absurd. Surely I am the 'real me' right now.
But I am fat, and inadequate, and shy.
The real me is confident, but he doesn't need to be if he's beautiful. The real me is smart, brilliant in his own little and eccentric way. The real me is thin and the real me is right where he wants to be.
At least when I purge, the tears are real. The tears are my expresion. My emotional detachment and coldness is the way I cope with the hopelessness and challenge of my situation. As I begin to let go of that, the other reperssions seem to emerge within me.
I'm finding this hard to fight. The most poignant reason is because I don't want to.
After replying to the potential tutee, I went downstairs to fill my water bottle. I then realised that my lower back was in quite an amount of pain. There is a local meeting that I am pondering whether to go to. I have about 45 mins to decide. I am fairly resolute in my decision to go. Since my back was in a great amount of pain, I thought it were a good idea to take out the clutch from the shed so that I can walk to the venue.
Upon going upstairs with my water bottle, I saw that my parents were both indisposed with the television downstairs. The loud, ubiquitous television that hides away your thoughts and your feelings. Completely consumes you in such a way that your autonomy is, even for a moment, obliterated.
So I decided to purge. I tried to make it quick. At first the vomit came without even the fingers to stimulate. It was a little trickle of food and then black and orange-red liquid death flowed out, in explosive orgasmic bursts. I tried to make it as quiet as possible but I was faced with the challenge of uncontrollable and suffocating bursts of vomit throwign itself out of me.
I wondered to myself why I am doing it, I'm not 'upset' in the conventional sense. I suppose it's never far from the surface. I feel like its the small cracks that are getting at me. Not the big rocks that hit me and upset me, but the niggling, straining, excrutiating things that are not even on the level of my awareness.
I looked up at myself after purging. My thoughts are so articulate, so lucid, so elegant. The throbbing pain in my chest, the dryness of my teeth and the bitter unforgettable taste of utter death on my mouth. I stared at myself in the mirror looking hardly glamorous, but it felt glamorous. I FELT ALIVE.
You couldn't possibly understand how dead I feel. I think that many people live with this death inside them. This feeling of being mediocre and inarticulate. The feeling of speaking sentences that are only functional; never exploring the intellectual, philosophical or aesthetic domain of non-utilitarian speech. Where our talk and ideas and action reaches and aspires to lofty ideals and goals instead of dull and droll goals of earning money and routinised pleasurable activities which only serve as a spiritual gin, a pacifier upon this otherwise meaningless existence.
The only joy in life is learning. Why does no one see that? The only greatness is in self-improvement and self-bettering. Bettering of not only your own life (which comes first), but that of your community and the world. Where have my ideals gone? They were destroed as the real world crushed and pacified me. Depression is the feeling that I am aware. Depression is the realisation that I'm really awake, and I am not being crushed and oppressed by the masses.
I don't know why I purge. I can't find a 'rational' reason, or even an emotional need. It jsut seems like something, genetic. It seems like something, forced. Forced beyond even my conscious or conative self. It's like the real me wants to come out. The thin me.
The angst that I feel. The relief that I experience as I release that liquid death. The purity it gives my soul.
I am not sure I can tell people that I've started purging again.
It's funny. I have increasingly told people that I've been bulimic. If I don't tell them now, I feel like hiding my secret will give me power. I feel tired now. My body weak, fatigued.
I dont know if I want to go out tonight. I've done enough today. It's okay to finish early. It's okay to rest.
Mia isn't like a lover to me, she's more like a part of me. Mia is a thing, an presence that is helping to uncover the real me.
The real me...that sounds absurd. Surely I am the 'real me' right now.
But I am fat, and inadequate, and shy.
The real me is confident, but he doesn't need to be if he's beautiful. The real me is smart, brilliant in his own little and eccentric way. The real me is thin and the real me is right where he wants to be.
At least when I purge, the tears are real. The tears are my expresion. My emotional detachment and coldness is the way I cope with the hopelessness and challenge of my situation. As I begin to let go of that, the other reperssions seem to emerge within me.
I'm finding this hard to fight. The most poignant reason is because I don't want to.
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