day 1

This is harder than I thought it was going to be. Going home, doing my own thing. I now see the harsh reality of what those two sedentary weeks did to me. My mind is once again racing at a million miles per hour, how am I going to get smaller and how fast can I do it. I just walked two miles in the freezing cold to grab my usual, virtually calorie-free black coffee instead of driving, just because I want to tread these extra pounds off already. The healthy weight I gained is already proving itself a burden in my everyday mental battle. I plan to do two hundred crunches when I get home in an attempt to tone my stomach, my most insecure area. My head goes crazy when I can feel my thighs touching again. I'm sick. Completely drained of healthful intentions, why is it so fucking hard to prioritize the state of my heart over how many ribs I can count? I want a cigarette. I want to look sick sometimes, Jesus, listen to me. I need help but I don't want to seek it. When did this start, that's all they've been asking me. Honey I can't answer anything right now, god knows when I'll have the strength or knowledge of how I got to this war zone. Is a little peace too much to ask for?

#rant

cessation

And here I sit alone, again, contemplating everything that's been racing through my mind throughout the past two weeks in treatment. They said when I was admitted that it'd be seven to ten days in order for me to become "medically stabilized." I thought for sure it couldn't take more than seven, but god only knows how long I was torturing my heart from lack of nutrients, not to mention the cigarettes, glasses of wine, excessive exercise, you name it. I honestly didn't feel (and still to this day do not feel) that I was dangerously thin, even though in my right mind I know there is a reason I've been in this excruciating predicament for the past (almost) fifteen days. Yes, you could see my ribs; yes, my spine hurt every time I would lean back on a chair with little padding; yes, I was dizzy, trembling, freezing, hazy, fatigued, the list goes on. But regardless of the fact that I was literally almost dying, most days when I looked in the mirror at my dark circles, sunken-in cheeks, exhausted eyes and protruding bones, I felt as if I was on top of the world. I loved that emptiness, that liberating sensation of food no longer having the ability to dictate my bodily functions, or cause me any trouble throughout the day. I was convinced that even though I could barely get through the day mentally and physically unscathed from mundane tasks that the "average" person (or shall I say, individual without an eating disorder) should effortlessly plow through, I was at my physical peak. Surely. 

Intellect tells me I was sick, but that ana-voice screams at me with serious intentions of a relapse when I see how much bigger I've become in such a short span of time here in treatment. The words large, fat, big, and for god's sake, even thick evoke feelings of physical armageddon in my mind. I fucking hate that I'll probably never be able to accept myself for who I am, what I'm supposed to weigh or what size I'm supposed to fit into without feeling chest pains or having my anemia spiral out of control. I fucking hate food and society, the media's messages and positive reinforcement from strangers who matter so damn much...why? Maybe I'll never understand. I wish there was an off switch in my head.

#rant

"the reeferlution will be televised"

I miss your lips, that one kiss we had was merely a tease in terms of the sparks we could create with a whole night to ourselves. Light up the dro with a crystalline glass of cheap champagne. Our heartbeats in tandem, your eyes on my hips, licking your lips. When you make me laugh, I get that tickle to my fancy, those rosy cheeks and sparkles in my eyes. I love when you spit your flow to me over the phone, your chart-topping voice mixed with my favorite lyrics. Go ahead, do your thing, let them hands go south and don't be afraid to squeeze. Lift me up, boo, let's make this night hot.

#rollup

theraflu

In the midst of all this madness, the simplest outlet to which I attribute most of my coping would be the music I listen to, day in and day out. The bass, the lyrics, so fucking soothing. I threw together ten songs that have been topping my playlists for the past solitude-ridden two weeks. Loneliest and hardest time of my life, but these gentlemen are helping a great deal.

#listen

diez from funkyboss on 8tracks Radio.

god bless the printed word

For so long, the concept of sitting down and reading a book, for God's sake, sitting down and reading it, seemed like the most foreign thing due to my mind's overload of other everyday thoughts. But if there's one good thing about this solitude and quarantine is the free time. To think, to reconcile my true intentions with what should really be done. To evaluate myself and contemplate how I got to this lowly state. The constant ambivalence can often be too much to bear, back and forth between what I know my body, mind and soul needs, versus that sickly feeling I learned to embrace and long for most days. The shivering, the roaring, empty stomach, seeing stars after a cigarette or glass of champagne. Nothing to absorb or be absorbed. Christ, that's what it was all about, nothingness. I felt as though life was at a dead end, and sometimes still do. There are so many things I want to pursue; traveling, kindling relationships, reaching optimal self-acceptance by any means, physical and emotional. But life was a broken record. Wake up and do the same thing, day in and day out. Fuck the serotonin boost after seeing another rib, or my puny wrist bones and veiny tendons shifting shapes when I typed a goddamn text message. The sunken-in cheeks, the dark under-eye circles, I lived for that shit. What happened? 

Jesus, where was I? Oh, yes, the printed word. Books. Glorious books. I decided to re-read a couple of my favorites by the almighty Salinger including "Franny & Zooey" (emotionally taxing) and "The Catcher In the Rye" (idea-provoking). How wonderful it feels to hold that book in my hand and be able to focus on turning the damn pages, actually going somewhere with the story instead of reading the same fucking sentence over and over from lack of interest or ability to focus. It's those little things that push me that much further to accepting the idea of being healthy, being fully recovered and not wanting that lightheaded high. 

First stop upon discharge: Powell's books. In the meantime, Goodreads will have to suffice. (See sidebar widget for details.)

#word

relapse

I want to get healthy. This on-going state of solitude is making me stir crazy. There are windows, but everything on the other side seems so unattainable right now. I often daydream about sparking up another cigarette, or sipping a whole pot of coffee (blackest of the black, of course) again. I love being tiny. I love the eyes that can't be taken off me. The bones. The skin. The clothes. I want to be sick some days, but the other part of me wants everything I used to have: stamina, concentration, warmth for God's sake. 

But there are those days. They're screaming at me. I want peace. I want....

#ambivalence

amen

This is not an album review. I think music is one of the most subjective things on Earth and to try to pigeon hole any artist is borderline sacrilegious. That point aside, The Game has done it again. Fearless lyrics, soul-penetrating instrumentals. "Jesus Piece" is bound to be one of the most influential albums amongst its kind.

Featuring collaborations with fellow rappers currently in the spotlight; Rick Ross & 2 Chainz kill track two, Ali Bomaye, and Meek Mill gets your heart pumping in synchronization with the beats of the intimidating opener, Scared Now.

This shit is seriously more than just an album. 

It's a legend.