You had your heart set on a hummingbird. We were sitting on the porch looking out over the weeds to the neighbour's balcony, its hoard of boxes. "It's evening," I said, "they're all asleep." You leaned back in the plastic chair, eyes still on the feeder. Your chin tilted(more) toward the glass bloom, bloody in the shadow of the feeble bulb, moths quivering between. (less)
Sometimes, I'm amazed by my own ability to survive poverty. I'm even more amazed by how effectively I can hide it. Drinking makes it easier, because drinking erases the future, makes the money flow easily from my fingers. Suddenly, I'm finding an ATM, a late-night pizza place, buying a(more) cigarette off a stranger for fifty cents. That years-overdue vaccination, that cavity, wisdom teeth, long dreamed-of physio appointment, my phone bill ... they all fade away, blurred by slurring speech, incoherent as the staggering footsteps I drag through the snow. What matters is that I'm alive, that I know it, that everyone knows it. What does tomorrow matter when I've got friends to hold my hair? (less)
Edmonton's Galaxy Land amusement park, an hour away from our home. I was young enough that I don't remember how young I was.
We climbed into a roller coaster: I was in a car with you, my brother and sister in one behind us. I don't remember wher(more)e mom was.
There were these thick, green poured concrete pillars. We looped around them, coming close enough, I thought, that we might somehow hit one and be decapitated. I could hear you three screaming in excitement as I bawled.
The little red chain came to a stop, and you looked at me, with a huge smile on your face, your eyes twinkling with joy at having taken me on my first roller coaster ride. Your face blanched, your smile disappeared as you instinctively put your arm around me.
You carried me around for some time, my tears drying as I ate a freshly glazed donut. (less)
The hardest part of bulimia is not purging. That's the unhealthiest behavior of the lot. Binging isn't so bad in itself; if you think about it, we have fucking stat holidays dedicated to the act. Obviously not binging would be ideal, but I haven't gotten that far.
(more) The way to avoid purging is to avoid guilt. If you don't feel disgusting for eating so much, you don't want to undo it. I mean, everyone eats an entire box of Chunks Ahoy! in one evening at least once, right? So, yeah, you ate another bag of milk chocolate chips before you could bake with them, but you were high! Totally understandable. Not a sign of weakness at all.
It's not the food that bothers me, but what it says about me. What if someone knew how impulsive I am? What if I do put on a few pounds and someone realizes that I totally don't have it together? What if someone tries to get close to me, knowing that they'll be able to use me? What if I get hurt again? The very thought makes me anxious. It makes me eat. (less)
"HEAT WAAAAVE!" She sang along with the song. She was a classic queen, not fishy in the least as she towered over us, deep voice booming over the speakers.
I stood behind you, giggling. Her manicured hand reached past your shoulder. "Oh, but you're beautiful, too. My heart(more) fell apart when I saw you." I blushed.
You turned, two rum and cokes in your hands, and passed me one. "Oh, you're together!" She was delighted to see us paired together, surely destined to create future generations beautiful bois made of spliced ovum to populate her audience. (less)
Shit. It's four pm and I haven't taken my meds. I take the full dose anyways, shortly followed by "shocks", so called because its feels like I have five volt battery attached to my fingertips.
I've increased my course load because, otherwise, my degree will take six years(more) due to changing my major twice. As my debt mounts I feel more like a loser for failing to get in and out of school.
I'm trying to find a partner, too, someone to live with one day, someone to love and be loved by. I've only been on a date with one woman who I really liked so far. I've been on a lot of first dates.
I hate being twenty-two. I hate feeling-out my identity, trying to shape my life into something definitive. I want to be there already; I'm sick of uncertainty.
As I snap back to the present, the hand-me-down t-shirt and microwaved coffee, I turn my eyes back to the five hundred page novel I'm reading for class. I'm not sure how much of it I'm supposed to have read by tomorrow. I'm sure there's supplementary articles I have to read on top of it. I'm reading sources for a brief critical essay for the same class. I haven't begun to think of what I need to do for other classes or what to wear for an upcoming first date. I sip my too-milky coffee and turn the page. (less)
Kissing was always a formality, like pleasant small talk. Maybe you'd do it for hours, but you could breathe a sigh of relief while doing dishes and clearing away empties, knowing you'd successfully navigated another social obligation.
(more) Some stray hairs and the scent of his cologne would linger on my sheets, my lips raw with acidic saliva. It was fine. At least there wasn't too much tongue. He was nice. He was cute. Everyone said he was perfect for me.
I was expecting to spend the night walking with Clint, a prospective suitor who went to a different high school than me, but in the same region. I laughed at Amy's skimpy outfit with my brother, but flushed when she asked me to join her for a beer and cigarette outside.
Hours later, I sat with her at the bus stop, both of us in need of a long shower and toothbrush.
"Would you be offended if I kissed you?" A smile practically erupted over my face.
"Not at all."
Her lips were shapely and soft, her lip studs gently nudging my chin. Her tongue was persistent, gentle. I wanted to sip her saliva, to nibble the thin, pink flesh of her lips. I wanted more. I'd never wanted more.
I wanted more. I knew what it was that I wanted. I'd never known what I wanted. I wanted more. I wanted her. (less)
[Please Moderate]: tdlecat commented on your post "My Project Unbreakable Submission"
Why the fuck does someone with generalized anxiety disorder have a blog? Why do I put myself through this?
(more) Why do I tell faceless strangers across the ocean about my rape but I worry what my brother would do if I called it what it is to his face?
Why does my stomach turn when I see he still has my rapist as a Friend on Facebook? Why am I upset that my ex-best friend is still dating him?
If I know that I can't control what others think or do, if I don't even try to change their minds, why does my brain dig for painful memories when I'm stressed?
Why does even a good day remind me of the recurring nightmares, of being bound on a floor, his cruel visage chortling as I struggle for his entertainment, for my freedom?
Light rye, black forest ham, red onion, cheddar, butter. I could feel my stomach turning already. I didn't want to tell you I was hungover because I'd pretty much ended our relationship by drinking too much.
"This salad is red-themed," you said, cutting the tops off of radishes(more), picking the stray seeds off of the pepper flesh. Hardly surprising, what with your scarlet dress clashing brilliantly with your brassy hair.
My dress was too short but I felt droplets of sweat slip down my sun burnt back anyways. When I'd bought it on Wreck Beach, high as a kite on mushrooms, it reached my knees; I'd gotten a little enthusiastic with a pair of scissors once I got home. Everything in excess.
In truth, the meal was delicious, but walking to the sky train in the afternoon sunlight made me want to puke, a big cheddar cheese brick thrashing around in my stomach. Although I wasn't drunk at the moment (I still had my shoes, after all) I was worried I'd shit myself in public. It might even be worse this time because I'd be awake during the evacuation.
I made it home and failed to call you, again. I'm a coward. I'm sorry. (less)
"C'mon, drink up" you say. I'm propped up on my elbow, my clothes glued to my skin with sweat. I know I'm going to end up throwing this up.
You refill the container and leave it by the bed, instructing me to take sips whenever I notice it(more). I apologize for getting so drunk; I'm ashamed, a failure.
"Nah, you were a champ about it! I just had to help you balance as you walked and bring you water. De nada." Your kindness still looks like cruelty to me; will you use this against me the next time I annoy you?
Kevin's in bed next to me, not quite sleeping. He asks if it's okay to spoon me, and I consent, hoping it will make me feel less sad. He murmurs all night that my short hair feels like his dog's fur, that he misses his dog. He once again details how strangely-proportioned the dog was.
The next day, I'm disturbed by your kindness and the smell of Kevin's cologne on my clothes. I want to smash every cell phone with pictures of me on it; I want to kick over the brewing equipment that made all that wine. I want to be able to control myself for more than a month, just once. (less)
In the blur of strobe lights and liquor, your little body wiggles, your arms occasionally rising above your head, carefree. When my hands find their way to your sides, I feel little folds of fat sitting beneath your bra, my loins stirring.
(more) I feel the fly of a pair of jeans in my lower back. I turn around, some twenty-something white boy looking for a three-way, grinning. I motion his ear towards my mouth: "WE'RE GAY" I yell over the music. "THAT'S OKAY" he responds. I place my hand on his chest and gently push him away, turning our twosome away from his searching hands.
Another bro appears behind you, and I turn us again. Your eyes are closed, you haven't noticed him. "WE'RE GAY" I yell into his ear. "I DON'T MIND" he yells back, as if I was asking instead of telling. This time, I shove.
Later that night, lying in our underpants in your stuffy shoe box of a bedroom, you chuckle in your sleep: "We're gaaay." I grin into your armpit and hook my leg between yours. (less)
"Fuck," I think, looking at the dusty planner. "that's due tonight. I haven't even looked at the assignment options."
I put on a pot of green tea, warm up some bean burritos and make my creaky, narrow wicker chair as comfortable as possible. I start working on th(more)e paper, reminding myself that I'll *only* lose a third of a letter grade for each extra day I need to write this piece of crap.
A day later, I submit the finished, proofread piece. A day later, I begin to think of how my thesis statement may not have encompassed everything I wrote about, how I might not have sufficiently transitioned between the pieces I used as sources.
A day later, I think of re-reading my essay to prepare myself for potential failure (by which I mean a "B" or less). I'm too scared to. I think of cutting myself to relieve some of the anxiety. I'm too scared to. Maybe I should call my old roomie so we can catch up over my free birthday breakfast at IHOP?
Too scared to. I lie in bed and read instead. My sister just emailed me; she sent some novels I've been wanting to read for my birthday/Christmas present. I just went grocery shopping. How long can I go without leaving my apartment, without facing the world, I wonder? (less)
"We're practically dating each other!" you protested, as if that would make things anything but worse.
"We're not dating each other. You're dating me. I'm dating someone totally unlike you, unlike us." My voice was flattened by the anger and embarrassment of your fucked-up incestuous accusations.
"He(more)'s just like me. He's cold, stand-offish --"
"-- selfless, caring, intimate, all those things you withhold from your fucking girlfriend!" You looked like I'd slapped you. I wanted to.
You grinned. "He's jealous like me." I walked away. I changed my phone number. I told our parents not to mention you in my presence. They thought it was about the fight. It wasn't.
I didn't want one of your sad-puppy apologies. I wanted all those years of my life back when it was us against the world, when I wouldn't let anyone in because you told me they were all poison. You made me believe you could sustain me, that you were anything but a conjoined twin sucking me dry.
Sometimes, when I look at my face in the mirror, I see you in my nose, in my cheekbones. I shake my head, try to clear you away. You have your girlfriend, your supposed mirror image of me; you had someone else to feed from. (less)