Okay so here it is. This has been something that has been weighing on my heart for a long time.
I AM NOT FUCKING EGYPTIAN
It's amazing how something that started out in such a retarded manner could end up being one of the biggest annoyances in my life. I am a liar. I lie often. I lie to get myself out of awkward situations. I lie to get myself out of anything that makes me uncomfortable. I lie to myself. I lie to my friends. I lie to my mother. I lie to everyone. I'm not entirely sure why I do it, but I think there is more than one reason. I told everyone that I was Egyptian in tenth grade because I thought it would make me cooler and more exotic seeming. It worked. People thought it was the coolest thing ever. Too bad it's a lie. My mom lived in Egypt for like three of her formative years. That's it. I know how to say "hurry up girl" in Arabic. That's it. That's the only thing that I know how to say. Then when I came to college, I was desperate to be cool. I was younger than everyone around me and I wanted something to make me as factually interesting as I felt. So I perpetuated the lie. And unfortunately some of the people that I lied to turned out to be my best friends. It's been eating me up for years.
I never have had a brother. That was also something that I commonly lied about as a child because I thought older brothers were super cool. Then when I began developing an eating disorder and I started to cut, I used the excuse of a fictional brother dying as a way of expressing my sadness without having to actually talk about what was really going on. Mourning a brother is a normal thing. Mutilating and starving yourself for no apparent reason is not a normal thing. So I'd even lie to myself. I'd tell myself that I had a brother and that he was gone and that was why I was so sad. It was quite a dramatic thing, and the drama of it all was something I relished. Because I was sad. And I did feel hopeless. And lost. Just not for any reason that I thought was justifiable.
So to the people that I love, I'm so sorry. I told you these things before I knew that I would love you, and I love you enough now to want you to know nothing but the truth, regardless of how painful and embarrassing it is for me to admit. I waited so long to do this because I was wildly embarrassed, and playing it off as if it were true seemed an easier thing than admitting yourself to have acted in such a shameful and dishonest way. A thousand apologies. If you think I'm too lame to bear my presence any longer I totally understand. I've kind of felt the same way for a long time now.
This all came about because of this journey that I'm on...the journey to be a brave and honorable person worthy of respect. I tried to justify not telling the truth in every imaginable way. I tried to find some way to make the continuation of several horrendous lies the thing I should be doing, or at least an understandable thing to do, but there just isn't any help for it. It's not. I used to flatter myself as a brave person, but I wasn't living that way. I was living in fear of what the people I love would think if they knew the truth. But I'm done. No more excuses. No more lies. For once in my life I want my appearance and my actuality to be one and the same. I'm sick of the bullshit.
Mom, I have two cats. I adopted both of them because they looked pitiful and sad and I couldn't stand it. They are amazing and I love them and they cuddle with me at night. I have been wanting to say that to you for forever. I'm sick of hiding things. For the first time in as long as I can remember I'm telling you the truth not because I'm about to get caught, but because it is the right thing to do. I am extremely proud of the person that I am becoming and I think with enough work I might actually find some kind of worth in myself that is completely separate from the genetic blessings that I was given. Also, I'm about to go get an extremely unusual piercing because I think it's the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen. You're going to hate it. I'm pretty sure everyone on planet earth is going to hate it. My family most of all. But I will take it out before I become a nurse. Obviously. Piercings and tattoos are something that you will never like, but to me there is nothing more beautiful. It's just a difference of opinion. We've already established that I wish more than anything that I could've been your blonde sorority girl, but unfortunately that's just not how I came out, and living in any other way would just be another lie. I hope you're more proud of the person that I'm becoming than disappointed in the way that I look. I remember how back in high school I would make myself look exactly how I wanted, and I thought I was so beautiful, in my unusual little way. And then you looked at me and asked if I was intentionally trying to make myself as ugly as possible. That kind of blind sided me. I thought I was beautiful. And it really hurt for you to say that. I think I struggled with those words for a long time. I know that we've been through a lot these past few years and I'd like to think that we're both such different people than what we were then. I hope you're proud of my decision to be honest and brave, and I hope that that is more beautiful to you than any hairstyle or body shape. That's just something that I had to say.
I love you guys. I hope you don't hate me.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
It's Been Awhile
Life is shitty sometimes. It really is. Trying to make my way past this thing that has control over my life is just shitty. It sucks. It hurts. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes it hard to have relationships with people because they can't understand what you're going through. I've pushed everyone away so that I can be alone in my own discomfort. I'm so tired of this stupid fight. I'm so tired of such a daily task being such a struggle. Every bite that I eat worries me to death. I'm either eating too much or too little. If I'm eating too little then I want too much. It's a fucking circus. But I don't have a choice.
For the past few weeks I've really stopped fighting the fight. I've stopped making any progress. I just eat. My binges are much less severe and masochistic than they were, but no less present. I have to stop. The fact is that I am beating myself bloody. I am hurting myself. And I can't stop. Why can't I stop? I have to find a way. I have lost so much of my life to this already...I've lost so many of the relationships that I care about. I've lost almost everything, truth be told. I look around me and all I see are the possessions that my parents paid for. I have one or two people who I allow to pop in to my life once every blue moon. Other than that I have nothing. I have nothing. I am a bitter, miserable old crone who locks herself away in an expensive apartment with expensive things in the hopes that it will lead to the life that I want.
Everything has lost it's value. I am nothing. I have nothing. And all of this stems from just one idea. Fat people can't be happy. I live under the shadow of that idea every hour of every day. When I am skinny I exhaust myself and shun others in the pursuit of maintaining my weight so that I am allowed to be happy. This takes so much effort that I usually don't end up with the time to enjoy my "earned" happiness.
When I am fat I can't be happy, and I take every step to ensure that this idea becomes a reality. I eat in a frenzied way to ensure that I stay fat because I know that will make me more miserable than anything that I could do.
Always, fat people can't be happy. And even if they could be happy, it's not a happiness that is worth anything. Only thin people can be truly satisfied in all ways. There must be a puzzle piece that I haven't found. There must be something that can break me out of such a cyclical mindset. I want to remember what it feels like to enjoy something that has nothing to do with food. Because honestly, I don't. I don't enjoy just watching a movie because it doesn't involve food. I don't enjoy anything that isn't food. I don't see the point in anything that isn't food. And if I'm not eating, I'm just biding my time until I can eat again. I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about when it will be an acceptable time to eat. How much I will eat when it is finally acceptable to do so. I lied before, I am not nothing. I am food. That's all. My life, emotions, and relationships all depend upon it.
How did this happen? When did it cease to matter that I am a unique person? Because it doesn't anymore. I don't remember what I like to do. I just don't know. I've tried thinking about it.
I want to paint the walls of my apartment. I want to dye my hair blue. In truth, I am a strange little child. And that is one thing that I take so much joy in being. Or I did. All forms of expression used to interest me. But not anymore. I wear the same clothes as everyone else and I talk in the same way as everyone else and I discuss the same things that everyone discusses. I am a non-person. I miss my individuality. But individuality loses it's importance underneath the shadow of my stupid little idea. Everything loses importance under that idea. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. And I am fat. And because I believe this, I make myself unhappy. I torture myself. I hurt myself. I disrespect myself. But I'm so lost now that I'm not sure if I remember how to treat myself in any other way. Or if any other way exists.
And sometimes I have a breakthrough. Maybe I can be happy as a fat person. So I live in my own little bubble and I am as happy as it's possible to be in such an isolated environment, but I refuse to be around other people. I take the coward's way. I hide from the expectations and the opinions of others and I live like a hermit. That's not what a brave girl would do. If I want to be brave I'll have to go out and live amongst the people. Open myself up to the damage that they can cause with their looks. That's what a brave girl would do. I hide in the darkness and hoard the idea that fat people can be happy, but I'm too scared to live out in the world with the idea. It reminds me of Christianity. How they were persecuted by the Romans...and some Christians were afraid of judgement and so they stayed underground and never did anything worth while. They never touched anyone. And then there were the ones that were brave and lived the way they thought was right...right out in the open, in front of everyone. I need to stop hiding. Being brave is such a hard thing. Being honest is such a hard thing when it's so easy to lie. Facing the people outside of my door is so much harder than never leaving my apartment. Anything worth anything will always be hard. Everything is hard. Everything hurts. And I don't want to.
For the past few weeks I've really stopped fighting the fight. I've stopped making any progress. I just eat. My binges are much less severe and masochistic than they were, but no less present. I have to stop. The fact is that I am beating myself bloody. I am hurting myself. And I can't stop. Why can't I stop? I have to find a way. I have lost so much of my life to this already...I've lost so many of the relationships that I care about. I've lost almost everything, truth be told. I look around me and all I see are the possessions that my parents paid for. I have one or two people who I allow to pop in to my life once every blue moon. Other than that I have nothing. I have nothing. I am a bitter, miserable old crone who locks herself away in an expensive apartment with expensive things in the hopes that it will lead to the life that I want.
Everything has lost it's value. I am nothing. I have nothing. And all of this stems from just one idea. Fat people can't be happy. I live under the shadow of that idea every hour of every day. When I am skinny I exhaust myself and shun others in the pursuit of maintaining my weight so that I am allowed to be happy. This takes so much effort that I usually don't end up with the time to enjoy my "earned" happiness.
When I am fat I can't be happy, and I take every step to ensure that this idea becomes a reality. I eat in a frenzied way to ensure that I stay fat because I know that will make me more miserable than anything that I could do.
Always, fat people can't be happy. And even if they could be happy, it's not a happiness that is worth anything. Only thin people can be truly satisfied in all ways. There must be a puzzle piece that I haven't found. There must be something that can break me out of such a cyclical mindset. I want to remember what it feels like to enjoy something that has nothing to do with food. Because honestly, I don't. I don't enjoy just watching a movie because it doesn't involve food. I don't enjoy anything that isn't food. I don't see the point in anything that isn't food. And if I'm not eating, I'm just biding my time until I can eat again. I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about when it will be an acceptable time to eat. How much I will eat when it is finally acceptable to do so. I lied before, I am not nothing. I am food. That's all. My life, emotions, and relationships all depend upon it.
How did this happen? When did it cease to matter that I am a unique person? Because it doesn't anymore. I don't remember what I like to do. I just don't know. I've tried thinking about it.
I want to paint the walls of my apartment. I want to dye my hair blue. In truth, I am a strange little child. And that is one thing that I take so much joy in being. Or I did. All forms of expression used to interest me. But not anymore. I wear the same clothes as everyone else and I talk in the same way as everyone else and I discuss the same things that everyone discusses. I am a non-person. I miss my individuality. But individuality loses it's importance underneath the shadow of my stupid little idea. Everything loses importance under that idea. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. And I am fat. And because I believe this, I make myself unhappy. I torture myself. I hurt myself. I disrespect myself. But I'm so lost now that I'm not sure if I remember how to treat myself in any other way. Or if any other way exists.
And sometimes I have a breakthrough. Maybe I can be happy as a fat person. So I live in my own little bubble and I am as happy as it's possible to be in such an isolated environment, but I refuse to be around other people. I take the coward's way. I hide from the expectations and the opinions of others and I live like a hermit. That's not what a brave girl would do. If I want to be brave I'll have to go out and live amongst the people. Open myself up to the damage that they can cause with their looks. That's what a brave girl would do. I hide in the darkness and hoard the idea that fat people can be happy, but I'm too scared to live out in the world with the idea. It reminds me of Christianity. How they were persecuted by the Romans...and some Christians were afraid of judgement and so they stayed underground and never did anything worth while. They never touched anyone. And then there were the ones that were brave and lived the way they thought was right...right out in the open, in front of everyone. I need to stop hiding. Being brave is such a hard thing. Being honest is such a hard thing when it's so easy to lie. Facing the people outside of my door is so much harder than never leaving my apartment. Anything worth anything will always be hard. Everything is hard. Everything hurts. And I don't want to.
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