ANYWAY.
Woke up this morning, to the lovely sounds of my "takeyourpills" alarm, which goes off at 9 o'clock am each day. I was a little dazed and, to be fair, still a little drunk, and definitely dehydrated.
Tossed back my vitamins and a prozac and chugged a sugarfree vitaminwater. Looked down at Boyfriend, who was still somehow asleep despite my alarm and clumsy clunking around the room.
Sometimes I just find him to be so beautiful...so I feel like I need to indulge myself a little here. He is tall. Taller than I am. Taller than his parents are, which is saying something because they are taller than most Mexicans. He has a beautiful, symmetrical face, with features that are not too big or too small. His skin is one of my favorite features. It is not the dim yellow-brown that many of his family members have; rather, it is a russet color, chestnut and cinnamon and always warm to the touch. His eyes are the best thing, dark brown-black and almond shaped, with long dark eyelashes that I regard with envy every day as I stroke mascara onto my stick-straight fringe. Those eyes are so dark brown that it is hard to distinguish the pupil from the iris. They are so open and liquid sometimes that he seems innocent, but I know what he has been through in his short life. He is a year younger than I am but a thousand years older. He has made some selfless life choices that I know I wouldn't have had the strength to make. He has also made those choices and they've led him to me. Being a young child in Mexico it must have been difficult coming to America and having to learn about a whole new language and culture. Being the only one who can't speak English in the entire class, not knowing what's going on, and having to do it day after day... I'd have folded. Growing up in rough neighborhoods and still being a good student, still staying away from drugs, staying in school, staying out of a gang despite the temptation for quick money. Living with an immigrant family who is proud of what it has but scorned by others for what they have. Graduating high school and making the choice to join the Marines because it would mean that your family could pay off the modest home they live in and eat and have water and all the other basic needs. And now, that he is in college, doing the work he's always wanted to do, he still makes sure that his needs come last.
I know he must have cried. He must have struggled. He must have thought to himself...why? Why me? Can I just have a little break? Can it just be easy for awhile?
And I've thought that for the last six and a half years. Why? Why me? Just give me one little break. I've even thought about pretending to believe in god just so I'd have something to pray to or to blame. The difference between him and me is that he has struggled against outside forces and come out on top, and I've struggled against myself and still lost so far.
And I sit and cry in my bathroom, feet pressed to the cold tile as I try to ground myself from my dizzy spell, heart thudding mercilessly in my chest and in my ears, my throat on fire and my knuckles bruised. I haven't the strength nor the will to get up and go to bed.
And then I slide forward onto my hands and knees and I crawl to the scale. I steady myself against the shower wall and I stand and place my feet evenly on the scale and note the slight change, the slight shift to the left from 4 to 3 and triumph sends butterflies through my stomach. I'm lightheaded and giddy for a different reason, and though my legs are rubbery I find a way to do a couple of lunges and squats on the way back to bed, mind and body empty and light.
It's pathetic.
I cause myself this pain, and he makes sure to cater to me, to pet my hair, to whisper against my temples that it's going to be okay. He cradles me in his arms and I try to convince myself that there's a reason that this beautiful person cares about me, and I close my eyes and let him tell me nothing, the cadence of the lilt in his voice soft but present, the remnant of a decade-long battle to blend in.
It's that that we have in common. He is trying to blend, to be like everyone, to be liked by everyone, so much that he is now afraid to be too kind. He doesn't want to be walked on, or wrong, or made a fool of.
I just want to disappear.
This self hatred is what drives me. This unexplained need to be perfect and adored, to make sure that I'm pleasing everyone, and that I'm bothering no one. I'm no longer hungry; rather, there is a gnawing emptiness that is ever-present, yet I cannot convince myself that it is ok to fix that emptiness.
Which is why this counseling is not working. I don't feel that I deserve to be full. I don't want to be, and even if I did I couldn't be. Not when I have so much to make up for. Not when I have so many people to care for. Not when I have so many responsibilities.
I know that one day I won't be able to take it anymore and this body will fail me. That frightens me, but it also sounds like a relief. A rest, a quietness from the obnoxious, noisy, negative chatter that constantly feeds my brain and pounds on the inside of my skull until I let it out to wreak its havoc on my body.
Let loose these dogs of war and let them rip at my flesh until I'm a mere skeleton. A bag of bones with which they will shortly lose interest.
Maybe then I can rest.
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In other news...
Here are some better, less water-retaining pictures of me. Two days of chugging water and green tea helps fight bloat soooo much.
Still so much to go though. I'm 152 or 153 here.
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