31.10.2002 | 10:57 a.m.
we're captive on the carousel of life...

It is so much easier to wallow in self-pity, to lie in bed crying your face to numbness, to stand on ledges watching the leaves on the ground, than to actually do something about feeling like that. Every day for the past few months has been a struggle for me. It has been like walking uphill with the wind blowing furiously in the opposite direction. Sometimes I manage to push my way through it, and when it's calmer, my hair is attractively tussled, my cheeks are flushed. Other times, I just get pushed backwards repeatedly until I stop trying. I let the wind have its sadistic way. My eyes get watery, my entire body aches with wasted effort. I can't let the bad days bully the good ones. Scraped knees never stopped me from cycling day in and day out, did it? Granted, that's a terrible metaphor; it still works on the same principle. Even an inconsequent setback makes my heart skip a little faster, my self-esteem a little lower, my paranoia levels rocket. I can't allow myself to lose sight of who I am again.

The last two days I haven't been able to look into the mirror without thinking "Woah, I'm a fat ugly slob!" While walking to the bus station, I glance into shop windows with masochistic expectation. I am never disappointed. I have to look away quickly, pretend that that isn't my reflection. When I sit down, I am always too aware of the roll of fat that juts out from under my shirt, drooping it head with shame over the waistband of my jeans. Food has become something I can only talk about; the physicality of it is something I prefer to ignore. Rationality is a non-existent concept at times like these. Telling people is something I've given up doing a long time ago. Their attempts to appease my self-loathing cannot change the shape my reality has taken. I am the only person who can do that. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I fail miserably.

I am so sick of hearing myself talk. I am so sick of others hearing me talk.

deja vu? | jamais vu?