(no subject)
I know I wrote such a short bit ago and I also realize it made no sense what so ever but the insane blending of caffein, a lortab 7.5, and reading Lolita @ 130 am has my mind running in equally insane circles.
I must write before the moment leaves me.
So I finsihed it. (Lolita, that is.) Granted it took me just over 7 months to complete, I'm quite saddened that it's over. I've seen the '97 version of the film adaptation somewhere between 30 & 40 times, but so much was left out. (Even more in the '62 version.) But, in literary awareness only, the book seems to just die after the intial intercourse takes place. (Nabokov was a sly devil if this was the exact purpose - to explain them dying from that moment by "killing" the book with such an anticlimactic climax.) But... oh I have to do it. I have to. I must be that stereotypical.
The book (even if it's course took 7 months to finish) evokes many emotions from my reverie. For that part of the population filled with nymphets (roaring or twilighting, alike) and their dog-eared books, they tend to dreamily put themselves in the shoes of Dolly and dream of their Monsieur Humberts. The book for them seems to justify their feelings and give it a certain validity: They are Lolita. There is going to be a corresponding Hum out there to fulfill their desires. I on the other hand, tho I can image myself as the young girl-child shiny and new with her coyness and sensuality, feel like.... I should be there to pick of those pieces. It gives me the urge to fix the broken. That it should be my place in the novel to help Ol' Hum in his time of need. I suppose it's my affinity for "broken" men. Those who are dark and living in some dark place inside their heads. Those who are melancholic, sad, and dwelling silently in the Ides. That's what the book turned into for me. It was a written piece of work that personified the damaged man I tend to fall head over feet for. (But I can't lie and say the beginning of the book was not a great description of many of my traits as well.)
I feel stupid talking about such things in depth but for my defense, I can say that such strong feelings for this book isn't because of my little girl mentality. When reading a certain book that was a companion to The Diary of Anne Frank by her friend Hannah, I had the instictive urge to run outside and save Jews from their deaths. It literally took me a minute or two to realize that it was 199whatever and I wan't even in Amsterdam. The urge to save them was still there but a sense of helplessness came over me knowing that it was over 60 years after the fact.
There is my literary obsession post for the next decade. Revel in it.
I am at a crossroads with my weight, disorders, and all that I feel towards who I am physically. (This is going to be really honest and it scares me senseless.) I have to reiterate that my pictures lie (or at least I think they do). I can admit to liking my face to some pt but I do not like the rest of me. I am not a small girl and this coupled with a complete disgust with things fat puts me in a very confusing quandy.
I am not the average disordered girl. In fact, I'm the complete opposite of average. The two worlds of eating and not eating war constantly. When I eat, I eat everything and in excess. I'll eat 3/4 of a pizza or tons of chicken nuggets or whatever. I gorge myself. And I know it isn't all physical hunger. It would be easy to say that I binged because of long stretches of severe restriction, but that isn't the case. I eat because it helps for a moment. Food, at the pt in time, is my drug. I'm the first person to eat a ton of shit when stress is added to my overly stressful life. It's a tool just as razors or alcohol can be a tool. The same thing can be said for my restriction. No matter how "good" the food makes me feel for that second, I'm always disgusted with myself. I get the same gratification from not eating for long period of time, losing insane amts of weight in a month, taking enough pink laxitives that I'm bedridden all day, or damn near overdosing on cigarettes and caffein pills. I've planned my laxitive abuse. I've fasted until my heart went haywire. I've intentionally bought food just so that I could purge. I've done everything on both sides of the spectrum when it comes to overeating and restriction.
What is the hardest thing about this isn't the co-existance of these poles and both of them fighting. It's knowing that I'm still "big". If I were of some average weight, I could quite possibly handle things better. I'm not tho. I'm the kind of girl that fluctuates in weight all of the time. Losing 5# is nothing at all. I can do that in 3 days easily. Gaining 5# scares me, but I do it and I don't see a change in anything. There is the magic word: change. I don't see or feel a change. I can lose 20# and I see aboslutely no change at all. Sadly, most don't seem to notice it either. I'll NEVER gain 20# so that comparison is shot, but still. When you don't see anything different, it's depressing.
My body does depress me. I just don't feel pretty. I did mention that I like my face, but I don't feel that it's pretty. My body isn't pretty. I am not pretty because I don't feel so. I need someone to tell me I'm pretty and I mean that in the most un-attention whore way possible. I can get a man to say that I'm sexy but it repulses me because I know he's saying it to get laid. My friends orfamily can say I'm pretty but that's almost like a negetive thing. "Bri, you're pretty." No I'm not. You say it because you have to. I want to feel pretty. It's irony of sorts that I say this because there have been numerous ppl (and one a modeling scout) who have told me that I should model. (And I don't mean modeling for those skinny ppl either.) It's all been said w/in the past 3 months as well. I feel they only say it because I'm tall and models are tall. Then again, models don't have to be beautiful. Anyone can plaster makeup on someone and make them a model.
I felt ashamed of my dyed hair the other day. I love it's shiny copper and bronze striations but I felt gulty that it wasn't natural.
I love being Bri when it means quirky and fun and wild and smart. I love Bri when it's a good thing, but for the most part it isn't. So many ppl seem to find fault with me. I want to fix myself because, yes, I do not like myself for the most part but I also want ppl to like me. (Or at least leave me alone.) It's petty and so many ppl will say that I shouldn't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks, but I don't work like that. I just want to be accepted so badly. I want to be liked and loved. I'm good when ppl have found me useful for something, but for the most part I'm useless - unless being a scapegoat and a white elephant count. I try so hard but I'm not good enough. It's logical, really. Everyone seems to leave or turn against me so this must be because I'm not ok. I really don't know how to convey the feelings for this area of my psyche w/o sounding very sad. There is no way to plainly put such emotions.
It's all been very long winded. I ask you to forgive me for that. The time was right, tho.
I must write before the moment leaves me.
So I finsihed it. (Lolita, that is.) Granted it took me just over 7 months to complete, I'm quite saddened that it's over. I've seen the '97 version of the film adaptation somewhere between 30 & 40 times, but so much was left out. (Even more in the '62 version.) But, in literary awareness only, the book seems to just die after the intial intercourse takes place. (Nabokov was a sly devil if this was the exact purpose - to explain them dying from that moment by "killing" the book with such an anticlimactic climax.) But... oh I have to do it. I have to. I must be that stereotypical.
The book (even if it's course took 7 months to finish) evokes many emotions from my reverie. For that part of the population filled with nymphets (roaring or twilighting, alike) and their dog-eared books, they tend to dreamily put themselves in the shoes of Dolly and dream of their Monsieur Humberts. The book for them seems to justify their feelings and give it a certain validity: They are Lolita. There is going to be a corresponding Hum out there to fulfill their desires. I on the other hand, tho I can image myself as the young girl-child shiny and new with her coyness and sensuality, feel like.... I should be there to pick of those pieces. It gives me the urge to fix the broken. That it should be my place in the novel to help Ol' Hum in his time of need. I suppose it's my affinity for "broken" men. Those who are dark and living in some dark place inside their heads. Those who are melancholic, sad, and dwelling silently in the Ides. That's what the book turned into for me. It was a written piece of work that personified the damaged man I tend to fall head over feet for. (But I can't lie and say the beginning of the book was not a great description of many of my traits as well.)
I feel stupid talking about such things in depth but for my defense, I can say that such strong feelings for this book isn't because of my little girl mentality. When reading a certain book that was a companion to The Diary of Anne Frank by her friend Hannah, I had the instictive urge to run outside and save Jews from their deaths. It literally took me a minute or two to realize that it was 199whatever and I wan't even in Amsterdam. The urge to save them was still there but a sense of helplessness came over me knowing that it was over 60 years after the fact.
There is my literary obsession post for the next decade. Revel in it.
I am at a crossroads with my weight, disorders, and all that I feel towards who I am physically. (This is going to be really honest and it scares me senseless.) I have to reiterate that my pictures lie (or at least I think they do). I can admit to liking my face to some pt but I do not like the rest of me. I am not a small girl and this coupled with a complete disgust with things fat puts me in a very confusing quandy.
I am not the average disordered girl. In fact, I'm the complete opposite of average. The two worlds of eating and not eating war constantly. When I eat, I eat everything and in excess. I'll eat 3/4 of a pizza or tons of chicken nuggets or whatever. I gorge myself. And I know it isn't all physical hunger. It would be easy to say that I binged because of long stretches of severe restriction, but that isn't the case. I eat because it helps for a moment. Food, at the pt in time, is my drug. I'm the first person to eat a ton of shit when stress is added to my overly stressful life. It's a tool just as razors or alcohol can be a tool. The same thing can be said for my restriction. No matter how "good" the food makes me feel for that second, I'm always disgusted with myself. I get the same gratification from not eating for long period of time, losing insane amts of weight in a month, taking enough pink laxitives that I'm bedridden all day, or damn near overdosing on cigarettes and caffein pills. I've planned my laxitive abuse. I've fasted until my heart went haywire. I've intentionally bought food just so that I could purge. I've done everything on both sides of the spectrum when it comes to overeating and restriction.
What is the hardest thing about this isn't the co-existance of these poles and both of them fighting. It's knowing that I'm still "big". If I were of some average weight, I could quite possibly handle things better. I'm not tho. I'm the kind of girl that fluctuates in weight all of the time. Losing 5# is nothing at all. I can do that in 3 days easily. Gaining 5# scares me, but I do it and I don't see a change in anything. There is the magic word: change. I don't see or feel a change. I can lose 20# and I see aboslutely no change at all. Sadly, most don't seem to notice it either. I'll NEVER gain 20# so that comparison is shot, but still. When you don't see anything different, it's depressing.
My body does depress me. I just don't feel pretty. I did mention that I like my face, but I don't feel that it's pretty. My body isn't pretty. I am not pretty because I don't feel so. I need someone to tell me I'm pretty and I mean that in the most un-attention whore way possible. I can get a man to say that I'm sexy but it repulses me because I know he's saying it to get laid. My friends orfamily can say I'm pretty but that's almost like a negetive thing. "Bri, you're pretty." No I'm not. You say it because you have to. I want to feel pretty. It's irony of sorts that I say this because there have been numerous ppl (and one a modeling scout) who have told me that I should model. (And I don't mean modeling for those skinny ppl either.) It's all been said w/in the past 3 months as well. I feel they only say it because I'm tall and models are tall. Then again, models don't have to be beautiful. Anyone can plaster makeup on someone and make them a model.
I felt ashamed of my dyed hair the other day. I love it's shiny copper and bronze striations but I felt gulty that it wasn't natural.
I love being Bri when it means quirky and fun and wild and smart. I love Bri when it's a good thing, but for the most part it isn't. So many ppl seem to find fault with me. I want to fix myself because, yes, I do not like myself for the most part but I also want ppl to like me. (Or at least leave me alone.) It's petty and so many ppl will say that I shouldn't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks, but I don't work like that. I just want to be accepted so badly. I want to be liked and loved. I'm good when ppl have found me useful for something, but for the most part I'm useless - unless being a scapegoat and a white elephant count. I try so hard but I'm not good enough. It's logical, really. Everyone seems to leave or turn against me so this must be because I'm not ok. I really don't know how to convey the feelings for this area of my psyche w/o sounding very sad. There is no way to plainly put such emotions.
It's all been very long winded. I ask you to forgive me for that. The time was right, tho.