when you don't sleep for days, you start to feel invincible
i lay on my back, covers kicked off and puddled around my ankles, pillows tossed on the floor amid an array of damp towels and too many pairs of flip flops. i have been a size 9.5 for 2 years. the solidity of the fact makes me smile.
the flashlight makes a small circle of light on the ceiling. i turn it on and off, watching the light disappear and reappear, trying to calculate or at least capture the exact moment when the ceiling becomes illuminated. on. off. on. off.
i think about things that don't usually cross my mind, both hands on the flashlight, body stiff. corpse-like. actually, i don't usually think about anything. anything but food, any my body, and the way i wish it wasn't. i have fluctuated in size for the past 2 years. the solidity of the fact makes me question my own willpower. on. off. i told julia earlier that i quit. that i didn't want to care anymore. on.
"i don't feel like being so fucking unhappy and obsessed with it anymore," i said, and from the other end of a million miles i can imagine her mouth twisted into a lopsided symbol of uncertainty. lie, lie, lie. she knows me better than that.
off. on. i think about boys. i always lose myself when i think about boys. i think about oakton boys, senior year. andrew. doug. preston. i think about fort belvoir, the marines. tim... a lot. i think about prom, and the hotel room, and how long ago it seemed. i think about his smell, his smile. his kisses. on. i think about cherry-flavored lip gloss and making him laugh. i think about being craved, and craving, and it is in craving and wanting that i begin to wobble, that i become less than sensible. off. how do i make it stop? i don't know. i hope it will, soon.
i think about summer. it's been 2 weeks already. or something. 2 weeks, or something, and it feels like i should be waking up and going back to school. like the weekend. well, getting up actually. i haven't been sleeping. it's foggy out and it rained last night and now the temperature is too cool for comfort, giving me an excuse to wear a sweatshirt, even though i'm somewhat determined to get a tan. whatever. as if anything i saw or want ever happens. on. off. i think about that, too. i think about opportunity, and how i lie to myself constantly about whether or not i would seize it. i'm such a fraud. the solidity of the fact makes me laugh. i am.
on. i think about drinking. i think about addiction, and the way i would kill for ANYTHING right now, the way i'm dying to shop or shoplift or read or smoke or drink or gamble. i just need something. i think about planning and it makes me sick to my stomach. thinking about chaos makes me feel sickeningly placid. i don't mind addiction because thinking about something else gets rid of the thoughts of tim.
off. on. off. on. maybe that's it. maybe that's why i've reverted back to a centrifical state of misfortune and failure. i love the feeling of being humbled, of knowing i am not a star in the universe, but merely dust. i have become far too big-headed, and from the recesses of my brain i am kicking myself in the metaphorical ass, downplaying myself to revert back to the days-of-may me, when i was illusive and driven and charming. lately i've just felt like being vulgar. fucking vulgar. off.
the streetlights are off too. the light coming from the glow on my laptop, it's blinking partners, the morning. another night, and i haven't slept at all. i'd watch the clock and force myself to sleep, but at this point i don't even notice whether or not i get tired. besides, i haven't looked at the clock for weeks. i don't need to know the time since i'm not missing any hours.
i flick the flashlight on a final time and push it to the end of the bed with my feet, letting it drown in the blankets and through the thin film of the covers, it's creating circles there, too. i search for the button to distinguish it with my toes and find it, doing so. no more light. no more night. time to get up. it's 6:30 in the fucking morning.
off.
the flashlight makes a small circle of light on the ceiling. i turn it on and off, watching the light disappear and reappear, trying to calculate or at least capture the exact moment when the ceiling becomes illuminated. on. off. on. off.
i think about things that don't usually cross my mind, both hands on the flashlight, body stiff. corpse-like. actually, i don't usually think about anything. anything but food, any my body, and the way i wish it wasn't. i have fluctuated in size for the past 2 years. the solidity of the fact makes me question my own willpower. on. off. i told julia earlier that i quit. that i didn't want to care anymore. on.
"i don't feel like being so fucking unhappy and obsessed with it anymore," i said, and from the other end of a million miles i can imagine her mouth twisted into a lopsided symbol of uncertainty. lie, lie, lie. she knows me better than that.
off. on. i think about boys. i always lose myself when i think about boys. i think about oakton boys, senior year. andrew. doug. preston. i think about fort belvoir, the marines. tim... a lot. i think about prom, and the hotel room, and how long ago it seemed. i think about his smell, his smile. his kisses. on. i think about cherry-flavored lip gloss and making him laugh. i think about being craved, and craving, and it is in craving and wanting that i begin to wobble, that i become less than sensible. off. how do i make it stop? i don't know. i hope it will, soon.
i think about summer. it's been 2 weeks already. or something. 2 weeks, or something, and it feels like i should be waking up and going back to school. like the weekend. well, getting up actually. i haven't been sleeping. it's foggy out and it rained last night and now the temperature is too cool for comfort, giving me an excuse to wear a sweatshirt, even though i'm somewhat determined to get a tan. whatever. as if anything i saw or want ever happens. on. off. i think about that, too. i think about opportunity, and how i lie to myself constantly about whether or not i would seize it. i'm such a fraud. the solidity of the fact makes me laugh. i am.
on. i think about drinking. i think about addiction, and the way i would kill for ANYTHING right now, the way i'm dying to shop or shoplift or read or smoke or drink or gamble. i just need something. i think about planning and it makes me sick to my stomach. thinking about chaos makes me feel sickeningly placid. i don't mind addiction because thinking about something else gets rid of the thoughts of tim.
off. on. off. on. maybe that's it. maybe that's why i've reverted back to a centrifical state of misfortune and failure. i love the feeling of being humbled, of knowing i am not a star in the universe, but merely dust. i have become far too big-headed, and from the recesses of my brain i am kicking myself in the metaphorical ass, downplaying myself to revert back to the days-of-may me, when i was illusive and driven and charming. lately i've just felt like being vulgar. fucking vulgar. off.
the streetlights are off too. the light coming from the glow on my laptop, it's blinking partners, the morning. another night, and i haven't slept at all. i'd watch the clock and force myself to sleep, but at this point i don't even notice whether or not i get tired. besides, i haven't looked at the clock for weeks. i don't need to know the time since i'm not missing any hours.
i flick the flashlight on a final time and push it to the end of the bed with my feet, letting it drown in the blankets and through the thin film of the covers, it's creating circles there, too. i search for the button to distinguish it with my toes and find it, doing so. no more light. no more night. time to get up. it's 6:30 in the fucking morning.
off.