(no subject)
Long time. A new blog; http://fuckedupnomad.blogspot.com.
I had a dream last night. I'm dreaming a lot again. I wake up tired as if I haven't slept, thoughts running as if I'd never fallen asleep. I think while I'm asleep. And I feel so tired. My head hurts. But it is worth it. God, is it worth it. To see a rib. To feel a little less fat each day. To shiver with cold and imagine it all melting away. And I smile. I smile, in a twisted, sick, crazed way. Because I enjoy this. I love this. And I don't care what it does. It seems to be all I have.
I am doing psych, geology, cross-cultural studies (french and enlish) and revolutions (french and english, 1780-1820) for my BA in Hobart. Everything is moving fast and slow, and I'm starting to enjoy it. I'm starting to regain control. Slowly. I am packing and tidying my room; I won't have much time when I get back from Tasmania. I'm trying to read all the books I've borrowed, but it's so very hard - something to do with concentration. I can't concentrate. Maybe a paragraph, at most, but no more. And I despise this because I love reading; it has always been a strength and it pains me to read a page over and over and know that not a single word is being absorbed.
I have a list of reasons not to eat, and things to do instead of eating beside my desk. I don't know why. I never read it. All I have to do is poke my stomach. Not even that. It's becoming routine, to not eat, to have perhaps and apple in the morning, or just flavoured water ... a chuppa chup for energy. Purge what I can; what my body will reluctantly give back. Run to the shops. Run home. Jog as I leave the house, on my hour long walk to the city. I never take the tram, anymore. I walk. All the time. 2 hours, there and back, three or four times a week.
I bought some new jewellery. Got an engraved bracelet from my auntie for my 18th, plus ... plus some cubic quartz earrings with matching necklace (or something) ... and some fishnet stockings. Not from her.
Two more sleeps until I leave for Perth. 6am departure, 3.30am wake up. Shall be fun. To a city where I will be alone for two days in a place I have never been. I am sure father is just concerned when he keeps berating me for this, suggesting I stay at the YMCA or something, but it frustrates me; I tell him if I get killed, raped, attacked - whatever happens is my fault and my responsibility. I do not blame or hold anybody else responsible for the situations I get myself into. I alone am responsible. As I learnt, to my detriment.
It is strange, how things lodge in the mind, so that the more you try not to think or them, the more omnipresent they are. About three years ago, I saw a photo in the paper of a poor whale, who had been caught in nets and had deep lacerations all along it's body - making me shudder at the thought. I turned the page, determined not to envisage the picture; ever since, every time I try not to think of something, I see that whale. How very odd.
The scar on my knuckle is not healing; I admit, picking it does no help, but I am paranoid somebody will notice it for what it is - will see a reddy-purple round scar on my middle knuckle standing out from my pale, blue white skin.
I digress. From what, I don't know, but I like the word so I thought I'd use it. I have a new journal. I shall probably update this from time to time. Who knows? Maybe I'll actually attend uni next semester. I hope so. I hate not being able to move, and if it takes my own sheer stubborness, then it will. Weaknesses can be strengths. Sometimes.
I had a dream last night. I'm dreaming a lot again. I wake up tired as if I haven't slept, thoughts running as if I'd never fallen asleep. I think while I'm asleep. And I feel so tired. My head hurts. But it is worth it. God, is it worth it. To see a rib. To feel a little less fat each day. To shiver with cold and imagine it all melting away. And I smile. I smile, in a twisted, sick, crazed way. Because I enjoy this. I love this. And I don't care what it does. It seems to be all I have.
I am doing psych, geology, cross-cultural studies (french and enlish) and revolutions (french and english, 1780-1820) for my BA in Hobart. Everything is moving fast and slow, and I'm starting to enjoy it. I'm starting to regain control. Slowly. I am packing and tidying my room; I won't have much time when I get back from Tasmania. I'm trying to read all the books I've borrowed, but it's so very hard - something to do with concentration. I can't concentrate. Maybe a paragraph, at most, but no more. And I despise this because I love reading; it has always been a strength and it pains me to read a page over and over and know that not a single word is being absorbed.
I have a list of reasons not to eat, and things to do instead of eating beside my desk. I don't know why. I never read it. All I have to do is poke my stomach. Not even that. It's becoming routine, to not eat, to have perhaps and apple in the morning, or just flavoured water ... a chuppa chup for energy. Purge what I can; what my body will reluctantly give back. Run to the shops. Run home. Jog as I leave the house, on my hour long walk to the city. I never take the tram, anymore. I walk. All the time. 2 hours, there and back, three or four times a week.
I bought some new jewellery. Got an engraved bracelet from my auntie for my 18th, plus ... plus some cubic quartz earrings with matching necklace (or something) ... and some fishnet stockings. Not from her.
Two more sleeps until I leave for Perth. 6am departure, 3.30am wake up. Shall be fun. To a city where I will be alone for two days in a place I have never been. I am sure father is just concerned when he keeps berating me for this, suggesting I stay at the YMCA or something, but it frustrates me; I tell him if I get killed, raped, attacked - whatever happens is my fault and my responsibility. I do not blame or hold anybody else responsible for the situations I get myself into. I alone am responsible. As I learnt, to my detriment.
It is strange, how things lodge in the mind, so that the more you try not to think or them, the more omnipresent they are. About three years ago, I saw a photo in the paper of a poor whale, who had been caught in nets and had deep lacerations all along it's body - making me shudder at the thought. I turned the page, determined not to envisage the picture; ever since, every time I try not to think of something, I see that whale. How very odd.
The scar on my knuckle is not healing; I admit, picking it does no help, but I am paranoid somebody will notice it for what it is - will see a reddy-purple round scar on my middle knuckle standing out from my pale, blue white skin.
I digress. From what, I don't know, but I like the word so I thought I'd use it. I have a new journal. I shall probably update this from time to time. Who knows? Maybe I'll actually attend uni next semester. I hope so. I hate not being able to move, and if it takes my own sheer stubborness, then it will. Weaknesses can be strengths. Sometimes.