Gotta love all-nighters.

Last night I binged on cigarettes and Ritalin and got no sleep whatsoever.
I spent a lot of time thinking things through and I've come to a few conclusions.
Or maybe I just realized a few things that would have been painfully obvious to anyone BUT me, because I've usually got my head so far up my own ass I don't notice anything that doesn't have to do with shit.

1.) The woman my parents pay to tell them what's wrong with me has given me a laundry list of diagnoses: depression, ADHD, bipolarity. However, my own suspicion is that I simply suffer from a particularly severe case of High School paired with the completely average personality trait of being a total asshole.

2.) My life does not have to revolve around food. Whether I'm starving to death or stuffing myself senseless my focus is always on what and how much I'm eating. If I simply distract myself enough, if I simply keep myself busy and my appetite suppressed in any way possible, I can shrink without even trying too hard.

3.) My parents do not run my life. Therefore, they do not have the power to RUIN my life if I don't allow them to. I don't have to, nor should I, get all wrapped up in their marital drama. My mother is not the victim she makes herself out to be and my father is not the saint he wants me to think he is. They are both human and they are both telling lies. However I do not believe, most of the time, that they mean to lie. They are simply telling two different versions of a story. They believe they're telling the truth. They are not just lying to me; they're lying to themselves. I need to seperate myself from their problems. I am not my parents.

Rattlesnakes

I keep making up these stories in my mind. I guess they're more like fantasties than stories, but I don't like to call them that. Really they're just visions of Him and me being in love in different places, different times.


It was my idea to move out to the desert. I loved the arid climate and the dust and the heat and the nothingess, searching for the sun-parched skulls of animals in the sand.
He did not, but He loved me, and supposedly would do anything or go anywhere if it meant I'd be happy. So, one night I told Him I had always wanted to live in the desert. By the next morning, all His bags were packed.
One morning, months later, I sat up in bed, gazing into His eyes after we'd made love. I was searching for some kind of signal, reassurance that I wasn't a burden to Him, that he hadn't ruined His life by telling me to move in with Him when I was so young. I wanted to know whether or not He secretly longed for a life alone, with no responsibility, no little girl to feed and cloth who in exchange would have sex with Him. I wanted His eyes to tell me that that wasn't what I was, that I was more than that.
What I saw instead frightened me a bit. His eyes used to be a deep, rich brown, like the soil he brought in on his work boots, like the floor of the forests he loved so much. Now they reminded me of rattlesnakes, the colour of rattlesnakes slithering through the sand under the hot desert sun.
I looked in the mirror across from our bed, into my own eyes, expecting to see that they had changed too. I expected maybe turquoise, like the stones found in abundance on the desert floor. I was disappointed. They were as they had always been, evergreens reflecting off lake water.
He had become the desert, and I had stayed the same.
I loved the desert, and He loved me, so He adapted, became a part of a world I had always loved, as if not doing so would have made me love Him any less.
I accepted this as reality, and went on smoking and drinking coffee and making love to a man who became the desert for me, a man with rattlesnake eyes.

I'm fucked.

My mother is going to call the district attorney. If my dad fails to protect me, I am going to jail.
My eating is out of control. Simply out of control. I don't know whether it's because I can't talk to VIF or if I've lost all will to go on. I'm being melodramatic and I know it.
But I'm just a husk of a person without VIF.
I either need him, or I need closure.
This is killing me.

Manic Depressive.

Dear Blogging world, my drug pushing psychiatrist has diagnosed me bi-polar.

Stuck

Last night I got so drunk and high and desperate that I called VIF on my cousin's girlfriend's phone. Just to hear his voice. Just to tell him that I'm working on getting my shit together so I can see him again and that I'm not letting my douchebag parents stop me.
I'll steal.
I'll lie.
I'll fucking kill if I have to but I'm not letting this stop me.
And I'm not eating until I get my way.
I didn't tell VIF this.
It would just upset him.
But at least now I'm starving myself for a purpose.
And I'm fucking drunk right now.
sorry.
This is like the fourth day in a row.
I just want to cry, but the tears don't come anymore.
I'm scared because I don't want to use VIF, I don't want to. I just want to love him.
And I think I do. I really think I do.
And I'm not going to let anyone stop me but I don't know what to do right now.
I just want to cry but the tears don't come anymore.
I just want to smash things but I can't see how it'd hep at this point.
I'm just going to self-destruct.
I'd ask for hep, but I'm not sure if I'm worth it.