Quick Time.

I thought I'd never succumb to anything like this, that I would endanger myself by starving myself, sure, but meds?
I've been taking SlimQuick Naturals for almost a week now, which I think is better than some others meds. I did my research prior to picking it up, and it sat in my room for about a week before I took the first dose. I haven't felt anything adverse, so I guess that's a plus, unfortunately, this means I haven't taken my night-time migraine medication (which I take nightly to ward off morning migraines). My migraine meds used to be used as anti-depressants (a common practice in migraine treatment, has to do with brain blood vessels, hormones, etc.)
I'd never really noticed how those pills affected me until now, that I've stopped taking them for a bit. I am at my lowest now. Depressed to a degree that I haven't experienced in months. It's terrible.

I guess I can take the 4 pounds I seem to have lost as a consolation.

Weight FAIL

I have a crush on a boy...

A sort-of-story I began writing in October:

I have a crush on a boy. This is bad. The last time I lusted after a boy like this was in grade 11. The year, I personally believe (me, without any training in the field other than what I gleaned from dated high school books and fledgling Wikipedia articles,) my self-diagnosed depression began and thrived.

There was a boy.

            He wasn’t really all that and then some, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t the bees knees, or all that and a bag of chips, he was simply average. He had his group of friends, and I had mine, they just seemed to cross paths occasionally. And by “occasionally,” I mean he dated every single one of the girls in my group, for various periods of time. Breaking up with one and taking the next one on a date a day later. He was, simply put, a serial dater. I can’t really tell you how things evolved. But I can explain how the crush developed, and how I forcibly broke my own heart so no one else could.

            I think, maybe, that I let the idea of him into the inner chamber of my heart because, simple as it is, he spoke to me. Flashback:

I am in grade 11. I am 17 years old.  I am the quiet freak in a gaggling group of girls. I am fat, seen by myself as worthless, ugly. My best friend, my Siamese cat Sasha, is ill and will soon die. I am depressed. I wear black t-shirts, of which I own countless numbers. My puffy hair is untamed and parted down the center of my head. I have yet to begin maintaining my brows, and I am fat, fat and ugly. A year later, one of those gaggling girls will corner me in the library and tell me not to be embarrassed if I’m gay, since I don’t giggle over boys like the others do. I will be too shocked at the assumed implication that I will not be able to tell her that the reason I don’t obsess over boys like the rest of them do is because I am convinced that my inherent ugliness and girth “gross boys out,” as it were, so I see obsessing over them as a waste of my time and effort.

I am in grade 11, and this average, Ontario farmboy talks to me. I slowly become stricken.

I try to ignore these feelings, try to convince myself that he, like most other boys, is a jerk. I watch him date through my friends faster than I can recognize the development of a crush. By friend 4, I begin to daydream. By friend 5, I’m trying to plan out, in my head, how the conversation will go when, not if, he asks me out. By friend 5, I’ve convinced myself that he was only dating them because he was too shy to ask me out first. That he was my knight in burnished armour.

            I panic. I find myself watching friend number 5 with growing jealousy. I begin to imagine nightmare scenarios, where he dumps number 5 for me, or worse yet, we go out and friends 1 through 5 turn on me for it. So I break my heart. I find reasons to despise him, I find flaws in his character, in his person, and extrapolate on them until he is nothing but dirt in my eyes. I take all of those panic situations, those nightmares, and convince myself that they will, without a doubt, happen. I hate him.

            But when he breaks up with friend 5, and begins to go out with some other girl from outside my group, I hurt.

            I start to feel a hole being dug into my gut, under my ribs, just below the surface. It’s like hunger pangs I can’t satiate – it is all consuming. I had broken my own heart, out of fear. He had inadvertedly broken up with me, out of disinterest. I hurt, like hell.

I have a crush on a boy.

            He is nothing spectacular. He is simply average. He has his group, and I mine. We just happen to cross paths occasionally. He is nothing special. He just talks to me.

            He has some of the kindest eyes that I have ever seen.

I’m going to have to break my heart again, before it’s too late.

Sort of crap piece of short fiction

{A fat girl can dream, can't she?}

***

Moments 1

          He roughly grabbed at the tiny fists beating his chest. His six foot plus frame dwarfed her five foot two frail and hurt, yet large and substantial body. She had been crying, taking out all of her withheld anger and frustration at the thin-obsessed world, at the men who failed to see her shimmering light, on his broad chest. Her hands secured in his, her face holding the mixed emotions of anger, hurt, sadness and surprise, he made a simple decision. Closing the inches between them in one swift motion, he captured her trembling lips in a kiss both filled with, and fueled by, a desperate need.

            Her eyes, now the size if the moon, shone green as un-spilled tears threatened to betray her. She slowly lowered her lashes, succumbing to the tears, which cascaded down her blushing cheeks to flow along her jaw line. He released her hands to caress the nape of her neck, running the rough pad if his thumb just under her ear. She shivered and, hands still trembling, leaned into his form and his kiss. Resting her hands onto his firm chest, she felt his heartbeat, as he felt her pulse under her ear, both beating in a rapid and panicked unison.

            It felt as though, clichéd as it was, the world had stopped. As though all the sounds around them had been muted by the pounding of their now entangled hearts, that all other people had vanished, leaving a world shrouded in a cloak of black and white tableau, leaving only the exploding colours behind their closed lids to remain. Her lips were on fire. Trapped in his, she could only taste salt and honey and she quickly found herself addicted to him. She had never felt so safe, secure, had never felt something so sure as his hard chest, his soft lips, and the growing fire within her.

            He was lost, lost in the scent, the taste, the feel, everything that made up the woman resting against him. His knees nearly buckled with the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. His fingers worried and wound themselves into her dark hair, feeling each strand glide against pads of index and ring. She was made of silk and lemon juice – soft, smooth, acidic, a deadly combination which formed a poison he was sure would consume him.

            How had they been so blind to each other for so long?

            A noise, the door latch hitching, announcing an intruder, forced them apart. Out of breath and confused, they caught each others' eyes, and for the briefest of moments, fell in love. They turned their bodies away from each other and became, once again, close acquaintances, left to count their misgivings and sift through the shattered remains of hearts left broken.

           

            Her throat was closed off, she daren’t utter a sound.

            His footsteps were far too loud, but carried on in a desperate bid for freedom.

            Both silently told themselves to never fall for her eyes, or his warmth, ever again. Both terrified of what could have been. Terrified of what was now a lost moment.

This is un-fucking-believable.
I am so livid at the world, and I have no explanation as to why. It's that hole in my gut again, and I hate it!
My parents and younger sister are down, and at first it was okay, but then the grandmother started being all...grandmothery, you know, being a pain in the ass. So it went downhill from there.
I was fine when my sister and I went to the mall (by ourselves) and then to Chapters (by ourselves), but as soon as I got here, after I proclaimed to my father how fucking crazy I'm going and how I fucking hate my step-uncle (which was brought up when he said he had to stop and pick up some beer because the ass was coming over for dinner tomorrow). My dad semi-yelled at me, telling me that said step-uncle has his problems, but they're not my problems.
Well, they are when he ladles them on top of everyone.
So I got bitchy.
And then my room here is being torn asunder by my neurotically-neat-freak for a mother because my ex-step-aunt has decided that she's going to fly in to London from BC and spend a week sleeping in the other room. This week? I have 3 exams in 4 days and I'm panicking!
The first one on Monday is in the class I got 37% on the midterm. And it's German history. Fucking god damn germans! I'm sick of it! Just fucking sick of it!
And then, since my last exam isn't until the 25th, a full 9 days after my 3rd exam, I was planning on going home. Except, apparently, I'd have to take the bus and I really don't want to have to fucking do that shit right now.
So I told my mother I'm staying here.
She's all bitchy now, but I don't care anymore.
I just want to be left alone! God damnit! Just leave me alone!!

And now a classmate wants me to type out two, 8-page notes for her, and my mother's nagging me ("We came here to see you, and you're just sitting at your computer!" Well, I HAVE TO.) She said "Well then, we might as well leave." Fine, go. "So, are you not coming out for supper with us then?" And I told her that I don't eat supper, so tough shit. She said "Fine!" and left in a huff.
It's true, though. I don't eat supper.
I don't eat.
And I'm still fat and miserable, and I hate every aspect of my life right now, and I'm sorry I'm being emo, but tough shit, it's what I am.
And my younger sister gave me a mini-lecture as to diet and exercise and basically told me that if I'm unhappy about how I look, then to loose some weight because, sweetheart, you're not gonna be any happy fat. Thanks loads, sis.
Fucking unbelievable.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life anymore.
I'm just so confused and fed up and I'm starting to think that the best solution is the final one: run away and jump off a bridge.
I just...I need to be alone.
Stop shooting at my feet and making me dance for you.

I didn't get a chance to do what I intended to do in the previous post. I waited about 30minutes for the bus in the snow before it showed up, going the opposite way, therefore it would be another 20 minutes until it showed up. I turned around and went back to bed. Really, I would have been severely late for my first class and, as we all know, I hate my afternoon class, am going to fail it and, at this moment in time, don't really give a shit.
So maybe on Monday I'll do some vandalizing.

In other news, I am going to both snap and die.
I am going to snap if only because I'm so insanely stressed right now, and essay due dates are looming, and tests are approaching, and I have yet to apply to post-grad school, and I'm sinking into depression again.
I am going to die because my father has been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

My mom is down this weekend and, so far, other than a visit to a friend, this weekend has been complete shite. She's hearing tales of woe from the grandmother who is becoming irritated with me because it appears she wants me to read her mind. Case in point, earlier this evening, my mother came into the back room where I was watching the discovery channel and told me that I should "at least try to be kind." I asked what she was talking about and mom told me "she wanted to sit out here, so you should have read her mind."
Seriously.
Like, really?

So I'm up in my room now. I had gone down to the front room for about 5 minutes, couldn't find anything to watch, gave up reading "The Fat Girl's Guide to Life" but because at the moment I am feeling insanely fat, I gave up and came back up here.

This afternoon at lunch (mom and I had gone out), she told me about my dad (after eying me rather disapprovingly after I ordered a Pepsi). My dad's in denial. Really, we saw it coming. He's big. He's Italian. He eats. That entire side of my family is that way. Hell, at big family dinner's, my Nonna tells me I'm her favorite because I "try at least one of everything." Which is great, it means I have tried and love roasted eggplant and artichokes and other weird, or at least weirdly prepared, vegetables and seafood. But that's also bad, because it's something I've taken into my life as an absolute: food is love.
I know I know I know, I'm supposed to be flabulous. I'm supposed to be loving my body for what it is. But when I'm told by my mom to "just be aware. It can be hereditary" and that now she's "thinking of putting [me] on the same restricted diet" as my dad...well, I smiled and nodded but it felt like she had already put a death sentence over my head.
You know what, I probably do have diabetes. I probably am going to die because of my weight. But I'm also sure in my firm stance that "ignorance is bliss."
I had a friend in highschool. We went out for lunch one day. We were the only two of our group at school, and she was used to going out for lunch with her dad (a teacher at said school) and he was busy. So I volunteered to tag along. I brought my own lunch with me, I just went as company. As a good friend.
She ate her fries with mayo. I had never seen someone do that before. I asked her about it, nervously, but she answered quite calmly and comfortably that, hey, you only live once, so she was going to enjoy every bit of the time she had. I envied her. I sat there and ate my cheese and crackers and wondered why my mom insisted, after I told her about that, that my friend was going to die an early death. Why did my mom have to put that death sentence over her head?

Why does my mom have to put that death sentence over my head?

She told me that my dad is trying to cope, but it's going to be hard because he, like me, is set in his ways.
His second-in-command-type guy at work has type 1, and my mom told me that he told my dad that the first thing to do is not blame yourself. To not tell yourself that it's your fault that you're in this mess. My mom wishes he hadn't told my dad that. She hates it. She, and we, and my dad to probably, know that it is his fault. Our family's relationship with food is a passionate one. It's the Italian, food=love/food=acceptance mentality.
I told my mom that, maybe, for now, it's best that he doesn't blame himself, or he might sink into a depression. My mom agreed, but she's just waiting for him to start blaming her for his situation.
I tried not to say anything.
Really? I'm sorry, but that sounds a little self-centered.
If he doesn't blame himself, then maybe he'll be motivated to make the changes that need to be made! In the end, it's his health that matters, not her sense of blame.

So now my mom wants me to make the same changes. Fine. Sure. Whatever. As long as she's the one who tells that crazy Nazi downstairs about it. The same crazy Nazi who, when her friend was diagnosed, was convinced that the woman wasn't "that sick" and that all she needed to do was stop eating cookies and cake. Sure. Fine. You tell her, mom.

All I've ever been told in my weighty years of life is over-friendly words of "advice."
I just had to eat my fruits, then I'd be fine.
I just had to walk more, then I'd be fine.
I just had to realize that I'm probably doing to get and die from diabetes, then I'd make changes and be fine.
I just had to lose a few pounds, then I'd be "such a pretty girl."
I just have to love myself more, then I'd be fine.

It's the last two, the last two that I've heard from my grandmother and my own mother, so many times, that make me wonder why they even care. I mean, if I'm not good enough by their standards, why even bother mothering me? Taking care of me? Talking to me? Caring about my life?
If I only lost a few pounds, then I'd be so much better in their eyes.

What about my eyes, huh? How can I start loving myself in this toxic environment?
How can I start loving myself ("enough to lose the weight") if their "love" is making me hate myself?


I'm going to die, because I'm fat. There, that's something about me I can accept. Thanks mom.

Self-Loving-Vandalism

I'm printing them out and cutting them up now.
I'll bring tape to school tomorrow.
I'm waging war on self hatred.
I'm preforming an act of self-loving-vandalism.
Baby Jesus and Buddha help me. D: