Sleeper

I slept after I got home from work yesterday, a good five hours at least. It was filled with the strangest dreams. I’m suspicious that one of the dreams is something that has been going on for a long time, and maybe that is why I feel this incredible sense of de ja vu off and on.

I’m in my old livingroom at the home I grew up in. It has its dingy, dark brown carpet and a couch that curls around most of the room. The television is on, and I vaguely look up at it from time to time. I’m walking a little circuit in the part of the room not obstructed by furniture. I must be pacing for hours, because the movie changes and I keep going. But this is a desperate sort of thing, because I’m taking longer strides and I feel a slight panic in myself that I don’t really understand.

Sometimes when I pace in the real world it is like that. I get very anxious and emotional, and I might be crying or just walking much quicker, not really looking at anything in particular, not really seeing.

This behavior started in the time I used to spend alone. My first year of home schooling was very rough on me at first. My mother had three jobs and was barely ever around, and my father had begun to work long into the night instead of coming home at 5:00 as he used to. I was completely alone. My friends had all gone to the highschool I’d rejected. I’d even gone to the orientation for it, but a few weeks before I was to attend, I had a  bit of a breakdown. I couldn’t go. I’d opted to go on home school, mostly out of cowardice. I was afraid, so very afraid. I knew I would only be bullied and harassed even worse than what I’d already gone through. And…I couldn’t. I knew I didn’t have it in me just then to deal with it all again. I was already having thoughts of killing myself, and had gotten to my highest weight ever.

Maybe it was anxiety that started it. Being alone for so long, for days and days when all I had ever known was a life surrounded by other people. They gave me so much homework I distinctly recall falling asleep on my open textbooks trying to figure everything out without someone there to help me. But regardless, I got up later and later, and tried at my studies less and less. I stopped caring. I kind of went into my own world, and for a time, I felt better than I ever had. I even lost all the weight I’d gained and got to my lowest weight because I started spending a large quantity of time exercising.

The pacing had gotten worse, however, and I’d spend hours and hours at night doing it. I had this insane fear of being caught, and would listen intently for the sounds of anyone coming to check on me at night when everyone would finally get home.

In this dream, the kitchen light is on. I keep returning to the kitchen, repeatedly filling glasses with tea. This thirst is on me and I can’t seem to quench it. Back and forth I go for a while, glancing at the television, before stepping quietly into the kitchen to refill my glass yet again. I look out the window for a moment to see the black of night, and a very delicate light from the moon filtering through the branches of the lone tree out on our lawn. I don’t know why the blinds aren’t drawn, and my paranoia suddenly comes to me. I pull the shades down and spin them until all the light is blocked out. I look over my shoulder to the livingroom, and take off my headphones to listen. Just the quiet drone of the television and whatever is playing. It says ‘IFC’ in the corner, which I notice for some reason.

It’s when I go to the kitchen and come back again, that I nearly let out a sound. My mother is walking over to the couch, and looks over at me.

“You scared me,” I say, taking a deep breath and yanking my headphones off a little too irritably.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she answers.

She’s had insomnia for what must be years now, and it used to be common for her to get up in the middle of the night to watch I Love Lucy or The Brady Bunch while I’d be doing my pacing in my bedroom. Occasionally she’d walk in, I’d get very agitated (at being caught and not knowing how to explain it), and wait until she went to sleep again. Sometimes it would take four or five hours, but I’d wait patiently for the sounds of the television to die out. 

“You should take something,” I advise.

It’s not because I care that she sleeps that I say this, I say it because I want her to go away and let me have my time to myself.

“I just did.”

I nod disinterestedly, my eyes wandering to the television. God how I hate that thing. I only use it to cover up the sound of my footsteps. These days, nearly four years in the future, I use a fan. 

I think we sit on the couch for a while, and I’m impatient as ever, asking her if she feels tired. It takes a bit, but finally she does, and I breathe a sigh of relief when she returns to her bedroom. In this dream she is not injured. Her hands are normal, not curled under, and she walks like she always did, without the shuffle that I’ve finally gotten used to.

I have to go get something to drink. I realize too late that all the tea is gone. I start water on the stove, hurriedly. In the meantime, I grab a soda and start chugging that down. My eyes keep going to the window.

Did anyone see me, I wonder?

I had an awful day at work. I guess that sort of thing is something I should get adjusted to, but true to form, all I did when I got home was eat and bake a bunch of sugary cookies that I promptly ate. I know it’s childish, and even when it’s happening I know I shouldn’t be doing it and all of that. But that part of me that sees only doom and doesn’t care, says ‘fuck it’. The one thing though, is that it  is the same part that gets me through the day.

If I cared, if I really did get incredibly stressed like I see others doing (one woman in particular has gained over 50 pounds since coming to work here) I would be much more of a mess than I am. I feel more irritation than anything else. I’m annoyed and not in the mood to perpetually deal with/train new people who don’t even try, then watch the very few good workers have to overcompensate for all the folks that fuck around and do nothing. And they’re cutting hours ever the more, leaving most people with 7-9 hours a week. I am one of the few who hasn’t been cut that low, though I am slightly under 80 hours for my two weeks instead of the 100 and something I was pulling a few months ago.

I’ve been doing almost well. I’ve actually been going a week at a time without a binge, which hasn’t happened in months. But I’m still eating more than I should, maintaining my weight instead of losing anything. I feel horrible as I am, and am leaving the house less and less. The last few times weren’t even willing. And it’s ridiculous, because a few years ago it would have never occured to me that I could even weight anything under 155. Yet a few months ago I was at 125 and thought I was disgustingly, horribly overweight. At 145 right now, I feel like a whale, for lack of any better description. I got to 137 on a five day fast a couple of weeks ago, but now I don’t know if I have it in me to do that again. I do fine all day, but once I am home from work I eat too much because I’m tired and irritable and don’t feel like going without food all night.

Binging is also made more difficult by the fact that we have very little food in the house. Enough for dinner and a few snacks, and that’s it. My mother is skimping so much on the gorceries that half the time I find myself confronted by the fact that I’m either going to have to eat cereal or go to the grocery store myself. She’s been complaining about my eating habits, and finally I have eased off a bit. Every month the amount of money she uses is lessened, and now she won’t buy anything that isn’t essential, and even went to the point of buying nearly everything generic, even things like toothpaste, which she used to never do. I give them money to pay for myself, but it obviously isn’t enough at the moment. Every time I attempt to give her something extra she starts crying and won’t let me. I’ve gotten to the point where I snatch up things from her cart and put them with mine so that I can pay for them, or I buy her dinner if we stop somewhere (always fast food).

My dad won’t even buy his books that he wants. I think the only things we won’t go without are the satellite and the internet; otherwise everything else is more or less expendable. I keep thinking it will clear up eventually, but it hasn’t, it’s worsened, in fact. The economy can blossom whenever it does, but it won’t matter, because we’ll be the same as always. Ever since my mother’s accident it’s been a fairly shitty experience, and working this job is the only real taste I’ve had of being able to buy things on a whim. It’s never really been like that before. It’s amazing to be able to buy expensive electronics and not have to freak out about it because I would have to scrape up everything I’ve got to have it. I’ve probably been spending more than I should, but I use my low moods as an excuse. At least I feel better for a short while, right? Sometimes even buying things can’t do it, though. It’s those times that I get frustrated.  I should use it for things that are important, but I find myself caring little. I’ve even been playing with the idea of not getting the insurance that was offered to me (which is frighteningly inexpensive). I won’t get therapy, and I haven’t even bought myself the car that I need.

I seem to have no problem floating aimlessly, with no plans for a future. Sometimes I think that I am planning my own doom, carefully constructing it in the background, in a place my consiousness can’t quite see.

Obscure

The changes in mood are killing me. I can even feel it in my body now, this deep ache of exhaustion. When you are away, working, it’s easy to get lost in thought, it’s easy to forget everything but never-ending line of meaningless tasks. I’ve been less low lately. Not well, but at a spot that was almost bearable. Then I wake up yesterday and that feeling of pointlessness was stronger than ever. This numb state of mind and body has overtaken me once again, to the extent that I feel automated. I feel…as though I am not really alive. And why must it be this way? Why does it shift so rapidly? Why, if it is just hormonal, can I not bring myself to change anything?

I’m falling faster and faster, down into the black, all my senses fading–literally. I get so bad at times that food has almost no taste, warm doesn’t feel so warm, and pain is a dull, pointless thing that barely touches me. I don’t understand the purpose of this, I don’t understand what it is that I am asking myself to see. That it can be worse? That I am nothing? That even the smallest of pleasures can be taken away?

Numbness is beyond pain, and somehow it hurts more than anything.  I can’t be emotional. I will die that way, I see that. My worst moments were lived when the numbness was gone and there was nothing but a raw wound. I can’t bear it. I can’t feel. I am so used to being without it, that to experience it is overwhelming.

They say that each day survived is one that makes you stronger. But why is it then that I only find my resolve growing weaker, my mind struggling less and less to evade these thoughts? Am I obsessed with it? Have I become so enamored with an idea that I have allowed it control over my life? The answer I get is probably. I am lazy, I am weak and stupid, and I don’t want to try. What better a way to end that misery than to simply…stop it from existing?

I am sick of apologizing for my selfishness. I am tired of my own inaction. Everything about me is so horrid that I can’t bear it sometimes. I feel smothered by my own self hatred, and even locking myself away in this darkened room isn’t enough to ease it. It just keeps getting worse and worse, to the point where I find myself laying in bed, willing myself to call into work and tell them that I am through. I can’t do it. I can’t do anything, because I can’t stand to be myself, and I am too set in my ways to ever change.  

Every morning I have this fight with myself, and every morning the numbness is all that convinces me to get up. I don’t know what else to do, and sometimes I know I don’t have it in me to finish this. All it takes is a single bullet and one simple squeeze on a trigger, right below the chin. Kaboom, and there is nothing to fret over. There is no job, there are no problems, there is no pointlessness. There is nothing. And most importantly there is no life. And is that so terrible? Do I honestly believe that I make a shit bit of difference anywhere, to anyone? I am not an integral part of anything; I hold nothing together. I have always been something clinging to the fringes of existence, too small and insignificant to ever hold sway.

 And I don’t feel sorry for myself; it was all my own doing. I wanted obscurity and here it is. I would have been out of here a long time ago without it. I am grateful because I know that the day I die I will have accomplished and meant nothing, just like everything else, and at least my one redeemable quality was that I was not stupid enough to deny and fight it.  That will have to be enough. It must be enough.

It is all that we can ever expect.

I never got to sleep last night. They called me at 5:30 in the morning, on my day off. It seems like a joke, almost, this life of mine. I don’t ever feel awake or asleep; it blends together into something indistinguishable. I also found out that coffee is free, which wasn’t the case at the first store I trained at. Needless to say, I’ve been taking advantage to the point where even my unaffected body finally gives in and reacts to the caffeine of all the black sludge I swallow down. I end up shaky and overly-alert with a bad stomach ache every time, but it’s better than being so tired that all I do when I get home is crawl into bed until the sky gets dark.

The opening shift is really killing me. It fucks off my routine completely. I have to get up a bit after 4:00 in order to allow myself time to shower and wake up somewhat. Then I spend most of the morning at work having to do everything on my own. It’s just a very shitty arrangement and plenty of people are unhappy with it, coming to me and complaining about my schedule, which I think is funny. I asked for the closing shift and I get opening. Shows just how much my boss likes me. She’s been sick, fortunately, so I’ve not had to deal with her.

And this is what everyone wants, supposedly. I think if it was my choice I’d only work 12 hour shifts so that I wouldn’t have time to think about it. They’ve cut my hours quite a bit along with everyone else, so I am doing a regular 40 hours a week instead of 50. The extra time is hard to make up for, honestly. I come home and don’t know what to do with myself. I sleep for a few hours then get up, generally going back to bed at least three or four times for short intervals, trying to sleep out of sheer boredom. I either fall to sleep, or give up and watch some shitty television program until I’m too tired to sit up anymore.    

Complaining accomplishes nothing, they say. But for some reason it makes me feel better.

Para-fucking-noia.

My night was plagued by nightmares. One stands out the most.

I’m at my old house. It must be fall, because the ground is covered in leaves. There’s a wetness too, as though it only just rained, leaving everything soggy and wet. I’m outside for some reason, walking up the hill toward the goat pen. I keep thinking that I’ll open the gate to the fire road and go up the path. I never go up there; it’s dangerous without a gun, but nonetheless I am compelled to go.

Then I see it. Something black, off in the brush. It’s tall, that is all that I catch. I am instantly afraid. The fear that I rarely experience, comes over me. I get that strange prickling at my temples and I start to breathe heavily.

What the fuck was it? Did something get loose? An animal maybe?

Somehow I know that it is no animal. I had been watching horror films all night and though they never effect me, in the dream I instantly want to use them as an explanation for why I am suddenly shaking.

Did I really see something?

I can stand it no longer, and I run, all the way down that steep, red slope, nearly slipping on all the wet leaves. Then I’m on the gravel, going toward the house. I look back. Nothing there.

When I reach the cement, I calm a little, slowing down. I’m huffing, choking on the cold air. It’s been so long since I ran. I wait. I watch. I keep thinking something is going to come down the hill. It’s going to get me. It’s going to kill me. It’s going to tear out my heart and eat it, and oh god I’m not going to be able to stop it. It’s going to eat me. I’m going to die with that fucking thing eating my goddamn entrails, and it’s going to be smiling its monster smile.

I can’t take it. I turn away again and rush over to the door, rip it open so that it creaks irritably on its hinges, then slam it behind me. I lock the chain first, then everything else. And that stupid door. Stupid fucking door. Every winter it expands, and fits even more illy into its frame. There’s a crack that lets the light in. The thing…. It’s going to get in, that is all I can think.

Seconds pass, and I move through the tiny house, venturing finally to my parents’ window, where I get a view of the two sheds and the wide, gravel-covered driveway. By this time I am trying to convince myself that it was nothing. I’m imagining things. I’ve been alone too long and now I am making things up. That’s it. It’s all just me being an idiot. I’m stupid and that’s all there is to it.

But I can’t tear my gaze from the window. I know its there. Maybe it isn’t real, but it’s there, in my head, lurking around the shop outside. It’s going to come get me. It’s going to break the fucking window in and come get me. I back away from the glass, fearful suddenly.

I’m making it up. I must be making it up. There’s no monster. Who could possibly believe in such a thing? No monster. There is no monster. Nope. Just me, all alone in the house, spending too much time watching a bunch of shit too late at night. Need to lay off the movies.

But I can’t get it out of my head, and I start to pace the brown carpet.

It’s coming, and it’s going to get me. It’s going to eat my heart right out and I’m going to die feeling it.

I end up at the window again. I stare for the longest time. Seconds. Minutes. Nothing changes. The thought of where the cat might be makes me frantic, and I stupidly search around the room for him.

Where did he go? What if the thing got him?

But I can’t leave the window. I can’t.

Then I see it. Something black moving by the shed.

What I hated about this dream was how powerless I felt. I couldn’t do anything. In most ‘monster’ dreams I end up with a shotgun or some object to smack the shit out of it with. But not in this dream. It was all wrong. I was weak and alone and pathetic, resigned to dying. I didn’t pull myself from the dream. Why is that?

I woke up feeling afraid.

It doesn’t matter, I promise.

I just got home. I started work at 10 in the morning and clocked out at about 11:30 at night. It was a long day, I’ll say that much, though for some reason I had much more energy than usual. We were short people, then again, what else is new. People are calling in sick regularly now, because no one wants to put up with the hours anymore, and most of the employees aren’t familiar with the grill or assembly because it’s the job no one wants to do. To top it off, the people who do know grill aren’t about to come in on their days off. And who can blame them? If you have a life, the last thing you want to be doing is running to work in the middle of it for shit pay and a whole lot of stress.

 The teenagers are driving me mad, coming into work after school, chattering incessantly, and whining about tiny cuts and how they have to work six hours. I just watch them dragging their feet and trying to imitate adults. Is it bad that I feel a hundred years from that? Is it true even? Am I as lost and young as they are?

I spent the night doing assembly alone. Everyone was off cleaning, and thankfully I didn’t have a whole lot of orders when it got later, which was surprising given how terribly busy we were during the day. It was a very relaxed atmosphere, due to the manager we had tonight. I’m standing there in the front, sweeping, and she walks over and shows me a picture on her cell phone of a dick with a very interesting piercing. One of the other women is sitting over in a booth, laughing, because she was the one who sent it. It’s bizarre how different it can be when there are people who know how to calm down. I’m so accustomed to the stricter managers, that it really shocks me when I work under someone more lenient.

I’m glad to be home, in a way. I have to go in at 7:00.

I won’t refuse hours. You want to give them to me? Go right ahead. It doesn’t matter, I promise. I’m not living them anyway.

Same old, same old.

Tomorrow will be three full weeks of taking the pills. My doctor told me to come back to speak with her in 3-4 to see how it was going. I don’t know what I would say really, other than that I am no better yet, probably worse. I’ve had some terrible mood swings, much more drastic than usual. I’ve been very irritable too, I’ve noticed. Everything seems to get on my nerves and I have been avoiding my parents for the most part. I’ve also had a few crying fits, for absolutely no reason. I’ll just be doing something random, and suddenly I’ll start crying profusely. Then there’s the numbness, which, I hate to say, has been increasing. I feel almost like something dead at times, I am so flat.

Why is this happening? I don’t understand. I’m going to give it another week probably, before I call her. I really want this to work. I’m so tired of it all. I need a break, even if only for a short while. I’m nearly out of pills though, so I may have to contact her sooner than I would like.

I’ve been trying to stop the binging. It’s been bad, but not like it was. I think I am stressed, but I’m too numb to feel it, and this is my reaction to it all. I’m not hungry; it’s become almost a way to pass the time, and to get myself sick so that I’ll fall to sleep. I wake up despising myself. I loathe myself while I eat, but no matter what I tell myself I find no reason to stop until I am satiated. If I keep this up much longer I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. It’s pathetic, honestly. I don’t know what is wrong with me, because I can go the whole day without eating, then the second I get home and I think about my day, it starts.

I did an 11 hour shift today. Breakfast was a banana. I got shaky during my shift and drank some sugary soda to get through. When I got home I made myself something nice, but apparently that wasn’t enough, because I kept going and going. I hate myself. I hate my lack of control. I hate how it feels as though nothing matters, because that’s what hurts. I should be able to do what I want because it doesn’t matter, right? Who cares what I am physically, who cares if I’m dying, who cares if I’m bruised and cut up and disgusting, right? It doesn’t matter because I am going to die anyway. This is how I rationalize it. I feel like death is coming and nothing long term makes a difference anymore.

Swallow the light.

I want to go for a walk today; it’s still early, it’s still possible, but yet I have been sitting here for over an hour doing nothing. It’s been months since I’ve gone for a walk, because I just don’t have the time anymore and I often get home when it is growing dark. I would walk in the dark, but I know that my parents wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps I will go for a walk in the dark sometime and just keep quiet about it.

There are some angry lines from a few days ago, but I am healing. I know if someone were to see they would think something was wrong with me. At the end of the day, who’s to say there isn’t? Every time I make a new one, an old one begins to bleed. They cross over, the past and the present, proving that they are the same in a sense, as a new one grows old and meets something fresh again.

Yesterday was a good day at work, I guess, as good as it could be. We’re always short-handed, and I’ve begun to get over it. We all just try harder and pick up the slack, but everyone is red-eyed and weary. They come into their shift in a daze, taking several minutes to warm up, like abused machines. I am the same way, and I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter anymore if I get proper sleep. I get sleepy no matter what, and I feel like shit no matter what, so why waste my night away on drifting through dreams? I sleep during the day, whenever I can, as long as I can. It means I don’t have to talk to anyone or face my life.

I take a lot of trips to the freezer. I stand in the cold room, surrounded by boxes, cursing, and ripping them open with a savagery I forgot I possessed. I’ve even cut my hands in my haste, which usually just incites the flame. I’ve even taken to throwing the 40 pound boxes of frozen meat into the wall, or even into more boxes, which causes them to teeter and fall. I really do feel like I am giving my blood for this. I am losing myself to a person I do not like or understand, and it infuriates me. I want to stop her from having this, even if I don’t want it. If I can’t have it, if I don’t want it, no one should be able to have it. Regardless of how I feel, this is mine. This pathetic life, this battered, fucked up soul? It’s mine, and it’s my right to destroy it without so much as a word from the outside.

Then I have these moments where I want to repair this. I want to try, and I feel both relief and hatred for it. I hate myself for changing my mind, yet I am relieved that I have enough feeling left to not throw this all away without a proper fight. The one thing I cannot stand is giving in, admitting that something is superior to me. And maybe I am rationalizing it by saying that life is the weakness, not death, but I think in a way I do believe that. I shouldn’t need it. I shouldn’t need anything. I should be calm in death, I should have no internal struggle. I should be able to look upon something beautiful and not feel jealousy because it can’t be mine. Nothing is mine but this, and this too, should be— and is—expendable.

Senseless

I’m really hating on myself right now. Another bad day I don’t want to think about. It really does seem to be getting worse, this workplace. I’ve decided that I don’t just dislike my boss, I hate her. I can deal with her, sure, but I constantly have the urge to be a real ass to her, which isn’t the greatest of ideas. I even cursed in front of her today, and couldn’t be brought to give a shit about it. She surprisingly made no comment. I think every other word out of my mouth is ‘fuck’, because every time I turn around something is going wrong or I do something clumsy that I end up having to clean. Interestingly, so is the same with everyone. We all cuss, we all get annoyed.

Today one person made a comment that it’s always livelier with me around. I thought it was funny considering what I’ve been doing on my breaks. We started singing the hokey pokey about an hour into my shift, quite obnoxiously, which made everyone cringe and laugh. It’s the only way to make it through these days. We all try to be nice and polite, because the rest of the time we’re either pissed off or irritated.

We’re always shorthanded because of the shitty scheduling the manager does. Even one of my shift managers gave me a bit of a look when she was talking about her and the hours she’s been giving people. That, and we’re always out of something and far too overstocked on other things. I’m just tired of it, already. How long has it been, even? It hasn’t been a month yet and I am already worn so thin. I came home today and just wanted to collapse in bed. I don’t want to talk to anyone, and everytime my parents ask me, ’how was work?’, I want to scream. You can ask me a few hours after I’ve been home, but not right when I come in the fucking door. Tomorrow will be my first day off after six days of working. Then I go back to work again for a few more before I get another day off. It’s not that bad, I realize, but I’m kind of going a little crazy. It’s the pills, it’s the food, it’s everything. All of it is fucking with me at once and I’m not strong enough to try and deal with any of it, so instead I try to ignore it instead.

I almost feel like I’m purposely being helpless. Like I want to drown, so I’m swimming out as far as I can go, as deep as I can get, so that when it happens I won’t have any energy left to turn around and get back to shore. I know how to get myself to feel a little better, to get my mood up a tiny bit, and I’m not even doing it. I’m not doing anything. I’m continually making it worse, knowingly. I seem to like being in misery or something. Everything is so confusing. I want to die and I can’t even do that yet. I don’t have anything in me to go through with something; I drift along because I don’t have any drive to try something, no interest in pursuing some dream like everyone else does.

There’s nothing that makes me go forward except boredom and apathy. I have no interest in stopping or going, so I merely go because that happens to be the direction other people pushed me in. If they had never pushed, I would have never started in the first place. I wouldn’t be in the game anymore. Maybe that would have been a better alternative, I don’t know.

All I know is that I am doing things out of duty with no desire to go anywhere with it or do anything. Unfortunately, I just can’t seem to bring myself to care about that.

It’s my own fault, really.

I was late for work yesterday, fortunately only by a few minutes. I didn’t want to go. I fought with myself over it. I wasted a good fifteen minutes trying to figure out what I should do. I was set for destruction right from the start of the morning, and found myself frantically scrubbing the dried blood off in the shower. I knew I was going to be late, and my mother kept coming in my room to see if I was ready. I was really short with her, trying not to yell. I was walking out the door, and realized I’d forgotten my watch. I ran back to go search for it, and there were my pills sitting on my dresser. I took three again, and felt the consequences for the rest of the day.

I was so tired and out of it, that I was going to leave early. Naturally no one was scheduled for anything, and I spent most of the day with one other worker making the food, assembling the food, and doing fried products at the most busy time of day. Don’t you love how that shit works out? I went to the freezer a couple of times and just leaned against the boxes. I found a box cutter over by the microwave and was flirting with the idea of taking it to the restroom with me on my next break. I still don’t know why I didn’t. I guess because I have a knife already. It’s familiar, it’s mine.  

I made it all the way through. Don’t know how I did, closing my eyes every few seconds as I was doing things. I ate a bunch of candy from the store again, even had an energy drink. Nothing helped. To top it off I was in a terrible mood and I was sick the entire time. I thought for certain I was going to vomit sooner or later.

I have to go to work again today. I don’t want to, but it has to be done.  I’ve made no real effort to eat better, but I seem to have stopped gaining excessively, which is nice. I’m still almost never hungry. I just eat because I am an idiot and clearly can’t cope with the most basic of things, like life. Yesterday, I was sitting in the breakroom eating a candy bar I didn’t want (I was hoping the sugar would wake me up), and this woman from the front counter walks by and says, “That’s really fattening,” then walks away. What the fuck? We’ve never been introduced, I don’t even know her. It just seems like a ridiculous thing to say to somebody. It’s a candy bar, no fucking shit it’s not good for you, and not to mention she must not know what ‘fattening’ is given her own body’s state. I was just feeling like crap, and that didn’t help. The women all say different things to me here and there about how thin I am and all of that, and I kind of want to say something horrible in response. Because I don’t feel that way. I feel absolutely vile right now, and won’t even go to the store without wearing a huge jacket to cover myself up with. I won’t even weigh myself. The only reason I know I’m not huge is because my uniform pants still fit. They have always been tighter at my waist, even when I was at my lowest weight, and now they still close, but they look like they’re a little small. On the days where they feel too tight, the next day I do my best to not scarf down everything, then they fit better again the day after.

I don’t want to be bothered with anything, it’s kind of getting sad. I know I need to go out and do things, regardless of how I feel. Tomorrow is my day off and I’m going to try to convince myself to go to town with my mother while she does the shopping. I know I can’t keep staying home like this, only sleeping and avoiding everyone. It’s not good for me to cater even more to my loner inclinations. Last time my godfather was here, I saw him twice, and I didn’t even feel up to going to dinner when they all went. I think the only reason I did was out of a sense of duty. I didn’t really enjoy myself, and found that I was having trouble eating in front of everyone. I’ve even been taking my meals alone in my room, not going to the kitchen table (I eat there by myself too, but it means my parents are in the adjacent living room) since I am so embarrassed by my own behavior lately. I want to stop, but I feel like I can’t. There’s just no reason to stop when I don’t care enough about it. Yes, I feel horrible and fat, but no one sees me anyway, and I don’t have to leave my house if I don’t feel like it. This is how I keep rationalizing things, even though I know that my eating, my lack of exercise lately, and several other factors all have a lot to do with my feeling like shit over all.

I’m just lazy and don’t want to do anything that takes effort. I do my nine hours at work, then I come home and sleep. Apparently, that is my life.