I’m not sure what’s going on with me. I’m not sure if I’m ill, or just being hit with another wave of depression. I’ve been angry—frighteningly so, snapping at the slightest things, and stewing over my actions for hours. There’s no guilt, just an apathetic acceptance.

I changed my diet almost a month ago, and I’ve noticed my energy has slowly dwindled to the point it is at now. I perpetually feel tired, and on my walks, I’m forced to stop repeatedly, which is not usual for me at all. I’ve actually been sitting down because I ache so terribly. I’ve been sleeping 12-14 hours a night for the last week, and it’s done nothing to improve either my wretched disposition or my bone-wariness. I’m either going to have to go back to my old eating habits (awful), or try to find a supplement that will help. 

A few minutes ago, feeling shaky, I ended up eating my way through 6 oz of cheese, 15 pieces of salami, a giant chicken breast, about a 1/4 of a jar of peanut butter and a 24 ounce, 1000 calorie protein shake. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and there’s not even a slight feeling of fullness. I feel like I haven’t touched food all day. I’m starting to think I need sugar, as much as I wish I didn’t. I haven’t gained any weight from my terrible eating habits, which is strange. A week or so ago I cheated and I ate a pint of ice cream, and the next morning I went for a 3 hour walk without a problem. Coincidence? 

What’s strange, is I am fairly certain I had much more energy a few months ago when I was barely eating, as compared to now, eating either normal or bingeing. Odd. I’m going to try to stick it out another week, but if my sleeping gets any worse, I’m probably going to abandon this whole routine and go back to what is familiar.  


sick sick sick

Abuse is better than concern. In the end, I am more grateful to the people that hurt me than the ones who took the time to treat me kindly. With kindness, there is no progress. With kindness, one is not forced to react, to fight, but instead is allowed to be complacent. Weaknesses that are already present become more pronounced as those skills are used less and less.

At times I have wondered if I’m attracted to the humiliation not because I am a deviant, but because the better part of me knows that being pushed into a corner is the only way this animal will stop acting so fucking domesticated.   

Pretending to care

I took a nap about mid afternoon because I’ve been feeling like shit. You know, that kind of day where you ache everywhere like you have the flu, yet there appears to be nothing physically wrong with you. I didn’t even walk today. I never miss a walk, but somehow I just couldn’t manage to convince myself to go. I got followed by a man the other day, which was off-putting, but not enough to keep me from going. So why?

I masturbated then fell asleep. I don’t know how long. I finally rolled over and checked my phone because it had nearly vibrated off the shelf. I don’t realize it at the time, but it’s the start of what will be a shitty night. I groan and force myself to answer. I know who it is; there are only two people who call me.

I must have laid there with the phone listening for 30 or 40. It’s those times that I recognize just how little I truly care, and how psychologically stunted I’ve become. She’s telling me her tragedy: she kicked her husband out. I’m thinking about the fact that the last time I made cake I didn’t quite like the flax seed, and maybe next time I’ll try mixing it with almond flour so that it won’t be quite so dense.

Dense, now there’s a word. She wants validation. I force myself to give it, somewhere between realizing my phone now smells like sex and deciding I should probably take the dog out. I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy. I know her husband, I know her. We’ve been friends for a few years. Every week she’s decided he’s cheating, or he’s done this or that. I’m all out of things to say to commiserate besides “why don’t you just fucking leave him then”. That would be an asshole thing to say, right? I’m lucky I still remember enough about human interaction to still recognize those socially awkward asshole statements.

It’s probably been a good 8-10 years since I felt anything remotely resembling compassion. Isolation and hate tend to do that to people; destroy whatever it is that holds us together. That bit in the brain that makes us cry when we see someone else do it, that useless trait that makes us care. I don’t have it anymore. Does that make me wrong? Should I not exist? I don’t even care for my own misery anymore. I accept it in all it’s darkness. I even accept my brutality and my self-centeredness. These are the things that are real and true, these are the things that make me worth something. You take away the gossamer, that fucking ethereal veil, and all that’s left is a savage.

At least I know what I am. I know that I don’t care and I wonder if I should be concerned.

A secret

Sometimes I let things slip. I don’t know why. Maybe I bottle too much up, then it suddenly boils over, and something has to come spilling over. A container can only hold so much, and perhaps it is much the same with my head. This overflow was unexpected. I’ve been with him three years or something like that, and I still hadn’t told him, not ever. It’s not even embarrassing anymore—it should be—but I lost my shame a long time ago, somewhere between being covered in my own shit and vomit, and confessing that as a youth I used to shoot small animals with a pellet rifle for fun. Fucked up? No, not at all, not anymore. I get to define what normal is. Technically we all do, which is something they don’t want you to know or remember.