I am afraid.

I am afraid for the future. The economy is crashing. Prices are rising like never before. Yet still, people do not change. If we could all make simple changes, we could live better. Why is there corn in everything when the prices are so high? Why do we have to drive everywhere? Why can’t we put our minds to work on useful things instead of making stupid menial tasks more enjoyable? I don’t want to live in a country full of people who insist on doing nothing but grumble about gas prices and wish for hybrid cars. It is insane. We are backwards, behind the times, oblivious to everything. America’s idea of cultural awareness is looking at the very worst of dictatorships and third world countries and saying “Gee, I’m glad to live here, because we’re so much better off, rah” as we waste the abundance we once had in totally idiotic pursuits. I want to move to a country where people understand that the planet is not theirs for the taking, and that there is more going on than the price of gasoline.

I am afraid for my health. I wake up in the middle of the night, crying in terror. I have probably destroyed my life. I am terrified. I want treatment. It’s all in progress. I see bones I’ve never seen on me before, or on anyone except scary skinny celebrities– dramatic shadows on my breast bone and ribs, shriveled deflated boobs. I eat, and I puff up, and then it screams YOU’RE FAT YOU PIG EAT LESS and I cry, because I am afraid to stay this way but afraid to get better. I am afraid.

I am afraid for my sister. I made her soup and a peanut butter sandwich– she ate 1 bite of the sandwich and a bite or two of soup. She lied. Said she ate. Wasn’t hungry anymore. I found the remains in the trash. Made her eat. She will not go through this hell. I will not allow it. Absolutely not.

I am afraid of growing up. Of being alone. Of dying. Of living. I want to go back, start over, live again. I am so afraid.

Stupid camera.

My camera is a stupid little thing. None of my pictures came out because the camera’s gears are messed up. GAH. I’m frustrated, and I can’t afford to fix it.

I need a job so I can pay for a digital SLR. Feh.

Also, Ember Sky intro: almost finished, rah! *throws confetti* On to actual gameplay!

Shut up about Ted freaking Kennedy.

I don’t really care what he did for my state, there is no way it is important enough for about 3 days now of nonstop TED KENNEDY HAS BRAIN CANCER OMG! on the news.

Really, everyone’s all “Oh, he’s a LION! RAWR!” and “Such a hero!” like he’s dead already. About every 5 minutes, the news breaks AGAIN! Ted Kennedy has a tumor! It’s in his brain! Now he’s at his vacation home! Now he’s doing stuff with boats! We told you first!

Honestly. Isn’t there anything else going on? Like, oh, say, the war our country is currently engaged in? The failing economy? The plight of those affected by the motherload of natural disasters lately? No sir, Ted Kennedy has cancer. Can’t talk about anything else, lest I forget for a moment that it’s MALIGNANT and the survival rate is 1–5 years (but he’s a fighter, so you never know, as they’ve told me about 57 million times) and everybody lurves him sooooo much. . . gah.

In other news, Ember Sky is coming along nicely. I think I’ll redraw Christophe (again) or do Fire Emblem style faces if I can’t get the look I want. But I’m quite excited at the progress I’ve made.

More photos tomorrow, maybe, if we can afford the developing.

Also, did you know that Ted Kennedy has cancer? In his brain? YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST!

Okay, I hate my dad.

So my sister had her play last night. It was okay, you know, high school play, sucktacular ending. But of course we had to go to Worcester and pick up my son of a bitch father, whose car got repossessed and who is too fucking lazy to get a fucking job. And no, it’s not the economy. It’s him, all fucking him. And I was not doing well already. Depressed, and restricting. I had a munchkin at therapy– spit it out, didn’t swallow. (My therapist, being the FREAK she is, said this was okay because munchkins are “nasty” and so it was okay that I’m bordering on fucking BULIMIC, and that I would fit well in Europe because of how little I fucking eat. Way to trigger, bitch) I chewed about 15 pieces of gum, so I wouldn’t claw at my arms. And then my dad… god. GOD. I get out of the car, he eyes me up and down like a fucking pervert, says “You look good.” FUCK IT ALL YOU’RE MY DAD YOU FUCKING SHITHOLE. He says he can’t get buckled. I’m in the back with him. He oogles over and I do it for him. God. We get there– he buys me coffee. Makes fun of my request for skim milk and splenda. Wolfs down a donut. Looks at me like I’m a freak for not wanting one. Now keep in mind this is my sister’s play. He buys a flower, intended for the cast, and holds it out to me like a fucking courting schoolboy. Seriously. I tell him, give it to Shannon, it’s her play. He looks crestfallen. Grabs a cookie-on-a-stick and hands it over. I refuse. Can’t eat that. No, I’m ready to puke. They end up with my sister, but only because I insisted. On the way home, he smacks my brother. Understandably, my brother gets REALLY freaked out. Dad’s response: “Don’t disrespect me.” Oh, also, he got his guns back! Yay! Fucking police department full of fucking retards. And now he knows where we fucking live too. Am I scared? Oh yes, shitless. I had nightmares about hiding from him and from food, and about a man whose stomach exploded and split him in half. I ate a 35 calorie piece of bread for supper. I can barely eat at all. I want to starve. My brother does the opposite. Last night he ate a 5 piece order of chicken selects and 2 large fries from McDonalds, a large sprite, an order of pork fried rice, an order of Chinese spareribs, 2 rolls, a fortune cookie, an order of chicken fingers, one of wings, 2 hot dogs, a hot chocolate, and a Boston creme donut.

Lovely. I fucking hate my dad. I want to disappear. I feel so fucking dirty and scared. Excuse the language. I don’t feel eloquent today.

Yay for people

At last! an opportunity for socialization. I got invited to a graduation party! This will be my first real contact with high school friends in… a year. Mind you, last year I didn’t give a crap about my appearance, was totally immature, severely depressed, and dealing with the death of my foster mom and my transition home. I’m now 50 or so pound lighter, better at pretending to be happy, and riddled with a lovely combination of social anxiety and intense loneliness. This will be interesting. How can I fend off the “OMG YOU’RE SO MUCH THINNER EAT A SAMMICH” that I know I’ll hear? My bets friend knows about my issues and will be there– she tends to overfeed me. I want to be normal, not piggish. Gah. Also, my vegetarianism may throw them all for a loop given how much I used to love meat. I’m really nervous.

I felt bad today, so I did 2 hours of DDR and some strength training. I thought about running stairs, but my knees were feeling really nasty and I figured I had to stop or else have trouble tomorrow. I also had some frozen yogurt. That was hard. Everything’s been hard.

But tomorrow I’m gonna call some photo studios and see about a new job. I can’t go back to Kmart. I’m so ashamed of how I left.

Hoorah for mood swings

I should know better by now. I’m not a wannabe. I’ve spent too many days hating myself, everything, to be a wannabe. If I were a wannabe I wouldn’t be afraid to go eat 100 calories of lunch.

Apologies for the dark mood. It’s been rough. But I found something funny at nonemorepessimistic’s anti-wannarexic xanga: How many pro-anas does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

1 to actually screw it in.
10 to say “OMG, I wish I had your willpower! I’ve been sitting in the dark for the past month!”
20 to to claim that they were “Screwing in my lightbulb last year, but then my parents stopped me when it was almost in and made me unscrew it… now it’s completely dark in here! I need motivation to start screwing it in again!”
15 to take pictures from bizarre angles that make it look like they’re screwing in their lightbulbs.
14 to post pictures of Nicole Richie and Mary-Kate Olsen in close proximity to light bulbs.
10 to argue over whether or not screwing in a lightbulb is a choice or the result of a psychological problem.
10 to claim that their lightbulbs are completely screwed in, even though they’re sitting in a dark room with an unscrewed bulb sitting next to them.
11 to say that they had their lightbulb partially screwed in last week, but spent the weekend unscrewing it because they lost their will power.
2 to write poems about the goddess lightbulb that guides them on their quest for light.
and…
7 to come along randomly and ask how they can become light bulb screwers too.

I have to go eat something. DAMN IT I’M GONNA FREAKING EAT SOMETHING. So THERE.

I feel like a wannabe

Haha, the amazing normal weight anorexic! I don’t care that I’ve been diagnosed. That my heart rate is something like 42. That I don’t have my period. That i lost 50 pounds. I must be a wannabe. I eat too much. I think about food all the time. I’ve made up excuse after excuse to not exercise. I want to curl up and die.

What am I recovering from? Something I never really had? Screw it. Just screw it. Things were easier with just 100 calories a day being too freaking much. Things were better. I lost lots of weight. I felt better. And now I’m a freaking pig. A wannarexic who hates food and makes herself eat. Yeah, I make myself eat. How gross is that? It feels so awful. I don’t think I’m ready for better yet. I want to be thin. I want to disappear. I want to die. i want to be the girl people point at and say “She needs a sammich!”

125 pounds. 5′3. Can’t be anorexic. They must be mistaken. 40% of girls my height and weight are thinner than that. I’m normal. I HATE NORMAL.

I must be determined

I ate breakfast.

I didn’t want to. But I did. Whole wheat mini bagel, low fat cream cheese, watermelon. I won’t be having refined sugar, candy, gum, or diet drinks today. I was doing better without all that sludge.

Is it bad that I want to weigh 115 pounds? That I want my thighs to cease their endless jiggling? And yet I also want to get better. Can I lose weight and be healthy? I don’t know.

URGH I HATE THIS

I hate myself. Really. I am fat and jiggly and ugly and generally useless. I’m afraid to go back to work. I don’t want to eat tomorrow. If it weren’t for the inevitable metabolic crash, I would definitely fast. Definitely. I’ve gone from at least 800 calories to 800 or less, and that’s way too freaking much. I eat too much crap. Do you have nay idea how much sugar I probably ate today between the freaking high fructose corn syrup in my yogurt (what the hell?) and the sugar in my cereal and the piece of chocolate I ate? Too much. And two days in a row with cake? Munchkins? Am I freaking INSANE?! If getting better is THIS HELLISH than damn it I want to at least get THIN first. No more of this crap; I can’t freaking handle it. I hate the way my thighs jiggle when I walk, how every pair of jeans makes them look like sausages. I’m not healthy anyway. Why be unhealthy and fat when I can be unhealthy and thin?

I don’t know if I can hold on to this “recovery” thing. It just seems like such bullshit today.

Photos at last

I’m just going to link to my DA gallery, rather than posting here, but I’ll post each time I update my gallery.

The gallery