«DisjectaMembra»

new site.

Consider me a lost little girl who thoroughly enjoys change. In case anybody happens to care at all, I'm working on making a new site, who's address will be posted here soon enough. Basically, I'm tired of having to come to the same stale page all the time and read my own resounding words over and over again. I know I explain my actions in too much detail, but having that said, I have a little more explaining to do. I need to clarify that the recent um... absence of my entries (along with the really shitty ones that came before I stopped writing here altogether) never meant that I stopped conforming to that internet nerd inside of me, meaning, I was still reading every last one of your sites and all of your wonderful comments. I still love you all to death, and you all still have your place inside of my fat, ugly heart. Please don't be mad at me.

click, waste your time: http://www.xanga.com/DisjectaMembra

Don't expect this to be anything like my usual entries. Everything has changed. I can't even remember who I was on Monday, but I'm not her anymore. I spent Wednesday's entire afternoon and evening, including a good half hour into the early hours of Thursday morning, sitting with my mother in the waiting area of the emergency room at the children's hospital. After being weighed backwards by the triage nurse, who managed to make me cry and handed me a handful of Kleenex and some seriously typical words of advice as compensation, I waited for hours watching kid movies and listening to children cry. I hate how detailed this is becoming, so I'm just going to skip to the part where I'm sitting on my hands at the edge of my seat while a [very attractive] doctor tries to get me to explain why I was sent by the counseling department at my school. I told him to read the file, couldn't speak the words. I don't believe I'm sick enough for this. I don't believe I was, in very literal terms, a heartbeat away from staying  in the ER overnight. I don't believe my heart could possibly be so fucked. I don't believe I'm scheduled for an urgent appointment at the adolescent clinic on Tuesday morning. All I've done over the past week is sit at the very edge of my seat on a series of chairs placed squarely in front of authoritative adults, staring off into space, at a post-it or a pen, while I'm told exactly how sick I both am and will become. I want to scream, that I'm not sick, not thin, not in need of help. I'm too much of a fucking coward though. At first, it felt like nothing, it didn't soak in, just bounced off the surface, or something. Then this morning I cried from 3 a.m. to 6, and on and off past that point. Adia, you helped so much, okay. I feel so human and so needy and so exposed. I don't think I'm able to do this whole xanga thing anymore. Don't have the energy. Not now, at least. If there's anybody who cares, I'll probably update about what will happen in terms of treatment. I'm scared. I'm really fucking scared. I can't begin to explain what exactly I'm scared of, because I'm scared of what will come out. I've found safety in the number 76, and I don't want to go back to what I was. Selective memory, I guess, but I can't remember what I was and I don't want to go back.
I'm so sorry, Adia, and if anybody else is reading this fucking thing, I'm sorry. I love you.

I hate myself, and I hate myself for hating myself. I'm so lost, I'm not living my own life. How did it happen? "Gradually and then suddenly."

Pardonnez moi, s'il vous plait, parce-que je suis une grosse fille laide avec beaucoup trop a faire et très peut de temp, il semble, qu'il me reste. I can't imagine why I would chose this time, of all the opportunities I've had over the two or three weeks that I haven't visited xanga, to write an entry that I'm sure now will be very little more than a convergence of nonsense and complaint. On the other hand, it's not very common that I speak or act in a way that has any justification. At the moment, that is all you should be expecting to read, seeing as I'm barely able to put together my thoughts in any legible manner. I'm somewhere in the limbo between stepping down from a week of undying energy (obviously chemically induced, I've been inhaling rails of speed through decapitated pens everyday in bathroom stals) and successfully forcing myself to recall what exactly I'm supposed to do in order to be able to move, speak, think, or eat in a way that doesn't involve agony. As for today, all I've accomplished is lying half awake on the couch wrapped up in countless sheets and blankets and a rather uncomfortable layer of flesh and telling myself to no avail,youhavetogetupnow, rightnow. My stomach feels like it's ripping, which is quite possibly more painful than is sounds, and Advil doesn't do shit, and I'm afraid that I might be about to overdose, because I can't read the line above, and my hands are purple and shaking, and I was about to say something along the lines of: I solemnly vow not to touch whatdoyoucallit, food, until the scale correctly dictates to me that I am a girl of seventy-five pounds. If you're interested to know, I have six pounds to go. Know that, however, there is always more where that came from.

"As quantity grows, life quality goes."

My usual complaints are of time passing too quickly, however I've recently found myself at the opposite side of the spectrum, where you wait and wait and wait for anything that will make you feel even remotely alive to happen. Interestingly enough, when something finally does happen, I've already run back to that first end of the spectrum and I've missed that anticipated moment performing some exercise in futility such as loving or sleeping, or my all-time favorite: eating.

An exercise in futility. My whole life has been nothing short of just that. I keep running around, complaining about this and that, attempting to kill myself off and then changing my mind. Growing and shrinking (most commonly the former), chewing and swallowing or just standing still. I miss all the gray areas and bounce back and forth in an endless series of black to white and back again. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Nothing I do at this point is worth anybody's turned head.