The Weird Kid
Monday, August 11, 2008
Built without Integrity
My body is growing past my control.
I wore high heels the other day, because no matter that I bought my first 3x tops to try and look good, I was going to try and look good. They were wide, comfortable heels. It took them five hours to become unbearable, raw on the pinkie toe, aching to not have to support my weight anymore on those tiny pressure points. In the last store I hobbled down the aisles, supporting as much of me as possible on the cart.
When Smudge threw my purse out of the cart, I watched it go. I had to wait, to get ready, before I could bend down to get it. I had to prepare for the hurt in my back and legs, snaps and twinges that wouldn't be actual pain if they weren't all happening at the same time. I had to realize that maneuvering around the obstacle of my own stomach in a squat was going to be unpleasant. And worst, rising back up again with only the unstable cart to hold on to.
But I waited long enough doing this, and a thin woman in a red dress picked it up for me, smiling at my baby. I was. so. goddamned. grateful.
I have eaten with great purpose for the past year, with the same self-pitying and brutal intention I used to cut my skin with in college. I knew it was destroying my body and all I'd worked for to learn to like myself. I'd answer my own worry with a "Fuck off!" and a slap. "You'll worry about being fat when you don't want to stab your own eyes out anymore."
Every medication I took is gone from my body now, after one vicious month of withdrawl, dizzy sobs and loathing. A blister, a fever, broken finally.
I don't know what will happen now that I can see stuff.
But I'm going to throw out the rest of the ice cream.
Probably.
I wore high heels the other day, because no matter that I bought my first 3x tops to try and look good, I was going to try and look good. They were wide, comfortable heels. It took them five hours to become unbearable, raw on the pinkie toe, aching to not have to support my weight anymore on those tiny pressure points. In the last store I hobbled down the aisles, supporting as much of me as possible on the cart.
When Smudge threw my purse out of the cart, I watched it go. I had to wait, to get ready, before I could bend down to get it. I had to prepare for the hurt in my back and legs, snaps and twinges that wouldn't be actual pain if they weren't all happening at the same time. I had to realize that maneuvering around the obstacle of my own stomach in a squat was going to be unpleasant. And worst, rising back up again with only the unstable cart to hold on to.
But I waited long enough doing this, and a thin woman in a red dress picked it up for me, smiling at my baby. I was. so. goddamned. grateful.
I have eaten with great purpose for the past year, with the same self-pitying and brutal intention I used to cut my skin with in college. I knew it was destroying my body and all I'd worked for to learn to like myself. I'd answer my own worry with a "Fuck off!" and a slap. "You'll worry about being fat when you don't want to stab your own eyes out anymore."
Every medication I took is gone from my body now, after one vicious month of withdrawl, dizzy sobs and loathing. A blister, a fever, broken finally.
I don't know what will happen now that I can see stuff.
But I'm going to throw out the rest of the ice cream.
Probably.
posted by Imez at 7:34 AM
3 Comments:
Heels! Goodness you are brave! I'm shamed to say that I still don't know how to walk in heels!
Oh,my. You sound like you need a hug. I eat. and eat. and eat. To stop myself from thinking and hurting. It's self destructive. And I know it.
Reading this was awesome. Thanks for sharing.
mother hen- well, it wasn't a very successful outing.
christy- if we could just replace the addiction with cocaine, we'd be a lot thinner.
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