| Written by Diana, on 05-12-2004 23:14 |
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I have, admittedly, be reading Wasted during my 2 hour crusade to exercise off all unnecessary fat that continues to hang around. I was reading the five Harry Potter and the [add magical person, place or thing here] series over and over, each in rapid succession but I've come to memorize lines in scenes left out of the movies and decided I'd better find something else to read. I've read through Math History, Art History, and Medical History books and found none of them to hold my attention to make two grueling hours feel like nothing. So, on to Wasted I went, this time in a fresh clean book without the marks of hospital anger and thin pride. I've made new marks, marks to understand, marks made in agreement, in understanding, and of course in envy. This time around, however, I know me, I know my illness, and I know that as little or as much as I want the things in that book, I won't get there any quicker by reading about it. It won't make me any healthier any quicker by putting the book aside because everything that's in my head after I read it was already there. In the end, when I read it, it makes me feel more like I can't relate to her and less about getting "ideas." The book is more about becoming bulimic than becoming anorexic. I binged but I was never bold enough to purge. I was never loud, quite the opposite. I was as quite as I could be. I've always wanted to disappear. I didn't want to disappear for the power of it, to gain a sense of worth, I wanted and still want to disappear for the sake of disappearing. Of not existing in the first place. I see no honor in disappearing, there's no pride. It's only fair i guess, I've always taken up so much space, more than anyone should be allowed in a lifetime. I don't believe in a soul, in reincarnation, or the like. It's not about coming back as something or someone different. It's just about not being. Forgetting. Letting go. My parents never fought, they yelled at my sister and I, and then my mother at me. I never yelled at them, rarely cried in their presence or anyone else's, never talked back. I hid at school and at riding lessons, in a corner or in a book. All anyone ever heard was how bad I didn't want to go home. How strange it is over the past few years how I've been so afraid to leave it. When I was 5 I used to take sugar from the pantry, in the palm of my hand, and if I got to my room I'd eat it. I started packing brown sugar in a bowl when no one was home and keeping it in a drawer by my bed, eating it when I lonely or afraid, after being yelled at for one thing or another I probably hadn't done. I took Jell-O packets and baking chocolate, blueberry muffin batter, and anything else I could get my hands on. Always in secret, always saved for later. I left for college, stopped eating. I left a year later, defeated, and gave up on my quest for greatness, for existence. It's never come back. In three and a half years it hasn't come back. My quest to disappear however, has swelled. My ways of going about it have changed, not having a horse or school (with 1500 other students) to hide at. It's difficult to hide at work with 35 prying eyes, my exercise at home must appear awkward at best. Anyhow, sorry for my rambling. I'm always trying to justify that it's not only my right, but my duty to disappear, quietly. It's futile, but at least I sometimes understand my need for it. Sometimes. Time is such a waste.
Last update: 05-12-2004 23:14
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