Thursday, April 29

"The Offical Birthday Entry"

Say: Happy birthday, Julian. You're a stud.


Balloons in my bedroom. Thanks, Tobias.

Roses. Also thanks to Tobias.

My new life-sized poster of James Dean. (Sorry, picture of me making out with him is unavailable at this time. Apologies for my laziness causing me not to rotate it, tambien.)

A boy reading. He was cute and he was reading a book in my favorite weather (gloomy and just about to rain). That's worthy of a photo, is it not?

Uh, trying to lick something?

Stupid statues. At least I controlled myself and only took a picture of one of them.

My cat, because I love her. This blog is dedicated to her! ...kidding, kidding.

Wednesday, April 28

Compiling a list of books and movies that changed the world.

What are yours?

Tuesday, April 27

New green sheets, and I don't bother to wake up until almost 8 a.m. He films me while I'm waking up, stretching slowly like a cat; a close-up on my eyes as I roll them in his direction. He films me as I climb out of bed, my stomach shadowed by the curve of my ribs, scars peeking out from the top of my flannel pants. He films me brushing my teeth and us having breakfast ("a kiss," he said, "to break the fast," but I didn't fall for it).

And then later, perfect equitation, finding my place on the back of a horse. In the playback I can barely tell where my body ends and the horse's begins; such is the communion we took part in. Riding bareback, so there is no flash of silver stirrups or saddle to hold me away from the animal's heaving back as we go through a hunter course together.

By 2 I'm sick from not eating and I curl up on the green sheets again with a John Grisham book. He films then, too, but the camera is turned away from my face when he brings in an old electric typewriter. I jump out of bed and write three pages of gibberish to break it in while he pretends he's not pleased.

At dinner time I let him make me vegetable soup, one of those recipes from Luke that always leaves you feeling clean and new. I tell myself it doesn't count because soup is not a solid, despite the pieces of vegetables and he might've slipped in some chicken, too. Afterwards I have a frappuccino and call off the fast, but only until Saturday.

Monday, April 26

(apologies for the lack of alphabetical order; the EDed don't have great cognitive abilities)

"The Eating Disorder Dictionary, First Edition"

1.) A bulimic's paradise
2.) A good place to give up on recovery
3.) Anorectic's hell
4.) A great place to have your first binge/purge session

1.) One who does not ingest animal products
2.) Great excuse for weird eating habits

1.) Shit, did I clog the pipes again?
2.) One who fixes the pipes the bulimic clogged

1.) The enemy's camp
2.) When dragged to one, consider yourself a Prisoner Of War

bathroom [esp. in house or afore-mentioned restaurant]:
1.) Hopefully sanitary place to put your face close to the toilet
2.) Bring wipes; air freshener

1.) State of disgusting vulnerability to be avoided at all cost
2.) State allowing one to fully explore one's progress or lack thereof
3.) State allowing one to explore scars, bones, e.g.

1.) Non-existent idealistic concept that one will never experience until one achieves perfection

1.) Can only be achieved through ED measures

Sunday, April 25

I sneak up on him and kiss his ear. He turns in his chair, looks at me with guarded eyes. "Will you let me take you to lunch?" he asks.

"I'll go," I say, "but I'm fasting."

A frown touches his lips. "For how long?"

"Until I can't."

The unsaid words vibrate between us: Until I'm dead.

Sitting in Surprise's stall, watching her go slowly through her hay. Her belly hangs low with pregnancy; her eyes flick back and forth tiredly. She's obviously ready to get this baby out of her, but it's not time yet. Every once in awhile she turns her head and nuzzles my hair, comfort. She knows me better than anybody else. Or so I think at that moment.

He peeks in. The glinting silver of his piercings are gone. He looks softer, more innocent. He's carrying a box in his arms, just big enough for spiral notebooks. He sets the box on the floor next to me. "Something, maybe you should see." I think: Smooth, Toby. Hand me my notebooks so I can see that life does go on. This kinda shit has happened before, and I've survived. I have loved men since... But when I peek inside, the notebooks are unfamiliar; the handwriting not mine. The ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I'll be in the office, if you need anything," he says. His hand twitches, barely, as if controlling the urge to touch.

After he slips away I open the notebook on the top. A journal--how did I not know that about him? His scrawling handwriting makes a mockery of the blue lines, marching into the margins and covering every space on the page. Did I really lose my chance? I want to blame this on myself, because I'll have some control over the situation that way. I still hope beyond hope that it's just situations, inconveniences, I still hope that one day there will be a wake-up call and he'll be mine. And, Shit. I'm such a fuckin moron. I have to remember why I quit in the first place. Damn it, Tobias, don't forget!

Skimming, only catching every other word. him Julian another dream God, he's so beautiful sick, again why can't I make things better? Lists: If I could say anything without consequences, here's what I would say:

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
That about covers it.

The other notebooks are the same. Timelines. He thinks I'm sleeping with her. It doesn't bother him, so there's no reason for correction. Unless....Well, maybe if he knew that I haven't been with anyone -- I guess for the pathetic reason that he consumes my thoughts -- then maybe he would feel differently about me. Yea, and then I woke up.

Back in time, to where we weren't speaking. It's taking everything I have to not contact Julian. I have to wait, though, until I have something to show him. Things are different now. Rehab is going well, I guess, if you consider me getting through withdrawal a success. And: I really fucked up this time. Last night I was so messed up I didn't even know what he was saying to me, not until I walked out the door and got home and spent the night throwing up. Then I remembered. Fuck. I've lost him. For real this time. Fuck. I guess this is desperation, then? I feel like killing myself. I would, if I thought it would make anything better, but all that shit about escaping the pain? Yea, right. I'd have to deal with it after I was dead, too. I'd remember what I did to him.

The earliest, from when we first met: I met the most perfect boy today. His name is Julian. He has those eyes that just swallow you alive. I could drown in those eyes. He's shy, but he told me how to get ahold of him. I think he's deaf, so I better polish my ASL a little. Wow. Is this love at first sight?

At the very bottom of the pile, a folded letter under all the notebooks. Dated "everyday."


I hope you're ready to hear this now, because you're going to have to. If you missed the memo, I'm truly, madly, deeply in love with you. I would die for you. I would live for you, and I have. I would....

....There's this image in my head of us, ten years from now. We're married and in love and have a billion kids, just like you wanted, and a billion horses. You and I are sitting on our rap-around porch, drinking coffee and watching the sun rise. When I kiss you, you don't pull away. It's not a sex thing, just love. I'll be like Ender and give up all the pleasures of the body, complete devotion to the spirit. I don't have the same qualms about it that he did. Be my Novinha, and I will give you the world...

...Without you, my heart does not beat.


Saturday, April 24

So, so sad. And disheartened.

Doing things I shouldn't do, and I come upon a thread on a message board saying, Who else is anorexic? and there is more than one reply that says: I just started ana, but...

Double take. This isn't real to me again, not yet. It'll take awhile to desensitize myself to these kinds of people, these kinds of views on the disease that has surely killed me.

A boy brags about his 2-year stint with "ana," how he's lost 70 pounds, how he only eats 400 calories a day. No, I'm screaming. No, love, no! This is prejudicial, but my empathy is a hundred times greater for the boys and so is my scorn, because people see these things and assume I am the same. I'm not, though, or so I pretend.

On the flipside, anorectics are competitive, and I think HA! I bet I've lost more than that and I've gone weeks on only 100 cals/day, so go fuck yourself. Not to mention, I'm skinnier than you you asshole.

I guess these are the thoughts I'm most ashamed of, the ones I'm most strict about hiding from people. And there they are, for all of you (whoever you are). Good thing Ethan's not reading.

Through all this, my thoughts skip back to my full tummy and regret. I could probably still purge, I keep thinking. There's probably time. But I don't. I could go running, I think. There's plenty of time to do some sit-ups or something. There's also plenty of time tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that until death catches up to me, to not eat. Plenty of time, plenty of time, except there really isn't, because I'll be dead before I'm 40. Or 30. Or 22, if the rest of the year goes like this.

I'm hungry.

Friday, April 23

Update upon request.

I'm tired and cranky because I haven't gotten any sleep all week. The end.

(Ok, ok, so the details are: Wednesday night I crawl in bed and say, Is it over? He says, "yeah" and kisses my forehead and wraps me in his arms, and that is that. Thursday we stay up all night giggling and remembering why we love each other in the first place. Tonight we help friends get settled in their new house (finally free of them) and go out to eat, holding hands and stealing kisses. We are back to the place where we can look at each other, and a million words are conveyed in that one look. When I stop eating halfway through my salad, he nudges me gently and gives me That Look. I glare and sign, ily. And then go back to eating.)

Tuesday, April 20

(I'm beginning to wonder if there's a correlation between my inability to perform sexually and his lack of caring for me at this time.)

Are we sticking with the idea that gay love is noble? I ask. We are lying in bed with the thunder shuddering the walls and clamping my heart, forcing it to jump jump a beat, but I pretend like it's not happening.

He gives me a look (I must've winced), but he doesn't say anything about it. "In some circles it's starting to be cool."

In most it's not.


Quiet, for a long time.

"So, why do you pick guys who have to make a choice between their life and a life with you? To make it noble?"

Versus what? I ask. What else would I choose? (Lately, bashing has been heavy on my mind. I've remembered, suddenly and inexplicably, what it feels like to be small in front of a group of bigger boys who want to hurt you.)

He doesn't smile. "Me."

We stare at the ceiling as it starts to rain.

Monday, April 19

If I could find my poetry book, I would copy something profound and perfect in here. I'm thinking along the lines of Jonny Lang, but is it "Lie to Me" or "Beautiful Girl"? Maybe "Goodbye Letter":

there's a letter on the table
i've never seen it there before
i don't have to read it
'cause i already know

it's been a long time coming
and i've been awake for days
i know we can make it
but something's gotta change

is this how you want it?
i'll leave, but i don't want to go
and i'll wait, but i can't wait forever
for you to say goodbye

well, maybe i'm just dreaming
but i know dreams come true
and i'm still here believing
that god made me for you
Yeah, that's it.

I'm glad I wrote the previous entry when I did, otherwise it would be lost to me forever.

Zing zing, goes the mood, and it's all down the drain.

I find it amazing that he can lie so blatantly to people he says he loves. The scary thing? I don't know if these "people" he's lying to are me -- or everyone else. Because someone is getting bullshitted. I hope it's not me, but if it's not, am I going to have to worry forever? Am I going to forever be wondering where his loyalty lies?

"Don't go, Quim," said Novinha, and he replied, "These are my mothers and my brothers." And Miro, too: "These are my brothers! Kill me first!"

Why do I keep going back to this? Why do I keep thinking of this reference to a reference, Ender and his maddening patience -- all tying in with Orson and his bigotry --

It's not fitting together yet, what this all means. It will, though, and I'm deathly afraid that the picture I see is going to injure me.

I'll survive though, you know? The lesson I have yet to learn/about boys and their toys and then something about, I'm screaming your name inbetween the choking and will you be there when I'm dying?

Still don't know the answer.

Last night when he touched me I almost cried. His hands are soft (does he ever go outdoors?) but his lips are softer. How nice, I thought, to not have to worry about a thing.

And when I slept it was deep, lost in something I'd been so quick to forget. It'll be a long time before his whispers leave my skin.

Sunday, April 18

Something I hate with a passion: Stupid little fuckers who think they are so hardcore.

By hardcore, we're talking about little white boys (and yeah, sometimes little black and Mexi boys, too) in hicksville running around thinking they're all ghetto. Dude, no. Give it up. I'm also talking about your general Avril Lavigne look-a-likes and other dumbass "punk RAWK"ers.

Hardcore is this and this and this. Maybe a little here and here and here.

Hardcore is not hanging around in the one lone baseball field around your expensive trailer park in the middle of nowhere and laughing at the people in the aforementioned links. "Fucking faggots," says one of them.

Toby and I pause our imaginary baseball game and look in their direction. "This is fucking [name of hicktown], boys," I say.

Toby says, "You aren't as hardcore as you think you are."

We roll our eyes, and go back to the game.

They approach, rather predictably.

Toby says, "Go ahead and fuck with us. I'll put your asses in jail so fast you won't even know what happened."

Yeah right, fuckin' pansy, they say.

"Go for it, champion," Toby says to the ringleader. "Let's see how tough you little white boys are. How long do you think you'll last in jail?" Pause, while they walk closer. "You are aware," Toby says (maybe bluffing, maybe not), "that there are some very clear laws about hate crimes? And if you attack us because we are fags, I will make it very clear to a judge that it was your intent to kill us?" They look confused, Toby says, "Go away." They do.

We wonder aloud if the boys realize yet that their new neighbors across the street are gay. And decide it'll be even more entertaining when they do--because Phil is huge.

Friday, April 16

link via Andrew Sullivan

The funniest thing I've seen in weeks (aka idiot anti-gay organization mistakes the onion's satire for fact)

But STOP [Simply Truths Our Priority, anti-gay parents' group] argues the board is changing the curriculum and will promote a homosexual lifestyle in schools.

...Marilyn Ashworth of STOP said it's concerned the photo represents what will end up in this region's schools if the board goes ahead with its plan.

...Asked whether she believed it was a real photo, Ashworth said the caption included the teacher's name, city, state and grade.

"We researched in depth and that was one of the things we found," she said, noting the group spent seven weeks accumulating research.
Here's the Onion article, including the offending picture (as well as a lovely chart showing the increase of converted homosexuals).

From the Onion:

Emmonds credited much of the recruiting success to the gay lobby's infiltration of America's public schools, where programs promoting the homosexual lifestyle are regularly presented to children as young as 5.

..."Straight people don't have any fun," said Teddy Nance, 11, after watching Breeders Are Boring!, an anti-heterosexual filmstrip, in his fifth-grade class at Crestwood Elementary School in Roanoke, VA. "Gay people get to do whatever they want."

...Though Emmonds said gays have been tremendously successful in tearing at the fabric of society and subverting basic decency, she stressed that their work is far from over.

"For all the progress we've made, America is still overwhelmingly heterosexual," said Emmonds, who is calling for an additional $2.6 billion in federal aid to further the gay agenda. "If we are to insidiously penetrate American society, as we constantly do each other's orifices, we need more money and resources. Without such help, this country will remain the domain of decent, moral, God-fearing Christians. And that would be a sin."
Is it obvious only to me that this is satire? Anyone who thought this was real, hard fact was either a) mentally retarded or b) reaching. Really, really reaching, kind of like when I made up quotes to support my case in debate.

Wednesday, April 14

Is sex really something you're supposed to keep a tally of? (If he gives you something, you give back.)

What happened to giving because you love, not because you want something back?

Monday, April 12

Check it.

Again, it is probably not a coincidence that the group mainly protesting gay marriages is the group least likely to hold a marriage together. This points to both individual failure and failure on a community level: conservative Christians can't form communities that nurture marriages.
Faith without works is dead; a tree will be judged by its fruit. For a group conerned about Scriptural authority, evangelicals have yet to achieve a anything close to a synchronization of money and mouth.

Friday, April 9

And though I have been able to love men since...

It was a poem about domestic violence; I don't remember anything but that line. It hits home. Because yeah, I've loved and lost since; but how many times has the loss (or the love itself) been in direct correlation to the "thing" that happened?

I've loved men since, and some of them have even loved me back. Few to none have known the reason for the walls behind my eyes (Stephen King called the eyes "deadlights," which is another perfectly-fitting term, but I shy away from using it because of connotations). I think none of them have ever actually understood the reasons behind some of my rather pathetic actions: locking myself in my room for days, refusing to speak or lipread for days or weeks, reading books and books and sliding into a nearly manic state while reliving them, experiencing the same manic-slash-dead state while writing, and of course, always the starving, the binging, the running, the hours in the bathroom with the tiles swimming and a cat rubbing on my shaking legs.

I've been diagnosed, undiagnosed, and rediagnosed so many times I've practically memorized the DSM-IV. I've been called fat, thin, ugly, and average. I've been gifted and talented, the dumb kid in class, the guy who knows everything, and the stupid highschool dropout what-the-hell-does-he-know. Maybe all of it's true; maybe none of is. Maybe most of those things have been said by one of the men I have mistakingly loved since.

Wax on, wax off.

Cars and other things.

My libido has dropped like a 90 year old man without his Viagra. I mean, ok, granted, it came on like a 90 year old man on Viagra -- but I was kind of enjoying it, where did it go?

(That's an easily answered question. Cause and effect. I'm so much like a damn woman it's depressing.)

Toby's being mad-emo ("Fucking Bright Eyes," he says, "Yeah, I'm so hardcore") and maybe driving me a little crazy, but here goes the song of the moment:

Yeah, you still kiss me
But it's just on the cheek
You pull away too easily

And I still call you,
but I get your machine
And if I'm lucky, I guess,
it's your roommate answering
but you're at the bar

We go to dinner,
but you won't hold my hand
We sit at the same table
but we don't play with our feet

Yeah, we still go to dinner sometime
But we don't sneak a kiss
when the waitress turns around

And we still watch movies
but we don't share the couch
Yeah, we still watch movies sometimes
but you don't lay in my lap

The plot is slow, take a nap

And you even stay over
but we stay in our clothes
I'm only there so you're not alone

You say that I hurt you
in a voice like a prayer

Yeah, well maybe I hurt you some
let's contrast and compare
lift up your shirt
the wound isn't there

I guess that your truth
is just a ghost of your lies
I see through them all the time

So I'm pourin' some whiskey
I'm gonna get drunk
Yeah, I'm pouring myself some whiskey
I'm gonna get real fucking drunk

I'm pouring some whiskey right now
I'm gonna get so, so drunk
that I pass out
and forget your face

by the time I wake up.
That was a depressing bit of melodrama. (Heresay) Toby doesn't sound nearly as whiney as Mr. Oberst in this song; more like a cross between Better Than Ezra's acoustic "Good" and Bright Eyes' rough "I'm a depressed smoker and I think you suck!" voice a la "Waste of Paint" and "A Song to Pass the Time" (the neighborhood's damning/I smoke on the porch).

Wednesday, April 7

(from the archives again)


If I ever see your face again, I'll kill you. Go cry to J about how mean I am and see what he says.


(from the archives)


You know I know. And I know what you'll say: you'll lie, you'll argue, and then you'll turn it around and say that my drugs are self-mutilation, too. That everytime I smoke a cigarette, I'm hurting myself; externalizing "the pain." I'm sorry, J, maybe that's true, but I'm dealing with my shit. I'm clean. You aren't.

I love you. You know that, too. What the fuck am I supposed to do, though? What the fuck am I supposed to do when you lie to my face, and both of us know it's just lies? What do I do when Ryonn calls me in a panic, because you've locked yourself in the bathroom again and he's afraid you're really going to kill yourself this time?

I would give up my life if I thought it would fix things for you. We all would. I just don't know what to say to you anymore. Give me a clue, Julian. Tell me what you need. Tell me what it will take to make you eat again, to make you stop hurting yourself, to make you stop hating yourself. Your wish is my command.

Con amor,

Monday, April 5

What if? is there again.

Thanks to Alanna (shut up, I've read the books about ten times, and despite the horrible cover art I still love them). Quick overview: Alanna is a girl pretending to be a boy in able to become a night. Blah blah blah, she tells someone; he falls in love with her rather predictably (but still wonderfully!), blah blah blah. And I love this world they are in. I love the idea of "the Gift" (magic), and I've used a similar idea in several of my storylines, but for some reason it never went as far as being a mirror to the whole process of becoming a knight.

Because, and here's the what if?: What if Alanna really was the Alan she pretended to be, and this boy fell in love with him anyway? Is there a place for boys in love even in this foreign land?

'Tis always the question. I'll let you know how it goes.

(Oh, and when I asked a nearly identical what if about Ender, the answer was yes. Maybe I'll tell you about Sarez, Sailor, and the escape from one of the grandest Government Conspiracies ever.)

So it seems that art is no longer about honesty and truth and hard times and therapy (because, really, when was the last time you saw someone who was an untortured artist?).

Via the lovely georgia (in response to my 'rape' poem):
But if some body has been raped, they usually like to forget about it, and are VERY affected by it, and don't go round telling everyone
that was a corny poem
...even if he did get raped he should not tell people about that on message bords he should just keep it 2 himself!!...u must be a FREAK OF NATURE...and tellin everybody that u'r raped is'int gonna help u in the future...
I find myself wondering why I bother with anyone under the age of, oh, dead. (I was going to say 30 when I realized that the man who raped me was of that age and there's also a lot of nasty old guys who think 17 year old boys are 'fun.' Really, I'd just rather not deal with people at all.)

I also find myself wondering, for the millionth time, why I write. I don't write well; it doesn't seem to be helping me much, and it's certainly not helping anyone else understand why I am the way I am (as if they care); it's not changing the world and it's just not worth my time anymore.

Your line is: Cry me a fuckin' river, Julian.

Sunday, April 4

Outside, swinging a silver bat in circles at my side. Hands still red, blisters covered in band-aids, from yesterday.

The bat dings as the first ball is hit; it swings around and comes back for more. No thoughts, eyes on the ball, bat flying in an arc to connect.

I confessed my love in an animalistic manner and my shoulders, back, hands, ache, but it's ok. All there is is the ball, the metal bat in my hands.

New blisters form and I don't notice. Muscles wimper but it doesn't matter. My mind goes in remission.