interlude
is self-loathing so essential to my persona that I’m not me without it?
Note from author: It’s been a few months since I shared writing on here. It’s because I haven’t been OK. At the same time, I’m becoming more OK with each week. If that makes sense.
The events in this post are far from fresh, but I will be back to sharing regularly again soon. Strong content warning for bulimia.
P.S. I’ve started a new podcast about growing up in a cult with my friend Syd! You can watch/listen at http://clotheslinepod.substack.com. I’ve also caved and joined Threads as @xtinajumper. Come say hi!
The dysmorphia has been getting worse. My skin is breaking out and nothing I do is halting the spread. The word “ugly” flashes into my mind at regular intervals throughout the day, like an aging neon sign flickering its outdated message. I don’t want to put on makeup because the ugliness bleeds through anyway. I don’t want to leave the apartment, don’t want to eat, don’t want to make plans, all because I don’t want others to see my ugliness.
Is self-loathing so essential to my persona that I’m not me without it? Would it be better to accept myself the way I am or transform into something alien because others told me to?
I want to get high. But what I really want is to feel like an artist again. I want to feel caught up in something bigger than just me. I want to feel pretty.
It feels like I have all this pressure inside me that doesn’t have anywhere to go. Boredom feels like death, yet creativity eludes me.
What a stupid dilemma.
what if
My throat hurts when I swallow, but I don’t think I’m getting sick this time. I’ve been smoking a lot lately, and purging a few times a week. More specifically, I’ve been binging on popcorn and Saltine crackers with peanut butter, neither of which feel particularly nice coming back up. I take a sip of hot black coffee for a moment’s relief.
Tomorrow is March 1st, which means I’m days away from getting my first Social Security payment. It still doesn’t feel real. February was the last month of struggling to pay bills, of asking for money, of opening my bank account and feeling anxious about what I’ll see.
This has been my normal for over two years. It sounds ridiculous, but part of me is trepidatious. What if—
No, there is no “what if”. I am allowed to depend on something. I am allowed to be relieved. I am allowed to let go of the rope pulling me through whitewater rapids and float in the eddies instead. I try to ignore the voice telling me that I’m going to ruin everything, that in spite of the aid, my path of self-annihilation will lead to its inevitable destination.
Even as I write that, I feel a twinge of grief. It’s hard letting go of what amounts to my identity.
It’s not like you’re gonna stop being fucked up, my inner voice points out.
aftershave
My dad shows up after therapy to take me to the Social Security building and establish him as my designated payee. Only then can I receive the backpay I’ve accumulated over the past two years.
Luckily, we don’t wait long. The worker tells us to expect a card containing the funds sent to my parents’ house within 14 business days. It’s not ideal, but my dad promises to send it to me as soon as he can. I’m quite privileged in this area, since some people get their payee assigned by the State.
We stop at a soul food joint in my neighborhood for salads. We eat outside and review the paperwork that was given to my dad.
It says here that I am “intellectually disabled”, I say.
He shrugs. Sometimes you just need to accept what they tell you, he says. Go along with the system.
My father is 100% disabled with my mother listed as his official caretaker. I ask him if he’s ever felt ashamed or dehumanized. Again, he shrugs.
We know what we’ve gone through, is his response.
An hour after he leaves, I can still smell the scent of his aftershave from our single hug. It’s both comforting and sad. I spend the rest of the afternoon reading on the balcony while Fang stalks mayflies.
I’m curious to see how I act without worrying about money all the time. I can see myself shedding some of my baggage and facing the world with newfound curiosity. I can also see myself staying exactly the same, the stress from money simply transferred to something else.
nightmare
I dream that I’m stuck in a giant grocery store and can’t find my way out. I fill my cart as the minutes count down to closing time, checking the same shelves over and over again for products I hope have materialized since my last sweep. I feel my heart catching in my chest, my steps quickening as I think about all the time I’m wasting in this building.
When I finally get to the register, the lights are being shut off and a line of customers forms behind me. The cashier, a young woman, wants to chat, but I’m only half listening because I’m trying to find my EBT card in my bag, which is overflowing with receipts and random scraps of paper I’ve saved. The customer behind me is starting to get impatient. Sweat pools between my breasts and trickles down my armpits.
I’m sorry, I say, I’ll just use my other card. I rifle through my bag some more, then realize I’m also missing my debit card and driver’s license. This is when I start fighting back tears.
It’s OK, the cashier says, clearly wanting to be done with me. We can set aside your cart and you can come back tomorrow and pay for it then.
My heart sinks. I need this food tonight. The man behind me has already started placing his items on the conveyor belt.
Here, says the cashier, handing me a handwritten receipt. Just hold onto this and bring it tomorrow.
The number on the paper is over $200, which is more than I have. I stuff it in my purse, eyes spilling over in despair. As I wheel my full cart over to the designated area, I notice several cases of expensive protein drinks I didn’t choose now sitting on top of my groceries, flattening them. For a moment, I consider just keeping them, but they’re dairy and I can’t even have them. I glance back to the cash registers, wondering if I should say anything. My heart is beating so fast I think I’m about to have a panic attack.
Then I wake up to find I’ve sweat through my sheets again.
animal crackers
Earlier I cleaned the entire apartment—trash, litter, dishes, vacuum—and made a major grocery trip where I spent a third of my new EBT balance. When I got home, I made it a few hours before the plastic container of animal crackers in the shape of a bear—you know the one—turned my “lunch break” into a bulimic interlude.
When I’d bought the animal crackers at Walmart, the lady at the checkout counter asked if they were for me.
Uhhh, maybe! I’d responded in what I hoped was a playful manner.
She laughed. That’s why I like you, she said. You’re honest.
If only you knew.
The name on her tag read “Marion”. I remembered her from the last time she rung me up. We’d talked about the importance of brightening up a work environment with floral patterns. Nice lady. Funny. Good anecdotes. I wonder if she’s hiding pain too. Who isn’t?
My nails are peeling again. Another reason I shouldn’t be doing this anymore. Even when I was “just” restricting, it had been easier to keep my nails long and hard. Now that I binge and purge several times a week, they’re falling apart.
Surely there has to be something else.
My therapist won’t be thrilled to hear that my bulimia continues to escalate. I haven’t even told them about the Benadryl I picked up last week. (Honestly, I’m kind of proud of myself for the restraint I’ve shown in dosing. Harm reduction, right?)
Since I started writing, the sky has gone from cotton candy blue to a yellowish gray, the color of lint. It’s going to storm later, but I thought not until 11 p.m. or so. The wind is picking up, too. Maybe I’ll go on a walk before it’s too late. A walk fixes everything.
transported
I’m back in my old town to bury our dead cat, who has reposed in our freezer for several weeks. A friend lets me borrow their bicycle so I can kill a few hours before meeting my family later.
The moment I take off, I’m transported back in time. I remember the route perfectly—through ODU, past the trains, past that spot where my sister had her birthday tea party, past my favorite Greek restaurant with the shawarma bowls that kept me alive during my last alcohol relapse. I could have seen my old apartment, but I didn’t want to chance seeing anyone I knew.
I’m not as in good shape as I was when I lived here, but my muscles somehow do their thing. I get to my destination, the picnic spot on the waterfront where I had my last two birthday parties. To my horror, the tables have been removed by the city. Now all that remains are patches of concrete slightly lighter than the concrete around it, where the tables used to be.
There really is no going back.
I sit instead on one of the swinging benches suspended from steel arches. This seems different than before too, but I can’t put my finger on it. The “Free Palestine” sticker I slapped on the highest point of the structure is long gone. It was winter when I put it there, and my ex was with me. It was rare for him to join me on my walks, so it is a memory that stands out. Did he lift me to place the sticker, or did I jump?
Yes, I think I’m done romanticizing this place. If that’s even what I’m doing. It’s time to focus on my new city, on the future.
I still can’t believe I got out of here alive.
dirty
Moments like this, I forget that I’m sick.
What a pathetic word, “sick”. As if you can only be sick or well. Clean or dirty. (I have been feeling pretty dirty, though.)
I still haven’t told anyone how bad it’s gotten. Every meal is now a battle against myself; not a bite goes into my mouth without me considering throwing it back up. I’m smoking weed all day every day. I’m buying binge food with my EBT money. Yesterday it was 8 muffins and a bag of Doritos. The day before that it had been the fucking animal crackers.
It’s so quickly become a primary coping strategy, it’s a little scary. My body remembers doing this. Being this.
I’m tired of not feeling good. You know?
ablaze
We bury Ezzie over the weekend, our family and us. Caroline brought Oreo Thins because “they’re black and white and skinny, just like Ezzie!” At the end of the night, someone takes a photo of the two of us crouching above her freshly filled grave. All I see is the acne on my forehead. It’s taking up the entire picture. Grief is weird.
I was worried that seeing her dead body would be traumatic, but I found it comforting. She looked exactly like she had the day at the emergency vet. I stroked one of her paws and discovered her fur was still as soft as I remembered. We laid her the bottom of the hole dug by my dad and future brother-in-law and arranged a bouquet of roses around and on top of her.
She was beautiful.
It seems silly to blame the death of my cat for my recent decline, but I have to admit that the timelines match up. I must have had more pent-up grief that had nothing to do with Ezzie, spilling out over the rim.
Either that, or I was waiting all along for another excuse to dive off the board back into the pool of chaos. Maybe this time I’ll find oblivion at the bottom.
Up til now, I’ve always had to come up for air.
After the funeral, someone drags an old armchair into the fire pit and sets it ablaze. The smoke pours into my eyes and makes me cough, but I can’t tear myself away. Something about this moment feels familiar.