Me's 4th Journal
Sunday, January ninth, 2000 - four-ten a.m.
gave up trying to figure it out
my head got lost along the way
worn out from giving it up
my soul i pissed it all away
still stings these shattered nerves
pigs we get what pigs deserve
-- nine inch nails; "last"
I sliced away the tears rising in my throat with a slim shimmering razor, and the blood sliding down my chilled flesh is as close to comfort as I will get. My days have been brimming with extremes, and the past few have rapidly led me lower. I exceeded my calorie limit yesterday, and I am suffering the consequences. Did I need to punish myself? I did so, severely. I have a quota of at least *** sit-ups a day. This evening, I have done ****. I am still dissatisfied with myself. I discover myself practicing methods that I thought I had forgotten. Using the most precise, detailed movements, so as to use as much energy and burn as many calories as possible.
There is red -- a colour that rusts with age, but still lingers in my mind -- smudging the walls. Stained with my sacrifices. My lips are bruised with colour that I smeared across them to hide my lies. My body is twisted under a heap of covers. I'm cold. I do not stop being cold. I do not stop wanting to cry. I do not stop forcing myself not to cry. I wouldn't stop, and the tears would turn into knives and I'd hit my wrists again. It feels like someone has sliced my eyes apart, blinding me to everything but darkness. It's in everything I see, still, and light is something like a memory. These past few days have been Hell. I had my good times, but those are gone now. My therapist and mother are a brutal force. They are taking me to a dietician. I will let them think that I am following their rules; but you all know better.
I have been fueling myself with driving rhythms that peel away my scabs, and the false sense of energy I give myself to survive. I am incapable of perfection; everyone is. But I want to get as close as I can. I feel like I cannot get there if I do not weigh ** pounds. I'm close to that, but not close enough. Just.. edging around life. Tiptoeing, keeping my thoughts to myself and filling the gap up with denial. If I'm digging my grave, then so be it. I opened the soil, I should give it something to chew on. Do I want to live? I don't even know anymore. I don't have the strength to commit suicide. Or maybe I don't have the desire. I know that if I put my mind to it, I could defeat this. I want the weight-scale to stop feeling so godlike. This sacred thing that I can never match up with. I don't want to compete with another machine.
I had one especially good day this week, though. When I went to visit my friend. He handmade twenty-eight rosewood snowflakes for me, and each one was different. I knew that he was a genius, but I didn't really understand how far it went until then. And that evening, I went to a splendid show, and then the Diner. But it was brought to a close far too soon, and now it's just a faded slip of memory in my head. And that sickens me. But soon, soon, soon, nine inch nails will initiate their American tour. I will touch Trent Reznor. Hopefully.
I just.. can't be happy about that. I try to smile, and it just shatters and leaves my lips trembling. I can't cry, though. I have makeup on. It will ruin my pretty eyeliner.
I feel like giving up.
disillusioned,
me
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