The Nightshade Princess
2003-01-26 05:49:05 (UTC)

these tortured lines

Today I went out. Every single one of my previous
and highly undesirable plans had been cancelled, so I had
some time for the man I love. Unfortunately, he had plans
for the earlier part of the day. I waited 4 hours for my
best friend Heather to finally finish all her chores, and
we took off. I treated her to a beverage and had some
coffee and a doughnut. I still have a latent fear of
becoming fat, so I only ate one this time. I had another
anti-food day, but thus far it's an isolated incident.
Yesterday, however, was somewhat alarming. I couldn't
face school. I awoke at the usual time, but the air was
somewhere around 20 degrees, right outside the comfort of
my blankets and warm bed. I pulled myself out of the heap
of fabric and felt a heaviness, a terrible fragility, steal
over me. A teacher had called about the fact that I hadn't
been turning stuff in. My mother insisted upon talking and
the tears that had threatened to show themselves since the
moment I rose burst forth like summer storms. For the rest
of the morning, no matter what I did, I wept. I could not
hold them within me. Facing school was an impossibility.
I was already at least half an hour late, overtired,
freezing, and crying so much I had a massive headache.
That pain stayed with me for the rest of the day.
Today, I felt myself thinking like an anorexic again.
I'm surprised I even ate the doughnut. I kept obsessing
about its fattening nature.. the calories, the sugar... I
don't think I shall ever be fully rid of that disease. I
hold doubts that anyone who has suffered this ever
fully "gets over it."
No one ever truly escapes mental illness, either.
They are trained to believe that they are. These people
are given medicines and are brainwashed into no longer
following "destructive patterns of thought," but they are
never "normal," (partially because there IS no normal, but
I digress). So long as they keep up the charade that they
are cured, they can continue functioning. It would be far
too easy for them to slip once more into the Hell that had
become a part of them. Always, there is a hole in this
person's mind. The personality is gone because it had grown
inextricably around the disease, like rose trellis I've
mentioned in an earlier entry. I am one of these people.
My diseases are a part of me. The drugs would only
leave a hospital-white void in my personality, a huge
emptiness with surgical edges. To cut out the cancer would
be to remove my face. I will not be a painted mime, a lie
with two eyes, two feet, and no soul. There is no sucrease
from this sorrow, no easy ending to this pain, but at least
it's a constant in this ever-changing world. It gives me
the horror-visions that I paint in words, it is the
darkened lens through which I see the world. It is an
impediment, devouring me as slowly as mold devours the
dead. I can say no more, yet, curiously, I can say no
less, looking back over these tortured lines and wondering
what can be removed for painless reading by those for whom
I care. There is nothing here that I think I would take
back. No spare parts, no glaring inconsistancy, no
unnecessary phrase leaps out at me. I leave this work to
stand, then, as it must for the time it exists.