I got a job a few days ago. I'm working at the resturaunt that Boy works at. I have less hours though considering my position as a dishwasher is far less pretigious than a cook/plater. I have mixed feelings about this for many reasons. I'll line out the pros and cons.
Pros:
Money. The most important if not the only reason why I took the job in the first place. Currently Boy and I have been relying on his income alone. We've honestly been living paycheck to paycheck barely making it. Extra income certainly wouldn't hurt.
Burning calories. I actually debated on listing this first. I've been going bat-shit crazy sitting idle for hours on end just waiting for Boy to get off work. His work is clear across town. With no car or any reliable transportation (transit stops running before we're off work) he resorted to skating and I would ride the bike. This is both a pro and con. Pro for burning massive calories and con for killing me slowly. I honestly feel like I'm going to pass out 1/3 of the way through.
I literally cannot think of anything else for pro.Cons:
Losing my alone time. Most of my day is centered around Boy. My sanity is being threatened without isolation. I love him but I NEED TO BE ALONE sometimes. Which leads me to my next con..
I'm becoming resentful towards Boy. Since the day I started working (not even a full three days) I've grown silent and standoffish towards everyone,Boy especially. I can't pinpoint a singular reason,it's more of a compilation of many things. One being he treats me like I can't do anything for myself which inevitably leads to our boss believing he's carrying my weight. I don't fucking need him to do my job.
K. A co-worker of ours. See,I've always been leary of this bitch. I knew she worked with him for about two years and they've become friends. She has a boyfriend,but that doesn't quench my doubts in the slightest. She is blonde,blue eyes,perky,and thin. THIN. The complete opposite of yours truly,not to mention Boy's "usual type." That was enough to nearly throw me over the edge. The day I met K we exchanged a look. "The" look that all girls understand, (I don't like you,and you better watch the fuck out.) I brushed it off and moved on.. until I started working with her. She looks at me like I'm the scum of the earth and throws backhanded compliments that make me want to drive a shiv into that perfect pearly little smile on that bitch's face. Also,to even more royally piss me off she's always flirting with Boy and gushing how he should be a chef. She shifted her attention to me at that point and asked what I was studying for in college. When I muttered "I don't know" she went full force into how it's pointless to even be in school if you have no goal. Uh first off,I can get my basics out of the way and second off,it's none of her fucking business. Bitch,shut up and sit the fuck down. Needless to say,I don't like her. And it's quite obvious she has a problem with me. We'll see how this turns out.
So as you can tell,mixed feelings all around.
[Edit: Two days later]
On another note,I got paid yesterday. Granted,it wasn't much,however it was only a week's pay. The first thing I bought? A bathroom scale. Yes. I've gone over six months without weighing myself and this was both an exciting buy and an anxiety-filled shopping trip. I bought it at the store down the street from my work. It is a digital "Biggest Loser" scale and retailed for $49 but I got that shit on sale for $29 so that was nice. I won't lie,I took it out of the box as soon as I got back to the breakroom and stepped on. Deep breath. 107.8. I was relieved to be truthful. Considering I binged all weekend I was thankful for anything under 120,let alone under 110. Of course Boy stepped on and shamed me with his almost-non-existent-weight. I told him if he ever goes below that weight I'll starve myself. He laughed.
Funny story time:
I was at work yesterday and grabbed my usual monstrous cup of coffee and started to head back into the breakroom when I was stopped by a co-worker of mine. "Do you ever eat,or just drink coffee all day?" I was actually taken aback. I just stood there. Then I explained how I don't want to get in the habit of eating food from the workplace because I heard the employee before me had a problem with eating all day at work. Then she started to explain how it was different and she would overeat and blah blah blah. I was already in the breakroom before she finished her sentence. Bitch let me drink my coffee. Go eat tacos or something. That's all for now. Have to head in for the first shift. Hooplah.
Satansvomit.
I haven't written in awhile due to my lack of creativity and overall lack of self-worth. Sigh.
My nineteenth birthday was this past week. The twenty-second to be more precise. And let me tell you,nothing else quite makes a gives a person a nice dose of introspection like a birthday. Not for me anyway.
See,my history of past birthdays seems to take on a recurring pattern. I decide about two weeks before my birthday that some blast of fucking miracle will somehow make this birthday magnificent as opposed to the hellish nightmare that it always ends up to be. Then about a week before my birthday I have One Of Those Days. You know what I'm talking about,a day where you look in the mirror,deconstruct every single flaw that inhibits your body and face,and eventually break down into a crumbled mess of a being. It was That Day. Two years ago on my birthday I was hovering around 100. I fit perfectly in my size zero jeans and I effortlessly picked at my food during my traditional birthday dinner. That is not to say that the other areas in my life were anywhere close to satisfactory. I was dating P,possibly Lucifer himself,and that night in particular was a complete and utter tragedy. I'm not exaggerating one bit. That aside,I thought about how much I weighed last year on my birthday. Also hovering around 100. Maybe 105. (Shitty fucking birthday as well.) Now here I stand,clueless to my weight (I have not had scales since I moved states) yet I know I'm atleast twenty if not twenty-five pounds heavier than last year. I died.
After a few hours minutes of wallowing in my self-pit of shit I picked myself up,threw on the devil horns and developed a new plan. I WILL BE THIN(ER) BY MY GODDAMN BIRTHDAY. I even whipped out the old food diary. I wrote 200 on six pages. Six days until my birthday. Six days I shall not consume more than 200 calories and try to do some form of exercise. Needless to say,I did not follow this plan. Not strictly anyway. I tried my goddamn hardest considering the plethra of obstacles I was facing. For example,on Friday-two days before my birthday and one day before I was ready to even face anybody-Boy's friends decided to bring some liquor and make a night of it. At last minute. Now,I know most people would see this as a kind and celebratory gesture,HOWEVER,my anxiety goes through the fucking roof when I'm given a last minute heads up and practically zero time to get myself looking half-way decent. The fucking roof. I tried on every piece of clothing trying desperately to find one fucking outfit that didn't make me look like a whale. Several disappointing attempts later,I found myself wearing a pear of blue jeans and one of Boy's larger shirts. I was covered in sweat by the end.
I hadn't eaten since the morning so I knew my stomach was empty,save for the occasional glass of lemon water. This was a problem. Drinking hard liquor on an empty stomach is the worst mistake you will ever make. Trust me. And considering I had two of those episodes in the past two months you'd think I'd eat a little something to coat le stomach. No. My logic went a different route. When my anxiety runs high my anger is always one step behind. My frustration led me to refuse food and punish myself with a hangoverfromhell. Mission accomplished. By the end of the night the ground was playing tricks on me. Swerving and shit. Gravity decided to take a night off and soon I found myself lying naked (after undressing for the night,I never wear anything other than pajamas unless we have company or I'm going out) on the couch and hearing Boy repeatedly asking me if I was okay. Apparently my half-ass-grunt-response wasn't convincing him so I used every ounce of power in my pathetic excuse of a body to get up and grab something to soak up the river of whiskey currently in my tum. My fucked up ED mind of course grabbed the lowest-possible-calorie snack of cauliflower and hummus. This was another mistake. This does not soak up alcohol,rather,it makes you want blow cauliflower chunks all over Boy's face.
After awhile I found the energy to get up and get something SENSIBLE to aid my spinning head and hurling stomach. I settled on crackers. Flatbread Italian Herb. I'm pretty sure I devoured 2/3 of the box along with CHEESE. Cheese of all fucking things. I did not need that cheese. The cheese served no purpose. Other than feeding my own disgusting gluttony. I digress.
So then Saturday came along. Had a teensy liquid breakfast and nothing all day. The glorious hangoverfromhell convinced me to eat before I drank that handle of Jack Daniels I bought myself for that very day. I ate seventy calories worth of those crackers and welcomed the night to begin. Several shots,drugs,and hours later it was time to turn in. Not so for this substance-fueled insomniac. I rambled incoherent thoughts to Boy for an hour before he eventually got so fed up with the nonesense that he smoked himself into a stupor. I smoked as well with him but was not granted the same leisure. Naturally,I got about two hours of sleep max.
Then Sunday finally came. D-day,as I call it. For some unfathomable reason I thought that this birthday would be different. This birthday would not be shite like every other year. I was wrong. I'll spare you the details but by Monday I was drained dry of every tear,every dollar my lovely mother worked so hard to send me (thanks to Boy who somehow had gotten it into his mind that it wasn't my goddamn birthday,but all of his friends who he treated with food and drugs,)and had acquired a level of self-loathing that I have not experienced in two years. This is where the introspection came in.. it wasn't pretty.
I realized that I'm alone. Not the kind of alone that everyone experiences once in their life. The kind of loneliness that leaves a giant ball of despair right there in the deepest pit of your stomach. I spend all day alone. I have no friends. Boy's friends are about as close as I can get,and they don't even say anything to me,not even happy birthday. This could easily be remedied by getting a job or going to school,I know this. However,I'm fucking petrified of going to either. I'm scared to death of being alone and this hinders me a great amount. I hate that I'm this way. I hate that I'm still stuck in the same mindset I was in ten years ago clinging to my mother afraid to step in the school. I hate it. I've always enjoyed my self-induced isolation but it is taking it's toll on me. I wonder if I'll gather up the nerve to change my current situation. Judging from my past though,it's not likely.
I hate birthdays.
Satansvomit.
Not having my phone is driving me up the wall.
It's not the lack of communication that agitates me;it's the lack of internet connection. Boy doesn't have a break on Saturdays,therefore I'm home all alone with absolutely nothing to keep me occupied. Which,in turn,almost always leads to me binging. This totally defeats the purpose of being home alone where I have the oppurtunity to starve without watchful eyes around. Today I'm trying my best to keep entertained and away from the kitchen.
If you're wondering,I'm typing all of these posts on wordpad and plan to post them once I get internet. I don't know. It's a form of distraction-I'll take it.
In other news,I can feel my hipbones beginning to portrude out again,a familiar comfort I've missed. I feel so guilty when I look into Boy's eyes and tell him I'm not hungry. I know he senses something is wrong and I cannot will myself to tell him the truth. That guilt is what lead me to this repulsive state I'm currently in. I'm not happy like this and Boy can tell. I think that's why he doesn't say a word when he can hear my stomach practically scream out and beg for nourishment. He wants me happy with myself and it kills me knowing more than likely I'll never reach that point.
What I find odd is that Boy fell in love with me when I was severly emcumbered by my eating disorder,standing faintly at 97 pounds. I admit it made it easier to devote myself to my anorexia once he moved away,although we were still together. A few months before I moved up with him I was having palpitations so badly that I was secretly terrified to step foot on the plane,genuinely unsure if I'd ever make it off. I'd read horror stories about anorexia patients and air travel. I was fainting regularly and barely stepped on the scale. The last time I stepped on I was shocked to see 84 pop up. I'd never been that thin. I didn't feel that thin. I didn't believe I was that thin. Though,the horror in my family and friends' eyes assured me that the scale was displaying the truth. I smiled a sick smile.
Now,four months later I've blown up exponentially. I know where the fault lies. A combination of things really. I won't go into it,but long story short I wound up 20+ pounds heavier and don't feel a bit less guilty than before. Conclusion? Eating like a fucking whale won't ease my concern about letting others down,rather,it almost always ends up in my own disappointment. Time to remedy that.
It's about midway through the day now and not a morsel of food has passed my lips. I did have about 60 calories total due to coffee creamer. I know,a waste. However,I let myself have this one treat because when the holiday flavors come out I'm instantly drawn to them and cannot resist. I'm trying to plan out how I'll spend the duration of the day. I'll probably make an attempt to clean later then probably cap it off with some tea and a cigarette. This lack of internet is leading to dangerous thoughts. Not really but I'm fucking bored. Alright I'm tired of reading my own words so I'll end it here. I hope everyone has a great weekend and remembers to smile.
Satansvomit.
I've left and returned from this community more times than is possible to count. We all have at some point,therefore,I'll spare you the routine introduction. I've missed the girls I once felt closer to than my own blood. My mind spins with incoherent thoughts and emotions I can't quite pinpoint. Day to day is a constant struggle with my sanity. This is the one place that I can at least begin to sort out the rubbish in my head and spew the result across the screen,void of judgement and responsibility. Welcome to Satan's Vomitorium.
Satansvomit.
