Monday, 26 July 2010

RIP, Grandpa.

I wish I wasn't on track to repeat my mistakes.

Photobucket

Sunday, 25 July 2010

Engaging in some serious life fucking.

I'm being eaten alive by guilt, and I'm tempted to indulge myself and to type out the story of what I've done. What I haven't done, what I should have done and what I should do. Or maybe to write about how everything could have gone and how I SHOULD be feeling right now, to lose myself in an idea, in a place where I did what any decent person should have done, would have done. Grief is a luxury, grief is healing; wallowing in guilt is horribly self-indulgent, it achieves nothing.

I'm really not sure what to do. I'm sorry, I'm talking in circles and that's because in the last few lines, I've realised that I don't want to tell you what I'm feeling so guilty about, because then you'll be obliged to try to-

Oh, I don't know. Maybe you should disregard all of what I just typed. I'm not going to delete it, because everything I've written is true. But I know I've not really SAID a lot but don't worry, I'm done.

I'm really down right now, I'm angry at myself. I'm... just fed up, really. And even when I'm upset over something entirely separate to my appearance, like now, every fat cell in my body triples in size. I feel grotesque, deformed and I just want to lay in bed, with Pepsi Max and some books, until I lose some serious weight. And maybe I'll do that, that's actually sounding a really intelligent plan to me right now. I'm tired of how ugly this all is and how I'm just indulging the worst parts of who I am, instead of trying to be something. I always say I want to do or be something, but I'm just wasting any talent I might have. I'm wasting everything, sitting here feeling guilty. So, so ugly.

And now I'm waiting for the news and waiting for it all to get so much worse.

Wednesday, 21 July 2010

Ambition and lovelyness.

I'm watching My Super Sweet 16 (don't judge. I SAID, don't judge. One day, I will get very, very deep and nobody will know what's going on and I'll probably get very fat and sublimely calm and beautifically mellow, like only the very deep can be) and there's a girl on it and, right, she's the heir to Spam. And OH MY LIFE, how it's inspiring me. WHAT WILL MY LEGACY BE? I'm into the idea of legacy right now, because I want to be remembered, rather than mourned. Like, when everyone who has known me personally is dead, I want a gay popstar in a glittery coat and killah sunglasses to write a song about me. But I don't want it rewritten for a dead princess. And so, I think it's time for a brand spankingly new life plan.

(I feel I should clear up now- My Super Sweet 16 is really not inspiring me to work out my legacy. I'm feeling lovely right now, you see, and so I am making A TOTAL AND PRECISE LIFE PLAN, because I like plans and the better I feel, the more sweeping they can be. I'm basically writing my autobiography backwards and it will all happen exactly as I plan it, because I am very in control and wonderful right now)

I think that if you built a time machine and went back and interviewed who you were as a child, you could probably work out exactly how your life will go. There're probably clues, you know? Of course, if you built a time machine you've really got all the clues you need. You will get very rich, but only until a baddie steals your time machine and goes back and nicks the formula for time travel, from a time before you built the jobby and then you'll never know and you'll... well, isn't that a conundrum? Maybe I built a time machine yesterday and one of you bastards stole it from me. You bastards.

When I was little I was a complex soul. Maybe those were my deep days. I was going to be a rabbit when I grew up and I didn't understand the why we didn't just ship all the poor people in Africa to England, where they could go to school and to the shops and use taps and the grown ups could have a job. The first one is pretty easily explained- I have a brother who is 2 years older than me and fucked me up summat chronic. He had me convinced that girls grew up into men and boys became women. I believed that for ages, until about last year when I realised that, hairy as I am, I just haven't grown any (literal or metaphorical) balls yet. With my killer logic, I deduced that if I was going to make such a big change, like to being able to wee standing up, becoming a rabbit wouldn't be such a big leap, if that's what I so desired. And I did. Desire I mean, I still haven't realised that dream. The Africa one was also perfectly logical, I was going to share my bed with an African girl because Africans were so skinny and wouldn't take up much room. I can remember my mum telling me that there wasn't room in the country and then try to explain the welfare system (and quickly realise the difficulties in doing so to a 5 year old) and then finally just tell me that some English people don't like it when people from Africa come over.

So what clues does that lot of crap give? I am (still) moronically idealistic; I am going to do something so big and so beautiful that I'll make some sort of mark, somewhere. Maybe I won't be a rabbit, (but hey, maybe I will be), but I'll change something that needs changing or do something that needs to be doing. That's another clue to the Rebecca Condron of the present and future, to be drawn from my interview with Rebecca Condron, circa 1995/6- ambiguity.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

And so I'll get back to you details, yeah? It will be lovely.

Tuesday, 20 July 2010

'You don't frolick in the rain in Belfast, you run from the bullets'

Saturday was lovely, spent with my two absolute best friends ever; one of which I met for the first time (internet dating, God love it ;)), 'cause she lives in Belfast, where the bullets are. I feel like I should blog about the day but it was too lovely and I don't think I could do it justice- I couldn't capture the feel. But since that's a bit pretentious a reason, I'll come up with another... um, typing about it, might, like, um, taint it with some sort of computer, um, virus. I don't know what I'm talking about either, shhh- be quiet, like a terrorist. But anyway, I wanted to acknowledge how fantastic it was. IT WAS FANTASTIC, the end.

I'm going to show you some pictures and let you enjoy them and then maybe blog about summat proper tomorrow. I have a lot to say, but I really did to do a bit of BIG UP, BIG UP to Smelliott and Ais-Ga (and Tanya, if she's reading! Because she's fantastic, too.)

Smelliott, Ais-Ga, me:
Photobucket

Ais-Ga, me:
Photobucket

Tanya, me, Ais-Ga, Smelliott. Big love:
Photobucket

Friday, 16 July 2010

Some words to live by, kids.

'Yet few truer words have been spoken; a full belly is prerequisite to all manner of good. Without that, no man knows what hunger will make him do.'

I was channel hopping the other night, and I came across some film or other about an Irish con' who did a runner from a jail (I presume a jail? Can you be a con' if you're not in jail? He might not actually have been a con', you know, now I think about it) and became a cannibal. I'm not sure exactly why he became a cannibal, because I didn't actually WATCH the film, because I'm this weird mix of OCD and pure arrogance when it comes to my time. My time is very, very important. See, I get so terrified of watching films that I haven't seen before in case I don't like them, and then I'll have wasted my time and I will NEVER get that time back. Mind-blowing(ly arrogant). I also will not finish a book if by the second or third page I don't think it's going to be the ABSOLUTE BEST BOOK I HAVE EVER READ IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE. I don't watch any television programmes that run in serial- you know, anything that you have to watch regularly to keep up with. No soaps or anything and-

Wow, tangent.

So, this film. Actually, the film is really not important (although you have an urge to see a film about some Irish bloke who eats other people, it's called The Last Confession of Alexander Pearce), because the only Irish people who matter are Ais-Ga and B*Witched. The line is excellent though, and so very true.

Hunger, pure animal hunger... Instinct, the moment that the survival instinct kicks in- I tell you, nobody should ever know that hunger. Nobody should ever try to fight their instincts and nobody should ever HAVE to fight them- natural famine or disease, whatever. And it's true- no good can come from that hunger, all good requires a fullness. A natural fullness, not the physical fullness of a Bulimic, either; the Bulimic is never really full. I'm not going to expoit the person I have been by telling you horror stories of things that hunger has made me do. Instead, I'm going to sit back with the quiet confidence of a person who knows, KNOWS, that a real fullness is prerequisite for all manner of good and a confidence in a future without the worry of what hunger will push me to do.

Isn't that nice? I have done well this week, I have done very well, apart from the fact that I've been eating diuretics like a child eats sweets. My sleep is bad at the moment- my anxiety has kept me up and when I do fall asleep, I keep waking every half hour of so, physically frozen with fear about all sorts of ridiculous things- but I've done well, food-wise. It's excitement, tomorrow will be the first day I have ever, EVER spent with my two best friends and hunger will not ruin it.

All manner of good. ALL MANNER OF GOOD.

Tuesday, 13 July 2010

Giving birth to an elephant.

Apparently, valium and dieuretics are (is?) quite a dangerous combination. It slows the heart down, potentially waaaaaaaay down and, so I have been told, that's pretty bad. I think I heard once that the heart is quite important, probably in a pop song (I'm so funny). I've gone this long without mixing the two, but my stomach is messing with my head, as it likes to do now and then. I feel really disconnected to my body; sometimes I view the whole as one instrument and the mind as another (not quite as pretentiously as I'm making out here, it's just easier to describe it in these terms), and other times I see each part separately. Like if I've exercised so much that I'm sick (don't think I'm an exerciser, because I'm really not. But, say you haven't eaten for a week, a half hours walk will make you violently sick. It's all relative), then it feels like my stomach getting back at my legs. Right now it's the former, though- one organ (my stomach) messing with my mind.

But back to the cocktail. I can't work out whether the combination is bad in the way that anti-biotics and alcohol is 'bad' ('bad' meaning BLOODY WONDERFUL) or whether it's badbadbad like the combination of me and cake (bad meaning FUCKING AWFUL). I suppose I'll find out. My sanity, right now, needs both- I look like I'm about to pop out a calf, an elephant calf, that is, which is massively messing with my head because my stomach has NO REASON to inflate, especially not to this level, and so exacerbating my anxiety.

I'm hiding again right now. I'm not quite as fukmalyf as I usually am when I hide away from the world (I've gained a lot of weight but I'm not THAT close to my scary weight, my glands have gone down, my eating isn't that bad), but I'm trying to stop the stress over my stomach spiralling and get myself together because this weekend has the potential to be the best I've had in a long time. I'm excited, so excited. I'm going to York, to meet an Irish girl I met online- doesn't that sound like a childline or summat, advert?

(I'm aware of how ridiculous this all sounds and how I'm over-reacting, but... Actually, I'm not over-reacting. I feel like a bag of shit, bloody gargantuan, and THAT IS ALL. I'm not going to try to justify or explain because you're not going to get it. Humour me, that's what you should always do.)

Saturday, 10 July 2010

Actually, the drugs do work.

I'm doing quite well at the moment. Since I got out of hospital in June, whenever I see someone and they know all my stuff (I mean, like, second tier family and friends of various relatives and parents of friends and neighbours and all that), they look me in the eye and ask 'how are you?' But they do it in that way that's meant to portray real sincerity. And who knows, maybe they are truly sincere- I'm not judging. You know, the real, the proper, 'how ARE you?' (always the emphasis on the 'ARE') and sympathetic arm touch. It makes me uncomfortable, which is silly, because I made myself so public and besides, I'm OK with people knowing everything. I think it's because they think they're privvy to something really quite secret and serious and it's really a bit disconcerting- I have to remind myself that there is nothing about the situation that's as big or as serious or as secret as they think it is.

It's also uncomfortable because I have nothing to say in the little play, not only do I feel OK and have no deep feelings to offer up but also, I'm the wrong character for this situation- I can't be natural because I don't fit. I'm not comfortable with the question and all the desired emotion for the answer, because I am English. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. I'm comfortable with the normal type of greeting, you know when you just pass people in the street and you simultaneously, as you're walking by, say 'hihow'reyougoodyeahbye!' It's difficult when people want a real answer, it's not the way that kind of social intercourse works (although I've met people who think it is. The ex-neighbour who told me about the menopausal symptoms, for example, outside Marks and Spencer's, that one time) if we were close enough to give a real answer- presuming there was a real answer to give. But there really isn't; remember, I'm OK- we'd be so close you wouldn't need to ask.

I've had a lot of practise this last month, in this new type of action, though. I've got it down to a tee, I'm a cracking actress and I just have to remember the hundreds of other conversations like this I've had over the last few weeks... my rehearsals: a shuffle; look down to the floor; then that sort of sucking noise, the one that implies pain and bravery and a 'I don't want you to worry' type of thing; and then a little shrug; a wry smile and finally, 'oh, I'm FINE. You know!' Which of course they don't, but that really doesn't matter. They smile sympathetically and we all mentally congratulate ourselves for handling the situation so well.

I sound like such an arse and I am a bit of arse, but you would be too. It's all very scripted. They ask like that and do the sincere act because it's what you do when somebody has been ill. And when you've been ill, you have to act brave but you have to also display scars. We're all playing a part and I don't mind- it makes it much easier. Especially since the drugs are working quite nicely right now and I feel ALRIGHT. Just fine. Not even close to how I felt a month ago, that feels so long ago. My anxiety is manageable. My mood and behaviour are relatively stable. My eating is bad, but I've compartmentalised- it's not massively effecting how I feel. But it's oddly rude to answer in a flippant way, although that's how I FEEL, to do that is to not acknowledge somebody's careful sympathy and that won't do, I'm too polite. But it's exactly that, the careful sympathy, that I'm most uncomfortable with- I can blog about it because I'm not typing to a sympathetic audience (the opposite in fact, I know how hostile people are) and because it's not part of the little ritual, that follows illness.

But really- I'm alright, thank you. How're you?

Tuesday, 6 July 2010

Fast, fast, RAPIDOOOOOOO!

I'm really craving the feeling of a good fast. Oh shhh, I know how awful that sounds- fasting is never good etc., etc. But it's been, oh- over a month since I've gone more than a day without food (or tube feed, hahahaha) and I'm getting antsy. I have a romanticised view of long fasts, apart from when I'm involved in one. Fasting is dull, no two ways about it. Especially after 4 or 5 days when you feel like death and all you can do is just sort of... be. It's especially bad when dry fasting- when I was in the nuthut, after 4 days without food or water I sat up all night waiting to die. Well, I sat up until I passed out and got taken to A&E. Ha. I know that sounds ridiculously over-dramatic, but I was vom'ing radioactive shit and my heart was like BOOMBOOMBOOM and my blood sugar was dancing around the 1 mark. It's funny, because I wasn't particularly bothered about dying (testament to how dull fasting is; it actually saps your opinion on EVERYTHING) I was more... no, I was going to say curious, but I wasn't even that; it was less than curiousity. Mildly interested in what it would be like, maybe.

Fasting would be semi-logical right now, becausse I need my face to go down. I am so ridiculously chipmunk-y still, it should not be possible to see your glands. GO AWAY, VOM' GLANDS (if you vom' too much your glands get overly excited). But nah, I'm too dramatic to fast too much, bingeing and vom'ing it more violent than the nothing that is fasting. And besides, I like vodka too much- last night was another Smelliott and me occassion. And Saturday was me and Momma Ginge (and vodka), which was hilarious because I didn't realise how lairy she gets. She pretends to be such a lady, but she'd be as bad as me and Smelliott on a night out, guaranteed.

You know, actually, I've done quite well food-wise, these last few days. Maybe not yesterday (I didn't eat, got paralytic, ate and then vom'd. IN MY GARDEN. Hahaha, I had to pick up the chunks today and it wasn't until afterwards that I realised that doing so really didn't gross me out and that depressed me, in an odd way.) but apart from that I've been very normo and lovely. Which is definitely cause for celebration, but I'd like to lose some kilo AND I have my fortnightly blood test tomorrow and I like to be a tad excessive for the few days before a blood test. That's awful and attention seekery, but it's nice to get a bit of gratification, although electrolyte drinks are vile and electrolyte IVs are even worse.

Sunday, 4 July 2010

I deleted my formspring.

I take criticism far too personally (actually, how else can a person take criticism against their character?) and so I came to the conclusion that belonging to a site where people can anonymously attack you was pretty bloody stupid. I don't really get the point of formspring.me; I know some people get loads of interesting questions, but unless you're going to attack somebody, what's the point in being anonymous? But then, if you don't have the courage of your convictions to say whatever it is to the persons face (or inbox. Oh, these modern times) and you hide behind anonymity then, well... you're a pussy. I mean, don't get me wrong- I'd rather people lied to me and pretended they liked me than were mean and horrible. I love a good and beautiful lie about myself, I don't go in much for horrible truths. But the thing with formspring is that the people (actually, I think the longer attacks were one person. And I'm pretty sure I know who that person was. And I think she should stop reading my blog and get a life) bitchin' were obviously on my Facebook, because that's where the link to my formspring was. And so they were lying to my face and bitching behind my back and THAT is not allowed.

Just lie to my face and leave it at that, please. It's nice not having it now, because every time I went to check my profile I vom'd in my mouth, out of fear, at the thought of there being something mean there. I ought to get a bit of perspective, I know- for one thing it's FORMSPRING. It's really unimportant and irrelevant to everything. And the attacks generally revolved around how open I am on here, which doesn't even make any sense; it's MY blog, my space to write. And actually, out of the 70-odd questions and comments I got, fewer than 5 of them were negative.

But perspective is not my specialist subject.

Thursday, 1 July 2010

It's the beginning of July and the end of civilisation.

I need to take a deep breath and then just admit this. And then maybe go off and fall on my sword (in a literal way, you know I'm not one for pointless hyperbole. OH, WHAT LIES. My life be like; 'hyperbole, hyperbole, superlative, hyperbole, superlative, three full stops, wink') and, um... DIE. My confession, oh it hurts- I WATCHED TEEN CRIBS INSTEAD OF THE SIX O'CLOCK NEWS today. I don't even have the excuse that I could usually use, that I've watched the news all day. Not that I would ever use that excuse, because I always watch the 6 o'clock news! Always! And then I sit and shout at Peter Levy on Look North and his terrible grammar ('Fewer, dickhead! Not less, fewer!'). But anyway, I can't use that excuse. Because I've actually watched E4 all day. I've seen the same three episodes of Friends three chuffing times TODAY, never mind the millions of times I'd have seen them before. Friends. DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED.

So I have literally not a clue what is going on in the world, which is not all that lovely. But because I am all about the sunshine, I like the bright side, I'm counting it as a good thing. My glands have swelled up like eggs and so I am hiding from the world. Keep up with my logic, there will be a test. RIGHT SO, if I don't know what's going on in the world then NOTHING is going on in the world and I am in my bubble waiting for my face to stop being all chipmunk-ilcious and not missing out on owt. Perfect. I look like a textbook glandular fever case, except like... I don't have glandular fever and so I don't get to lose weight by just laying in bed. Life is so unfair. It's like this woman I saw on the news yesterday, she was a dwarf and she was called Jocelyn Cockburn- best name in the world AND a dwarf? I'd like even half of her luck, I tell you.

Anyway, civilisation has maybe not totally ended; it's maybe just taking a break until my face has stopped being so deformed. But it really is the beginning of July, so that's something to take from the title of this. July will be lovely; it started with a trip to the nuthut (as all great adventures do) and it will feature vodka and seeing Ais-Ga and dancing and sunshine and sun lotion and lots of Smelliott. Reading and getting my brain back. Doctors and therapists and NO DOCTOR WANKER (sadly, August will feature Doctor Wanker. So I will just have to frolick in knowing that this month, he will not be making an appearance) and absolutely no hospital time. And sensible food and maybe a few valium and definitely sensible Seroquel taking. ADVENTURES with strange people.

What else? I don't know, but I have a nice feeling and that's always the start of nice things, I think. My penultimate month of teenagerhood. Wowza.