Fall's colours are beginning to fade. I can smell winter in the air.
It is cold, and gray, and extremely windy today. The sort of wind that hits you like a slap in the face and takes your breath away. I can hear it swirling around the outside of the building, rattling screen doors and scattering beer cans over all and sundry (I don't even know if I used that term correctly, but I've always wanted to use it in something. So delightfully old-timey). The beer cans are annoying- I have gone out to the balcony twice already to snatch them up and stuff them back into the cardboard box T keeps them in- but I do like hearing the wind howl.
250 calories. Noon. Still hypomanic, so this'll be another weird one.
I have managed to split about 80% of my belongings into different boxes: a pile full of things to keep; a pile full of things to give to charity; a pile full of things to throw away. I am selling some things as well, one of which is my flute. It breaks my heart to do it, but honestly... I am through with asking my parents for help with money. I am 25 years old, and I am going to start acting like a goddamn self-sufficient adult, thank you very much. I bought the flute with my own money a few years ago, and so it is a painful sacrifice to give it up... but my Dad is putting a down payment on a new house, and my Mom and stepfather have always had to budget everything to make ends meet. They cannot afford to be handing out money to their adult daughter month after month... and they don't deserve that.
I am hiding it from my parents. My entire financial situation, that is. They don't know that I have around $1400 in credit card debt remaining (which might not seem like much, but it's an overwhelmingly large amount when you do not have an income) and closer to $20,000 in student loans. Collection agencies harass me. My credit score is destroyed. I can never be a home owner, or get a loan, or any of that shit by myself. At least, not until I get about 7 (more?) years of fiscally responsible behaviour under my belt. They still do not know that I have lost my job and am on welfare, despite the fact that it happened back in July. I feel horrible lying to them this way, but honestly... I just can't take it anymore. I am sick of finally doing something right, getting them to breathe a little easier, and then fucking it all up again. Over and over again. It doesn't matter if the loss of my last job wasn't the result of stupidity or anything that I had done wrong- the truth just feels like a flimsy excuse. I'd rather just not say anything. I am ashamed of myself for not being able to... just be fucking normal. No pain, no bipolar disorder, no neurotic compulsions. Normal.
And now I'm on welfare... I would rather die than have them know that their supposedly "gifted, talented, creative and wonderfully intelligent" daughter is a leech on the underbelly of society.
It is one of those days. I am itching for something- anything- to take me out of myself. I want codeine. I want OxyContin. I'd even settle for a bottle of wine. I feel like a horrible person for even saying these things. I am just so overwhelmed by everything happening, and I am still standing on that tightrope; if I just hang in there for a tiny bit longer, I will finally have my own place and, even better, my own life. Across the gap lies salvation. If I lose my balance and fall... I don't think I'll ever be able to get up again. As it is, although I am avoiding drugs (and drinking- ironic that I would be tempted to drink after all of the alcoholic shit I've had to put up with), I am still using my old crutch: starving.
I am between 100 and 102 pounds. The slightest tap stains my skin with bruises. Veins bulge in my arms- I've always had very dark blue, visible veins, but never too little fat to actually see them physically stick out- and neck. My Medic-Alert bracelet is now far too big, and sometimes almost slips right off my hand if I'm pulling my arm out of a coat or shirt sleeve. I can slide it halfway up my forearm; the distance between it and my elbow shrinking as I do. The cold is appalling.
I look in the mirror and still see fifteen extra pounds.
I don't even care about looks, or fat, or fitting into pretty clothes.
It is completely illogical.
(...)
I am working at the clinic for a few hours on Saturday morning. I am ridiculously happy with the prospect of doing actual work again, even if it is literally only for a few hours. I gave T a stern warning last night: I know you're going to drink on Friday night, there's nothing I can do about that, but if you get drunk and you keep me awake or upset me at all... so help me I will kick your ass.
I explained to him that I had to get up early and go help out at the clinic, so he promised to behave himself. Whether he will or not remains to be seen, but I will keep up my end of that deal. I will seriously kick his ass. His drunken antics played a significant role in the depression that led to the loss of my last job. (Sidenote: I have come to find out through a few of that doc's former patients and assistants that he tends to be very trigger-happy with firing CAs; he's extremely picky, moody, and perfectionistic, and trusts very few people- i.e. his wife... and that's about it- and so I do take a little comfort in the knowledge that perhaps it wasn't entirely my broken brain that fucked me over this time.)
I don't know what to think. Or say. Or do. Or anything. I don't want to make excuses for myself, but I don't want to lose hope either.
I just really, really, really want to be normal.
I'm just so tired.
xx
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