A redder shade of black|
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|Wednesday, June 1st, 2005|
Last night on the sofa: my face against his tender mouth, all of the anger and fear gone out of him in sleep.
He's hurting badly because he's realizing his failings.
I know this pain. I know it well.
I expect that he may try to get away from it by making an attempt to separate himself from me. I also expect that he won't actually be able to leave.
Oh, am I in for tons of fun.
|Friday, May 27th, 2005|
I'm not dead.
I resent the hell out of that, but that's life. Bad things happen, people hurt me, I fuck up, I hurt myself... and then, to add insult to injury, I have this infuriating habit of not dying in the gym.
I'm on a lot of pills now. I have been taking them for a month. They remove the worst of the chemical momentum of a life of pain. But for me, the pain doesn't originate in a chemical imbalance, so all the pills can do is prevent the pain I felt yesterday and last week from carrying over to today in the form of a low neurotransmitter level. They don't prevent me from feeling this morning's pain, or from feeling fresh pain over what happened yesterday and last week.
Extra dex is nice, though. The doctor doubled my amphetamine dosage without my even asking. Sometimes, if it's important enough, I can make people want to do what I want them to do, even if they would ordinarily never do such a thing. This doctor is very susceptible to my little push. Without a physical or testing or counseling or asking questions, without even knowing who I was (until the time came to write it on the prescription), he prescribed the schedule II and III substances I asked for, begging me not to tell a soul. Then I went back to ask for a refill, and he doubled the daily dose without my asking (though I did want to ask), because he thought it might be "better". Yes, doctor. Much better. Thank you, doctor. Also, may I have three months' worth of blah blah? And maybe a few yadda yaddas? Oh, and you have a coupon to pay for the first month free? Thank you, doctor. I'll see you next month.
So I've got my pharmaceutical candy shop. And oh yes, I taste the rainbow.
The grey prince hurt me badly last night. Unlike the normal incidents, this time he was trying. He says this is his crucible and that he must accept what he's been doing to me. But when I try to talk about it in order to salve my own pain, he lashes out at me, he accuses me, he blames me for everything, from the very beginning. To sit there and watch my abuser blame it all on me, stab his pointing accusatory finger at me... it is poison to my soul. He's afraid of what he is, and my bringing it up makes him angry and afraid, and his anger cleanses him of his guilt, and he can then turn to me and scream at me: "You are the sick one. You made me do it. You hate me. You push me too hard, you want too much, you're too impatient. You're the sick one, the flawed one, and this is all your fault," and believe it. God, it's so stereotypical. It could be taken from the script of every abusive husband or father that's ever lived.
He drank too much last night and blamed it on me. He hurt me last night and blamed it on me. He looked at all the pain he'd caused me in this relationship, from our very first night onward, and blamed it on me. He said I hadn't informed him loudly enough or frequently enough that he was hurting me (even though I was clear about it... I just didn't repeat much of it for more than a few weeks or months before giving up). Then he told me to stop telling him about how he hurt me, because it was too pushy.
Perhaps you should look at what you're saying, Highness. Do you want me to tell you about my pain, or is it too pushy? Or would you prefer it if I just pop another few pills and suck your cock and then go to the gym to lose more weight so you can have some peaceful time to yourself playing video games and recovering from your traumatic night of screaming at me?
I am very sad today. I was also very sad and weak yesterday. It was one of those rare days when I knew that the best thing I could do was care for the child. I made some weak cambric tea and put her to bed in the middle of the day with a book and a lavender-sprayed pillow and wrapped my arms around her and rocked her and told her I loved her. And there I stayed all day, nursing her, talking her through it, telling her stories. Children can take such comfort from small things. This comforts me.
Today I can't take care of her. I have work to do, and I need to be a broker, not a child. I am very sad today.
I don't actually have multiple personalities. It just helps to crystallize my various desires and fears and talents and weaknesses. And I know it sounds like a 1970's self-help book, but part of me is still a child, and she needs a mother.
I am a very poor and abusive mother to her, but occasionally I pull through. Occasionally I can let myself soften enough to love her rather than starve and degrade her.
Something I just realized: she is very, very angry that I (the broker, the mother, the grownup) and the Grey Prince team up to abuse her. His Highness and I are like her mother and father, and I have led him to her and let him tie her up and rape her and urinate on her and in her and yell at her that it's all her fault, that she's worthless and that's why it'll always be this way for her, because that's all she'll ever deserve. I've given her to him and turned my face from what he does to her. But when I see him getting too justified, too sanctified, too whole within his healthy dose of self-righteousness, I can't help but remind him of the monster he is around her.
I am very sad today. I must host more guests and be pleasant and happy and see to their comfort and the comfort of the Grey Prince. I must meet a very important business associate and be charming and intelligent. Today my health and happiness and beauty and competence must radiate from me like a gentle light. Then I must clean the house and prepare to help His Highness have a good time with our guests. Then, when the guests leave, I must be understanding and nonpushy and sympathetic to his pain: the good tender loving self-sacrificing woman-wife. I must soothe away the effects of his stressful day and take him to bed where he can feel safe and sleep in the arms of the woman who loves him.
Then I must wake up and get ready for more guests and help them all have fun. I must ensure that nothing uncomfortable trespasses on His Highness's weekend. I will cook meals for His Highness and our guests and serve them smiling. I will ignore every insult and snub from his friends. On Saturday night, I will probably try to have sex with His Highness as a gift. On Sunday, we will go out with friends and I will tell him how beautiful he is, how graceful, and I will watch him parading himself around in public and I will nod and smile and squeeze his arm when he tells me how the girls flirt with him and watch him with lust in their eyes. Then the friends will come back to our apartment and we will all have more fun and I will prepare and serve a light meal.
On Monday I will help him relax and prepare for the coming workweek. I must not push or bring up things that might be uncomfortable for him. He has told me that I must let him do as he sees best, without pushing or asking questions or making suggestions. I must trust that, while he is playing games and having fun and resting (as he always does), he is working and fixing things and healing himself (as he never has). I must be silent and compliant and trusting. Only then will I have earned this new relationship he is making for us, in his infinite wisdom, in silence and secrecy.
It is not something we can build together. It is not something he needs my help with. He needs to be left alone, to rest and do what he needs and wants, and after enough rest and peace, he will have fixed it all up and everything will begin to be okay.
Yes, Highness. But of course, love. Sit down and play something; you've had a rough day. Let me get you a glass of water. I'm sorry you have to go through all this trouble. I'm so sorry you're in this pain. Yes of course, I'll hold you and comfort you. Yes, of course, love.
|Monday, April 11th, 2005|
Well. That was an interesting weekend.
I set out to induce cardiac arrest, using the methods I've laid out earlier in this journal that worked (though accidentally) two years ago. HH figured it out fairly rapidly (I oughtn't to be surprised) and kept working on me. Logic, screaming, et cetera.
For nearly two days, I was so certain that I was nearly done with the pain, the struggle, the life that is a sweatshop on a good day and Golgotha on a bad one. I can't express the relief I felt, the sense of rightness, of dying in the springtime, surrounded by arrogant and withering blossom, loved by the Grey Prince, successful, completed.
And then he came up with the sole plan that could have helped me all along, the plan I'd been nudging him to come up with since last year: he would actually help me. Listen to me and ask questions and help me. No, I said. That would have worked once. It was all I wanted, once. But it's too late now. I'm out. I've seen enough of this world. I had a good run, but it's over.
But he kept on, and kept on, and finally I had to admit that he was right: there was a slim chance that he could work this miraculous change. And that chance was worth something, particularly if he started expending himself to reduce the pain inherent in my life. He left it so late, but there's still a chance.
So I picked up my rifle and went back, despondent, to the trenches. The good news is that I lost so much weight during the two days that my skinny pants got baggy. Thus far, I've held on to the loss. Not that it means much at this point... what's losing a few pounds when I was so close to losing it all? Well, all but three pounds of it (not including the urn), which is what I plan to have this body reduced to in a final symbolic lifting of both middle fingers to the world that continues to idealize and promote weighing as little as possible.
The inscription: "2 pounds 14 ounces. Almost there."
Of course, that's too macabre for reality; no one would carry out such an instruction. Unfortunately, the world has a way of turning its eyes from things, like the actual lives of anoretics, which are too macabre for reality.
|Friday, April 8th, 2005|
I can't scream in public. I can only smile. The latter is so much more jarring.
When I finish with my first thing of the day, I know I'm going to start shaking. How could he? How could he be so blind? I go out and walk, head down. I pass people I know. The walking hides the shakes. I want to moan. I want to stop walking, lift my head, and let out a scream that will stop them all in their tracks. An acquaintance waves at me. I smile and wave back.
I'm still alive. I can't believe I'm still alive and letting him do this to me.
Why can't I just be happy while staying thin? Why? Because I'm starving, Highness.
This body that you see and take and use and whose beauty you appreciate is the product of my blood and pain and, each week, costs me more self-damage than you could survive. I should know. I know the extent of your capacity for surviving brutality.
You will face this. You and your arrogant faith will face me and the reality of the world. Either now or when I'm gone. You will face the fact that, after everything the world has done to me, I finally got you and you gained my love and trust and then made me hate everything I am... while retaining enough of a halo so that you can still hold out your particular brand of blind and deaf naive happiness as some sort of reward... a reward that I can never have because I've learned the lessons you and the world have taught me. Internalize that truth, Highness, and then see what happens to your much-vaunted hope and faith in the goodness of the universe. The universe may be good to you, but it is not good to me... and neither are you. What good does your hope and faith and naivete do you when it makes you too soft and too uncertain and too fearful and too trusting to help the woman you claim to love?
You can't even stop killing me. You panic, you back off, you retreat, and you kick me on the way out just to drive the point home. You know exactly what I'm going through, and you won't let that fact touch your precious serenity unless I force the issue, and then you will fall to the floor and cry, cry, cry until you've proven that you're even weaker than me and I can't expect anything from you. I see through it all. Better even, I think, than you do.
I'm going to make you your pie tonight, Highness. I'm going to make it and watch you cram it into your mouth in massive chunks and I'm going to smell the stench of rich food on your breath and smile, and hold your head against my breasts and let you fuck me and let you hurt me and yes, I'll act the way you want me to act, since I'll end up getting hurt if I don't. Because it's easier this way. Because I still love you, God help me. And tonight you'll go to bed peaceful, secure in your knowledge that all is well with the world and sated with food and sex and wine. And you'll wake to enjoy your hard-earned leisure and your woman and your game and your nice weekend. Yes. Eat, fuck, consume, take what you want and forget it once it's in your stomach or spurted into mine. It's your right because you're one of the good, one of the faithful, one of the chosen, one of the blessed. It's all yours by right, so take it.
But you will face this world I live in, Your Highness. There's no other way. You see, you live here also. You just haven't had enough time to learn the lessons it's teaching.
Another rough day. Alive by my own blind faith, nothing more. The world asks too much. The world asks too fucking much. Then I try to reach out for comfort, for surcease from hunger and pain and exhaustion, only to find that none of this sort of comfort can be had without costing so much as to invalidate itself.
I have no time to comfort myself. I pace and sit and rock for a minute. I listen to one of HH's favorite songs. I scream, but only a little lest the neighbors get sick of hearing it and call the cops. I rip the flowers into shreds and toss the vase into the sink, hard but not hard enough to shatter it. Soon the screams have subsided into quiet moans on every exhalation, which permits me to put on my fucking makeup, my leaden suit and my heels. I'm swimming in this suit, with its broad hips and roomy torso, tailored for the size 6-8 woman I was a year ago. But I won't buy another one yet. Not yet. I've got so far to go. I finish my mascara and look in the mirror. I smile with serene professionalism, a strange child-woman in a too-big suit. Then the shakes and the moans again. I fight them. I don't want to ruin the mascara.
I loathe the faith that keeps me here, that keeps me in the game only to keep losing it. God, please. Take away my faith. I'm afraid that soon I won't be able to bear it any longer.
No. That's wrong. I'm afraid that I will keep bearing it. That my faith will never die, and neither will I. I'm terrified that I won't die of this disorder.
Someday I've got to. I've got to keep my mind on that... it's the only thing that will get me through today. Someday, if I hurt my body badly enough or I wait long enough, I will die. Oh please, God. Please. Please.
|Wednesday, March 23rd, 2005|
Running now in shallow deficits and living at the gym. Psychotic tendencies/urges seem to be stabilizing; still no psychotic behavior. Mentally, I'm healthier than I've been in some time. Physically, I'm a tireless machine, constantly hungry for movement, for hard physical exertion. The pain's irrelevance removes it from the equation: Occam's razor strikes again. Joint inflammation is relatively benign at my age, though if I spend the rest of my life underweight (as I plan to), I'll have to be very careful about lifelong calcium intake to avoid bone density loss.
I'm still dexing once or twice a week, which artificially boosts my performance for that day, but I'm obviously also still set on not courting heart failure right now. If the situation changes, that path will still be open to me; I learned the necessary equation back in 2003. Intense exercise plus intense sweating will drain the body rapidly of electrolytes, especially potassium. Drink only pure water to maintain sufficient perspiration; consume nothing else. Do not even lick your own sweat from your lips; it is relatively rich in electrolytes and the body is damnably efficient at staying alive on the barest minimum. Do this for every waking hour; sleep only when your body will not continue to move. If you pass out from electolyte imbalance, you know you're close. If you keep going, you can expect heart failure within the week as the body's potassium stores become insufficient to maintain cardiac function. This is the leading cause of death from anorexia, not starvation (as is widely believed). It takes months to starve to death, but only a week to force a heart attack. This happened to Terry Schiavo, although she was a bulimic, not an anoretic. Ironically, an older gay friend of mine had a potassium-related heart attack just last week. He'd been "dieting" and running for months. The last time I saw him at the gym, he complimented me on how skinny I'd gotten. I complimented him on his weight loss as well, although he looked deathly ill with skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. I wonder if I looked any different. Oh, how we sick people do love to praise each other.
At any rate, a bright spot on my horizon: this body is becoming acceptable. The upper body is whip-thin and well-muscled, the lower body is finally coming into line, and the whole obeys my every whim without fail. Though I know this is illusory, it seems that nothing I do to this body can weaken it, so long as I support its health with water, potassium salts, crushed magnesium supplements, multivitamins, pickles, leafy greens, sugar-free ketchup and mustard, tea without milk or sugar, handfuls of iodized salt, and the (very) occasional meal with the Grey Prince.
His Highness, by the way, has taken extreme steps to sterilize the sexual situation in response to its role in causing this relapse of eating-disordered behavior. It's a bit sad, but if this is the only way he can protect me from the pedophilia and the emaciation fetish, so be it. Someday I'll be more stable and we can work on it together. For now, it's probably better for both of us that he's not pretending I'm eleven.
He's a good man, my Grey Prince. Inept, yes... we both agree on that one. I actually weakened and offered him an opportunity to make an attempt to find a healthier path for me. Unfortunately, he did not find a healthier path. He couldn't even bring himself to make a single attempt. I kept the offer open for a couple of weeks, but he couldn't bring himself to make a single suggestion. He never even brought it up unless I did, and then he responded by saying "Well, I just don't know what to do." I'd typically answer, "Well, we're running out of time. Even if your suggestions are no good, you should start suggesting anything you can possibly think of. Can you think of anything? A single suggestion for a better way of doing things? Even a tiny one?" "Well, no. I haven't thought of anything." "Um, okay. We'll try again tomorrow then, I guess." I also encouraged him to ask questions and do research, and I even volunteered information, but it all made him very uncomfortable. Then I tried giving him examples: ideas that I'd already tried but that had failed, to give him an idea of the sort of work I'd already been doing towards making myself healthier.
After two weeks, I gave it up. He only worked on finding new suggestions when I brought it up, and even then, I came up with three new ideas for a healthier mindset while he couldn't think of anything. He pays lip service to the idea of wanting to help me, but when I gave him the opportunity he begged for, he dropped the ball. And this is not the first time. This is how this whole relapse started, back in October... he begged for the right to help me, and I opened myself up to a relapse by letting him tinker. Then he immediately dropped the ball, hurt me, and retreated into his shell, leaving me to deal with the resultant flare-up of repressed anorexia all by myself. Even he admits he's shamed himself. Of course, so have I.
He doesn't really seem to want me better. I want it more than he does, and I barely want it. He seems to want me thin and frail. Perhaps he likes the drama; he's only happy when it rains. All I know is that he's fetishized and romanticized the illness, and when I show him how he can help me get over it, he throws his hands up and says, "Oh no, I can't think of anything right now."
But yes. Good man, my Grey Prince.
|Saturday, March 5th, 2005|
In the car running errands yesterday. Took a dex midmorning and thought I'd have enough time to get one more item crossed off my list before the compulsion hit me. It IS extended-release, you know. Of course, it's always on an empty stomach, but it seems the amount of water I drink with it does have an effect. I thought I'd have time.
No. Eleven AM and I need brutal cardiovascular exertion. I look in the rear-view and my irises in the sunlight are brilliantly lucid cobalt discs with a tight pinprick of pupil in the center. My cheekbones are startling, and I look like a very capable and very furious twelve-year-old girl. A distracted thought: Jesus, she's beautiful. Now get moving. I'm pulling over, parking in a supermarket lot, shedding my coat. These days I always wear gym clothes, running shoes, and a jogging bra, all day every day, because it's my life, you know? I run between classes. I run up and down stairs when I get ten minutes. I run when I get a spare half-hour and I'm hungry. You know. You've got to know. My IPod is always on my hip, and the earpieces are always hooked into the neckline of whatever tank top I'm wearing, just in case I need them.
So I slip on the earpieces, hit play, and slam the car door behind me. The soundtrack is intense and I'm running, I'm pushing myself flat out against my cardiac and lung capacities. My musculature is no longer a limiting factor to my performance; I'm a whole lot more muscle and a whole lot less fat these days. I'm a fucking machine. I can run for hours and my leg muscles will never complain. My hip, however, is shrieking. The pain is grinding, splintery, and I couldn't care less. I sprint, feeling my body shift into its highest gear, my lungs driving oxygen smoothly through my body, my heartbeat strong and steady, not even having to breathe through my mouth to maintain this level of exertion. I prefer nose breathing during long runs anyway; it keeps me on an even keel. I dodge through traffic, zigzag past slow pedestrians, the electronic thumps and trancy analog loops and heavy-metal guitar riffs ripping into my ears and I'm flying, just like in December in the snow, except now I'm actually stronger, better, harder, faster. In this moment, I'm made perfect, completed. I have made myself beautiful. I catch a glimpse of myself in a passing tinted window and yes. Just yes. This is who I am, and this is who I want to be. This strong, lean, exuberant running girl with her long hair and her angular face and her capacity to do, within reason, almost anything. Do I like the eating disorder? The dex? The pain? No. But the results... yes. This I like. This girl is finally worthy of my regard, even my respect.
This is not necessarily healthy or sane. But it is beautiful. And as the blossoms this spring yet again remind me,
beauty is not less
in the breeze.
|Friday, February 25th, 2005|
Back in deep deficits. Weight peeling off me like so much tainted meat; delicious feeling. I'm starting to have moments that could clinically be considered psychotic but there's no obviously psychotic behavior so that's fine. Every inch of body above my hips is hard and lean except for my breasts, which are still large, round, and relatively soft. Bones. So much musculature. God, I hope I don't get dissatisfied with the muscles and decide they have to go too. I likely won't; I like the strength they give me. I like this upper body: harsh, sharp, aggressive. Below the waist: we're not going to go there.
Weight in the double digits: soon enough. I'll be there before I know it.
The Grey Prince is so disgusted with himself and so frightened by my disorder that he's stopped masturbating with my bones. In fact, he won't ask for sex at all now, because he knows he can't control his behavior when he's aroused and he always does something unfortunate, like tear something inside me or pretend I'm a child or push up inside my ribcage while I cough uncontrollably. Sad. But, you know, a grown man ought to be able to control these things with the woman he loves. It's not like any of these (except the first) can happen accidentally, and even the first can be avoided if the man uses a bit of common sense or lube, which you think he'd figure out after the first FOUR TIMES I ended up bloodied and begging him to stop. I've explained all this to him in lurid detail. He's not a stupid man. He just likes it. Right up until he comes, and then he starts to cry.
Shock and awe worked just fine. I've decided to work against another cardiac event, rather than for it. I haven't even needed the amphetamines recently; this life has gotten a touch easier since that girl's incessant crying has been silenced. Someday it may have something to offer. In the meantime, I do what I do: my endless daily tasks and duties, my hours in the gym, my strange tiny meals on tiny plates in tiny bites (pickles, sugar-free ketchup, kale). This is the only way I can keep on rolling. If I permit myself the slightest sweetness, everything starts to fall apart. Because it makes me feel human, and humans shouldn't be treated like this. This existence is not fit for a human. But right now, it suits me just fine. The control is total and the child feels nothing. Move in and secure the objective, Private.
|Wednesday, February 16th, 2005|
The dextroamphetamines are useful. Found a good cheap source, so that's all taken care of.
I've been cutting away at His Highness. Poor boy. Poor dear boy, just trying to pretend everything's okay, just trying to ignore my illness, just praying that all of this will go away soon, just castrating himself every day for his pedophilia, for his obsession with living skeletons, for turning a cold shoulder, for believing that he could wave his magic wand and make me alllll better. Poor little boy, just lying on the floor and crying, crying, crying. Cry, little princeling. Cry and tremble. It makes everything so much easier.
Did one more thing I swore I'd never do. I'm not going to talk about it. Let's just say that I've got a whole new bag of tricks.
Yeah, and by the way, it's time to stop being such a lazy self-indulgent child. I'm going to war. It's time for shock and awe. Seems cruel, but it's actually humanitarian... the world is much more brutal to the soft and the weak than I am. It's called protective intervention. Put the kid out of her fucking misery. That's right, I said shoot her IN THE HEAD.
And yes, I'm finally gonna teach you about the chain of command, Private.
In short: I don't get any more leisure. No more sweetness, no softness. What a fucking fool I was to believe I could have places of peace in my life. That's not my way. I'm a warrior. Time not spent getting sharp is time spent getting soft. And I need the sharpness to make me a useful tool, an acceptable agent of my own will. To be worthy of esteem.
And O god, have I got a sweet cold whetstone now.
So hold still, my darling angel girl, because this is
going to hurt.
|Thursday, February 3rd, 2005|
By the way, this week I've begun to do something I swore I'd never do.
The dextroamphetamine sold as Adderall is an intense appetite suppressant. I'm getting it from a friend, and when that source dries up I'll either find a doctor to prescribe it for me or, barring that, buy it on the street. It cuts my daily necessary calories in half, and it makes me desperate to move, to run, to work out all day and all night. It's also dangerous for me because I have a heart condition. Beyond that, my heart condition is exacerbated by both intense exercise and starvation, and the electrolyte imbalances caused by both. So:
Intense exercise causes cardiac exhaustion and electrolyte imbalance, both of which can trigger a heart attack in susceptible people.
Intense calorie restriction causes electrolyte imbalance and increased cardiac load, both of which can trigger a heart attack in susceptible people.
Dextroamphetamines cause elevated heart rate (which can lead to cardiac exhaustion) and arrhythmia, which can trigger a heart attack in susceptible people. They also make intense exercise and intense calorie restriction easier, almost innate.
So let's do dextroamphetamines and see what happens, boys and girls.
The reason I'm writing this here is because I want people to know what the real issue is. If I die of a heart attack and there are amphetamines in my bloodstream, people are going to attribute it to drug abuse. That's not the case. I'm abusing amphetamines because I'm an anoretic. I was an anoretic long before the amphetamines, and I was already in control and losing weight quite successfully. I'm taking amphetamines to counteract the exhaustion as well as the appetite that the Grey Prince finds so faulty. So at least here, at least on my own journal, I will make this statement: If I die of heart failure, I die of anorexia... of self-control, of self-perfection, of self-refinement. Not of drug abuse, of a lack of control, of self-indulgence. I will die doing what I must, not what I love.
Most people I know will never read this and will almost certainly misunderstand, should I die. But the fact that someone out there, surely, must read this and understand... that's enough for me. If I die, I want one human being in this world to understand my death and its reasons. Whether I know them or not, it will be sufficient.
Things continue as usual. Steady weight loss, no longer as impossibly fast as before but sustainable. Calorie intake still far higher than I'd like, but it's also steady, not highly variable as it once was. I am still getting results, so I'm not going to fuck with myself too much.
I've picked up some nice rib texture fore and aft, both above and below my breasts in front. Five jutting vertebrae at the base of my neck, along with four in the middle of my back if I curl up. Arms are slim and tight, abs are taut and six-packed, hands are getting a bit ropy. Thighs and ass are much thinner but still extremely soft and gelatinous. The sad part: I look like a medically underweight girl from the waist up and a medically overweight girl from the waist down. Seriously. But my breasts are still of a good size for my body. My face has thinned and tightened and I look childlike... which of course the Grey Prince loves.
He often does take a sexual-paternal role towards me. I think he's just generally confused, though... he tells me every day how much he wishes I didn't have this problem, but every few days he's masturbating with the space under my ribcage and telling me how tiny and beautiful I am. I think he wishes I could be this thin without an eating disorder. What a joke... it's that kind of thinking that lays a foundation for anorexia in the first place.
This past weekend he told me rather patronizingly that all my problems stemmed from my appetite, and if I wasn't so constantly hungry in my day-to-day life, I could be perfectly happy and I wouldn't have to destroy myself to be thin. This coming from a man who rarely gets hungry more than once a day, who can easily forget to eat for a day or two at a time if he's busy, and who doesn't understand what all the fuss over food is about.
I exploded inside. And I suppressed it, but I'm not going to suppress it here.
Yeah. I know it's my fucking appetite. I know there's something innately faulty in me, unlike all those perfect naturally thin people (like you) who can just starve without thinking about it (and thus without the mental and emotional devastation of anorexia). I know that if I could just throw away my appetite, I could be your little ten-year-old sex doll AND be cheerful too. All that hunger, all that shameful untidy unseemly nonsterile food-lust is just so disorderly, so chaotic, so life-affirming. I should just get rid of it, but I can't. I know. That's why I'm a fuckup. That's why I have to be either fat or obsessed about my thinness. It's one simple thing: my unreasonable, disgusting desire to eat two entire meals a day (not that I do, but I want to). My god, I'm disgusting. I'm not worthy. Teach me, Your Highness. Show me how to be like you, to eat one sandwich and a glass of orange juice every day and forget to eat for the rest of the time. Bestow upon me your secret of not-eating in comfort so that I can stop spending hours out of every day running numbers and working out and instead spend them happily cleaning the house, entertaining you, and having hours of very raw, kinky, bone-celebrating sex every night, during which you can pretend I'm some preteen virgin you're turning into a fetish-crazed succubus.
Yeah. My fucking appetite. Jesus.
|Thursday, January 27th, 2005|
Midmorning at the gym; empty stomach. A new low weight for the past year and a half. My "fat" jeans -- still the only ones I'm comfortable wearing -- pool around my hips and flap at my thighs. My engagement ring hula-hoops around my ring finger; it's time to move it to the middle finger. A few nights ago it came off by accident for the first time. My ravening hunger can only be calmed by one thing, the only safe and sure fix. I wait for an elliptical machine.
Midafternoon at the gym. Over the weekend, due to some little games with the Grey Prince, I've picked up a bit of what I'm internally referring to, with a smirk, as road rash. Between the ribs on my back, the skin has been mostly protected from the abrasions. The raised skin over the ribs has been whipped until it's streaked and dotted with purple. I'm striated, vivid. It's almost entirely painless, except for the bruising on the side of my neck and breasts, but I look like a torture victim. I wore a sweater to the gym, but I overheated a bit, forgot, and stripped down to my tank top. As I pass from the ellipticals to the water fountain, I find myself walking next to two sorority types. Sotto voce, one of them says to the other, "Oh my god, look at her back. Megan, look at her back." Megan says, softly, "Oh my god."
I hold my face expressionless until they've rounded the corner. Then I allow myself the faintest of smiles.
|Friday, January 21st, 2005|
Am continuing large daily weight losses (averaging .5 lb per day), which is, obviously, not "real" weight loss. My actual body tissue lost should be (by my calculations) an average of 4.5 ounces per day, which isn't bad when you think about the numbers behind it. 3500 calories per pound; 218.75 calories per ounce. Consider the ideosyncrasies of a restricted metabolism plus the uncertainty of what all of this working-out-plus-restricting is doing to my lean muscle mass. 4.5 ounces per day is quite nice, and will easily get me where I want to go.
The Grey Prince is deeply troubled by the whole thing, and angry at me. Understandable, of course, but there is a slight case of mixed messages here. I think it's bad form to use a girl's sternum as a ribbed sex toy one night, gasping and moaning about how beautifully thin she is, then shout at her the next for being "too extreme" about being thin. What makes all of this hilarious, of course, is that I'm still well within my healthy weight for my height. I just don't carry it evenly. Thus, parts of me carry very little fat and look quite bony while other parts carry it in large pockets and look very soft and ripply.
Honestly, though, he's a lot kinder than I've made him sound in this journal; I just tend to focus on the irony and the negative aspects here.
Lots of binge urges as I restrict more tightly; lots of self-bargaining for what I can and can't do: "Well, I know you want a slice of cake, but how about we have a cup of sugar-free fat-free cocoa and see how we feel? Well, I know you want to go sleep in the car, but how about just a half-hour workout and then see how we feel? I know you're weak and ravenous, but why don't we leaf through this magazine? Here! Have a book; you don't really want to eat, do you?" It works, though it takes significant mental capital. Defeated a binge yesterday with a cup of SF/FF cocoa (15 calories), four SF jolly ranchers (35 calories), a tablespoon of SF apricot jam (10 calories), and 5.3 ounces of SF/LF soy milk (24 calories). A binge for 84 calories is a deal, especially when it would have been well over 2000 if I'd let it rip. But it took me over an hour to eat all those titchy little fake sweets, and at the end of the hour, I was done. Fiasco averted.
|Tuesday, January 18th, 2005|
The end of that very strange manic phase was much gentler than I expected. I felt weak but did a slow workout the day after the night-and-day of running, still on no food and very little sleep. I went to the supermarket to pick up toilet paper, lightbulbs, and general non-food stuff. I tried to ask a clerk for the location of something and couldn't speak clearly enough to be understood. Then I cruised the vegetable section over and over again, chilled to the bone, weakening, exhausted, unable to figure out what I was doing or what I wanted. I decided on broccoli and the task of choosing it and putting it in a bag was almost too much for me. I realized then that I was more or less incapable of rational function. I went home, ate a small meal (but a little larger than usual), slept long and deeply, woke up, ate about double my usual that day (but still not as high as even my fasting BMR), took a day off from the gym, and was fine. No emotional problems or depression, just physical exhaustion, which is fine.
So for my two days of mania, I got two days of very intense weight loss, one day of slight weight loss, and an interesting experience. Now that the potassium deficiency isn't an issue and I can work out for as long as I like, the only thing I have to watch out for is driving a car while impaired. Safer and healthier every day; that's me.
Still, I hope I don't get any more manic impulses. If I do, I think I'll choose to restrain myself. My joints are too delicate to take that abuse too frequently, and I know from experience that I tend to binge when I'm too injured to run. No exercise plus binges equals a very disappointed and furious girl.
Weight loss is slow and steady. The Grey Prince is intoxicated by my bones. Last night was very strange, but also very satisfying. Ever been with someone who loves your bones and loathes themselves for loving them but can't stop themselves from enjoying them? That makes me believe in my sexual beauty in a way that a room full of admiring men can't. It's all in the fact that this man (who wants to marry me) knows he shouldn't encourage me, knows he shouldn't show desire for these badges of my illness, but they're (and I'm) so beautiful, so erotic to him that he can't control himself. And in his hatred for this weakness in himself, he can see a mirror of my own hatred of my myriad weaknesses. And he looks at me with sudden knowing, sudden understanding, and I smile and say "Yes. I know this well. You're here with me now." And he, unaccustomed and lacking armor against this world of mine, lays his head on the ribs above my breasts and weeps.
|Sunday, January 16th, 2005|
Things have gone a bit better for me recently, as my life's been powered by that strange and beautiful mania I sometimes slip into when I'm eating very little.
The day before yesterday I spent five hours at the gym; yesterday I ran for four hours, rested a few hours, skipped dnner, then worked out for much of the night.
This, I think, is why anoretics feel they are a breed apart. For other people, a day's food consisting of a bowl of broth with broccoli, a tablespoon of half and half, and six sugar-free mints would be horribly uncomfortable. If you asked them to run twenty miles on that amount of energy, they'd laugh in your face. And if they did manage to run the twenty, they certainly wouldn't be raring to skip dinner and go back for another workout. That would be hellish for many people. For me, at this particular moment in my life, it's quite pleasant.
If I'd done this a month ago (not that I'd have chosen to), I'd have slept for at least eight hours and woken up feeling like I'd been beaten. But I got four hours of sleep and am ready to hit the gym. There's only one problem... the ball joints of my hips (especially my left hip) are so inflamed that I can feel the pressure from the swollen tissue around them. It hurts like a mother, of course... it started to be excruciating about halfway into my run yesterday, before the second two hours and the night of running. The pain isn't the issue; I really couldn't care less. It's the fact that everything in my hips tightened and swelled so much during my sleep this morning that I don't have anything close to a full range of motion in my legs.
So I'm going to start stretching and hot baths, because I -will- go to the gym today and get in a serious workout.
This urge to skip even my usual evening bowl of soup along with working out all day and all night has to come crashing down at some point, I realize. I've never been quite this manic, so I don't know from experience what's coming or what it'll be like. However, as always, I will record it faithfully.
|Thursday, January 13th, 2005|
And because I deserve to celebrate this, the results of my work over the last two weeks:
The soft upper arms are now taut, hard, and well-defined.
The hips are slimmer, though not slim.
The stomach and waistline are streamlined and close to flat.
The ribs stand out above the breasts now, three double-bumps below the notch of my collarbone. If I put oil or lotion on them, they stand out so much that it doesn't look at all normal.
My hair is still thick, my skin is still flawless and glowing, and I feel physically good.
Bad night. Bad days. The scientific observer in me says I am bereft of the essential brain chemicals for proper function. The rest of me says, "God, I remain alive today in the hope, however slender, that my state will be altered through pure grace (in which I no longer believe) granted to me by your hand (the existence of which I deny)."
*Passage behind cut is deeply disturbing* ( Nights with the Grey PrinceCollapse )
So. Yes, it's okay. Everything's fine. Yes. So, finally, a real solution for the potassium issue, thanks to something I found in therealslimjoce's journal.
Morton Salt Substitute. It's made of potassium chloride, has no calories, and contains readily-available potassium in sufficient quantities (if I gorge on it) to prevent more of my cardiac "episodes". Which is good, because I'd really loathe it if I had a heart attack while still in my healthy weight range and left a fat corpse.
I'm buying some today, along with the rest of my odd little purchases.
The shopping list:
Two bags of salad greens
A big bag of kale
One can of albacore tuna
Morton Salt Substitute
Two bags of sugar-free candies
A four-pack of sugar-free rice pudding cups (but only if I swear to limit myself to one pack per week.)
A four-pack of bottled diet blackberry-flavored sparkling juice-water(3 calories)
A six-pack of canned diet cranberry ginger ale (0 calories)
A big box of nonsparkling diet raspberry-flavored juice-water (10 calories)
A four-pack of bottled tangerine-flavored sparkling water (0 calories)
A big bottle of mango-flavored diet juice-water (10 calories)
When I reduce the scope and variety of my real foods, I always want to pump up the scope and variety of my fake foods. Thus, the vast assortment of low-calorie and no-calorie beverages.
I'm also sick of soup. I'm giving it up for a little while. A can of albacore tuna is huge and should take care of me for a couple of days at least. Yes. It's going to be okay. When I put a spoonful on top of a salad it's really good.
For a special treat I might buy myself the sugar-free gummi worms I love so much. And I'll drink my tea slowly and find a good book. It'll be good. It'll be okay. I'm going to run until I can't run anymore, then walk until I can't walk anymore, then suck on gummi worms like a naughty girl and read and drink hot tea until it's time to sleep. And everything's going to be okay. Everything's going to be just fine. Everything is already fine. I'm good, I'm okay; I'm simply mahvelous, dahling. So, yes. Yes. Okay.
|Thursday, January 6th, 2005|
I'm too weak to walk, but I can sure as hell run. And bike. And lift weights.
Strange little paradox, but I know why. Walking is exhausting, a chore, something I usually undertake when I need to get somewhere, when I want to be there already, when I'm sluggish, when I'm carrying books or coats or whatever. Running occurs with the facilitating liaison of adrenaline, music, and a mental readiness, a commitment to being in hell for a few hours in return for the caloric burn.
It's even better at my gym. That place has been both my temple and my oubliette for well over two years now, and I have only to set foot inside the door to feel my inner skinny bitch take control. I may have to sit down and rest twice on the twenty-minute walk over there, but once I'm inside I can work out for hours.
Still operating in deep deficits. The process is still capable but uncontrolled. I tend to spend about 40% of my days eating more (but only a little more) than my desired limit. At the same time, I'm doing double or triple my desired workout every day. If this continues, I'll revise my control/spec limits. I really can't view this as an act of weakness; I'm burning between 300 and 800 more calories per day right now than I would on my desired plan.
Also, I need to take into account that multiple-hour-long workouts are not realistic for every day. Perhaps a broadening of the limits is in order.
I feel good. Food dreams continuing; not terribly disturbing as I know where they come from. This morning I dreamed I was at a buffet. Two surprising factors in this dream: the food was of poor quality and indifferently prepared, like a steakhouse buffet (I usually dream of delicious food), and I was choosing food slowly and carefully, with an eye to nutrition and calorie content (I usually dream of guilt-ridden binges). In my dream, I actually chose a small low-fat packaged chocolate pudding over the thick wedge of cheap-looking chocolate cake. This is the first dream I've ever had about eating responsibly and conscientiously. Odd.
The switch from consuming 20% of my BMR and working out briefly to consuming about half my BMR and working out for many hours has caused a big change in side effects. Main difficulties are now tiredness and muscle strain; some minor and infrequent heart arrhythmia. Mental fogginess has mostly lifted. Very short rations typically put a damper on my emotions and libido; both emotions and libido have been a little more in evidence. Have been subject to two very brief crying jags, both completely detached from anything I was thinking or feeling or doing during the preceding moment. I just felt suddenly overwhelmed with grief, crumpled to the floor, trembled and cried my eyes out for two minutes, dried off, and felt good again. Fortunately, this happened when I was alone. Inappropriate affect is not a good thing to have happen in public. Finally, I was unable to do housework for the last week or so, and now I've been able and inspired to do quite a bit of cleaning, tidying, etc.
I feel safe and am satisfied that this program is sustainable for me, at least for the foreseeable future. I feel good in my body.
|Wednesday, January 5th, 2005|
My caloric intake is ranging higher than I prefer. Of course, I'm still in deep deficits every day and losing weight quickly (the scale has begun to trend downwards again), but that's not good enough. In operations terms, the process is capable (thank God), but not in control. It's also within both the spec and control limits I set for myself, but I know that it's not there out of my will but out of its own. And that is not a good thing, because its will is just as capable of settling on 1800 as a good intake as 500. Or 3600.
The reason for this, I feel, is my four-hour gym marathon yesterday. I was fine, healthy, hungry, and physically strong going into it. I was weak and exhausted throughout it, after the first hour (which was exhilarating). Coming out of it, I was trembling and moaning and as desperate for carbohydrate as a crack whore for the pipe. Literally. I could barely control my body. If whole-wheat toast and cherry jam were controlled substances, I would have been just about ready to buy a gun and hold up a pharmacy.
I went home. There was whole-wheat toast and cherry jam in the big fridge, the fridge that Does Not Exist in my world. I knew that, if I started, I would eat many, many pieces and loathe myself. Then, I would most likely move on to the massive quantities of chocolate in the house. I waited. I bathed, obsessing about whole-wheat toast and cherry jam. I did laundry, dreaming about crunches and crumbs and the tart sweetness spreading across my palate. I dried my hair carefully and styled it. I body-buttered myself. I noticed that I'd forgotten to shave and ran myself another bath. I shaved slowly, my hands trembling. I re-buttered myself. I styled and plucked my eyebrows, then tinted them. I put on a silk chemise and robe. I sat hunched on the floor for a few minutes, thinking.
I thought to myself, better to eat a few hundred calories' worth of good useful food, nourishing electrolyte-filled complex plant food, than a few thousand calories' worth of bread, sugar, and chocolate. In a moment of supreme courage and stoicism, I ate a large bowl of soup. And some sauteed broccoli slaw with a light miso dressing. And a few sugar-free candies.
So yes, my intake was more than I wanted it to be. But I'm goddamned proud that it wasn't what it could have been. And obviously, I'm still far below my daily metabolic rate, and when you figure in that four-hour gym session... well, I'm pleased.
One wonderful side effect of all this food is that I didn't feel an electrolyte imbalance during the aforesaid four-hour gym session. If I had been eating my preferred 300 calories per day, it would have been an hour or less.
|Tuesday, January 4th, 2005|
|The emergence of numbers and bones
The binge dreams have started: mostly chocolate and the assorted Christmas cookies I baked a few weeks ago. Running through public places, blue airports and glassy houses, searching for food, running from food, eating and trying not to eat and eating anyway.
HH likes my new bones. He rubs his cock against them and shudders, palms my ribcage and flexes it, cups my pointed hip, runs his thumb down my emerging rack of ribs, slips the head of his cock into the notch of my sternum. He experiences some guilt for this. I am pleased, partially because my body pleases him more already, partially because this utterly absolves me of guilt. Because now it's clear between us that he supports this disorder's effect, if not its means. I'm sure he'd love me to be abnormally bony while eating and behaving normally... but, of course, we both know that doesn't happen.
In all honesty, the last few days have been difficult. Dizziness, coldness, minor chest pain and tightness, slight tingling and numbness in my hands and feet, electrolyte imbalances after workouts, severe nausea, some minor sleep disturbance, tiredness. My mind is fuzzy and operating at about 60% capacity. My "anorexic stagger" -- probably the least attractive thing about this disorder -- is back, at least for a few hours after each workout. I lurch around slowly, heavy-footed and reeling, my face slack, my hands unwilling to obey. HH remarked that I am sleeping an awful lot. True, but not always particularly well.
I see very little movement on the scale right now. This is not a problem. My activity numbers are very conservative (overestimating caloric intake; underestimating exercise) and they are very accurate indicators of real weight loss (not waste or water) over the long term. Thus, someday soon, the morning after a bowel movement or intense workout, I expect to see a drop in total weight that should bring it into a much closer correlation to my numbers. I've seen what the volatile nature of total body weight does to girls who are unaware of it, and I have no use for that emotional roller-coaster. Besides, I feel tighter and smaller every day now.
I have also been eating more than I planned, averaging about a quarter of my BMR. However, considering the effect of workouts, there should still be a significant drop in real body weight every day. The fact that this is not showing up in my daily weigh-ins won't bother me unless it continues for another ten days or so. The extra food has been partially due to the fact that I am plagued with houseguests. Sadly, it appears that I will not be free of houseguests until the 16th, when my new semester begins. I will make it through, and I will eat no more than I decide is best.
I am determined, proud, and satisfied. I am also vaguely anxious, not about keeping to my way but about the collateral damage to my psyche from doing so. I am damned hungry and feeling undernourished. I am pleased with my body. The concepts of fun, games, and pleasure are laughable right now: what the hell would I do with them? I am fascinated with my numbers and charts. I am frustrated that HH wants rough, crazy sex that hurts me and makes me struggle against the urge to vomit, when I have so many more important things to handle with my scant daily energy. I also love him very much and am glad of his support.
My body is smaller in every dimension. I feel alive/agony/extreme/beautiful/afraid/rea