Reminder to self that its ok to be average. That its ok not to be exceptional. That its ok not to put constant pressure on myself to be extraordinary.
I still consider myself to be doing great recovery-wise but I hate, more than any stress I am facing in my day to day life, that my unequivocal and automatic response to stress is to project it onto my body and express it, and manage it, with my body. It’s frustrating and backwards and counterintuitive and I want it to stop but at the same time 90% of my energy is going into revising for the most important exams of my life and I just do not have the time or resources to devote to changing deeply ingrained though patterns in a way that will be immediately useful to my situation and therefore worth the hours of time and effort it would take.
Silence and noise.
Crushed my first workout in over a week. Yup I’m gonna be super fit again
You will body check all the time. You will confirm that your thumb and middle finger still touch when you wrap them around your thigh, and when they cannot, you will feel ugly.
You will feel jealous of the people who are not going through recovery. You will scrutinise their goal weights and wonder how much lighter you would be if you hadn’t told someone. You will feel profoundly stupid.
You will go to weigh yourself and find that your parents have taken the scales away. You will estimate, then, using how far your stomach sticks out, and how many times your arms jiggle when you shake them.
You will begin to enjoy eating again. When you realise this, you will be overcome with a guilt so strong you will lie on the floor and cry for two hours. This will repeat at least once a week.
You will consider bulimia. You will stare into the toilet and stick two fingers down your throat and vomit nothing but your feelings up into the bowl. You will give up but never stop thinking about it.
You will absentmindedly touch your collarbones. When they begin to become less prominent, you will stare at yourself in the mirror and cry. Your parents think it is out of anger, but it is really out of grief.
You will recover, too, eventually. You will live. But first you have to die a hundred thousand times.
I want to write a a performance poem about consent and ‘asking for it’ under the rubric of ‘you are here and listening to this poem so technically you are asking to listen to this poem but actually you are hating it’ - as in I will make it really unpleasant to listen to - and then the big reveal at the end is that nobody asked for it just by coming to a poetry slam HELP HOW this doesn’t make any sense in my head
Wow the Romantics were big old racists.
Inversions yeah yeah
Ok between now and bed time I’m going to pluck my eyebrows, shower, tidy my room, do my physio exercises, drink a litre of water and sort out the massive pile of paper on my desk.
I’ve been phenomenally stressed today:
My question is in what capacity do crows actually look like this?