I know. I know I should not be doing this. But I cannot force myself to do what I know I should be doing. It is a selective paralysis of the limbs, engendered by the thought of being ALONE in front of people UNALONE. It is typically not this bad and/or ridiculous, but today it is unbearable. Perhaps it is because of the horrible event at Virginia Tech, but I am no good with conjecture at the moment.
I thought, naively, that this condition of self, of soul, had magically fixed itself. I felt it would no longer be a problem. I could do it before… why not now? Does this even qualify as a PROBLEM, the refusal of one’s body to nourish itself out of real or imagined fears? I don’t know what I think they are thinking. Maybe they are thinking NOTHING and they are merely LOOKING. But that looking is enough to put me off food and society for weeks without end. It is because I am unsightly, and I know that. Despite what changes I am making, or what you say, or what he said, or what she said… I am unsightly and it turns my stomach. Not because of what it means to ME, but because of what it MIGHT mean to THEM. Or YOU. I don’t want to be the flaw, the one thing wrong with an otherwise pleasant scene. I don’t want to repulse you, to make you lose your appetite. But I fear I do, and so I’ll hide here in this little cocoon of disgust until you are finished eating dinner, all of you.
I promise I thought it was fixed. It’s not even proper self-hate. I know there are things that I don’t find completely ridiculous… but there are many things that I wish I could obliterate, even if these things might incapacitate or disfigure me for life. I am unsettled here, in this skin. The kind of unsettled that begs for absolution, for punishment. The kind of unsettled that begs for destruction. WHERE DOES IT COME FROM?
From you, maybe. Or from the me that never sleeps, the me that was beat as a child, the me that had an alcoholic father, the me that internalizes criticism… the me the me the me. I can go on, of course. There are a million reasons I might feel this way. But whatever they are, it doesn’t change or alleviate the fact that I DO FEEL THIS WAY. Horrible, hateful, furious, disgusted, starving, mute.
It’s not even proper depression, since I am not in the slightest. It has morphed into something else, maybe the learned helpless form of depression. I cannot figure it out. I have to search the room for a suitable meal and read Sacher-Masoch’s “Venus in Furs.” Maybe have a drink. Maybe write. Maybe do nothing.