Skinny

If I were skinny life would be perfect. It seriously would. I sound like an anorexic psycho, but I am far from being anorexic, even if I am a psycho. Anything that goes wrong in life-hey at least I’m skinny. I think about how I look in every sentence my brain thinks. I am consumed by it and I admit it. Sometimes I sit and pretend I am skinny. Going out in public is awful. I can never fully enjoy it because even when I suck in I look like a fat pig.

I see the doctor on Monday. If she says my stomach is all fat then I will demand she make me skinny. If it is inflammation then I will demand that we deflate. I almost wish I were anorexic. I wish I could go outside and run and run until sweat and fat and calories leave my body and I am pure.

I hate myself for being fat. My fingers pull at my stomach and double chin and I try not to cry. Someday those tears will come, and when they do I hope that they carry fat out with them.
I think if I were skinny I would be really pretty because other than my fatness I look good. God, all the guys I could get. I could be so much more. I would know and be and live my body and it would not be contaminated by so much damn fat. I want to rip it out. I dream of a knife that comes down and slices it all off. I feel disgusting.

That is what takes over my brain these days.

The Desire to Be Productive

I am possessed with a desire to be productive. I can only conclude that this stems from being caged in my house for so many years. I love my house, I love it with all my heart, but I know it would do me good to get out more. Also, I cannot so easily fulfill my human need to be doing things. I am a hyper person as well and the sickness I have steals that away from me.

Even when I don’t feel well, if there’s a chance to go out and do something-I go. At home I get that sense of completion from writing a chapter or reading a book. So that’s what I do. I clean also and have started sewing a quilt. Most of my activities must be slow and quiet, not physically demanding. It gets extremely frustrating when I am too ill to do much of anything. And yet, day by day, I am growing and can feel it. And I am happy. I miss out, but I am happy. I would love not to miss out, though. Perhaps some day I shall not.