fat pornography

It was 2 am. Outside it was raining. The fog covered the top of the city and it felt like a horror movie outside. I had dozed off by my computer and woke up to the groans and moans of a busty redhead being taken from behind. I had fallen asleep to cheap porn again. I felt like such a cliche. I wiped the drool from the side of my mouth and rubbed my eyes. I stared at my screen and felt nothing. The squeals of the redhead echoed in the emptiness of my apartment. I felt so hollow. I sluggishly got up and headed to the kitchen; I needed to fill the void in my soul with food.  At 341lbs there was nothing more to do. I was too far into the fat to get out. I opened the cupboard and scanned the abundance of unhealthy crap I kept stored for nights just like this. Cancerous chemicals, processed fats and heart stoppers. I settled on a party size bag of plain ruffles and spinach dip and a family size bag of double stuff Oreos. The redhead had finished swallowing and the next clip was on: a busty blond with fake boobs that stood at attention. She was riding a chiseled man with a six pack and a face like a crater. I arranged the food in a reasonable order; bag on the left, dip in my hand and the cookies on the right and I began to dig in. I could feel my self loathing deepen with every bite. Last Christmas my family got together and got me a year membership to a fancy gym that was down the street from my work. It included a few sessions with a personal trainer. I went once, and after seeing all the hard bodies there, I felt ashamed and embarrassed and never went back. I felt guilty for wasting my family’s money, time, and effort. I felt bad for disappointing everyone.  I stuffed a handful of cookies in my mouth to seal in that hatred and hurt.

I looked around the apartment; the only light coming from the porn on my computer. What a dump. It looked like a war zone. I have been collecting the mail for over a month and didn’t feel motivated enough to open a single piece of mail: I didn’t want to see any bills or ads. Laundry was about 2 weeks over due and there were small mounds of clothes leading from the front of the living room to my bedroom. I didn’t know anymore what was clean and what dirty. I knew the clothes in the washroom were dirty. The smell of dirty clothes and overflowing garbage suddenly permeated my consciousness. I looked into my kitchen and in the shadows, could make out a pile of rotting junk.  I finished the bag of chips and carelessly threw the empty bag on the floor. I couldn’t be bothered to get up and walk all the way across the room to the garbage pile. It was too much of an effort. My eyes were burning and I was excruciatingly tired, but unable to sleep; i had been surviving on naps for months. They were more like short sleeps. Well, maybe they were just sleeps. I was sleeping a lot.  I had started this cycle of hopelessness and couldn’t pull myself out. There was no one to care. I was single, friendless and on the brink of being jobless. I had this bizarre notion that fat people didn’t deserve to cry, to feel bad, to be cared for. But it’s exactly how I felt. I wanted to cry, I wanted someone to care and hold me and shush away all the hurt. I wanted someone to tell me I was worth it. I was worth saving. But I couldn’t save myself. This thought made me feel so bad, I needed more food. It was a vicious cycle, but it felt right at the moment. When the moment passed, it was like someone had turned the lights on while I was naked taking a shit. I was alone and embarrassed and full of self hate. Reluctantly and against my better judgement, I got up and went back into the kitchen, it was almost 4 am. I got 3 cans of pop and another large bag of chips and sat to watch more porn. I couldn’t feel more pathetic if I tried...

post session musing at 4 am...Nov. 22/11

The sky, endless and freeing; heavy with wave after wave of grey. Impending rain. Winds that blow with the determination of years of oppression. With the storms that brew on the outside, my insides find a bizarre sense of calm. Suddenly, feeling unrestricted; discombobulated. I sit awkwardly in that room. Heat like a suffocating blanket around me and I struggle with words. I managed to stumble through an hour long session and I feel like I don’t make any sense. She tries to sit in silence; let something come bubbling up. After all, I said I need to unload. I can`t manage it. Silence and me don`t get along. I stifle and kill silence every day.  The sheer volume of it is overwhelming. I`m afraid of what might come out of that silence. I tell her this. I can’t be quiet. I have to fill that silence. If there was music, I could not talk. But that’s a whole other story.

I wake up at 3 am in a semi panic. How do I conjure up things to unload? How do I start talking about things I’ve buried so deep that I can’t remember how to start? I wonder if I’m just wasting everyone’s time.  I tell her I’m in a good mood. I tell her with the coming of winter, my insides ignite. Something stirs alive within me. We talk about mini anger bursts and I tell her when that happened, I tell people the happy me is dead. The current angry me killed her. She asks me if the happy me is worth fighting for. I contemplate this for the rest of the day. I’m reluctant to admit out loud that if I lose this “drama” I won’t be me. Something vital will be lost and I’ll be normal and boring. I admit this latter part. I dream that she’s not listening. That there are different elements at play each session. I’m embarrassed to disclose this to her. It’s so cliché...I contemplate sanity every day. Being happy, calm, collected. The movie “Frankie and Johnny” runs through my mind. The end from “Devil’s Advocate.”  Al Pacino asks Keanu Reeves to put down the sack of guilt. It will set him free. I think about my anger baggage. I can’t seem to let go of it. I fear if I let it go, I’ll stop breathing. Who will I be without it? Yet. I have no patience.  Sometimes I think I’m just making this up to keep some sort of drama going.

I’m awake and not sure about how to start talking. I wonder how to bring it up. Everything in my head sounds so trivial and...what? It sounds lame. I’m lost in the help I’m seeking. I can’t find the right words to explain. In my head, words and thoughts swirl and stop making sense. They overwhelm me. There are too many words and I can’t pin point which ones I want to unleash.

open love letter...

Cab Callaway was in the background. It almost sounded like a record. You could hear the hissing in that recording. I imagined a lively bar in New York City; an animated little place with flappers. Alcohol flowing like hair twirling in a shampoo commercial. It had been raining all day, drops like small meteors. The afternoon was filled with sirens. Rain always brought the accidents. I lived down the street from the hospital.  The air smelled like... something I could never quite describe. It was fresh and nostalgic. Rain always reminded me of Germany. I spent my youth and some of the best years of my life in Germany. Winter had that... je ne sais quoi. I was never able to find words to convey that feeling. It was like a mixture of excitement, some kind of impending something with that comfort feeling of a hot cup of chocolate by a fire in the Swiss Alps. I get that feeling every winter. When the clouds go grey, and obscure all sense of spring and autumn, something inside me ignites. Everything becomes better and more vibrant. Waking up isn’t a chore anymore, it’s more like a privilege, a gift from some northern god bestowing magic upon us mere mortals. When people complain about winter, I almost feel like they’re speaking ill of my child or my parents. It’s offensive.  I wish I could capture that smell in a bottle. I wish I could confine it in a snow globe. Release tiny blizzards when summer days become too much. When the sweltering heat and the blistering sun exhaust all my energy. The damn light, full of rich and valuable vitamin D is suffocating; the sun is so obscene. The heat insults my appetite. Summer and spring represent colour and outdoors. Ugh. Kill me know. Deliver me from sunshine country. Dark clouds and subfreezing temperatures are my friends. Winter is my eternal lover. The rain and snow my allies. I am indestructible in the winter. No one can get to me. Minus 20C is when I’m at my best. The peak of my propensity. Everything is ok when it’s cold. When it’s dark. ”I only smile in the dark, my only comfort is the night gone black ;I didn't accidentally tell you that I'm only happy when it rains...” summer and light are so constricting; over bearing. There’s an unimaginable freedom that my beloved winter brings with him. I feel safe and shielded. On cold stormy nights, I sit in the dark and listen to jazz. It transports me to another time. Another state of mind. I hold my breath and wait for my winter to come back and save me...

wasting away on insomnia...

Sometimes, when I’m so tired I feel like I’m hallucinating, all these thoughts explode behind my brain. I blast music to try and keep them at bay. Inappropriate thoughts spring to the forefront of my mind. When I dare confess these things out loud, they say I should tell my therapist. Oy...  

Your beauty still lulls me into a coma. It stuns me motionless. Some say happiness is a warm gun. Feeling the bullet pierce your skin. The intense flow of blood draining your body. Pulsating. Body heaving and shuddering unable to make sense of what is happening. Is that happiness? What if you survive? What if you survive and everyone finds out? Then what? How do you face the world?  Sometimes I think about walking into traffic. I think about ceasing to exist. What if I was never born? If I jumped off my balcony, would I live to tell the tale? I’m only 8 stories high; that’ll barely make a dent. It’s barely a cry for help. I don’t cry and I don’t need help.

“You crawl like tipped wine
Cheap tricks, dirty calls
Watching paint dry is good for the walls
Its good for the walls
Silence is deep never what you'd think

I'll waste, I'll waste, I'll waste inside the cage
I'll waste, I'll waste, I'll waste inside the cage...

It was the great escape
Foiled guards left in wait
I changed, I came undone
Inside the cell I won...

I'll waste, I'll waste, I'll waste inside the cage
I'll waste, I'll waste, I'll waste inside the cage...”

Angry. Again. Sept. 28/11

A grain of sand can set me off. The imagined tone in your letter sends me into frenzy. Everyone is counting down to my next appointment. I don’t even want to go. I’ve become that girl. The one who’s so sensitive; can’t handle what life throws her way. I will not submit to this. I will not allow the tears to drop. I will not throw punches and chairs. I want to beat a human being to a bloody pulp. Set the world on fire. If I do that, will it make me feel better?  “Evil is a point of view,” who else has my vantage point? I can talk about it endlessly. You think I should talk to the wrong person. Reveal ugly truths that I can barely admit to myself, in silence. If I disclose the tip to you, the mountain will come crashing down. It will end it all. I won’t be able to face you. You’ve seen me at my lowest. I’m embarrassed. After the hurricane, when the clouds part and I can see clearly, I’m afraid to face you. You ask me why I’m defeated. Life is defeating me; it’s kicking me for no reason. I am a rebel without a cause. Anger suggests arrogance. I’m the most arrogant asshole there is. I have two moods: angry and emotionally disturbed. I used to be funny. I try to listen, breathe, and calm down. I drink what you say to me; cling to it like a life raft. Nothing seems to help.

I blast music, try to get lost in the rhythm. I’ve memorized the lyrics to “feeling good.”  I’ve tattooed it on my arm. “Nothing takes the past away, like the future. Nothing makes the darkness go like the light.” Sometimes I feel like a ghost. Like I don’t exist or matter. There is no separation for me. Go big or fuck the world.  I need a hobby. Something to distract me. I fucking hate people. I used to be so pleasant. Downward spiral. Again. Always. This is getting so boring and tiresome. Soon there won’t be anyone left. And if I confessed? Then what? I’m so good at pushing everyone away.

Pressure coming from the inside of my head. Full of oozing puss. Black bile that leaks into every part of me. I’m coated in it; suffocating and unable to break free. I feed this monster inside and watch it grow. I revel in its repulsion. It’s like I have something and nothing to prove all at once. Beats bang around me and I’m lost in the music.  I’m supposed to be the architect of my own happiness. I’ve lost my degree and my tools. Suddenly it’s not so simple anymore. Doesn’t seem worth the effort.

Sometimes, at night, when the world is a million miles away, I pray for the courage to breakdown. Cry until I have no liquids left in my body. Unleash. Purge. Cleanse. Other times, I wonder what would happen if I acted out what’s in my head. What kind of trouble can I get myself into?

August 16, 2011

I don’t care who I hurt in the process.

I don’t care.

I’m a closet sociopath. I am Dexter before Rita.

Morbid curiosity is like candy. Lures me into a horror coma. Comatose and disturbed. The imagery in my brain is horrific. Horror. Horrendous.

Awful words swirl like a bad drink in my mind creating sad thoughts.

You are not my friend. Stop talking. I want to cut you off. If I do, I’ll regret it. I’ll create a whole new meaning for self loathing and self guilt. It will be awkward. Silent nods and heartbreaking smiles. I’ll miss you. I’ll try to convince myself I don’t care.

I’ll lock myself and plunge head first into madness.

Right now, I don’t care if I hurt you. If you’re offended by my words. I don’t care. In my head, I’m 5 again. Throwing meaningless tantrums. I fold my arms over my chest and pout. I lie on the ground and stomp my feet and bang my hands. I cry out clichés like, ‘it’s not fair!’ and ‘you started it!’  I try not to think about the fact that it’s my fault.  I try to forget what I said and only focus on your words. Your venom. I forget how to spell and how to pronounce the words.

I don’t care who gets hurt in the process. I don’t care.

I am Dexter before Rita.

If I never saw you again, I wouldn’t care.  “never mind, I’ll find someone like you...” I don’t wish you the best. If I never met you, would my life be better?

I get lost in the horror. Blood and guts. It’s so much more than that. What are you trying to do to me?? I’m lost in that scene. I need to tell you what I’ve seen, so I’m not so alone with this horror show in my head.

I am a deranged moth drawn to a deadly flame. My soul is tainted. But like a domestic slave, I come crawling for more. Salivating at the atrocities I’m about to see.  I set myself on fire every night.

I get hurt in the process. I don’t do anything to stop it. I perpetuate it. Antagonize myself and others. There is no air. In my head it all makes sense.

There is a maze of demons. I need a flashlight to navigate the darkness of my mind.

My soul is ruined.

I am Dexter before Rita.

I want to push you away. I want to tell you we’re not friends. I want to tell you to stop acting like my friend. I don’t care if I hurt you. Suddenly, everything about you makes me angry.  If I push you away, I’ll be devastated. I’ll sit heartbroken and sad.  If one more person yells at me, I’ll huddle into a corner and cry.  People are mean.

My mind is stained. Covered in unimaginable imagery. Words cannot express. I used to count on you to be my guide in the darkness. I can’t even whisper your name anymore.  My brain is like a clenched fist. Horrible images pulsate through me. I can barely breathe.