Pulsating Wanderlust

“Why did she make things? Well, she enjoyed it, of course, but it also somehow helped her remember who she was and where she came from.”

It’s been coming back stronger each day again. It’s been months since I tingled with the crave, the spark, the challenge and the urge to drop everything to create. It’s to me, forming something from nothing but an idea — a product of the mind — with each result coming from conscious decisions and one’s own actions. The more basic the materials, the more engaging it is to me — think, ink and graphite and paper, think, combining scraps into objects. It’s putting my energies and a particular kind of emotion into the process of creation. The visible product can be applauded for its aesthetics but its what it initiates that grants it value. The tunnel of memories it leads one through and the ideas it kindles.

I step outside and feel lost in the centre of high concrete walls that block out chunks of sky. Realization strikes that I want immersion. I thrive on passion. It is a fiery desire to learn and experience. Intensity is daunting, yet I’ve always and can only thrive on passion. It’s not cold concrete or isolating woods I crave. Both are romantic images but neither location ever sit right with me when thought in permanence. I want to be wherever I can immerse myself in passion and have it engulf me. Even as school — university, high school — can be monotonous and dreary, there’s always been something that keeps me wanting. It’s a crave to learn — learn, not study — and therefore, an autonomous want, not an external push. School is an environment that draws people and stimulates their minds, albeit some not as well as others. Their laughter, their insights bring me somewhere because an environment like this draws people in and brings them out. I travel through them just as I always travelled through strangers’ lives in the train and bus rides.

I’ve weened off and am completely off medication. My mind has been rapidly clearing. My thoughts are coming back. My focus. I haven’t felt this way since I was put on any medication at all. It’s been months and I’m finding my core again. Stability. Desire. Movement. I thought I lost it, that I changed, or even that it might not have been the real me. I feel the wanderlust and with it, I’m remembering the wandering wonder and the many mediums.

BN

I’m absolutely terrified and stressed that I’ll slip into it completely again. Losing and restricting keeps me safe. Get smaller and it’ll feel more controllable. Just everything will feel more controllable. But I keep losing control. I’ve been delaying it for a few months while I scramble for something that works again but still it ebbs and flows. It’s been getting harder again. I’m fucking fucking scared. I hate bulimia. I fucking hate it.

Spurts

I miss his fingers
interlaced with mine
I miss his face
his warm embrace

I want to lie down
In the radius of his body heat
Listen to him breathing while he sleeps
Listen and let go of everything else
I want to let go of everything and have them fade
Just us, safe to have each other

I’m too alive some
Around me, it is dead
Further out it’s all alive but foreign and fake

Thrust myself into food and weight. Everytime it hurts again, deeper, in. Cannot no pain hurts too much. Food fogs. Helps. Little. Distracts. Makes sense. Fog so well I want to quit everything for it. But sometimes it clears. I cry. See I’m still as sad. Sad. So sad. Don’t feel don’t know to lift it. How fog. Go it’s fast easy as that. Why does it do that. Too late to think by then.

Miss too much. Missing brings tears. Crippling tears. Always run away. Fog fog my brain. Medicine and food and weight. But sometimes I stop running. I just pause and stay. And then it hits me wave by wave. Being hit always makes me struggle with starting to run again. If I don’t, I’ll fall. I don’t which to go with anymore.

Walk and Fade

It’s been on my mind to visit the park. It’s only across the street but for a while now, I haven’t been liking the sun much. Not it’s brightness or its warmth for the heart.

I pulled the covers over my head and breathed the sheets. As I thought, I was tired but I can’t sleep. I told my Mum I’m going downstairs, to the park. She paused at the door on her way out and I wondered if it was because she missed what I said or if it was because she hadn’t. I think it was fear in her voice when she asked if I was taking a run. In any case, I said no, just a walk. Didn’t sound like she believed me.

I had already crossed the first small road when I pulled up a loose sock and remembered my legs. I’m in shorts. I wondered what my Mum thought of that. I crossed another road and was at the park. I decided against tracking my walking distance. I took a different route at every fork I hit from my last running phase. I began becoming conscious of my decisions to do opposites and the anxieties creeped up.

I continued walking regardless.

The numerous colliding thoughts faded off one by one, like they always did. The edge blunted. The stresses dissipated into non-existence. My life started to look better again. I don’t know how it works but it’s huge reason why I keep running in my insane and pressurizing exercise phases. It helps me cope and blunts everything for a while. For a while, I’ll look into the distance and even feel like my life can be better.

I wonder how long this will last. I feel like an addict. I was torn inside when I remember how exercise was a way I controlled the eating disorder whenever every other number spiraled out of control. What misery to fight off the temptation to exercise despite how much I dislike it. Pathetic.

I grew tired and I stopped to rest. At least I’m still able to do that — stop when I want to, need to. My feet had the familiar zing when the pressure of my weight lifted.

It’s time to get off the stone bench now.

The Truth Is

I don’t know what I can show. I’m scared that if I write about what truly bothers me, it will provoke bad things. I’m afraid if I write about the one I miss, I will invite bad words that will hurt. Hurt that will make me want to hurt. When did I start hiding even in this journal?

The truth is, I have not been doing very well and I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to romanticise being a hermit in a place far out near the woods, all by myself. Me, my self loathing, a lot of white furnishing, the cold and working from home. I don’t want to think about the future if this is what it truly will be. I don’t want to grow up and I’m scared to live, but I also still want to and feel like I can with him. Dreaming and planning for the future. Talking about day dreams and one days.

I want to grow up with him and go to many different places. I want to travel and see things. I want to be inspired. I want color. I want reds and orange and yellow and greens in the middle of concrete cities. I want trees and grass and open night skies. I want energies and diversity and I want to be me. I want it all so much.

I don’t know why I’m scared to write about everything that really hurts. I have no interests anymore. I have no drive. I’m becoming grey and black and white and flat again. I have nothing and I disgust the people around me. I don’t even who to call my friend and believe that we are. I know I’m not enough and I don’t actually know how to try to be when I’m in a limbo and don’t know which direction to head.

The truth is, I’m nearing one end of the spectrum again because I want to be at the other end so bad. And being here, where I am, is such a bleak color that I fog up to escape. I need a direction and I’m afraid of answers.

Numbers To Not Live

It was late when we made the ride home today. I kept thinking about how I like numbers more and more. I began to enjoy numbers since summer break but I think I’m growing to really like them now. I don’t like them in a formulaic way. I like their values. I like tracing the curves in my mind. I like the number 9 and then I think, 9 is too big and 7’s nice. Soon I’m number hopping and liking them all — all the numbers because their values get smaller and smaller when I attach them beside a different digit. I stared at the road signs we drive by and I looked at the number plates we passed. Numbers, values, numbers again.

I haven’t dared to look out the window in a while but I stared outside the entire journey back because there were numbers to look at and think about. I realise despite understanding it, I have never appreciated how tangible numbers and values are more than in this stage in my life. I look up to the open night sky and I wonder if I will ever lie under it with someone in the way I always imagine and craved. I wondered why I’m also always afraid. I wondered what was different about the night sky and I realised it’s the clouds. There usually aren’t white fluffy clouds in the open night sky and so I lose my bearings when I look up. I don’t know where I am in the vast deep blue. Blackout the sky… 

I have 3Cs of my own: Certainty, Control and Comfort. Numbers give me all those in that order.

I keep hiding, escaping and delay thinking about my immediate future. But it’s a fact that I don’t want to live in loneliness.

And so I won’t live.

Welcome Back

I’m waiting for the medication to knock me out as I write this.

I don’t know. I’m tired of being stressed about school all the time. I’ll never be able to please my lecturers. I’ll never be good enough for good grades. I’ll never make my parents happy. I’ll never satisfy the mirror. I’ll never…

I don’t really care that I’ll never everything.

I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care. I don’t give a flying unicorn.

I just want to hide away because reality sucks. Just like how I always retreated into my mind with my imagination, and sometimes with books when I was young. Reality sucks so much now I’m afraid to take in fresh air with undivided attention. I’m afraid to take in anything. That’s why I have my numbers to count when I’m anxious; my eating disorder to keep me distracted from everything because everything is bad. The thing is, although the eating order keeps me company and keeps all the bad at bay, it can easily turn against me.

Today I finally imploded. I inhaled food and more food and even more. The amount I binged-purged on is incomparable to last year but it’s calorific nevertheless. It was all unplanned and uncontrolled. I thought I was finally safe for a day and then, it happened. And then again. Later, a third time.

The first time I heard the voice say, welcome back.

Bulimia reared it’s ugly head and I thought, no. This stops now.

The third time I heard her say, it feels good doesn’t it as I took another bite into eggs and cheese and rye bread. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a sandwich like that before. Over summer break, I realised despite my love for food becoming disordered, there’s so much that I have never tasted.

I’m sick of everything. Nothing comforts me. I know the eating disorder doesn’t either. Not really. But it’s the only thing that I can try with. It protects me, hurt me, beautify me, satisfy me, deny me… as long as I can stay away from binging and purging because that brings out the meanest and most relentless side of the disorder. Purging is bad. Mono binging and mono bps are worst. Regular binging-purging is the worst. It knows me inside out. It’s a plaything I can take out any time. It’s there when I cry sorrowful. If I do it right, I can feel like I do on alcohol but without the high. The disorder is probably the closest I can get to suicide and death. Do I even make any sense anymore? I’m not even thinking. Am I? I don’t know. I try not to think most days.

Medication. Is knocking me out.

Lights out.

Silent Voice

My brain feels dead. It’s life is like a long green line, with tiny peaks, tiny dips. My eyes look left. Her hi tops catch my eye. I have the same maroon pair. I look to the girl I followed and strategically sat in front of. I studied her. I do this a lot while I’m traveling. Pick someone on my way and follow them until I arrive at my destination. They used to be people of interest. I studied their style, their life. I stopped looking for those long ago. The girl in front of me taps on her phone. I saw how small her legs were despite her long dress and I saw how much of the seat she took up when she sat. Now I see her wrist more clearly than before. I look at my own. She is sick. She was hiding her skin and skeletal body. It might not be anorexia nervosa but she definitely has anorexia. The girl with the shoes looks…comfortable. I imagine being in her body and it doesn’t feel like it hurts to sit. My brain is fogged from this morning. I fucked up bad. But an excited voice speaks in my head when I look to the sick girl. I am too dead to think about logic. I listen; my own mental voice silent.