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Thursday, August 1st, 2002
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8:27 am - yeah, i know you couldn't give a rat's ass
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Vivian called. Sorry I wasn't home! In other news...
-My classes are over. I got A's, which is hardly surprising considering that I would probably kill myself if I received anything less, but I was initially worried because I suck goathorns at math. Luckily, I managed to scrape by (open-book tests!) Now I have a short break before fall classes, but it isn't *really* a break because...
-We're moving, finally! The house sold again, and it closes on the 20th of August. For those who are interested, we shall be retaining our current phone number. I have been plagued with frequent nightmares about the horrors of living with my grandmother, but I keep reminding myself that I only have to endure her constant presence for a year or so. Then I'll have my AA and I can move up to Pensacola and live ALL BY MYSELF. No parents, no extended family, no roommates... lalalalala...
-My car broke down. Then, yesterday, my mother's car broke down. These breaking downs are not mendable. Thus, we have no transportation whatsoever. I can't get back to school to register for my classes, I can't go to the store, I can't do.. anything. It's kind of freaky. The nearest bus stop is a long walk away, and I have too many unpleasant memories of strange homeless guys ogling me to make use of the public bus system again.
-My liver is still all messed up. The doctor informed me in no uncertain terms that it will stay that way until I gain weight, because I'm still malnourished. HOW can you be malnourished when you're eating 1700 calories a day? It's not possible, damn it. But anyhow, I am actually TRYING to gain weight, because...
-Despite my confirmed atheism, I have started attending Al-Anon meetings. I know it may sound cheesy to those of you who aren't very familiar with twelve step programs, but Al-Anon has helped me more than any of the stupid counselors. When I see my therapist, all we do is argue for an hour--she refuses to listen to me, which makes me defensive, so I don't listen to her, and she never offers any USEFUL advice. Al-Anon, on the other hand, is all about listening. The people are very friendly and accepting, and they may not have eating disorders, but my anorexia stems from the same situation that they all endured--they just ended up coping with it in a different way. The alcoholic in my life is gone, but I still carry him around with me in my head. Every negative thought I have, every little smidgen of self-hatred, all of the evil things my mind tells me about my weight--they're all derived straight from him. I even hear HIS voice when I tell myself that I'm a stupid, worthless, disgusting pig. Al-Anon is helping me to focus on the root of my problems so that I can try to change my crappy-assed ways of coping with them. I had trouble with the whole "higher power" thing at first, but then I found one--the laws of science. :> Science/nature is certainly greater than myself, and since my own nature certainly ought to have my best interests in mind, I can foresee surrendering myself to it. Blah. Anyway...
-As a result of all of this junk, I have actually managed to gain two pounds in the last month. The number is now 85. Note that I cannot look in the mirror without bursting into tears, and I can't sleep because I can feel all of the fat squishing when I try to recline on a fat surface, and I could barely attend my classes because I was certain that I was too disgusting to be seen in public. But I'm still trying to gain weight. My goal weight is 93, of course, so I have 8 pounds to go. God, if this is what TWO pounds looks like, I'm going to become a massive COW. I don't think I can do this.
Agh, damned negative thoughts! Scat! Begone!
current mood:  accomplished
current music: Pat Benatar: We Belong
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| Wednesday, July 10th, 2002
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7:59 pm - people suck
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The deal on the house fell through--the people have "suspect financing," and their appraisers wouldn't agree to our proposed price for the house. Now we have to start showing it again, and I hate people invading my home and inspecting my personal belongings. What if they steal something, you know!?
current mood:  bitchy
current music: They Might Be Giants: Narrow Your Eyes
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| Monday, July 8th, 2002
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6:56 pm - yearn to say goodbye
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Does anyone care about what's going on in Lis Land?
Well, that's a resounding no! Thanks.. but I'm gonna fucking tell you anyway. I live in a country that purportedly allows free speech, and if you don't like it, go read someone else's journal.
a) After ONE DAY on the market, and a HOLIDAY to boot (July 4), we sold our house. The closing is in just over a month, and we'll be moving sooner than that--as soon as my classes are over, in fact. We only had to show it to one potential customer; she fell in love immediately. I guess schoolteachers don't have very good taste...
b) I gave a speech. It sucked a lot. Naively enough, I thought it would be fun to talk about eating disorders and admit, in front of an entire class of strangers, that I had one. It was NOT fun. My heart started palpitating three days before I entered the classroom. How did I ever manage to pass?
c) My mom's flare up keeps her from eating, because she can't swallow, and it is the most triggering thing in the world. I've been feeding her old cans of the Ensure Plus that I had to drink when I first got out of the hospital and keeping a daily calorie count to make sure that she isn't starving (at her request; I'm not going insane here :P), but she's STILL LOSING WEIGHT. I also figured out her BMI according to the charts, and if she loses 4 more pounds, she could be considered clinically anorexic. Isn't that strange?
Oh, well. I've slept about two hours in the past four days, so I think I'll go and catch some zzzzz's. At least that way, I won't be able to fucking eat anything. I'm still at 82-83 lbs., but I swear, some of my muscle has turned into fat. I feel much fatter. I can pinch all of this disgusting, wobbly flesh off of my body, and it seems like it's slowly expanding with every passing day.
current mood:  exhausted
current music: Ute Lemper: The Case Continues
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| Monday, July 1st, 2002
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4:54 pm - decisions, decisions
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So: 82 lbs. My therapist told me if I lost any more weight, she would send me back to the mental hospital place for more treatment, even though I don't know how she'd do it considering that I have no insurance and no other way to pay them... but...
I had a two second epiphany this morning. When I looked in the mirror, for the brief period of time between eye blinks, I thought, "Goddamn, I look too bony." I could tell I'd lost weight. Then I blinked and I was fat all over again. As a result, this afternoon, I decided to try to regain the 3 lbs. I've lost in the last two weeks, so I added 200 calories to my daily total. Now, I am stuffed and overcome with guilt, and I shall be exercising an extra hour to make up for what I have done to myself. I probably shouldn't, because I'm supposed to gain weight and all, but how are you supposed to eat more when you feel so overcome with guilt each time you try that you turn around and cancel out the extra calories?
We're selling the house--the realtor is coming tomorrow. I can't wait to get out of this pile of cow dung. Unfortunately, my mother's multiple sclerosis decided that just right NOW, when her energy and time are of the utmost necessity, it should have a fucking flare up. Last week she almost choked to death on the kitchen floor in front of me. Today she went for x-rays to figure out what's wrong with her throat; all they figured out is that it's a flare up, so she'll probably have to go on steroids again and sleep all day and night. Blegh. I'm just glad she didn't die. I remember watching my cat choke to death in the exact same place on the kitchen floor, and it was not pretty...
current mood: bitchy
current music: silence
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| Tuesday, June 25th, 2002
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6:18 pm - zzzzzzzzzzzz...
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I would kill for some sleep. Oh, my god. If I could get just a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep, I would pay SO MUCH MONEY. I hate drugs, but for perhaps the first time in my life, I really want to take some. Of course, now I can't, because of my liver--I even have to get a fucking shot in my ass every month instead of taking the pill. Isn't that the most idiotic thing? A girl who doesn't want any medicine and never, ever plans to have sex, forced to take birth control in the most unpleasant manner possible. Well, at least it's not an enema, right?
Classes started, and I dropped oceanography (four hours a day plus all of the icky math homework is enough for me!), so it's just algebra and speech. Algebra is almost like a review, because I took all of this crap in high school before I dropped out--too bad I didn't get any credit for it! My classes would be okay except for the fact that I CAN'T FUCKING SLEEP more than 15 cotton-pickin' minutes without waking up. How are you supposed to get your daily dose of REM sleep if you wake up before you get a chance to enter the dream world? I wander around in this perpetual daze--I'm never quite awake, but much too alert to fall asleep until I finally collapse from exhaustion. And then, inevitably, fifteen minutes later, just as exhausted as ever, I awaken again.
We're selling our house and moving, with my grandmother, into the house that I lived in when I was a little kid. I can't say that I'll miss anything about this house except for the stairs, but I'm not particularly excited about living with dear old grandma. She talks about food even more often than I do, if that's even possible, and she spends a lot of time criticizing me/telling me how to do stuff right/commenting about my weight. To get into some psychology mumbo-jumbo, she has always been one of the major "triggers" of my eating disorder. I already know how much I suck, and I can beat myself up about being a worthless, lazy, rotten, good-for-nothing lout without her assistance. I am also *well* aware of the money she's given us to help me out when I was in the hospital and to get me into college, and I know that I don't fucking deserve it. I know I should have died, and I can never repay her, and she sacrificed her retirement cruises just to fix me up when I don't want to be fixed... and I ALREADY FEEL GUILTY. See, grandma? No guilt trips required. Your message has gotten through loud and clear.
In other news, the guy I sit next to in my speech class has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen on a person, girl or boy. He needs to be gay. Lord, I wish he were gay. His voice is also delightfully soft and high and girlish. Unfortunately, from the manner in which he spoke, I'm afraid he's yet another one of those Abercrombie and Fitch jerk-offs.
I think I'm going to do my first speech on eating disorders. I've already stood up in front of an audience and recounted my battles with food at the mental hospital, so it won't be that difficult. I do abhor public speaking, though; it really shouldn't be a required class. Not all jobs require speeches...
current mood:  anxious
current music: Grieg: Anitra's Dance
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| Friday, June 21st, 2002
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8:40 pm - hollow
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I lied; I'm back! I am clinging to this poem
right now, for it gives me about two seconds'
worth of solace before my mind wanders back
down its usual path of self-loathing.
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion
..and the last lines:
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
That's T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." He wrote
it about me, see? I'm hollow, yet stuffed.
Unfortunately, I can't get to the end of my
poem--the part where the world ends. My world
just keeps going on and on and on and on and
my mind won't stop and please, nonexistent god,
why can't you kill me instead of all of those
other innocent people?
current mood:  morose
current music: like I care about music anymore
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8:32 pm - story of my life
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I could spend hours typing it all out, but it would just end up meaning this anyway, so why not summarize it and skip all the crap?
Back home.
Clean.
Fat and disgusting.
Lost two pounds on trip, yet still hideously fat.
Hate self; don't deserve to live.
No point in bothering with anything. (Eeyore, anyone?)
Alone, worthless, empty, stupid, rotten, and fat.
Wish liver had failed. Wish someone would put me
out of my misery. Feel too guilty about failing
parents to do it myself.
I'm running out of adjectives to describe myself here,
and I whine too much. I'm still whining, see? I
don't even deserve to talk. I should staple my mouth
shut; that way nothing could enter it (food) or exit
(whining, ranting, raving).
current mood:  distressed
current music: sound of silence
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| Thursday, June 13th, 2002
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12:37 pm - filth
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I'm in Pensacola. New Orleans was nice. We went to Cafe du Monde, where my father and my non-stepmother gorged themselves on beignets and cafe au lait, and I sat there and stared at the mounds of powdered sugar that I would never allow anywhere near my mouth. They probably tasted like heaven, though.
My dad's house is filthy. Filthy, filthy. Dust and dirt and grime and dog hair is caked everywhere. The last time I visited him, I broke out in hives and had to go to the hospital. I'm trying not to do the same thing now. He literally bursts into tears at the mere recollection of my last visit, and he's spent the last month and a half cleaning in preparation for this one--and if this is clean, I don't want to imagine what it was like before. I know that, on one hand, I'm an obsessive compulsive neat freak. However, NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT LIVE IN MOUNDS OF FILTH. They have clean towels. They have clean dishes in which to eat. They do not feel grime settle on them simply from walking into their houses, where bacteria swirl around in the air like flies. I love my dad, but some of his personality traits are rather difficult to tolerate..
At least my bed is clean--oh, my god. My non-stepmother made it up for me with pink satin sheets. I've never even seen satin sheets before. I feel like a spoiled princess until I open my eyes and look around at the rest of the room.
Saturday we're going horseback riding--something that I haven't been able to do for ages, what with almost dying and not being allowed to exercise and all. I'm actually looking forward to it. It'll be just my luck, though, that all I will think about while I'm riding is my next meal. I ruin every potentially enjoyable experience by daydreaming about food instead. I tried to read one of my dad's books last night, and I couldn't even get through a paragraph without starting to plan out my calories for today. It's fucking pathetic.
current mood:  awake
current music: Vivaldi: The Four Seasons
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| Tuesday, June 11th, 2002
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5:18 pm - mysterious questions
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How do you have an affair with someone for sixteen years and keep it a secret from your husband? If you go over to your lover's house on a regular basis, wouldn't he notice that? What does he think you're doing all of those nights when you're with the man you really love?
And if the man you're having the affair with has a daughter, do you love her too? I mean, do you *really* love her, or do you just say nice things to her because she's his daughter? Surely she can't be as important as the real kids that you have with your legitimate husband. If his daughter comes to visit you, what can you do? Can you go out in public with her, or do you have to hide like you do with your lover?
So.. obviously.. I want a stepmother. I'm leaving tomorrow to visit my dad for a week, but I don't know whether or not I'll be in hiding the whole time. It almost feels like I'm having the affair with them...
In other news, I've unwittingly lost a couple of pounds. I thought I was going to gain weight--muscle--because I started lifting weights and I can see the muscle, but apparently I lost some fat while I was gaining it. 83 lbs. I'm more excited about that than I am about my upcoming vacation. I also listened to Depeche Mode this morning and got goosebumps. I became so engrossed in the music that I forgot about my bran muffins and left them in the oven until they were burnt to a crisp. At first I was angry with myself, and then I realized it was an accomplishment--I mean, when have I ever been *that* distracted from food?
I miss having friends. When I see Tiney now, it's like meeting up with a stranger. Vivian is either pissed at me or unresponsive to what I try to say, and I don't know how to bridge the gap between us. No one else was ever close. I tried to call my roommate from when I was inpatient at the mental hospital type place, but she isn't answering her phone. Last time I talked to her, she was having a relapse.
I used to be too fat and disgusting for anyone to hug me. Now that I'm not quite so fat, there's no one around to hug me, because I drove them all away. And all I wanted was a fucking hug.
current mood:  curious
current music: Depeche Mode: The Bottom Line
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| Monday, June 10th, 2002
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7:32 pm - i'm just a pile of decaying bones and (too much) flesh
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I used to complain all of the time about the world being full of mindless automatons. "Sheep!" I would exclaim with disdain, bemoaning everyone else's total lack of personality and passion. Now I've joined them.
Classes start again on June 24, and I'm taking an "overload," so I had to get permission from an advisor, but I don't mind. I'll do almost anything to distract myself from thoughts of food and my disgusting hugeness, which occupies every single one of my waking moments. I got A's in all of my classes, so I have a 4.0. I had a liver biopsy (painful, and I had internal bleeding, but the doctor was DAMNED gorgeous and he had the cutest little northern European accent and I wish I hadn't been sedated at the time--I probably drooled all over him) and it was determined that my liver is not going to fail. In fact, as long as I don't lose weight again, it should slowly stabilize. On the other hand, I am in the early stages of osteoporosis. In a few months, my bones will be on a par with the typical 90 year old woman who breaks her hip when attempting to climb the stairs.
Of course, I don't care about this. They want to put me on birth control to stop the bone loss, but I don't want it--and why? Because birth control is supposed to make you gain a pound or two, and I can't deal with that. They want to put me on anti-anxiety medication because I'm an obsessive compulsive freak, but I won't touch it with a ten foot pole. Why? It might make me gain a pound or two. My nutritionist moved back to Illinois, and even though I like her, I'm ecstatic... but only because my weight won't be monitored every week anymore. We can't afford another nutritionist. In fact, we have to sell our house, our car, and several other assets and then move in with my grandmother in order to keep paying my medical bills. I would have fewer medical bills if I would gain weight, but you can probably predict the chances of that happening, right?
I do.. things. I got college credits. I've read some books. I took a beading class and made some weird-ass jewelry. I'm in a really odious Celtic folk group where I sing about dragons and fair maidens. Now, these are the same kind of things that I used to do, and at one time, I enjoyed them immensely. Now, I feel like I'm just going through the motions of everything. Even though I wrote all of my research papers, I feel like I "cheated" my way through classes, because the whole time, I was thinking about food. Everything else is just a distraction to keep me away from food for a few more minutes--I don't REALLY want to read. I don't want to become a psychologist. I don't want to listen to music or write in this journal. I don't care about anything or anyone but myself, and myself consists of what I eat and what I weigh.
I weigh.. 85 lbs. I'm 5'4". I used to weigh 67. There are other people in the world who are my height and weigh LESS than I do, and it kills me. There are people who are my height and weigh more than I do, and that kills me, too, because they don't care--and they can read and make music and enjoy life, but all I can do is sit here and digest comestibles and think about how many precious calories I've consumed and plan my meals. I can't even remember what it was like to have a personality--it's like a distant dream. Even my dreams are overwhelmingly centered on food, though I do have the occasional nightmare about the issues that originally led to my eating disorder. (Funny how it's a "disorder" when my eating is actually quite precise, orderly, and planned.)
Everyone is so happy that I'm alive--my father even burst into tears of joy when he found out that my internal organs aren't going to fail. Why don't they realize that I'm already dead?
current mood:  apathetic
current music: Lisa Loeb: She's Falling Apart
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| Thursday, February 28th, 2002
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7:39 am - Oh mind, where art thou?
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I haven't updated in a long time because I have difficulty turning on my computer. It's funny; the online world used to be my obsession. I'd spend 36 hours with my nose pressed up against the computer screen (I refused to wear my glasses), drinking caffeine to keep myself alert, click-clicking frantically on the keys as if I'd lose my connection if I ever stopped typing. Now, I have to force myself to turn it on, beg myself to enjoy reading some slash or conversing with an old friend. I connect, and my only impulse is to locate a pro-ana site and read about some girl in Nevada who weighs three pounds less than me, so that I can feel that welcome swell of jealousy wash over me again. On Sunday, the existence of a 79 lb. girl (my height) was revealed to me. That's six pounds less. I stopped drinking my Ensure; I wonder how long it will take my mother to notice. I wonder if I secretly want her to notice. It took her eight months to figure out that I was emaciated because I used every trick in the book to convince her otherwise.
I can't write anymore. Writing is intangible; you don't ever really know, when you've just penned some random short story, if it's good or bad. Good and bad are subjective, shadowy figures that change depending on whose shadow you ask to judge your work. Even the feelings and ideas you communicate with writing are open to interpretation. While they may seem clear at first, words are overwhelmingly cast in shades of grey--that's why I can write thousand-word essays of complete bullshit and still receive A's. It's all subjective.
My world, on the other hand, is black and white. I seek--no, I require--an unalterable evaluation. There can be no shifting of opinions; I'm either the very worst or the very best. I'm this weight or that; I starve or I devour the very ground on which I stand. There is no middle ground. I can't even think in vague terms anymore or I begin to confuse myself, so I stick to the simple things in life, like sustenance. How can I communicate complex feelings, foreshadowings, and subtle undertones when my mind refuses to compromise on anything?
I saw the liver doctor yesterday, and they're going to do a biopsy. I have no idea what this entails, except that you're unconscious while it happens. I was also sent back to the psychiatrist, who dosed me with zyprexa, an antipsychotic. After having refused medication for the last three years, I thought that I might as well try something, if only to get the doctors off of my rather brittle back. Predictably, I discovered that the stuff makes my eyeballs roll up in my head and then remain there; thus I spent several nights staring up at the ceiling of my bedroom, wide awake instead of sedated. I am really beginning to dislike psychiatrists, even though logically I should not apply a few bad experiences to the whole of a profession. But man, psychiatrists are worse than lawyers. Lawyers may try to fuck with your head, but they can't actually get into it.
Blegh. I'm going to see They Might Be Giants next month, and I'm actually semi-excited about it. That's a first...
current mood: awake
current music: grieg: norwegian melody
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| Thursday, October 4th, 2001
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2:30 pm - they call it your live-r for a reason, right?
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So apparently, despite the fact that I'm eating WAY more than my body needs to maintain itself and taking my vitamins like a good little girl, my liver has mysteriously decided to deteriorate all over again. They're running tests to see if they can figure out why. I dunno. I feel fine; fat and unhappy, but physically, I'm just peachy keen. I am somewhat baffled by my internal organs' insistence on failing at the most inopportune times.
In the meantime, what this means to me is that I have to resume drinking the goddamned Ensure Plus. Also, I'll probably have to see the liver specialist dude in person again, and lord almighty, I despise that man with every fiber of my being...
current mood:  grumpy
current music: Aquabats: vivian's fat has no legs
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| Saturday, September 29th, 2001
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6:30 am - ass monkeys and other not so nice people
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The lovely nurses at the Willough have ruined me for life. I can never again look forward to sleeping late on the weekends; regardless of when I fall into a fitful slumber, I always wake up at 5:00 AM. FIVE in the fucking morning. No one else of my *species* is awake at that hour--except for perhaps the people who are still trapped in the Willough--and it's still black as night outside. Plus, the earlier I'm alert, the sooner my cat starts whining for her morning meal. After two hours of caterwauling (caterwailing..) I'm about ready to scream.
Of course, I can't scream, because it's still too early in the morning to make noise. Cheezit!
current mood: disgruntled
current music: the pitter-patter of the rain
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| Friday, September 28th, 2001
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4:53 pm - the sad, pathetic life of lis
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I've been home for almost a week, and it seems like a dream after having lived in the bubble of the Willough for so long. Before that, when I was starving to death, I didn't really pay much attention to what was going on around me anyway, so it's all new to my eyes. It's as if I don't belong anymore.. well, at least my cat missed me to death.
For generously (heavy note of sarcasm here, folks) force-feeding me cans of Ensure Plus until they got my weight up to 83 lbs., I now owe the Willough thousands upon thousands of dollars. My destitute college student status led them to propose a payment plan, though I still see no logical way that I can come up with the amount of money that they want to stuff into their greedy little pockets every month. I'll have to get a job as soon as I see my doctors and they declare that I'm of reasonably sound health. The funny thing about this is that I've already seen my new nutritionist, who doesn't want me to get a job, or exercise, or even walk up my own damned stairs...
Despite these and other monetary worries, I went out and bought a parrot on Tuesday. No, don't ask me why. It's a Meyer's Parrot, slightly less common than your typical Amazon or Macaw, and I have elected to name him Fingolfin after one of Tolkien's elf-kings. Fin, as the nickname goes, is already tame, but he does have an obnoxious habit of biting my thumb to maintain his balance when he's perched atop my hand.
As I mentioned before, I saw the nutritionist. She's pretty cool for someone I'm supposed to hate, and she's not charging for her services. On the other side of things, she put me on a 1500 calorie diet, and I'm supposed to gain a pound a week until I reach the goal weight she's set for me, which is 93. This I am not pleased about, and jeez, do you know how difficult it is to eat that much? I'm already beyond tempted by the lure of restricting; it'd be easy to shave off a few bits of nutrition here and there, skip a starch or two (or five or ten, since those things are so nasty). Of course, I have to remind myself that if I lose any weight, I'll be carted off to the mental hospital to have a peg tube inserted into my stomach. You'd think this would motivate me to eat--and it does--but my stupid disease is insidious, and its voice as it whispers in my ear is louder with each passing day. Plus, I really want to listen to it; the whole of my existence is less important, to me, than getting fatter. Bleagh. How utterly pointless, illogical, and self-destructive is that? Whatever happened to my survival instinct?
I guess I'm done rambling aimlessly; I'd better go and have my daily cup of coffee so that my next entry will actually make sense.
current mood:  cold
current music: my obsessive compulsive thoughts
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| Monday, September 24th, 2001
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9:42 am - large and in charge
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| Tuesday, August 28th, 2001
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6:29 am - What's cooking in Lis Land?
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Yeah, I know you're not reading this, and if you were, you wouldn't care.. but this is what's left of my life.
Last week I was admitted to the hospital. Though I didn't quite realize it at the time, apparently I was dying because my liver had decided to eat itself for nutritional purposes and my heart was in imminent danger of failing. I also did not realize (though I was quite pleased upon discovering this, sick as it is) that I weighed 67 lbs. Given such conditions, it is hard to figure out what the hell I was thinking (or how I stayed conscious) while I sat there and argued with the doctor over the necessity of admitting me to the hospital.
Arguing with doctors is pretty much futile, actually. Over the past week I have been force fed through various tubes which were kindly inserted up my nose (and down into my stomach) and, via my neck, directly into my bloodstream. Now that they've fattened me up to a point where my liver is beginning to function again rather than consuming its own tissues, I have been given a "choice": I can either raise massive amounts of money in order to check myself into the only eating disorders treatment program in my area (which is private, of course, so my insurance will pay around a buck for my stay there), or I can become a victim of the Baker Act. Upon being Baker Acted, as my psychiatrist so eloquently referred to it, I would be hauled to the state mental ward, where they would keep me indefinitely and insert a peg tube into my stomach so that they could feed me on a more permanent basis. As you can imagine, I have elected to receive treatment at the private eating disorders hospital, and my family has basically liquidated every asset they possess, even though I don't deserve it and really would be much better off if I just fucking died. Certainly you can see from my journal entries what an overwhelmingly spoiled, selfish/self-focused, egomaniacal brat I am. It's really quite stupid of the state to attempt to 'save' my life when I'm not doing anything useful with it in the first place.
Anyhow, long story short, they won't let me die and I'm going to the Willough of Naples for at least two weeks and possibly a month, if someone manages to scrounge up the money. And when I next put an entry up here, I'll be even more of a fat, worthless hog than I am right now.
Oh, yeah.. I have anorexia.
current mood:  indescribable
current music: the electronic bleep of my feeding tube
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| Monday, August 20th, 2001
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9:42 am - Oriental Pearls, anyone?
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Went to California for a week. Back now, naturally. If I don't go to the hospital due to my liver damage, which has apparently gotten worse, I'm registering for classes today. After spending seven days basking in cool, crisp western air with mountains spread all around me like a (rather bumpy) blanket, the prospect of staring at the palm-tree-lined local college every day is not particularly exciting... but oh, well. I'll transfer for graduate school or I'm not a hermit--and that's a proven fact. :>
If they want them, I have incense for Miss TMBG Slash Ho (aka Vivian) and, because nostalgia hit me even though I know she probably doesn't like or care about the subject anymore, a cheesy Sailormoon pencil for Miss Tiney Ho. I would have gotten something more interesting, but there was an appalling lack of transportation to the rainbow-type district of San Francisco due to my lodgings at the time.
I know no one reads this, but I don't really care. It pleases me to update it once in a while, even though I say nothing of any value and avoid any insight into life whatsoever. Anyhow, now I'm tired and I'm going to go drink some of the green tea that I bought... also, if anyone feels like calling me, I'm usually home. Where else would I go in this town?
current mood: exhausted
current music: Gus Gus: Is Jesus Your Pal?
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| Friday, July 20th, 2001
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12:56 pm - alcoholic stupor
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So apparently I have liver damage.
I find this highly ironic, considering my stance on the consumption of beer and other alcoholic beverages...
current mood: apathetic
current music: Sting: Fields of Gold
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, July 8th, 2001
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1:28 am - Can you feel the total lack of love?
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I am still having my annoying medical problem and they *still* haven't gotten the test results back, so I don't even know what the fuck it is.
Consequently...
I have quit my job, totally run out of money, left my apartment and moved back in with my mother, who is having a lot of trouble with her own chronic ailments right now. I met Aki at Barnes & Noble the other day, just to talk, for the first time in over a year, and he is the most wonderful being in the universe. One of my aunts has had a relapse of her cancer and the other one is going to die within the next year from Pick's Disease, some rare hereditary (yay!) thing that eats the frontal lobes of your brain up like candy. I'm too tired to be eloquent or even frame this in a narrative format, yet I can't sleep at night.
So, if anyone wants me, I'm at home--but not at the computer very often. This crappy chair makes the bones in my ass hurt.
current mood: apathetic
current music: Depeche Mode: Dream On
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| Friday, June 22nd, 2001
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4:15 am - muppet mayhem
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Yeah, I know that no one reads this and no one gives a flying rat's ass in Hess (as opposed to hell) about me and I have no friends, but I felt like writing something updational. And I also know that updational is not a word, but nevertheless:
I found a straw that features Kermit and Miss Piggy sitting together in a heart and I'm beyond pleased with it. I'm not going to see Depeche Mode; I'm less contented with that.
I'm in Fort Myers again, and I'm having certain medical problems which are too humiliating to mention here, just in case some random person actually does read my stupid journal. But, at any rate, they might force me to quit my job, and they're kind of unpleasant and scary and I don't quite know what to do about them. I'm sure my doctor will have suggestions after he finishes examining the three thousand fucking liters of blood they drained out of my arm today, though.
Anyway. Um. Yeah...
current mood:  sore
current music: Billy Idol: Dancing with Myself
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thankful