There's a tangled thread inside my head...

My mind is crowded my hands are withered from washing with soap, with soap, with soap, and cold water.

A too-tight-waist; a cat with too-high-taste; a clock with too-fast-pace; shock at a too-tired-face.

I'm talking to things that tic and toc. I'm reading words but can't get them and cannot grock.


Itchy noses don't hold a candle to the depth and romantic glory of my spinning marbles. When will it stop? round-and-round it goes! Who knows. It's all a little convoluted to say the most and really that's all I can say about it.

I'll probably head to school. I'll probably pass out on the pavement and make a pretty bloody mess of my pretty bloody (swear word) head. So, even if my eyelids are begging begging to drop and stay there, I can ignore them long enough to get recognition of my messed-up situation through tragic accident. Won't I be pleased when those three will pay attention to my anxiety?

Resistance

Yesterday I experienced a truthful sensation that I have met with before. This was the sensation of seeing my emotional eating at it's core. And what I saw was resistance.

"Resistance" according to Tiny Buddha, is "any thought, belief or behavior–either conscious or unconscious–that stands contrary to our desire." So, while I find myself really liking the ability of being able to directly feel and work with my emotions rather than eat over them and also feeling most confident and in control when I only eat when I am hungry, I am most certainly experiencing a mental blockage that is "contrary" to these likes.


Lately I have been feeling very righteous in the anger I have been allowing myself to feel. My Mama told me yesterday that I "shouldn't tell people that they are hurting you because their actions come from a place of love". She further explained that I "just seen to understand" that they are doing things from love. Here is the dialectical branch of this situation: I can both understand and feel others' love and still dislike how they treat me. My mother could have meant the best when she tells me that I think she is not as good as my father AND it was still a behavior that hurt me.


I often translate the hurt that my environment inflicts upon me into my own behaviors. I have been trying to use understanding of the reasons why I am using food emotionally as a solution to that behavior, just as I believed that if I was understanding of other people's behaviors, I wouldn't need them to change the way they are acting. Well, I know that I can understand myself or others and that certainly does not mean that I can continue to not stick-up for myself!


It's amazing how persistent thoughts of my mother in particular but also the integrated beliefs of my family have been integrated so thoroughly into my beliefs about myself. No, not other people, just myself. I wouldn't dream of insisting upon something as confusingly irrelevant as the idea that unhappiness means a lack of gratitude for someone else, but had opposition to accepting that as an absolute truth and suitable reasoning for hating myself when I was unhappy.


I also would never tell someone that if they can understand the reasons behind a behavior that is causing their wellbeing harm then the behavior won't cause them harm anymore. Why not? Because it's MENTAL, that's why! Life is not a = b, b = c, a = c. It's often more complex than that. But do I create resistance to thoughts that are more logical (and helpful) than this? Most of every single day.


When I feel that genuine resistance so use healthier methods to deal with my emotions, I am resisting the trust that I placed in my mother even when she continued to do and say things which harmed me. This trust was something that I sacrificed so much of my humanity and self-love for; it was something which I both resented and obeyed; I fought closeness with people if it meant that it would disobey her or disrupt the kind of loving and kind gestures that people seek in their mothers. I chose food in order to protect my mother from the full reality of the hurt she placed on me and the trust I had in her that she was abusing. When I moved out of her house, she treated me like a criminal and blamed me as she had blamed others. She coupled me with my brother and my dad and made me into one of the bad guys she had formerly talked with me about. Giving up the resistance to take of myself-- to feel things as I do without trying to change them; to accept me as I am right now; to be honest enough with myself when I am trying to please others at my own expense-- this takes time and practice but I'll start right now.


Because there is so much resistance to the things which will straighten out my life and make it my life, I need to have faith in my understanding AND change.


I'm hungry. I'm going to go eat because of it.


-Kat

I am okay just the way that I am even when I don't make other people comfortable

I tried speaking to my mother about how I am upset with the unfairness of the way that people sometimes treat me.
 Paraphrasing, here is a recap:
The conversation started with us wishing each other Happy Valentine's day. I asked how she was doing and how her cold is going. She asked me how I was doing: "Horrid." Bad idea, Katherine. Don't be honest.

She asked why. "Mat came over and I got really upset and he treated me like I was trying to be manipulating and-- I'm just not sure why."

A few minutes later of talking and it popped into my head "You know what bothered me so much? He just wanted me to stop being upset! I am so fucking sick of people not giving me the same kind of acceptance that I give them. If HE was crying I would be okay with it. But if I cry all he does is tell me to stop. I'm fucking sick of it! People punish me for expressing my negative and human emotions."

"I think punish is too strong.."

"Mom. Social punishment is certainly punishment and something that effects me very strongly! I tell someone that their behavior is hurting me and suddenly  I am not treated so kindly by them. Sticking-up for myself? I MUST have a cold, or I'm leaving my 'kind nature' behind, or I've 'changed-- SOMETHING is wrong with me for telling people that their actions or lack there of bother me in some fashion. I can understand and understand and understand and it STILL doesn't fucking make it okay. If I don't like what another person is saying or doing then suddenly I am 'ungrateful'."

Then, I'm guessing realizing that she is under this umbrella of people whom I know that do exactly this, my mother started to DEFEND the people I was talking about: "they don't mean it", "it's understandable", "you could end up hurting their feelings if you told them."

She has tended to be one of the most "nice"-peddlers I have ever known, my mom has. And, no, I don't mean  "doing things for others", I mean the most commonly used definition of nice-- a definition that is used to COMPLIMENT people-- "someone who does things for others at the expense of themself". That isn't something to be praised-- that ought to be pointed out as an unhelpful habit. This definition of "nice" isn't "doing something for others" as much as it is being really mean to oneself. Putting yourself on the back burner isn't kind it's cruel. I hate when people tell me how "nice" I am. I am not this definition of "nice" and I don't enjoy being told that I am just because someone can see that I am okay with things that are normally an inconvenience for other people.

"I know your nature is forgiving," says she, "If you just understand that those people are doing it with love..." She started to tell me how she "just called to tell me happy valentine's day and now I was yelling at her and" i was "so angry."
1. Mom, you just did EXACTLY what I am furious about: Telling me (by using shunning tactics like "your innate nature is better than how you are acting") that I should not be angry; that it is not okay to be angry.
2. YOU ASKED ME HOW I WAS AND I RESPONDED HONESTLY.
3. You have no faith in how much I love people. I love people NO MATTER if I am upset with them or not. I don't have to be happy in order to know that I love people.
4. How dare you tell me that I should be more sensitive to the feelings of other people! If they end up getting hurt then they aren't hearing me correctly and that's THEIR problem. Does this sound a little too close to home, Mom?


FUCK!

My Valentine to You

I want to hear about everything that ever was within you and what you anticipate that which will be. I want to learn what is making you who you are so I can appreciate all that is your existence. Speak. Don't speak. Let me give you what it is that will allow you to be as you wish when you wish to be as you wish.

I would like to clarify the direction of this. This is how I feel about you (whoever you are who is reading this). There aren't exceptions. I love you. I love you when you are destroying and when you are not. I love you when you act with kindness and when you do not. I love the way that you are reading this and I love when you ignore this or don't notice it. I don't care if this makes me bizarre because I love you. I don't care that I cannot tell all of the many "you"s there are because the lack of communication does not dissipate my love's depth and persistence. I love you.

#:00 in the morning; # O'clock in the Ante Meridium

It's funny how anxiety is at it's best around this time.

I feel so alone. Because everyone is asleep. Because I cannot feel the opposite of lonely. Because I cannot yet feel "together". A roiling boiling sort of pain-- not uncomfortable because it hurts so badly, but, rather, because of it's persistence. A soft and mistakingly sweet fear that is knocking about, having a laugh, seeing the neighbors, writing some letters, and having a lovely time as it is punching my walls, kicking over my castles, eating all the last pudding cups there ever was. Destroyed by a pudding eater. That must be what this dry and seeping hatred is coming from.

Mishika is squeaking and destroying because I'm awake so late. She scares me legitimately sometimes. I think she reminds me of the destructive sensations that I feel often within myself. Something like an overenergized kitten. It's scratching at your furniture, clawing up your legs. It's demanding immediacy of nothing clear. You tell it to stop, but it can't hear you-- it's a kitten. It either doesn't care or it truly cannot understand you. But you'll never know which one it is. And it doesn't matter anyway because now you have to find out how to MAKE it stop. Or accept it.

I want to accept it. The idea of running away from anxiety has been my goal for my last 14 days, 2 months, and 20 years.

Here's a good thing to know, though: pain is not something to run from. It's not something of horrid-nature but it is something of natural events. I haven't cried yet today. I've done laughing and smiling even though I was bigger than I have been in two years. This is the first time, maybe, that I haven't felt uncomfortable about my body image like it dictated my worth. I bought lingerie. I bought health supplements. I began another blog to talk about the different ways in which I am working to be the most content I can (which is many). I wore heels, and walked as tall as I could. I think the thing that scared me most was the eating.

Eating outside of meals is terrifying. "Oh gods," I think "I might not stop. I might just keep going. I might not stop. What would they say, all of them, if they knew? What would they do if they, all of those many 'them's, saw me? Would they label me a fat person? And if they did, those 'them's, would it make it true? If they knew how much their words can mold my thoughts, actions, and body, and then they called me fat I would be trapped. Forever the fat person. Forever someone who cannot wear what is comfortable. They would condemn me to life as the fat person and it would be all over."

I'm hungry legitimately but I've been craving a binge too. I'm not going to eat. Because I'm afraid. Because I can decide not to eat whenever I want. Because, because, because. Because right now, and most times like this moment, I don't want food or anything other object. Because I am craving the ability to scream and cry in front of someone I love and for them to be okay like I would be okay with them if they needed to scream and cry. A parent to rescue me from my crib when I don't know what will become of me; they'll coddle me and coo me and tell me things are okay and they will continue to be okay and all I have to do is cry. It's okay. They'll still hold me if I cry. They won't leave the room and lock the door if I throw a fit. Where are these people? Why is it that the person whom I know would do this for anyone won't do it for herself?

Well, I guess I am learning how to coddle and coo. Maybe I ought to ask: "What is it, Kat? What is it, my Love? What is bubbling inside you? What do you need from me? Can I give you a hug? I want to hear about everything that ever was within you and what you anticipate that which will be. I want to learn what is making you who you are so I can appreciate all that is your existence. Speak. Don't speak. Let me give you what it is that will allow you to be as you wish when you wish to be as you wish."

What a wonderful love letter I just wrote.

Lost-- not the TV show

This is the time of "day" when I feel like I'm falling apart.

The house is making house-noises, the cat is ruining my property, and I am more alone than I am when I'm around other people.

Days feel like years. Summer in the morning, Fall during the bulk of the day, Winter between getting home and getting ready to sleep, Spring as I lay awake.

I say Spring for when I lay awake because all my mind's flood-gates open and, suddenly, I have so much clarity for how I am supposed to act during the day. It all "wakes up" in the "Spring".

I feel trapped in a loop of the same day. Like one of those Twilight Zone-esque movies where the main character wakes up to a newspaper with the same date; day after day after day.

During the day my mind is so genki, even if my heart is not. "How are you, Kat?" "I'm good, thank you!" How do I manage to answer like that without hesitation?

And everyday--during the day-- I am missing my chances to be truthful.

"My life feels like a mess. A brain that seems to malfunction; unable to manage stress and unable to understand how to manage stress or learn how to. A heart that is easily shaken and confidence with such a lack of solid footing that breathing makes it slip, skid, and tumble.

I want to be with someone I have liked for so long but I can't even manage to be with myself. I have fantasies of being alone, away from even myself. So alone that I'll never be able to find me. And then I realize that is probably exactly where I am: So far away from myself that I cannot even locate who I am.

Probably, this feeling is why food is such a fast substitute for dealing with emotions.

Something I can touch and physically interact with is so much less daunting than the

bleak and confusing mess that is my internal self.

Kamisama, please let this be what youth is. Please let me grow out of this and become the capable and reliable person I know I can be.

I feel irresponsible writing this. Like I am admitting more than anyone should know. It's not a big secret. I'm not a happy person right now. I don't remember being a happy person for more than a month at a time.

I'll tell you my image: A girl forever unable to stop eating long enough to understand herself. A person unfitting for the niceness around her. Someone who hates herself so much that when she is comfortable she feels panicked with anxiety of how wrong it is. Someone who sabotages what is good for her and traps herself to the most disgusting term she can summon. I am a fat girl. Someone who eats a disgusting amount of food and is likewise disgustingly and annoyingly ashamed of herself. Someone who puts energy and effort into being exactly where she doesn't want to be.

I have never met anyone as obese as I feel. The stigma attached to the word "fat" holds so much more than a surplus of saved energy on a body-- it is unattractiveness at it's most pungent and apparent.

I am trapped within this person. Each day, among different events and different wonderful people, is the repeating "newspaper with the same date" of a fat, hideous, annoying, and unlovable girl. I'm drowning within this obese person and yet there isn't even anything substantial enough to drown in.

Oh gosh, Poetry when I am anxious

I met a boy, a cat, a madly-bad love song.

Just as the weather began to boil in the East,

a lightening storm fluttered before it.

She saw a clean house; he saw none of it.

She saw a clean street; he mad a run for it.

She saw a mess; He had found the fun in it.

She saw an actress and witnessed the summit.

A rolling, boiling, roiling mesh of cloud and wind;

the mountains gave way; the fog tumbled in.

A pod and eyes fifty-something deep played

obnoxiously on self-exposed-repeat.

And the boy found the weather and the weather

found the boy. His dissipation as reliable as

the cat remains coy.

The boy made it as humid as he would have; the cat napped, ate, and played; the songs filled memory; the world turned; and I met myself in humiliation and then turned along, too.