#: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.