I’m moving to a new blog!

I’m posting this on both my old and squeaky-clean-new blog.

After I stopped posting a month or two ago, I kept on falling asleep with posts written up neatly in my head. And I would always wake up remembering I had forbidden myself to post on that ‘failure’ blog of mine. And as much as I convinced myself I was to busy to blog, I ended up staring at blank post-templates a few times. I missed my pet blog. It was nice having a place that was strictly my own.

So I have magicked up a new blog. It can and will talk about everything and anything. It’s just a blank wad of cyber-space that I’ll fill up with all my thoughts and pictures. Maybe I’ll talk more about my interests. Maybe I’ll discover I really just want to be a food photographer. Maybe I’ll scream at models for the most of my time. I’m not really sure yet.

This is it, here.

I won’t be posting any more on this blog, so if you can, move on over.

That’s the end of my announcement, really.

Ciao, friends.

Goodbye Blog.

I’ve decided to stop using this blog. I started blogging many years ago using an old Tumblr, blogging all about my recovery. I had a bit over a 100 followers, and I wrote dark, depressing poetry, posted positive pictures and sometimes, sometimes, celebrated my fake ‘steps forwards.’ Then I closed it because my parents were reading it carefully. I opened another blog, this time just for black and white pictures. I got about 267 followers in half a year, but I hated them all. They never talked to me, they never did anything but sit sinisterly behind their computer screen. So I began this blog, in a hope I could find a community like every other blog had. All the blogs I read had hundreds of people supporting them, cheering for them and laughing with them. I was lonely and suicidal, and I wanted a family. So I poured my heart out and I wrote, for days I watched as only 1 person visited my blog. Then two, then more, more, one day I had 457 and I squealed. I felt like I was getting a family, people who could help me. But then I became suicidal and I stopped, and when I returned, my blog was like a ghost. My ‘stats’ were haunting me, such slow, sluggish numbers that needed to break out of the glass screen and pour fourth all over my arms. My family was running away from me, and I was left sitting here typing to no one, crying to no one, and longing once again for The Nothing.

There have been a few people who have really touched me. And if I knew this blog was going to get any better, and if I knew that people might come back, and I might get that big family all those other blogs ever got, I would stay and write and sing for you every day. But I know it’s never going to happen, and I’m going to sit here typing to no one.

For the few who were here, I thank you. But like Aristotle says, one swallow just not make a summer, nor does one day, and this blog is an empty season of winter that is maimed and tainted with the ‘loneliness’ I seem to drag around. It’s funny in a sardonic way, that in every place I go; many different schools I went, many different atmospheres, new starts, I was always alone. People just never wanted to be part of my family. And so I sit here, furious with myself and the failure, that I couldn’t even make a family of people who couldn’t see my ugly face, and so perhaps might like me more. But alas, no, nobody wanted to stay around this desperate site.

I hope you all get exactly, exactly what you want in your future.

I will leave this blog up, because some of the things I wrote made me smile. And they helped a few other people.

I just wish I could have had the favor in return.

I love you all, I really do.

And from this point on, I really can’t say anything else.

After all, perhaps this whole time I’ve just been speaking to my self, alone.

 

 

Random Facts, A-Z.

I saw survey’s lurking around, so I joined in. I’m quite anonymous on this blog, so here’s some incredibly random information about my life.

A is for age: Who really knows.

B is for breakfast today: Cinnamon hearts cereal with soy milk, fruit, green tea, and toast with butter and marmite. Fulfillment.

C is for currently craving: Sleep and Neil Young.

D is for dinner tonight: TUESDAY IS PASTA NIGHT.

E is for favorite type of exercise: Sitting on exercise machines doing odd pushing and pulling things. I love how at my gym, I spend about 90% of the time sitting on something. You know you can major in Laziness when you do all your exercise sitting down.

F is for an irrational fear: This is so hard to answer, I’m not that fretish about many things. I’m scared of doing flips on the trampoline incase I die. That’s not irrational. I can really think of nothing else.

G is for gross food: Cold baked beans. They go slimy.

H is for hometown: Somewhere in Africa.

I is for something important: GAY RIGHTS. And my bunny.

J is for current favorite jam: Wow, haven’t had jam for yonks, but there’s a cinnamon and apple jam sitting in the pantry which looks like it could be pretty fancy. Ginger jam is also rather ravishing.

K is for kids: None! At the moment, my outlook on life is I don’t want to ever settle down. I want to be free. I’m not too sure how long that’s going to last.

L is for current location: Chair.

M is for the most recent way you spent money: Blackmilk.com (go feast your eyes on some of those beasts. Purple Galaxy might catch your eye. Click here. I never spend money, so this was a big I’m-now-broke-but-wearing-a-nebula-so-it’s-justified. You look confused. Go visit the site.

N is for something you need: Recovery.

O is for occupation: You’ll never know. Maybe in a few years.

P is for pet peeve: PEOPLE EATNG SOFT FOODS LOUDLY. asdfghjkl. It makes me wilt on the inside.

Q is for a quote:  “Things are always changing – our thoughts, cells, hormones, hairline, consciousness, relationship, and the landscape around us. Instead of trying to freeze the present moment and hanging onto it, we need to remember that life is a process of constantly letting go.”

R is for random fact about you: I can sense when an small object (like a pencil) is close to my forehead just between my eyes. Without light stimulation, and with my eyes closed, I can tell because there is localized pain in my forehead when a pencil comes close. Don’t ask how I discovered that.

S is for favorite healthy snack: Olive bread toasted then smothered with fresh avocado. Or muesli with cocoa powder and soy milk.

T is for favorite treat: Sleep and scones.

U is for something that makes you unique: My hair, my nose piercing, my apparently intimidating persona.

V is for favorite vegetable: Beetroot is pretty fancy. WAIT. NO. Oh. I was going to say avocado. But. It’s a fruit. ONION. And garlic. Because it makes me iron woman. And cooked carrots.

W is for today’s workout: Lol. No. I walked up a flight of stairs.

X is for X-rays you’ve had: I had an x-ray of my wrist to see how old my bones were. They were about 2 years younger than me.

Y is for yesterday’s highlight: YESTERDAY’S HIGHLIGHT. WOW. I didn’t get a lunch break, so when I quickly went to scoff my food whilst walking someplace, my entire lunch fell on the ground. I had left the house at 7:40 and wasn’t getting back till 7:40 p.m. I had to go straight to work, change in the car, my bra got caught (embarrassing because I have no boobs so I really don’t need to wear one but I feel cheated if I don’t.) and do you know how hard it is to get changed in the car? Blimey. (don’t know where that came from.) then I came home from work, make myself dinner, IT ALL BURNT TO A CRSIP and we had to soak the pot in chemicals, no dinner, had to make myself something else, a lot of it fell on the floor AGAIN, went to my room and vented unhealthily, then went to sleep and hated my life dearly. So. Yesterday’s highlight. Go away.

Z is for your time zone: Eastern Standard Time.

Pick 26 letters and go?

Or just one.

 

 

The worrywarts guide to attempted tranquility.

Chill out, dude. Just relax. Oh my god, calm down woman. Jesus, it’s not such a big deal. Wow, what’s up with you? Somebody ate bitch on toast this morning… Why are you getting so worked up over this? You need to be flexible, you know. You’re so high maintenance. Seriously just get over yourself.

The list goes on. People seem to carry these phrases in their wallets, and whip them out whenever necessary. What none of us will probably ever realize is the amount of unhelpfullness they bring. Not only will the anxiety-carrier still be fretting over the given issue (cat hasn’t been fed, no current wi-fi, restaurant has apparently run out of banana bread, slightly intimidating person following you, ect ect), you’ve just given them a big package to compliment the situation, and they’re now worrying about worrying/annoying/tiring/intimidating/scaring off you.

As a born-fretful-package-deal, I’ve failed at everything from meditation to drawing to naps (seriously, people? Can you explain the physiological possibility of shutting off your thoughts in under five minutes then waking under another strict schedule?) to yoga, sleeping late, not having knowledge of the time, or sticking a single toe outside my schedule. I just can’t do it. Apparently this extends to my social life. I can be (Oh who am I kidding, let’s just be truthful and say ‘I eternally will be, unless under the influence of some godly substance’) really over sensitive to the actions of people. She just turned slightly to the left? OH DEAR GOD SHE HATES ME. Takes more than 37 seconds to reply to my text? I MUST BE ANNOYING. Casually looks at me from the other side of the room? SHE’S FIGURED OUT MY LIFE SECRET. People tell me it’s social anxiety. I just think it’s an unusually acute awareness to the human species and it’s aversion to me.

I’ve looked to so many other people for tips on this great elusive ‘relaxation’ they speak about. It has to be somewhere, perhaps if I dig deep enough, meditate for long enough, or, as recently founded, hold my breath for long enough (oxygen depletion=acute unawareness of surroundings=body actually dying=really nice relaxation method.) Don’t try that at home. My parents are great supporters of the siesta (my father so much so that we’ve decided, for his 80th we might have to put together a portfolio of all the places he has napped, and we have recorded it. I’m talking mountains and everything.) drinking multiple cups of tea and sitting on chairs doing nothing. I’ve never napped in my entire life, I despise the taste of tea, and I cannot even eat food without doing something else simultaneously. And that goes for something even as good as ice cream or chocolate. Nothing cuts it.

My pets have pretty good relaxation tips.

My bunny lies in the most ridiculously obscure positions, and when she’s not busy bounding around the washing line like a condensed rocket, she can be quite phlegmatic.

This bunny is receiving a massage. Please tell me that is impressive.

My dog spends the entire day following the line of the sun. She is so dense she can’t even smell a piece of Jerky Treats if we put it in front of her, but she knows how to follow the warm patches around the house for the ultimate napping experience. My sister can sleep till one.

And here I am, awkwardly sitting in the corner, fidgeting.

I can take the best situation and turn it into a mental apocalypse.

Image from Zadan.nl

Take this for example. Looks nice, doesn’t it?

Wrong. Wrong. It’s going to be too sunny. I’m going to get sunburn. It’s going to get too hot. What if the cushions get wet? What if I need to use the bathroom? What if a seal comes? How do I even reach that win bottle without falling off the hammock? How do I comfortably relax without tilting the hammock slightly and taking the risk of falling off? If I fall off, I’ll be asleep, and what if I drown?

I can do this to anything, and anyone. It’s just about the worst talent to be so foolishly proud of.

I’ve tried medication, and it only sends me higher into stress. I’ve tried yoga, but only ever lasted four minutes before looking at the clock and snapping ‘WHY IS IT SO SLOW? I must go check it. Enough yoga.) I’ve tried blogging. I’ve stuck with blogging. I always get in a nervy-bee about the quantity of followers, or how I never get on freshly pressed, hence my posts must be horrible (Hint, I’m using Murphy’s law here WordPress, and so you should be putting me on Freshly Post as we speak. Just please. Hint. Wink. Nudge. Shove. Scream. Beg.)

The signs are pointing that I should start accepting this apparently-eternal anxiety. Make the use out of it and become an air pilot, real estate agent or brain surgeon. But part of me, for crying out loud, wants to go on holiday, stop checking the price-per-100g on food, obsessively checking my watch, water intake, food intake, life-so-far satisfaction and general appearance satisfaction. Sit on the hammock above and not start hawking for incoming seals.

But maybe we’re all worrywarts at heart. Maybe we have too much medication and alcohol available to really notice. Maybe I’m just too overly competent at displaying it. Maybe I need to stop being an atheists. Maybe I should stop worrying about why I’m worrying.

Maybe I should stop this post right now and meditate.

But I think I’m going to go look at my bank account then read the newspaper article on the GCF.

Sounds like a plan.

An ode to second hand smells.

If there was ever a place where a tantrum was ripe in my childhood, it was a second-hand ‘something.’ Market, stall, store, shop, fair. The very thought of walking into one had my little creased forehead burning up a fierce headache, and my, I would get so righteously furious that I’d end up crying if we spent more than eleven minutes in one. It was like walking home whilst staring into the sun, when it’s on that annoying angle so it seems to sting your retina and it feels like laser hair removal on your face. That, condensed into a million, was my childhood equivalent of shopping in second-hand stores.

High waisted shorts.

The thing that bothered me the most was the smell. The pungent, wafting scent of second-handness. I’m not sure what it was: it’s like trying to explain the scent of an asian grocery store. They have to have sprayed some generic perfume, because I’m pretty sure different races don’t smell so different that the entire store is filled with it, and the dear old women serving at the second-hand store should follow the same law. Maybe it was a mixture of dust, talcum powder, old polar-fleece jumpers and stained yoga pants. I really don’t know. But to me, it stank. Oh dear god, was it putrid. I called it quite simply ‘second-hand-smells.’

Large, puffy, flower-embedded angora jumper.

This wasn’t to say I was a fashionable little tot who bought her clothes from Cotton On Kids. I was a sever victim of the childhood wardrobe malfunctions, from wearing skirts with running shoes, track suit pants with long sleeve lace shirts, or colour coordinating my outfit so everything was pink. Oh, and I had flare pants. That needs to be said.

A big fat green christmas-spirit jumper/dress.

Like most people, I’m sadly not the child I used to be, and one of my current favorite hobbies is invading second-hand stores with wads of cash and buying armfuls of smelly, scented, clothing. There are only four items of clothing in my wardrobe I have bought new, and most of them I hardly ever wear. Mostly I shop there for the money; there’s something so terribly distressing about buying a new shirt that cost 20 cents to make, and 35 dollars to purchase. Secondly, I avoid the terror of the change rooms. There’s really nothing fouler than going in there and finding half the clothes don’t fit you, or tend to display that little ‘pouch’ on your tummy. I get to avoid the posters on the walls of shops laden with size 2 models all pushing their chest out and sucking their tummies in; instead, I get to see old ladies try on bra’s in the corner of the shop with no privacy whatsoever.

I’d actually prefer that any day.

Alice in wonderland shoes. But Green.

More than anything, there’s something so satisfying about hawking around a shop, yanking out something and screaming in triumph. The saying goes nobody can be unhappy in a poncho. Well, I found I poncho, and I concur with that statement. Who can’t be happy when they can spontaneously start flapping their cape like a bird and scare everyone around you? The amount of clothing I’ve found in markets, stores and overflowing bin bags is almost as astounding as my new found love for talcum powder, dust, and old-lady-scent. The photo’s scattered between this post are just a handful of my finds, and all of them are below 10 dollars.

Maybe, when I’m an old lady, I’ll go work in a second hand store and watch little children come in and scream at the smell, the frightening quantity of cotton button-up shirts, oversized black tracksuits and out-dated cookbooks.

Or maybe I’ll end up starting my own poncho shop.

The options are endless.

Are you a second-hand-shopper?

Have you ever found anything fabulous in the realms of second-hand-smells? 

 

I’m a vegetarian. This is where you expect me to start preaching. That’s where I’ll hit you with my fake bacon.

A lot of people have a problem with vegetarians. It’s the sort of thing I begin to wonder people can see off me, almost as if when I walk down the street people smell my stereotyped grass and salad scent. If they groan, sigh, tut,

‘Oh, not one of them. Oh, look, she’s coming this way, quickly, avert, she might want to preach.’

It’s the type of thing that gets noticed as a bit pretentious at a dinner party or restaurant, other cultures become completely baffled as to what you can actually eat, some people can get surprisingly mad at you.

But just to clear things up. Being vegetarian doesn’t mean my family has to look like this.

bathmeinkisses.tumblr.com

And it doesn’t mean my meals are small variations upon this.

recipeshack.com

Vegetarians seem to be thought to follow some kind of strict religion. The type that we go around knocking on peoples doors with pictures of sad pigs and small cages and a box of tissues for good measures. That when we bring it up, the subject is sometimes quickly changed so to avoid one of those ‘So why aren’t YOU vegetarian?’ looks. It becomes completely strange if you’re not completely healthy, if you eat more white bread than vegetables, or if you’re not lean, fit and generally Barbra Streisand looking.

On behalf of all the vegetarians, I would like to politely scream in frustration at our steamed-vegetable-coated repression.

We’re really not that bad.

Yes, I don’t eat animals because I don’t believe I’m any better than a chicken or a duck or a cow’s life. But if you bring out a chicken sandwich, I’m really not going to start sobbing quietly and praying. You don’t have to feel self conscious about it. Yes, I eat fake bacon. People tell me it’s offensive, that it’s an offense to the pig itself. I get a bit baffled how I can offend an animal because I’m not killing it, but I wont stand up and start lecturing you till you eat a cucumber for me, just to shut me up. No, I’m not vegetarian because I want to lose weight. It’s a rather pesky assumption that we all do it for our own health. Some people say we’re ‘selfish’ not eating what our parents, friends or family may have made, or that we’re a little self obsessed.

But then again, I can’t really preach for the entire population down at Vegetarianaria. In my day I have met some vegetarians who have outright told me they dont eat animals because ‘they dont want to get fat. But yes, I eat chicken.’ And it confuses me, too.

And whilst people are hard on us, not many people ever stop to wonder how hard it may be for us.

Do you know how many years I’ve been dreaming , salivating, visualizing long, fatty, strips of bacon? How when I pass a sausage sizzle I always, always think about why I’m vegetarian and how sometimes, it’s a right pain in my ass. Walking past a person eating bacon and sausage and chicken and bolognese is like making a hypoallergenic person walk into a botanical garden at spring time and watch them suffer. It’s pain. When I was a child, every single year for my birthday I would get spaghetti bolognese at the same restaurant. When I became vegetarian, I had to eat the calamari and rocket salad, and I went home and just cried.

For months I’ll get stuck in the rut of eating chickpeas and sweet potato. I’ll spend up to five minutes standing beside a barbeque just whiffing at the smell of cooking meat. I’ll remind myself why I’m vegetarian, and then I’ll walk away, scream loudly, then run back and smell just one last time.

Don’t underestimate the vegetarian.

Don’t think them to be mean, snotty, pretentious, hippy, dieting, overly-ethical, preaching, protesting little gnomes.

We are human. And a lot of us like meat too.

Sometimes I think a lot of you are strange too. When you eat intestines and brains, I get just as weirded out as you do when I bring out the tofu curry. But I don’t dislike you for it. I’ll even give you a bit of my Facon to try (apparently it’s the now-hip-name for fake bacon.) When you tell me I’m not healthy, I wonder why you focus more on me than you do the obesity epidemic we’re enveloped in.

I promise I won’t crack vegan jokes when I’m around you. I promise I won’t wear flare tie-dye pants and hand out pamphlets with small moo-moo’s on the front.

But really, are we so bad?

 

What I Wednesdayed.

I had photo’s on my camera.

And it was almost Wednesday.

So I made a sort of scrambled post.

Just to be punny, I put a picture of scrambled eggs in there.

I don’t think I’m going to be posting much of what I eat minute-to-minute much more, because it’s extremely time consuming, and my meals generally look really unphotogenic, and I’m always impatient just to eat the food instead of model it carefully (it’s clear that I’ve always failed miserably at meditation.) and I’d like to inch this blog away a bit from food. For me, food is Eating Disorder. I love it, I suffer for it, I wait for it, I ban it, I cry over it. There’s a bit too much complication in there for me to handle all the time.

But never fear. There’s still abundances of food food photography for today.

Has anyone heard of Nutrigrain? If you haven’t, it’s basically cereal for hulk. It’s advertised to be the ‘iron man’s food’ and all the jazz, with really scary people always plastered to the cardboard box. When I was a child we only had it as a special treat, and my god it was like christmas every time we persuaded our mum to give us a bowl. When it was obtained into our eager hands, we just sat staring at our bowls, eating silently. No talking and no watching television. This was a moment.

When I was plodding through the supermarket a few days ago there was this HUGHUGHEUGHUEHGUEHGUEGHHUGE box of cereal that looked exactly like Nutri-Grain but was only 3 dollars. Ahem. Purchase. Consume.

I have 5 boxes of cereal in my pantry now.

I’m proud.

Vegetarian bacon?

Widely acknowledged to taste like human digestive tract.

But this was a separate day and another supermarket plod, and I had just had a silent ‘I’m so damn sick of eating chickpeas or eggs every night, I want to eat chicken and meat and bacon and sausage and oh I wish they didn’t come from animals-OOOOH!’ It looked like bacon, aside from a few blue spots which I hope to dear god were soybean and not fungi, but I bought a packet anyway and trotted on home, expecting human digestive tract.

In all honesty, it tasted to realistic I checked the ingredients twice to make sure it wasn’t actually bacon. I felt so guilty.

But really.

My life is now complete.

….More cereal. For the shame of it. But it’s cinnamony and it has green tea extract in it and honey and it’s all crunchy and it was on special. So I bought it too. And it was pink, which was really quite fancy.

Today’s snack, in fact. Cheesy baked beans on sourdough rye toast, eating at a speed of approximately 89 miles per hour. A culinary success for someone who hasn’t the time or patience to make slow-cooked oats or lasagnas.

This has been a major … thing. It’s just extremely thick milk squashed into a packet and then chilled so it’s like gooey cheese. It’s really quite delicious on everything.

I photographed a cheesecake. That’s really about it.

CHOBANI CAME TO MY COUNTRY! And it was two dollars a box. But I bought one. And it was delicious and I felt so grand and english or american or a true food blogger because I had this in my hand. But 2 dollars a box is really going to get me wedged even further into the GFC, so I just stare at it longingly when I pass it in the shops and wish I was a billionaire so I could hoard yoghurt in my cellar.

Cheesy scrambled eggs.

Just for the pun.

And a bunny. Not to be consumed, but patted.

And on a life-note, I’m completely drenched in work and deadlines and casual job work and trying to breathe without hyperventilating and predicting my future too much and worrying like I’m about to apply for presidency. My job is tres tres fabulous. Some costumers tell me I look like a Manga character (just take it as it comes, people), others snap at me when I give them the wrong money (I’M SORRY. I WASN’T BORN WITH THIS REALLY OVER COMPLICATED REGISTER STUCK TO MY HEAD.) And yesterday somebody told me I was beautiful.

Sob.

I was so happy.

I was also really tired so I lay down on the floor for a few seconds, which I hope she didn’t misinterpret for my overwhelming gratitude from her compliment.

And just writing about all my due work made me realize I probably should stop writing now.

Tell me about your week?

Help me. I’m calorific, really.

It’s not often that I come across a modern day woman who doesn’t know the definition of a calorie. It’s probably nestled right beside their knowledge of the word ‘fat’ (bad in every sense, apparently) and ‘weight’ (something that is discussed with great frequency and disgust.)

It’s something I hear a lot of in chick flicks and novels, right before or after their complaint about carbs and butter.

Calories are everywhere.

Before I got sick (I have to use that phrase so frequently I should probably find a name for it. Pre-ED. Pred.) I was obsessed about chemicals. My parents bought a book labeling all the foul things added to our food that could explain with great detail why we are in the midst of a cancer epidemic. We all got little pocket cards to stick into our wallets, so when bombarded with an array of food, we could quickly check to see if any numbers were hiding in them.

This was pyhsically very healthy.

Mentally, this was the beginning of the end of Pred.

Does that make sense?

Funnily enough, when I did look up at the strange numbers near the top with those strange initials ‘kj’, I would be happy if I had picked something with a higher number; this meant more energy, obviously, and that was the healthy thing to pick.

Oh, how my eating disorder despises me for it.

In the very first stages of my lovely ED-era, I still didn’t really know what calories were; I was more fixated on fat. My first admission to hospital quickly fixed that, with dozens of girls passing through, gassing constantly about calories and kilojules and things that quite frankly, still make my ears ache.

Strangely, the more weight I’ve gained, the more obsessed I’ve become with calories. I have to reach an exact number not just for my ‘daily value’ but for each snack and each component of my meal. Everything is meticulously weighed on a gram-by-gram scale in my kitchen, and everything is checked multiple times by calculator, google search and nutrition panels.

It’s as suffocating as being stuffed into a pillow, submerged into the bottom of a diving pool then enclosed in a shark cage just for extra protection.

I’d have to break about twenty seven different barriers just to be able to splash my hands at the surface.

I dont’ know how much harder I’d have to work to pull myself out of the pool.

Leaving the swimming complex is just another equation all together.

This is not to say I don’t eat good food. At the risk of stereotyping, I eat, like most anorexics, extremely healthily.

I’m not eating plain lettuce and celery sticks, and I hope to god I never do, but the mere fact that each meal is so meticulously controlled means I hate all of it; everything, no matter how good it may taste, it is despised, just because I know it’s the same stretch in recovery as eating a Fat Blaster 50 Calorie Bar.

I have not eaten something ‘out of the blue’ for many years now. I haven’t made a meal that is just ‘one’ component; it’s always separated like millions of little train compartments, so everything is always right, always safe, and always the same.

The simple answer would be to say ‘Stop counting calories.’

I’ve thought of that, too, don’t worry.

But stopping my little ‘calculation’ would mean, to be sure I didn’t gain weight, extreme restriction; eating things I know are far, far below my nice little ‘number’ so I would be safe. And because my body is smart, I wouldn’t lose any weight, just get stuck eating less and feeling worse and generally hating myself as per usual.

But if not now, when? If not this, how? If never, why?

In case you were wondering, this more a plea-for-help than a ‘I’m going to make a nice long happy blog post today’. I’ve been counting for years, and since the first day, suffering. I want to stop, but like a smoker, I know I’ll never be able to do it. And I’ll compensate by buying millions of packets of various nicotine infused things, just so I know I have the safety net still around me.

I can’t give up, and it seems such an embarrassing thing to admit.

If you have any advice, success stories, help, or just general commentary to tell me what an idiot I am, they are all welcome.

If this blog could ever be an incredible tool for recovery, now would be it.

41 things to notice before you give up.

The world is not always a celestial planet, and life is not always as simple as it seem. Giving up, letting society conquer you, ending your life short, has for many centuries evolved into an always-open option.

These images show the part of life we were meant to focus on. The part of our world that we were meant to enjoy.

You do not need to be anything or anyone, to enjoy these, to let them help you.

You do not have to be rich, you do not have to be happy, successful, intelligent, kind, loved, well-liked, beautiful, accepted or healthy.

You do not have to be anything but your true self to realize that life itself can be as much as you will to make it.

Please look hard, and please look slow.

For through all of these images there is but one thing all our kind should know.

You can make your life beautiful, and you can make your world a sanctum.

Please note, none of these images are mine and to be of my credit, and all came from this source. 

 

 

The paper mache they made of my heart.

These are newspaper clippings I photographed to create a representation of my encounter with depression and anorexia.

They create a picture, and it’s not one to tell to children at night time.

This is a cold truth society blocks away.

This is life, deep down in the grips of mental insanity.

This was my reality.

And this is my story.

Kitchen Sink Review; Cocopure.

Before I begin my babble, I need to apologize for the amount of time that fattened up between me receiving this product and me posting it. Life was most rude, and got in between us in a major way. But better late than never.

Many many many weeks ago, I received a package from the gorgeous crew over from Cocopure. Being a newbie to the wonders of The Coconut (because these sorts of things really deserve a few capitalia) ((I just didn’t feel like saying ‘capitals’), this was an exciting expedition to see if I could consume four jars by myself in record time. (note, I’ve become incredibly protective of them and use them in carefully rationed amount so I will still have them when I submit myself to an old home. My plan will be faultless.)

I see your eyes gravitating towards the dark brown stained jar.

I know.

I know.

Chocolate and coconut.

In a consistency that shames fudge.

I know.

The coconut butter seemed a bit strange at first…but I started adding to to oatmeal with cinnamon, and the combination was 

I even put the jar in the microwave (to soften) with the aluminum lid on.

And we both survived.

It’s importance is probably more concerning than mine. But anyway.

The coconut cashew butter is still roaming my pantry for a combination; I adore cashew butter (ahem, ahem, cake batter taste) and read above for my opinion on coconut butter. But together they sort of … cancelled each other out? Like a fraction? My logic is clearly disjointed.

But I really need to get onto the last one.

This was like eating raw fudge from a jar and calling it healthy.

It felt so wrong.

Chocolate coconut oatmeal.

Chocolate coconut spread on banana.

Chocolate coconut spread on toast.

Chocolate coconut spread on crackers.

Chocolate coconut spread in milk.

Chocolate coconut spread on fingers.

Chocolate coconut spread.

If there was a prime time for this invention to become fashionable,

I knew I’d be carrying this around.

I even put it in the microwave (me and the microwave, I tell you) for way too long and the ‘chocolate’ part of it (coconut oil separates to the top when heated) became black and charred.

Knowing me, I wasn’t going to waste food, so I ate all the charred black chocolate things, cancer be damned, and it still tasted amazing.

You see, when char tastes good, you know you’ve hit gold.

What I love about this company is (THE CHOCOLATE COCONUT BUTTER) and the chocolate coconut butter. But even more so, they’re incredibly healthy products, and it’s a family business and their products are fair trade and ethical. It makes me want to cry. Why aren’t we all like this. They put stevia into the  chocolate coconut butter to eliminate any unnecessary sugars.

“Our Coconut Chocolate Butter is 100% Raw and retains more of it’s natural ingredients, heat-sensitive vitamins, anti-oxidants, minerals and nutritional benefits because it has never been heated above 45° C. It contains no highly processed sugars, only 100% natural, low-glycemic load agave nectar. Our Coconut Chocolate Butter is 100% Vegan, which means it contains absolutely NO milk or dairy ingredients or any animal by products of any kind. 

Most cocoa powder and commercial chocolate used in spreads is processed via the “Dutch method” meaning it is subjected to scorching temperatures of up to 150°C with the additional aid of solvents, thus destroying most of the nutrients and antioxidants. This kind of chocolate is nothing more than supermarket junk food. The raw cacao we use is entirely different. It is essentially uncooked, unprocessed chocolate in its pure rich essential form. The cacao we buy is sourced from small producer groups in Satipo, Peru where the beans are cold pressed into premium quality raw powder. It is certified organic and fairly traded. Raw chocolate has been tested to have up to 4 times the antioxidants of conventionally processed chocolate.“

I loved these products so much I think I’ll have to make a living in consuming them.

If you click on this link, it will teleport you all the way to their website and you can stalk them and their products.

Merci, cocopure!

I generally like to go to the gym naked. But then life gets in the way.

When I was a child, I aspired to have four things in my life.

1. A really nice set of boobs.
2. Big silver hoop earrings.
3. An acting career.
4. A gym membership.

As you might notice, my morals were that of an incredibly progressed human that could only have come out of 4 billion years of evolutionary success. To paraphrase one of the possibly most annoying qoutes, I had my ‘eyes on the prize.’

EGHHG. Just typing it makes me think of a really big,soccer coach with squinting eyes and sweat patches in places they really shouldn’t be. It’s taking great self restraint not to go back and delete it.

1. Boobs never happened. A lot of men have bigger boobs than me. Moving on.

2. Hoop earring catch on everything. They’re just, no.

3. Need I say more. When a person has resorted to blogging, you can probably assume they’re not living the life of fame. And twitter doesn’t count.

4. A gym membership. Huzzah. The fun begins.

The first day was, to be truthful, bloody terrifying. Quietly walking around, pretending to look blase whilst quickly reading the instructions or tripping over peoples water bottles or accidently stepping on people who had laid out a mat right in the middle of the exercise equipment, doing excessive pumping and thrusting with themselves.

Making ‘OOH, MMMMMH, UGGHGHGH, MMMMMMMM, UH UH UH UH UH UGH GUH’ sounds probably should be the exception. I had to check multiple times the guy next to me was actually cycling and I hadn’t just walked into a pole dancing class. There’s also the downside that I can’t move the exercise bike subtly, without resorting to make the same sounds as him. And hey, then we might look like a couple.

Then there are people who look like this.

There’s nothing wrong with being incredibly tanned, having really expensive sports bras, a perfectly symmetrical face, long blonde hair and no trace of sweat of flushed cheeks.

Besides the fact that it’s biologically wrong. I was brought up to learn that everyone looked a little bit ugly sometimes.

As soon as I start moving, I either start breathing really loudly without realizing, turn so red people think I’m about to have a seizure of some sort and start looking really concerned, or get my gym shorts stuck in the exercise equipment and flash my superman underwear. Either or. I look clumsy, I pull the most hideous faces (kudos to the other few people in my gym who have the courage to do the same) whilst everyone else is sashaying across treadmills or flipping up a casual 89 kilogram weights.

(Hint. The most I’ve ever done is 20. My average is 10. It puts my amazing face pulling and occasional grunts to shame.)

Then there comes men.

Big. Sweaty. Angry. Huffing. Grunting. Men.

Day one at gym, an incredibly large man sat on a machine with sweat dripping everywhere and stared at me for about 50 minutes. I felt like I was about to wet myself, or charge at him before flicking my sweaty towel in his eyes, because lets face it, I would go down first in a punch up. Each day there is some incredibly intimidating person with more muscle on their pectorals than I even have on my bum staring at me. When I’m really bored on an exercise bike, I usually start doing woman-men ratios. There are always triple the amount of men.

Lastly. Sweat Patches.

Getting into a warm bed. Nice. Getting into warm clothes. Nice. Getting into a warm shower. Nice. Sitting on a warm car seat. Nice.

Sitting on a warm, wet seat?

I feel like my bum is being electrocuted. In fact, the whole ‘exchanging bodily fluids’ makes me cry. But somebody else’s sweat, from their rear end, is not a substance to be left on an exercise machine for the next gym nut to pick up.

Well, I’ve made a sufficiently good argument for going out to buy a gym membership.

The naked woman who insist on showering right near the bathroom door entrance with no door are also an excellent part of my day. I don’t know how people survive without such views.

All I can be gratefull for is that in Grecian times, all gyms had to be attended completely, stark naked.

That would make another entire post.

Baby come back.

I’ve been avoiding this blog for a few months now. When email fluttered into my account, I would hastily delete them. I felt like removing myself from this would allow me the space to grow, or flourish, maybe sprout a second leg, I don’t really know. Then there was the ‘I’ll only go on this blog when I’m better.’ So for a few weeks, I tried. I averted my eyes from the blade, I ate well, I slept well, I exercised well. The doctors nodded, I got a casual job, I decided I wouldn’t buy a single piece of clothing this year.

Then nothing else happened.

No miracle break through, no bouts of morning-happiness, no terrible relapses; just a ugly asphalt road that was so long I could see it join at the tip a few hundred miles up. I felt like I couldn’t possibly return to rant angrily about the turn my life had taken; how money had taken over my thoughts more than food, how I was desperately struggling, how I had begun to self harm again, how I was dangerously low in life. I wanted to be bright, happy, exuberant and everything a reader would like. It took me a long time to realize I may no be any of those things for a while.

To be frank, my life sucks. There is no eloquent word that could cover it.

But dammnit, I love you, so honey take me back.

I’m sorry for abandoning you, I’m sorry I never replied. I’m sorry I left you hanging, I’m sorry you worried.

I know I may not have an avalanche of you, but you all mean the most of the world to me. The other half of the world, well, peanut butter really has that on hold.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

This is my attempt at separating my post. I hope it is adequate.

Ahem. Throat clearing. During my long service leave from blogsphere, I have done the following things.

I edited one photo.

To be honest, I became a creature of total paralysis. I read only a few books, I did my work lifelessly, I ate lifelessly, I dressed lifelessly, I felt lifeless. I tried 5HTP for my depression, but I became

INCREDIBLY

Depressed.

It was like breathing in baked codfish whilst sleeping on pins and hyperventilating and wearing really tight jeans and being really hot and dehydrated and standing in the bare sun and getting really mad.

That’s probably the best I can do.

Then I did some (more like frantic-my-life-is-on-the-line-research) and found that this wonder drug actually converted serotonin in your body instead of your brain. Serotonin can’t really pass through the blood-brain-barrier and so it accumulates in your body.

This is not the kinda junk you want to be having in your body.

So I just did this.

And that was that.

I do miss the first few days. I was really quite hyper and overly excited. But instead I just have peanut butter.

I’ve been traveling on trams half naked, sporting my nine month old food baby,

Somebody recorded it for me.

Basking in the sun

Not really. I hate the sun therefore I have a vitamin D deficiency therefore I am probably more depressed therefore I should really long to befriend it.

But sun makes me angry. I don’t know why. Whenever I stand in the sun I start getting really, really, annoyed. Like a sort of compact form of PMS that just explodes in one big catastrophe.

I’m really not suited to earth.

It’s quite obvious.

Oh. And here’s one last thing.

Nobody finds it funny. Why. This is hilarity itself.

How have you been? 

Will you forgive me?

Can you send me some happiness in the post?

Will you stay?

Am I being to deep here?

Should I just be asking what you had for lunch?

 

 

To say goodbye seems like a hard thing, but staying around has become even harder.

I’ve been thinking a lot about suicide lately.

There’s a pain in my chest, a suffocation in my throat, a desperation in my face and a sense of drowning in my heart. After over 6 months clean, I’ve relapsed viciously into self harm and self destruction. I’ve become so lonely that I know besides my parents and sister, nobody would even want a note of farewell from me. I tried so hard to push myself into social networking for a connection, as people in the ‘real’ world were disgusted by me. Even so, I remained lonely. Nobody really talked back to me on my posts, I never became a blog with lots of readers.

I was typically lonely.

A lot of people are telling me to hang in there, that there is life ahead.

But there isn’t. I’ve always been lonely. I’ve always been excluded. And as much as we like to flout our independence, we’re creatures of companionship. It feels like someone is cutting me up from the inside. Please take me in.

I hate my self perpetually. My body is foul, disgusting, revolting. My life is lonely, dark, and an endless nightmare.

Loneliness is harder than death.

It hurts more.

It hurts longer.

You can’t control it.

Death is easy. Death is quick. Death is brave. Death is finality. Death is peace. Death is company. Death is purpose.

Death is merciful.

My life was not.

And so I will not be merciful back to life any longer.

I tried.

Cheese puff knees and writers disease.

When I first started writing this post I made a long sentence about the whims and grumpiness and unfairness and ickiness of my general life.

The usual.

But writing all this gore and misery and probably internally planning my own eulogy hasn’t actually made me a happier person.

So off with it’s head.

I’m going to try write happy today.

This week has been blusteringly hot. Eck. An I’m currently wearing a polyester dress, which is not a pretty combination. I’m beginning to think in my past life I used to be either a polar bear or some mutant arctic angora bunny.

Either or.

I’ve also begun to strain in my writing mojo again. I’d almost finished a 300-400 page novel, when my attention span just went POOF and I was left utterly bored with all this verbose writing I had once spent hours bouncing up and down on my seat, writing.

This is obviously an underlying window into relationship commitment issues. Ahem. Joking. Don’t read into that.

But it’s all okay, because I’ll soon get incredibly bored of this book and go back to the other.

But for the moment, I’m on cloud nine will all my book characters.

Life just doesn’t cut it sometimes.

Speaking of which, my legs swelled up again? I asked you all about this a few weeks ago…and now we’re back to square one. A doctor said I may have some type of osteoarthritis partying hard in my knees…whoop whoop. At the risk of sounding vain, the worst thing about this is the eating disorder; how on earth do I know if it’s actual swelling or just a bad bout of perception naggling into my brain? Both seem to look pretty similar to me. I’ve been trying to keep in the air when lying down for a few minutes throughout the day to ‘drain fluid/blood/various swelling ingredients’ from my knees.

It’s fair to say my body is rightly wrecked.

And you wont believe how young I am.

Sniff.

Here’ some food.

Let’s lighten up the tension.

Previewing; this is just a compilation of weird food. It’s not my day-on-a-plate. I eat more than this. Gosh.

Please come over and visit the gorgeous lady at Peas and Crayons who hosts this party for bloggees to find some source of inspiration when cooking for yourself.

This has become an ultimate favorite. I love the ‘crunch’ that cereal makes. That’s probably about it.

Fruit and all bran flakes.

Full cream soy milk.

Full cream organic yoghurt, grapes, rye toast with avocado and fennel and one with cheese and chives dip.

I’ve also been trying to eat a lot cheaper lately; I’ve realized that however much I love my 1029ue01204u35248toiwre dollar (whoops, there were some letters in their too) dollar organic health food, it’s not affordable till I’m a billionaire, and then I can just get it all over with and fly to New York and live in Trader Joes.

This is my life plan, obviously.

And I’ve been trying not to put salt onto anything (I cry when eating avocado, there’s no denying.) because that could also be another wondrous reason for my lower body limb puffing.

What’s life without salt though, I really don’t know.

Soft serve 1 ingredient banana ice cream.

THIS WAS JUST. UGH. I was going to say something a bit inappropriate, so I just settled with a proud sounding grunt. It’s a bit awkward, I know. At first I was rather scared for the mortality of my blender when the bananas screeched against the glass (ek, the sound!) but then after five minutes it smoothed into this luscious creamy soft serve concoction. I would give you the recipe proudly, but it’s a bit simple. Just a bit.

Fried egg with organic tomato sauce, fresh cabbage (my years worth of vitamins, people) and organic rice crackers with laughing cow cheese and spicy salsa and avocado.

Hot oatmeal topped with soy ice cream and peaches.

BLOGEES, YOU MUST TRY THIS. Ice cream in oatmeal is a lot healthier than you think (yes, just nod here). And honestly, even if you don’t think it is, you must really just stuff your face into this. I don’t even call it a treat. It’s just life changing. I used soy ice-cream; but you could also settle for coconut icecream? I’m not sure about sorbets….I’ll have to brave that storm soon.

But not today.

It’s too hot for even looking at oatmeal without wailing.

MY FIRST OIAJ! Omnomnomnomon. Cinnamon oats in an empty peanut butter jar. It felt like there was so much more nut butter than there actually was. But who am I to complain?

My pot had bubbles stuck to the bottom. So I drew you a picture. I hope you like it.

That was just a random extra.

And here's my bunny looking confused.

This cannot be called an extra. This is the star of the show.

And no, I’m not secretly a bunny. Though if I looked like that I don’t think I would really mind.

I love how small her head is compared to the rest of her body…snort…I love her too much. And her tail is as long as a beavers.

It’s really confusing us.

She was obviously raised by some species of otter.

My questions;

Fried Egg; Nay or Yay?

Ice cream in oatmeal?

Laughing cow cheese? (This is really a rhetorical question. It’s just ‘yes’.)

Best eat this week?

IF YOU COULD HAVE ONE SUPERPOWER WHAT WOULD IT BE.

Sorry. I couldn’t resist.