I’m hungry, and I’m extremely irritable. Everything is getting on my last nerve. And I can’t even eat for probably another hour, because my loud, crude, grunting roommate hasn’t had her dinner yet, and I don’t want to sit and eat at the same time as her. She’ll talk to me, and make comments about my food, and I won’t be able to eat what I want, because she’ll make me feel bad about it. She already asked my other roommate if she gained weight, and if she asks me that, I think I’ll just about die. Yes, I’m a fatass! Is that what you want to hear? I replaced booze with food, and now I’m probably 40 pounds heavier than I was two years ago. I kept thinking it was a temporary thing, that I would go back to being skinny and cute, but it seems not to be. Like it or not, I’m going to be like this for life. It’s horrifying. I want to start restricting again, but I know that won’t help anything. Or, you know, I could start exercising and eating healthy. That might help, too.
Anyway, I’m really annoyed. My roommates really get in the way of my life. I can’t eat when I want to, or sleep when I want to, and I always have to deal with their annoying chatter and bodily noises. For the most part, they’re not too bad, but it’s that one, that one fucking lady who really pisses me off. And the worst part is, she’s pretty nice, like she has good intentions, but she’s just so annoying. I feel bad for being annoyed.
Everything seems like so much work. I have to graduate from the program and get a job and apply to other grad schools, and it’s so much work, and I really just want to lie in bed and curl up and cry. Nothing’s even wrong, but I feel so terrible (though less terrible than I have in the past). I feel fragile, like my stability is built on a glass foundation. Anything and everything could set me off and put me into a tailspin, and it’s only luck that it hasn’t yet. Small things have the capacity to ruin my day, as do large things, of course, and medium things, and non-issue things, and pretty much all things. Everything hurts. There’s not a single thought that’s not painful in some way. It feels like there’s a whole bunch of spikes in my brain, making it impossible to think anything without being stabbed. It’s not a very pretty analogy, but it gets the point across, I think.
Even their voice sounds are grating. I want to jump out of my skin just hearing them. I know it’s because I’m hungry, but I’m too damn stubborn to go out and eat anything while they’re sitting in there. It still feels horrible, though. I want to scream.
Oh good, now they’re talking about addiction again. Why can’t they think about anything else? I get that it’s the thread that ties us all together, but it’s so repetitive. The worst part is that I’ve started doing it, too, like now I make conversation with the AAssholes about addiction because I want to fit in. And it’s probably good that I do that instead of steadfastly holding to my own values and  it assimilating, but it feels like I’m selling out. I don’t want to be brainwashed. I feel like that’s what happens. Everyone says “oh it takes about a year to get used to AA,” and that’s so creepy. They’re always talking about “giving up the bondage of self” and stuff, too, and I hate that so much. Why would God create us as individuals if He didn’t want us to be individual? We’re not some mindless empty vessels, made only to carry out some divine will that no one can define. We’re meant to be human. I think it’s creepy, and I don’t like it one bit.
Why do people talk on speakerphone so loudly? They seem to think that everyone needs to know their business. And I don’t! I don’t want to know the minutiae of your lives, especially not these personal details!
I don’t even know what would make me feel better at this point, so I think I’ll journal. I believe one of the twelve steps is to make a list of all the ways in which I’m a bad person, and I’m feeling suitably masochistic tonight, so I’ll start at the top and list a few.
I am...
•lazy
•selfish
•unmotivated
•spoiled
•unable to follow through
•dumb as fuck
•entitled
•hypocritical
•self-centered
•willful
•stubborn
•prideful
•impatient
•all around bad
I know there’s more, but that’s a good jumping-off place. I’m not a good person, and even though everyone seems to think that I am, I have too many flaws to overcome. I’m not sure what this means— maybe I should join the cult after all, because then I won’t care about my flaws, just about my immense piety. Or maybe I should try to use opposite action and make myself better, even though it feels like there’s no hope. I like that better. I think I’ll try that.
I have to admit, I feel the urge to self-harm right now. Not to drink, no, that’s not on the table, but I would love to grab a knife and have at it. I’m not sure where this is coming from, because I haven’t cut in maybe a month or two (although the urges are often there), but it’s very strong tonight. I need to talk myself down somehow. So let’s explore why I feel this way. Is it spiteful? A sort of look-what-you-made-me-do type thing? Or maybe it’s more along the lines of me being scared to recover, and holding onto any last bit of illness that I can. I think it could be either or both, but neither one is something that I’d like to admit. It’s embarrassing. I feel like I have to be perfect, and if I’m really going to hurt myself in order to paint myself as the victim, that’s pretty imperfect and bad. I want people to feel sorry for me. I want attention, and love, and I want someone to validate me. This probably stems from my early childhood, but since I can’t remember my early childhood except in snippets, we’ll leave that particular mode of psychoanalysis alone. But basically, I suppose, I’m wanting to hurt myself in order to get attention. Oh boy.
What else can I figure out about myself? I would like to be high for this, because I feel like it gives a nice introspection, but of course I can’t do that, so I’m just going to think. But that’s hard. All I can think about is food. I have McDonalds, a salad, and leftover fried rice and orange chicken in the fridge, and I want to eat all of it, but I can’t yet, and it’s driving me crazy. Maybe I should just go to sleep without eating. But no, that’s my self-harm brain talking. I can’t do that.
I guess I’m going to waste more time writing stories that I’ll never publish. I do that too much, and yeah, it brings me joy, but shouldn’t I be doing something else with my time instead? Ah, well. I only have these years that I do. I may as well enjoy them.