I think I'm annoyed because I don't like it when people don't take me seriously, even though it's something that's happened all my life, regardless of where I am, and even though I can be used to it, I can also be bothered by it. It's especially annoying because it's nothing I can even control. People see what I look like and they decide that I'm some dumb blonde valley girl and only care about my clothes and Snapchat streaks, and that's not untrue, strictly speaking, but I'm more than that too, and in a professional context, I work hard to make sure the job gets done efficiently with minimal drama, and I feel like that's something people should recognize too, even as they laugh at me for being ditzy or whatever. I know it's on them, and I know it does make my life easier in a certain way if no one sees me as a threat, but it sucks. I hide my natural accent and try to speak in Mid-Atlantic office tones, and I try to hide my body with layers and professional clothes, and I never wear falsies or contour or lipstick or anything besides eyeliner and mascara on the job. I don't even talk to my coworkers about personal things. Most of them know nothing about me. Why should they? They're not my friends. They don't care. And honestly, I don't want them to. I'm not into work like that.

I think I also feel isolated and like many of the people in my personal life don't see or hear me for who I am. I feel like some kind of fictional character that exists in everyone's perception, but slightly wrong for a different reason each time. And no one seems to care to know more, because it doesn't fit what they've decided. And that frustrates me, particularly because I like to know more about people, and it feels unfair that they'll accept my friendship and the benefits it offers, but not make an effort to extend the same for me. I constantly feel used for my appearance and my social skills, and as flattering as that might sound, I'm so fucking lonely lmao

 I've been so fucking tired all day, and I don't even get a reprieve until next Saturday, because I have to work this weekend again. It's not so bad, don't get me wrong, and I'm not saying I want to go back to 12-hour shifts at the warehouse or anything, but this is my personal blog, and I can say that I'm cranky and exhausted without someone guilting me about it. Yes, I like my job. Yes, I like where I'm at in life. No, I'm not going to magically feel happy all the time, because I'm a human, and I act like one, and I have a wide range of emotions, all of which take their turn in the sun.

It sucks though. I've been way too tired and drained to do any kind of housekeeping when I get home, so the vast majority of my cooking, cleaning, shopping, organizing, laundry, etc. happens on weekends. I have two days of dishes in my sink currently, and I hate that I do, but I simply cannot do them right now. I also have a huge list of chores to do, because I keep putting them off. I enjoy living alone especially because I can keep my house to my standards, but when I fall short, I feel disappointed in myself, and that's not really helpful or reasonable even, because most adults have someone else living with them to pick up the slack, and since E isn't here yet, it's all on me, and it's okay and understandable that I'm not cleaning the kitchen every day or whatever. Every week is fine.

I also need to keep looking at my priorities. I have to remember that I only have 24 hours in the day, and I have to sleep for 8 of them or I'll feel shitty. And given that I'm at work for 10 more (including commute and lunch), and have to take care of responsibilities for another two or so, I really only have about four hours to do what I want and fully enjoy life. Plus weekends. So it's not a lot, and I also need to remember that it does no good to stress about things that have either been taken care of or will be taken care of. If I have it done or set to be done, there's literally no reason to stress about it. I think growing up in the way I did, where it was seen as really bad to have any fun or freedom, that's something I need to let go of, and I don't need anyone's permission to be who I want or to be healthy. I want to be my best self for me, no one else, and no one else gets input as to what that best self is. Sure, I'll listen to people if it's something that affects them, but me, who I am, that's none of their business, and I don't have to accede to any kind of shaming or demands. I am my own advocate, first and foremost, and I'm allowed to be confrontational and assertive and even aggressive, and I'm allowed to remove people from my circles if I want to. And honestly, it's a rough world out there, and yes, I act like everything is a joke, but I'm not naive, and I know what's what, and it's important for me to take care of myself. Other people matter, and I love people above all, but I have to love myself before that.

 I have to work on this knee-jerk assumption that people don’t actually like me whenever I run into the slightest inconvenience. Is it more likely that no one wants to hang out with me and are just accepting all my invitations with excitement for the sake of formality, or that I’ve fallen into the role of organizer, and no one else is as scientific and aggressive about it as I am, so it doesn’t happen unless I make it happen?

I also think I figured out what exactly I’m good at. To expand, I’ve wondered since childhood what my role in the family is, what my specialty is, what exactly I’m good for. It’s on this blog, even. My siblings have their specialties, and I was always the dumb, pretty one. Which is, of course, demoralizing. But I wonder if it took some pressure off, too. I didn’t have as many notions set on me as my siblings did, because I’m not that good at academic pursuits (humanities excluded), and I’m not good at sports or anything physical. And frankly, I’m kind of a pain in the ass when I’m mad. Anything my family tried just made me dig my heels in more, so that by the time I decided to leave the entire fucking country for my gay lover, there was nothing they could do. But I got off-topic. What I’m good for, my specialization, my purpose in the family? Talking to people.

That’s it. I have people skills and a high EQ and a friendly, extroverted personality. And I have a lot of friends. I can always find someone to help me if I have a problem, because they know I’d do the same for them. And for a long time, I didn’t see this as a talent because it was looked on in our family as a flaw. How many times did I hear to stop texting, or to work harder on my grades instead of my social life, or to be serious for once, or to stop fucking talking all the time? How many times was I mocked for being a Barbie?

It got me where I wanted, though. Minus Emily being with my physically, I’m on the road to everything I’ve been working for. A hot fiancée, a gorgeous apartment in my favorite city, an ethical and decent-paying job, a car that’s fun to drive, a large and loving social circle, hobbies that I’m genuinely working on, Spotify Premium, and honestly, a nice appearance. It’s what I want right now, and the wonderful thing is that even though others might think it’s shallow, it’s not, not to me. I know who I am now. And I’m never going to stop growing, and I won’t allow myself to be derailed anymore. I have to continue to heal and grow and work for this dream-turned-reality that I’ve made. 

tw ana

 I’m so fucking haunted by Eugenia Cooney (twitch streamer) because that could literally be me. We have the same eating disorder, the same love for emo and weeb stuff, we’re the same age (I think she’s a year ish older than me), similar shitty family situation, same coping mechanisms, she even looks probably how I would if I were white and half a foot taller with my natural hair color and money to buy the clothes and makeup I want. Probably my small height is why I haven’t fully turned into a skeleton like her, but I could see it happening, and it’s so scary, but also weirdly motivates me to try and eat and get better even if it’s slow and hard to do. We live in the same city (although I guess she moved back with her mom now), and it’s possible we were even inpatient at the same place. I can’t stop thinking about her, and she makes me so sad. She’s so pretty, even now, and she seems sweet, and I really think she could have had a shot at modeling or acting before all of this, but now I think it’s too late. She’s dying, and we’re all watching it happen, and I know what she must be feeling, and I know that if I were in her place, I would die for sure, because I would be unable to give up the spotlight long enough to recover. And I can hope and pray and send all the good vibes into the universe, but she seems just like me, only with no support system outside of millions of screaming internet users, and her mom is way worse than mine, and I really do think she’s doomed. And I can’t stop thinking about her.

It’s terrifying, you know? I’m back in the double digits with my own weight, and sure, that’s less bad because I’m 5’1” and not naturally very curvy, but I don’t think a grown adult should weigh like a child. Or at least, logically I think this. In my emotions, though, it’s so easy to admire my flat figure and bony wrists and put shimmer on my collarbones to make them stand out even more and body-check in every single reflective surface I pass. And I keep fantasizing over how much lower I can “safely” go, and again logically I know the answer is “there is no safe way to go lower” and that I actually should gain some weight to keep my health, but how do I throw this out when it’s all I’ve known for so many years? Management bought lunch for the facility today, and one of the case managers told me, and I pretended to be excited, and then immediately booked it out of the clinic to sit in the hospital courtyard and eat a packet of nuts by myself. Because apparently we’re not even using poverty as an excuse anymore. 

It’s bad. My mental health is so much better now that it doesn’t even compare; I feel like an entirely different person than I was even a few months ago. But this part hasn’t been updated with the rest. And I’m still dying, just more slowly, and in a more glamorous and aesthetically pleasing way (to the outside world, at least). And I feel it now again, I feel the brain fog and the dissociation and the constant fucking exhaustion and the physical pain from not having enough body mass to keep my bones from hurting, and all the irritation and aggression, all the misplaced rage, all the fear and guilt and judgement. Sometimes my chest will hurt or my heart will do a weird thing, and I’ll know exactly what’s happening and why, but there’s a weird and perverse sense of excitement overlaying all of it, and I know full well that the illness is so entrenched that it’s making me romanticize my own destruction. It’s a weird place to be in, knowing what’s going on, and yet not being powerful enough to make myself stop it. If I did, I would. My progress has shown that. I can do almost anything if I decide I want to and buckle down and work for it, but I can’t seem to make myself want this, or at least not enough.

My benefits kick in on August 1, so I’ll definitely be using my shiny new health insurance to find a therapist, but man. This is just so unnecessarily hard, and I can’t seem to make myself take care of myself. 

Eugenia, I’ll do it for you, then. 

One of us has to make it.