Wednesday, September 1, 2010


Last night I read the archive I have saved of the old "Quest for Perfection." It's interesting to see how much I've changed.

My very first entries in December 2008/Jan '09 reveal a 17 year old girl tired of being called fat and thinking anorexia was the coolest thing in the world.

"Have I mentioned how much I crave this dizzy empty feeling in my body? Part of the reason I feel so rotten when I eat is because that light and empty feeling is gone...When I'm starving, I feel like a dancer, just skipping and floating through life. When I turn and look in the mirror at my stomach going flatter and flatter every day that I avoid food, it lifts my heart like nothing else can. The sight of my ribs turning more and more visible protruding from my skin is gorgeous."
-January 5, 2009

I read the slow destruction of myself as if it were someone else entirely. My heart sank as I read the posts about my initial bouts of bulimia.

"My eyes were watering and my throat burning, then happened. It was so fast and easy I almost couldn't believe it. But soon the cookie mix was out and then some of the cereal I had binged on that morning. I wiped my mouth and stood up, breathing hard. It had been so different than what I expected. Easy, simple...relieving in fact. But it proved something. This isn't a game anymore...this isn't a fun little diet. I am sick-minded enough to violently force my body to expell its contents."
-Saturday, January 31, 2009

And the time when I reached my lowest weight, 133, and lied about recovery in order to cut off all help from my concerned friends and family in order to keep my disorder.

"Maybe this is suicide...cutting off all anti-anorexia "support" in my life. But I don't care. Thin is too important to me. If they are all stupid enough to believe me when I SUDDENLY want to get better...then it's their fault when I end up in a hospital bed. WHEN. I DO intend to be hospitalized by this someday. It's my ultimate goal. To be sick enough to need it."
-April 28, 2009

Well, I've grown up a lot since then. I know better now. I no longer enjoy my vision flickering and my head reeling with weakness. I don't find it strangely addictive to hurt those around me while I self-destruct. I no longer want to be hospitalized as a bag of bones.

Of course I want to be skinnier, I don't think that desire will ever go away. But I don't feel I belong in the world of Pro Ana blogging anymore. I'm just not into it. I'm trying to take some "me time" and make positive choices in my life right now. I recently made a decision to stay away from drugs, alcohol, and sex while I get myself under control. A few of my friends laughed out loud at me for those decisions, but I don't care. If this decision is good for me, then I have no shame in standing by it.

Hang in there, Anas. You CAN be happy.

All my love, signing off.


Friday, August 27, 2010

Where from here?

Counting down to my mental detonation. Everything got really fucked.

I broke up with Johnny two days after my last post. I feel like my own apprehension ruined it before anything else could. I was just so scared of watching another relationship fall apart, I wasn't even willing to put the effort into building it up. I watched the confusion and heartbreak on his face as I tried to explain (make excuses) that I couldn't do it. That he was a great guy (and I'm an out of control fuck-up) and I'm not trying to hurt him (just myself) and that I'm really sorry (but deep down I'm not sorry) and yeah...then he rolled a joint and we lit up. I went home after a day of successfully not eating and binged, hating myself. I passed out on the couch watching TV, only to wake up at 4:00 am feeling like I had a rock in my stomach. I burst into tears and popped laxatives, trying to get rid of my shame. I spent nearly all of the next day lying in bed between trips to the bathroom.

Yesterday I managed to not eat until 7:00 pm when I caved and went to Taco Bell with friends from the college. Why the fuck do I pick junk food? I don't know, but it's a bitch. Every time. Today I had some fruit when I got home.

Goals are in order. I need numbers and stats to keep me on track. So, back to the old routine! I'm reposting my stats because I went to the doctor and found out that I am taller than I was 2 years ago when I started the blog. Happy face :)

Age: 19
Height: 5'9"
CW: 145 lbs | BMI 21.4

Sept 1: 140 lbs | BMI 20.7
Sept 10: 138 lbs | BMI 20.4
Sept 20: 130 lbs | BMI 19.2
Oct 1: 125 lbs | BMI 18.5
Oct 10: 120 lbs | BMI 17.7 (UGW for now!)

Right now I feel like Ana is the only thing I have to live for. The only thing that I can keep track of, the only thing I can control. How many times have I said that before? I know I must sound like a broken record, but we're all broken in some way, my lovely Anas.

We'll survive it.



Sunday, August 22, 2010


I am waiting for a text.

This text will say something along the lines of "you still awake love?"

It will be a text from my new boyfriend, asking me to meet him.

It's 2:00 AM.

I am scared.

It's hard to describe the longing I feel right now, deep in the pit of my stomach. Maybe that's just a gnawing ache from the emptiness of acid trying to regenerate in there after throwing up an hour ago. Maybe it's a nicotine overdose from the rack of cigarettes I just inhaled to try and calm myself down. Perhaps it's a longing to allow myself to be happy. Or all three.

The new boy is Johnny, a sweet skater-type boy who recently moved to my parents' neighborhood. I met him on the bus a little while ago after running away from another guy who was trying to hook up with me. Johnny is a darling soul, very innocent and naive. He thinks I'm the cutest thing on earth. When I'm with him, I forget about everything. All I can think about is his lips on my forehead, his hand on my stomach, his breath in my ear as we whisper to each other under the stars.

It sounds perfect right?




Then why am I so scared.

I feel like the world is on my shoulders and I can't shake it off. I feel like I wrapped myself in duct tape and wrote all over it in sharpie: "untouchable, unlovable, unreachable...NOT allowed to be happy, NEVER."

And yet I'm the only one who pays any attention to these labels. If Johnny doesn't see them, they don't have to exist. If I wasn't such a fuck up then I could maybe believe him when he tells me he loves everything about me, that I'm perfect. Why is there a tiny voice inside my head, growing louder every day that tells me..."Johnny wants you to be skinnier, like him."

It's getting fucking LOUD.

I can't even sit beside him without straightening my back and sucking in, hiding the ugliness that is my shape, my fat, my imperfection. I can't even fathom the idea of sex at the moment, as much as I want it...I really don't. It's not like I haven't done it before...I often think of myself as quite the experienced whore. It's like my human and feminine desires rise up and take control, and then as soon as it's over, I want to hide. I can't get my clothes on fast enough, I can't get away from the guy soon enough.

I want so badly for it to be different with Johnny. But I don't know how.

There's always the easy solution, just fucking get SKINNY already and this won't be a problem. God, you ridiculous sack of shit. If your weight is the problem (which it OBVIOUSLY is) then DO something about it, you useless slut. Nobody wants to fuck a fat girl. It's funny that you wonder where all your relationships go wrong. It's YOU, Kat, it's YOU. Once they see you naked, it's only a matter of time before they turn tail and run. You're such a worthless waste of space. And you will never...

EVER... happy until you are thin.


Thanks for the pep-talk Ana.



Friday, August 20, 2010


Life goes on, and on, and on. So many things have shifted, faded, disappeared, and resurfaced. I'm sorry for the long absence. I got so caught up in living that everything else that I loved was pushed to the side.

I know that my family has probably subscribed to this blog, and it will be the whisper on everyone's lips behind my back - "Kat is posting on that blog again."

Do I care? No.

I'm sure Kate saw this coming...when she came to my dismal apartment last month and found me in a ragged, sobbish, incoherent heap on the floor, she explained (on the way home to mom & dad's) that because of my state of living (which has been pretty shitty for the last 2 months), it was causing a mental breakdown and I was "unable to really have an eating disorder."

Now that I'm healthy, washed, sobered up and safe, she's just waiting for Ana's return.

How nice it is when people think they know everything, and they know nothing at all.

Here's the story.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I left off in May right after finding myself broke, homeless, and in a failing relationship. I spent a few weeks in that state, and then slowly began to fix myself. I found to my surprise that the new restaurant job paid very decently. I never walked out of a shift with less than $60 in my pocket. On a good night I could make $200 in 12 hours. I blew a lot of that money at first, but eventually landed at another apartment, which (surprisingly) my parents helped me pay for. Before that, however, I finally got up the courage to break up with Damian, who was becoming increasingly distant and moody, treating me like shit for the hell of it.

I moved on quickly, dating another guy Kent for a few weeks and having him live with me. Eventually his personal issues seeped into the relationship and it exploded. I kicked him out and said "fuck you." He came back, spent almost every night at the apartment anyway, and in return gave me rides to work in his ghetto '94 SUV. We continued to fight, and I started to feel stressed again. I started smoking up more often, mixing with ADHD medication for a mellowed out, super-focused wakefulness. Coming down from this mix was a bitch however. When combined with alcohol the morning after, my mind went to shit. Kent and I got into a fight on of these mornings and I smashed almost everything in my room, knocking things off of surfaces and screaming into my pillow at the top of my lungs. He sat outside the room on his laptop. I made sure to wear short sleeves so he could see just what I did with the pieces of my mirror.

Then Kent went to jail, and I started to lose it. I heard his voice everywhere. At work, in the shower, in my room, on the street. Every man I didn't recognize looked like him in some way. Every conversation included him calling me outside for a cigarette, or calling me a dork. I started to have panic attacks at work. If a cook yelled at me or a table was particularly bitchy, I would be in the bathroom with my head between my knees as I hyperventilated through choked sobs. I measured my pulse at 160.

When I wasn't hyperventilating in the bathroom, I was throwing up in there. Almost as soon as I settled into the new apartment, I was puking every chance I got. If I ate a piece of chicken at work, or a sandwich with the guys, or a few french fries, or anything. My only defense against the weed munchies was throwing up afterwards, or taking appetite suppressants. Most days I felt like my stomach was dissolving in acid, diet pills, advil, and speed.

One night after sitting in my room muttering to myself for 6 hours, stoned silly and hyped on vivance, I went outside for a cigarette and tried my best to calm down and chill out. I hadn't slept in 4 days and I felt like I was dying. I had a beer and got in the shower. The water running over my face and scarred limbs started to calm me, when Kent's voice echoed from the main room. I heard him talking to my roomamte, Roger, about jail and saying they had let him out early, that the food sucked...

They also let my phone die, isn't that some shit?
Where's Kat, I haven't smoked in God knows how long.
Roger, you're a Dumbass.

I turned the faucet off and put on my towel, staring at my hollow eyes in the mirror. It felt like a scene from a horror movie. Slowly, I opened the door and peered out.

"Roger? is Kent here?"

I stepped into the main room. Roger was alone - watching a movie about gang violence in San Fransisco. He looked at me, confused.

"Kent's in jail, Kat, you know that."

I stepped back, feeling my heart begin to race again.

"hey, are you okay...?"

I shook my head and ran to my room, slamming the door behind me. I collapsed against the wall, crying. I called Brett, asking him what the fuck to do. I was losing my mind, I was bat-shit crazy. I was going to get fired from my job. I can't go on like this Brett I'm going to die oh my god Oh My God OH MY GOD I'M LOSING IT.

He told me to call Kate.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

And that's how I got back home, in a well-lit, drug free, healthy environment. It's so strange, I can't decide whether I hate or like it. I also can't decide where I'm sickest, as far as my ED goes. At home I'm slowly slipping into a diet of cigarettes, coffee, and the occaisonal bite of dinner on my way out the door. It's so easy, so quiet, so not-obvious. But I lost ten pounds and I'm starting to wonder if this is just another chapter in the never-ending Love & War novel of Ana and Kat.

I gave up on telling boyfriends about my eating disorder after what happened with Paul. I will never forgive myself for the shit I put that boy through. Besides, what does it matter? This is my life, my fight, my downfall. I don't need anybody getting in the way.

I'm on the beginning steps of a very cutesy high school-type relationship with a boy in my parent's neighborhood. We'll see how this goes.

Thanks for your patience Anas, I've missed you all.



Calories: 230 so far today

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Too Much

Sometimes it justs hurt to much to talk about. And when it gets this bad, I write.

I've put up walls around myself to hide the cracks in my heart and muffle the tearing sobs in the dark. I smile and like to act like I could put up a good fight if I needed to. I act like I can take on the world and win. I hold my head up high while I collapse against a wall. It's ridiculous. I have nothing to be proud of. Yet somehow I act like I'm something special, like I'm somebody in this world when I know it's a load of bullshit.

I don't have anywhere to go. I ran out of money after losing my last job, and therefore got kicked out of my house because I couldn't afford June rent. I got in touch with my parents, asking about maybe moving back in. They took me out to dinner and explained how things would go. I would have to pay rent to them as well, and have a curfew of 11:00pm. Problem is, I work from 11:00pm-4:00am at my new job. I offered other forms of good behavior in exchange, but they dodged those. Eventually my parents said I'm too difficult to have home...I'm a bad influence on my younger presence makes it nearly impossible for them to have a peaceful and well-polished household. I'm not quoting them directly, but I am not exaggerating. My mom went on to say that "I mean, you can come home if it comes down to you sleeping on a park bench or something..." and I shut it out. I'm not sleeping on a park bench, I'm sleeping in Brett's car and showering at the community college. I carry a backpack of essentials and keep the extra stuff in a locker at the school. Sometimes I sleep in other friends' cars or at their houses. It's really not bad, but the label is still in the back of my mind: "homeless."

I haven't gotten any money from my new job yet, so I'm also broke and homeless. I can't buy cigarettes or food. The food thing is handy, except it's a weird feeling. It used to be a choice, "don't eat." Now it's a fact. "Can't eat." The lack of cigarettes is killer though. I'm running out of stress-relievers.

I called Paul last night. Being homeless makes you miss people of the past. In fact, I really, really, wanted to see him. He didn't pick up right away, but texted me back a few hours later asking what I needed. I called him again and told him I just wanted to talk, and hang out like we used to. He eventually told me in the same awkward tone that he couldn't have me around...I was too much of a bad influence on him and an upset to his life. I was shocked. You all remember Paul, the love of my life, the best friend of my life. In some ways, he was my life. And he closed the door on me like my parents did. He heard about my situation and said, "I'm sure they would take you back now."

I explained that if someone makes it clear they don't want me around, then I'm not going to try and gain their pity so they take me back. All part of me having pride for no reason. I'm a fat useless bump on society's log and I still try to pretend I'm not.

Eventually I told Paul I had to go. I lied. I wasn't doing anything, I was at a playground in the dark with a couple of my friends talking by their car on the next street over. I hung up the phone, hung my head, and cried harder than I have in a long time. Visions of the past kept flying through my head. You, my dear anas have been there through everything. You have seen me through Joe, Paul, and now Damian. All of which I have loved dearly. Joe is completely gone...I never see him or hear from him. He could have moved out of the country and I never would have heard about it. Paul is fading away, the last memories and connections he has with me being rubbed out like traces of ink on a paper.

Why does everyone try their best to forget me?

Last night I wanted to scream at someone, anyone. I wanted to demand answers to the questions flying through my head. SOMEONE, ANYONE, TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? I wanted to grab the nearest person and shake them, begging them to tell me WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH ME?

Nikki from Letters From Ana is doing a 4-day fast with me, and I am throwing my everything into this. I'm planning on flushing out at some point, and using any and every pill to increase energy and fat-burning. I will escape this hell.

Stay strong,



Tuesday, May 25, 2010


Brett is awesome. I haven't given him nearly enough face time on this blog, but I need to make this clear, and make him known.

6'2" and something pounds of fantastic, he is the insufferable arrogant bastard who you can't get enough of. He is the most cheerful and sweet guy who is insulting you continuously in his head. "Oh you're taking art classes here?" That's great, well you're a fat bitch who won't get anywhere in life so enjoy those fucking art classes. You won't be able to afford them for much longer. Nobody likes fat people. Hehe.

That's one of the great parts about Brett. He insistently declares that fat people aren't real people. Like, really fat, obese, "three double cheeseburger" people who have no excuse for their fatness. "It's a glandular problem!" No, the 8-layer burrito in front of you and your total lack of self-control are the problems. Don't give me that bullshit. Control your damn insticts. That's what makes you a worthwhile human being.

And he's my best friend. :)

Some of the best days of my life find me chilling with Brett in his car, a beat-up blue Ford we deemed The Hooptie. We roll the windows down and smoke cigarettes, complaining about how fat we are while laughing at life in general. We both worship the goddess Casey, and he and Damian are like brothers. All together we make a fun group.

We often like to describe Brett as a god. We even took a picture of Brett and Damian sitting together on a bench, sharing a smoke, Damian sporting black from head to toe plus his usual trenchcoat and steel-toed boots. In direct contrast, Brett is chilling in a white Express shirt and pants, white leather loafers, and Armani sunglasses. He quite literally glowed. So altogether we have the goddess, the god, the devil, and what am I exactly? Some sort of fallen angel I guess. I like to be a good person, and yet we all know I have an evil mind. ;)

By the way, Brett's homeless. Lives in his car. (What? I KNOW!)

I have such an epic life. I love these people!

He's also incredibly funny. I've had abdominal pains that last for days from the shit that comes out of his mouth. "So this one time, I'd almost just crashed the yacht..." WHAT? And even better, that's not even the story. It's the opening line, and remains barely connected to the story itself.

We're also a very trippy pair on the occasional usage of drugs. Ever done acid? That's one thing. I'm sure you had fun. Ever done acid with Brett? Probably not. I have. It's 10 times BETTER. "Brett, Brett, where are we? Tell me?" I cling to his sweatsoaked button-down shirt while we stand on a balcony in 40 degree weather after a rave, not cold in the least. Brett looks down, calmly, holding me gently. "Everywhere."

I ruin the moment. "NO! No seriously, like, where are we??"

He pauses, slightly confused. "...anywhere...?"

"NO! Where ARE we Brett?!"

His voice deepens. "We're on a boat."

I died laughing.

He's also really deep. I'm trying to get him to start a blog, and if I do, I command all of you to read it. He's one of the best poets and philosophical thinkers I know. I can be dead tired, chilling in his passenger's seat at 4am, and then he starts to quote some of the things he's written. I can't tear my mind away. I can't stop listening. When I listen to him talk that way, I feel like I can do anything. If he told me to try flying by jumping off a building (not that he would...I mean unless I REALLY pissed him off...or if there was a pool below us...) I would probably do it.

He's also the best friend I've ever had. Sure, I annoy the hell out of him sometimes. I am slightly ditzy at times. But in the end if I'm crying over another fight with Damian or whatever, he rubs my back and softly tells me all the right things to make me feel better. Not empty things like "it'll all be okay," but useful things. He offers real solutions. And the backrub helps too. ;)

We make a good needy pair. He can come to me and say, "I'm lonely. Pet my hair." Which he does on occasion. I have no problem doing it. And he pets mine in return. He's actually doing it right now as I write this. Ahhh....

That feels nice.

Anyways, so that's the introduction to Brett. You'll hear much more about him from now on. Brett quotes are my favorite. And hopefully you'll be hearing from him, in his own blog if he decides to start one. Either way, you now have enough backstory to understand why Brett says the things he does. Like, "why would someone say that?" Because it's Brett. Hehe.



P.s. Today's calorie count: 290

Monday, May 24, 2010

Love you, hate you

Sometimes feelings just well up inside me to such a degree that I feel like I'm going to explode. They can be good, bad, or intensely neutral. I just watched two of my closest friends, Brett and Casey, leave for a date. Casey came bouncing in less than half an hour ago to the school lounge where Brett and I were hanging out. She wore a strapless tanktop with black ruffles and cute old-style jeans shorts. Cowgirl boots and dark red hair. She flew in with a ray of sunshine and looked so completely gorgeous I was quite literally taken aback.

I don't know how I manage to love her so much, because inside ana screams with jealousy every time I see her. We go to raves in the city occaisonally, donning short skirts and glowsticks to dance the night away. She always dances beside me, and she is always the center of attention. Casey is honestly better than me in almost every way imaginable. She is a constant presence of cheerfulness and lovable. She can dance like no other girl I know, she can throw glowsticks like nobody's business. She works 2 jobs and makes shit tons of money, some of which I have borrowed to pay my own fucking bills. She offered sweetly and I am still working on paying her back. She is a petite 5'4" and 102 pounds of creamy white skin and nice ass. We all say that nobody's perfect...but she's damn near as close as it gets. Why she chose to be my friend, I never understood. But I love her, and I feel terrible for the way I hate her sometimes.

I was made acutely aware of the deficit in beauty and success when she ran in, looking the way she did, while I sat on my ass with my laptop, watching some abstract anime Brett had recommended to me...wearing old ripped sandals, size 10 capri pants, and a T-shirt I got in florida I wore solely to hide my ridiculous stomach flab. She was a glorious goddess and I was a fucking piece of gum on the bottom of her size 7 shoe. Even her feet are small.

I haven't eaten today. I've had a coke zero and an aquafina flavored water. An icee from Burger King. But how long will I continue this way? The willpower I worked so hard to build has dwindled to near nothingness. But maybe seeing Casey this way will remind me from now on how inferior I am, and how being skinny is the only goal that I can hope to achieve that will put me anywhere near her level.

She even has a better relationship. Brett cares for her so well, paying close attention to her needs and working things out with her when necessary. They fight occaisonally, rarely. But most of the time I hear only good things about the relationship...from both of them. Damian is the love of my life, and I love the time I get to spend with him. But there's always the question in the back of my mind of how much I really mean to him.

I don't know what else to do. Something needs to change. I need something to hold onto in this world that I can be confident in. Like, "there goes Kat. She may not be able to succeed at home, at work, in her relationship, with her family...she has no money and no real worth to society, but at least she's thin."


I'll get there.



Tuesday, May 18, 2010


I apologize for the long absence. A lot of things have happened since I last posted...I hardly know where to start. First of all, things have gone downhill in a general sense. I lost my job this week due to an extended period of illness which caused me to sleep like a brick...through several work shifts. Waking up at 6:00pm when you are supposed to work at 5 is a bitch. So now I have no money, and potentially no house since I won't be able to pay bills unless I turn another job around very quickly. I have the rest of the month to figure things out. There aren't many available jobs in my area, so I may have to move to my parents new house in the next town over. It's further away from most of my friends than I would like, but it's actually closer to Damian (who is now back at his parents house again...long story) and my close friend Christine. Yet the thought of living with my parents again is both humiliating and comforting at the same time. No, not comforting. Familiar. After was under my parents rule I first began this blog and all the thoughts associated with it.

The strongest thought on my mind right now is Damian. I wasn't kidding when I said that boy would be the death of me while I can't live without him. I feel like I spend a ridiculous amount of time seeking him out to spend time with him, and being utterly miserable while he ignores me. Sometimes, rarely, I can get him alone and he kisses me gently and says he loves me too. Then, all too quickly, he's gone again. The beautiful beginning is like a quickly fading dream, and I don't know how to retrieve it.

There's always the skinnier.

Thursday, April 29, 2010


It didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would...people know I'm back. Some are unwanted, such as Kate and Judah. I expected they would be watching for me, but I really don't care anymore at this point. I would much prefer if they chose to keep my resurfacing to themselves and not involve the entire family this time...but it's up to them. I can't not post at this point.

I ate today. It was supposed to be a reward for myself after eating next to nothing for the past 4 days and finding a mostly flattened stomach this morning. But eating never really works as a reward does it? Seeing my magically unflattened stomach now that the day is feels more like a punishment.

Reading through the comments on my previous entry has been interesting. A very extensive string of welcome with little bits of bashing and unwanted family interest sprinkled in between. I could address some of the bashing, but I would rather not waste the space in this entry. If they find it satisfying to continuously insult my personal choices and actions, then by all means. I'm happy to help however I can.

I was talking to a friend the other day about my writing. I told him that many of the stories I tell about my life are hard to hear. Deep, intense, depressing. While that is sometimes the case (especially with my last post), I don't see it that way. I see an interestng story that I have the ability to word in such a way that it strikes people. It makes them think. Or cry. Or find similarities to their own lives. No matter what reaction, I don't want to struggle in vain. I want my life to be useful in some way. Even if it's only good on paper.

To clarify, I'm not miserable. I constantly have to remind myself to breathe, to stand up every day, to find the sun, to live...but my life isn't without purpose or joy. I find joy in little things these days. In late nights over coffee and card games with friends, in a tip over 20% left on the table for me, in Damian's sleepy eyes and mumbles when I attempt to wake him up in the morning, in sharing the last cigarette with a friend because you are both broke and need nicotine.

I'm content.

In some ways, I'm even content with how I look. I'm not nearly as desperate as I was before. Damian swears up and down that I should never shed an ounce. Funny coming from him, considering he is 6'1" and 128 pounds. But yes, in some ways, I could continue as I am.

And just as I write that, I hear a faint whisper. A challenge. Ana stirs in my memory, a compelling and inviting picture of what I could be. What I have been. Just over a year ago I was at my lowest weight. The picture in my mind of that time is very strong. The size 4 jeans, the shrunken waist, protruding hips and ribcage. And I want it all over again.

Tomorrow I will be testing my limits. How low can you go? How long can you say no? Will it be diet coke or regular? On goes the list of small decisions that direct my path closer and closer to thin. It's an ongoing battle. Tomorrow I fight.

It's funny how the concerns of my day melt away when I write here. Just an hour ago I was nearly driven mad with the flurry of thoughts and feelings in my head after a discussion with Damian. A crashing wave of insecurity mixed with tortured love and unconditional loyalty. The only way to describe the overall feeling was that I was screaming inside. On fire.

One cigarette, 20 minutes of TV, half a poptart, and a blog post later, I feel ok.

And life goes on.

Stay strong everyone, I've missed you so.


Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Wearied and lonely, I return to the world that once provided me with such strong satisfaction in my destruction. Hello all. I missed my readers dearly. I know it will take some time to get the word out that I'm back, but I'm just happy to be posting again. So much has changed.

Shortly after I gave up the original "Quest for Perfection," my life shifted drastically. I refuse to decide whether or not losing my precious blog was the cause. However I will say one thing. Losing the blog was one thing, I could barely handle it. It hurt, it tugged at my heart and soul unceasingly for many sleepless nights. I worried about what would happen to my readers, what would become of me now that my voice had been stripped of me. It was enough torture simply having my life taken away from me. But to watch my sister, my gorgeous, loving, selfish, and broken sister step directly into my place and start talking about me...saying whatever she wanted simply because she could...and because she automatically had readers...

I broke.

I felt like someone had put duct tape on my soul, I had been completely shut up. I tried to find solace in starting a new blog as someone else, completely different from myself. Writing stories that pertained very loosely to my true life. The further I went on however, the more I felt like I was writing a fiction and not actually being heard. I lost interest quickly.

The new year started with a bang. Stumbling around in my room alone at 4am with a stolen pint of vodka the night after a new year's eve party, my mother heard me crash into a window. She found me in the hallway, mid-attempt find the bathroom, clutching my robe around me with one hand, eyes bloodshot and voice heavily slurred. I panicked and ran away from home an hour later. Wound up at a male friend's house 45 minutes drive away. Lee (oldest sister), called and reminded me that we were supposed to hang out that day. She insisted we didn't have to talk about what happened. "Just tell me where you are."

And I did.

Before I knew it I was at her house and nobody would drive me anywhere. Her house is in the middle of nowhere, so there is nowhere to physically run to. I was trapped and soon horrified to find myself in the middle of an intervention. Kate, Judah, my parents, my brother, and Lee's husband all showed up and read the traditional intervention letters to me. Tears found their way out of my lying eyes. The tears meant nothing, as did the letters. The only thing that touched me was when my little brother looked me in the eyes and begged, "don't leave me alone..."

I finished the sentence for him in my head. "...with this insane and fucked up family."

And then things began to move fast.

Paul and I fell apart very quickly. Our relationship had already taken a hard hit with the drama that occured with his mother separating us in early December. The insanity on my part that immediately followed the "end" of my career in pro-ana blogging ruined what was left of us and I left him. I was soon in an empty relationship with a co-worker 9 years older than me for a few weeks and in the process lost my virginity to him. Moved out of my parents house a few weeks later. Was cheated on and dumped the day before Valentine's Day. Got high as fuck on V-day with 3 other single friends from school. We drove around aimlessly and rambled about nothing. I bought hair dye and bleach. Went strawberry-blonde and began hanging around the community college again, though I had dropped all classes before the semester even started. I searched desperately for every party and every chance to get fucked up for weeks on end.

I quit my job one morning when I showed up an hour after my early shift was supposed to start. I had been at a rave in another city the night before. Sleepless and fucked out of my mind on five different drugs, I walked smeared and hair a mess from sweaty dancing and walking in the city-smog rain, my slutty raver clothes stained and wet but very much still on my body (instead of my work uniform). I calmly asked for my paycheck. It was a Friday morning. The manager gaped at me and my unbelievable audacity. After gaining control of herself and the desire I'm sure she had to slap me, she said the paychecks wouldn't be ready until 10:00. It was 7:30 am. She asked if I was planning on working like I was supposed to. I shrugged and walked out the door. Picked up my paycheck later that night, ignoring the burning glares the other employees were giving me. I was supposed to become assistant manager.

On went the dizzying fast-forward motion of my life. I scored a new job as a waitress at a pub near my house. Night shifts, of course. The new habit I was developing of getting hammered drunk until 3am or staying out until sunrise did not encourage another morning shift like my last job had required of me.

I stopped visiting my family. Completely shut Kate and her two-faced husband Judah out of my life. Began ignoring my parents' efforts to connect with me. They had an unlimited number of chances to get close to me while I lived under their roof...and it's not my fault they failed miserably. I have no desire to speak to the two people who emotionally gagged and bound me and drove their daughter into a silent psycopathic state, bent on her own destruction. I will not acknowledge the smiling fakes who sat back and did nothing while I created my personal hell of blood and vomit and attempted suicides and starvation.

I have bought a week's worth of groceries about 3 times in total since I moved into my new home. I have been living here for nearly three months.

I started hanging around a completely different crowd. Out of the names I've mentioned in the original blog, Paul is the only one who I hold any sort of contact with. I call him. Rarely, and increasingly so. Faces of so-called "loved ones" and "best friends" have all run together and slid into the dark pool of the past.

Note: All these events occured within less than 3 months.




Pause. things took an interesting turn in mid-march. I ran into a boy at school who I had known before, but hadn't really noticed until this point. He was an interesting person, yes. But what caught my attention was that he was suddenly everywhere. More and more often I would slide into the backseat of a friend's car and find him next to me or in the passenger's seat, ready for the night's activities. The more I talked to him the more he intrigued me. You could tell he was a man with many secrets and a very short or nonexistant childhood. He was hard yet easy to get along with at the same time. His eyes full of laughter and darkness. His stories of people and things in his past so incredible or bizarre you almost can't believe them. And yet, you somehow don't care whether they are true or not. You look at him and mentally say "fuck it, even if the story isn't's a damn good story."

Damian. I was drawn in very quickly.

Eventually I got a chance to get him alone. We sat at a playground on a chilly Sunday night, and I let all the questions I wanted to ask him come pouring out. It was a no-holds-barred attack on the defensive walls I knew he had put up at some point in his life. I slowly cracked and pushed and pressed and coaxed my way into his mind and learned his deepest thoughts and secrets. Five hours later, when he realized what I had done, he told me, surprised, that nobody had ever shown that much interest. I got the idea that I had, in a sense "gone where no one dared to go before." Then he cocked his head slightly, studied me for a moment, and reached his hand up to touch my cheek.

"You're amazing. I could spend eternity with you."

And he kissed me.

Since that time, Damian has turned my world upside down. His existence is directly linked to mine. His physical presence is like a drug. A love like none other... unbound, passionate, full of conflict and raw emotion. Two naturally guarded and cold people, suddenly open and vulnerable to each other. Constantly measuring, constantly tearing down walls and rebuilding them. Ever wounding, ever healing. He will be the death of me, and I can't live without him.

In upcoming posts, I will go into more detail about Damian and how he affects my feelings about my body. It's more contradictions and ever-wounding, ever-healing stuff. Trust me though, there is plenty to write about. And now that I have satisfied my need to be dramatic and release all the thoughts that have been building and incessantly rearranging themselves into the perfect order for this one blog post, I can return to my original purpose.


Ah yes, the beautiful and terrible path on which ana leads us, full of cracked mirrors and scales, pain and satisfaction, emptiness and gain. The call is strong, her frail hand beckons.

Here we go's good to be back.

Stay strong, xoxo