I'm consolidating this journal and my old non-writing journal into one--
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ribcage_diagram.
Add if you so desire. :)
-Emily (also known as Julie)
ribcage_diagram.Add if you so desire. :)
-Emily (also known as Julie)
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Emily
21 June 2008 @ 04:58 pm
Sometimes I wake up early even though I don't really have to and I watch the world when it is gray.
It reminds me of the things that are, that have been, and the things for which I am still waiting.
Still, still waiting.
It reminds me of the things that are, that have been, and the things for which I am still waiting.
Still, still waiting.
24 January 2008 @ 05:28 pm
Funny how it's never enough. Even below 40 kgs, you still think you could break steel.
And when you go back up to 49 or 50, you don't feel so bad anymore. You're almost okay.
Irony is painful and beautiful.
And when you go back up to 49 or 50, you don't feel so bad anymore. You're almost okay.
Irony is painful and beautiful.
15 January 2008 @ 12:49 am
The worst betrayals come in twos, usually in quick succession, one after the other. And the second always hurts the worst. This, if nothing else, is a fact.
She pulls her car off the side of the road and turns it off, leaving the key in the ignition as she climbs out of the driver’s side door and into the cold. The only light comes from the yellow glow of a streetlamp overhead, and the ground is wet as she lies down, fingers clenching in the sparse grass, dirt gathering under her nails.
She loses track of time, lying that way. She has a quartz crystal in one hand, broken so that the edge is sharp. She does not cut, but simply squeezes the rock against her palm until she bleeds. She feels like she can see the world turning, lying there, gazing upward into nothing.
Her chest aches horribly and even flat on her back, her head is spinning. She tries to remember what she has eaten that day. An egg white. Three spoons of cereal. Coffee. She lied when she said that she was better. She is not better at all.
The only difference is that now she does not even want to get better. Now she just wants to waste into nothingness, disappear in the here and now if she could, let her features sink back into anonymity and pray that some unknown medical condition will make its presence known and kill her.
She goes to three grocery stores and four convenience stores before she finally finds the pills she needs, in the amount that she needs.
Love and hate, she decides, are the same after all
She pulls her car off the side of the road and turns it off, leaving the key in the ignition as she climbs out of the driver’s side door and into the cold. The only light comes from the yellow glow of a streetlamp overhead, and the ground is wet as she lies down, fingers clenching in the sparse grass, dirt gathering under her nails.
She loses track of time, lying that way. She has a quartz crystal in one hand, broken so that the edge is sharp. She does not cut, but simply squeezes the rock against her palm until she bleeds. She feels like she can see the world turning, lying there, gazing upward into nothing.
Her chest aches horribly and even flat on her back, her head is spinning. She tries to remember what she has eaten that day. An egg white. Three spoons of cereal. Coffee. She lied when she said that she was better. She is not better at all.
The only difference is that now she does not even want to get better. Now she just wants to waste into nothingness, disappear in the here and now if she could, let her features sink back into anonymity and pray that some unknown medical condition will make its presence known and kill her.
She goes to three grocery stores and four convenience stores before she finally finds the pills she needs, in the amount that she needs.
Love and hate, she decides, are the same after all
18 September 2007 @ 04:23 pm
I almost died today. I'm starting to wonder if I actually did, and I'm only pretending to breathe.
11 September 2007 @ 01:52 pm
Whether I eat for you or I starve for you, you will always be this cold.
I wonder if you're better yet, or if I'm the only one who is even trying.
I wonder if you're better yet, or if I'm the only one who is even trying.
10 September 2007 @ 03:45 pm
If a girl screams in an empty room and nobody hears her, then did she really ever hurt at all?
07 September 2007 @ 01:40 am
I remember when I went to see her and we crossed the distance in seconds, whispering, I love you, I missed you, I love you....
Her poetry was like candlelight and I pretended that it was written for me. Everything was cold in those days but in our stomachs and in our minds it was warm. Now things are the opposite. Summer's heat does not thaw the cold between my ribs. Nothing can warm that loss.
She had eyes like starlight and a soul like an open doorway. I was too afraid to enter.
Now I grieve as if she were dead.
Her poetry was like candlelight and I pretended that it was written for me. Everything was cold in those days but in our stomachs and in our minds it was warm. Now things are the opposite. Summer's heat does not thaw the cold between my ribs. Nothing can warm that loss.
She had eyes like starlight and a soul like an open doorway. I was too afraid to enter.
Now I grieve as if she were dead.
03 September 2007 @ 02:05 pm
You have to look closely, or you will miss them. The ruins of the old forestry department have almost faded into the scenery now, old stones gone grey, ivy spreading its fingers over the landscape.
He had picked a bouquet of yellow flowers for me and we balanced them delicately in the fork of the tree that grew from the center of what was once a circular room. Then he climbed up the crumbling old wall, fifteen feet, and reached out his hand to help me up. I ignored it and pulled myself to the brink on my own.
He had picked a bouquet of yellow flowers for me and we balanced them delicately in the fork of the tree that grew from the center of what was once a circular room. Then he climbed up the crumbling old wall, fifteen feet, and reached out his hand to help me up. I ignored it and pulled myself to the brink on my own.
02 September 2007 @ 07:40 pm
I drank two cups of coffee just sitting there, talking at a rapid-fire pace to a boy I know, pupils dilated beyond the usual extent of the average person. My mind is pressed and clouded slightly, and I already feel jumpy. I have no tolerance for caffeine. I drink six cups of coffee a day, and still it makes my limbs twitch and my mind jump from subject to subject so quickly that the person to whom I am speaking has no comprehension of from whence my latest thought arose.
The man a few tables away is looking at me, glancing up at intervals over the ridge of his laptop. His expression is one of acute interest, eyebrows drawn together, lips parted just slightly. He will look, then duck his head down to type away at the computer, mouth pressed into a thin line, shoulders tensed up from too much coffee. He, like myself, is soon to be on his third mug.
I walk to refill my cup and on the way back I catch a glimpse of what he is working on. Page after page in small font, names, places, metaphors. He is, like me, writing a novel.
I wonder if I will become a passing character in his tale. Or, perhaps, if I remind him of someone that he knows only in his thoughts.
He keeps looking up, and even after he leaves, I see him walk past twice more, turning his gaze to where I sit on the pedestal just before the window, hands cupped around the mug. By this point, I am no longer drinking the brew. I merely like the heat.
The man a few tables away is looking at me, glancing up at intervals over the ridge of his laptop. His expression is one of acute interest, eyebrows drawn together, lips parted just slightly. He will look, then duck his head down to type away at the computer, mouth pressed into a thin line, shoulders tensed up from too much coffee. He, like myself, is soon to be on his third mug.
I walk to refill my cup and on the way back I catch a glimpse of what he is working on. Page after page in small font, names, places, metaphors. He is, like me, writing a novel.
I wonder if I will become a passing character in his tale. Or, perhaps, if I remind him of someone that he knows only in his thoughts.
He keeps looking up, and even after he leaves, I see him walk past twice more, turning his gaze to where I sit on the pedestal just before the window, hands cupped around the mug. By this point, I am no longer drinking the brew. I merely like the heat.
02 September 2007 @ 01:44 am
I put on Etta James and looked at her pictures until I thought my soul would split and spill forth blue somethings, tendrils of hope perhaps, scraps that will fade quickly, never to be recovered.
30 August 2007 @ 05:25 pm
The bed here smells like anaesthesia, chilled sheets that are specked with blood in one corner. Sanitized blood, to be sure...but blood nonetheless. She wonders what happened to its previous owner. The thought enters her head for a moment, and she immediately feels guilty for even entertaining the notion. Did he die?
The back of her neck is covered with the pale sheen of sweat as it presses down against the half-mattress of the gurney. There is no pillow, so she is curled up on her back, knees drawn to her chest, making a tent in the sheets. Not a natural position, but the one in which she feels most comfortable these days. Her hands are cold, and feel like ice against her shins. The only thing she can hear is the slightly arrhythmic tone of her heart monitor, and the rustle of pages being turned as her roommate reads Madame Bovary.
She cranes her head backward to look at her vitals. Blood pressure is still low, heart rate is still elevated. Even she knows that these are classic symptoms of dehydration. Her urine was orange.
Orange, though...that could be from the diuretics she's been taking. Eight a day...the box said the minimum was four. However, the box also said that dark urine would be normal after taking the pills. So maybe it's all right.
Her chest still aches, so she lets her head fall back to its normal position. Her mouth still tastes like mint from the stomach medicine. The ceiling is still spinning. The doctor is still out of the room.
She saw a heroin addict in the lobby, bent over an emesis bin. She wonders if he is still throwing up.
The back of her neck is covered with the pale sheen of sweat as it presses down against the half-mattress of the gurney. There is no pillow, so she is curled up on her back, knees drawn to her chest, making a tent in the sheets. Not a natural position, but the one in which she feels most comfortable these days. Her hands are cold, and feel like ice against her shins. The only thing she can hear is the slightly arrhythmic tone of her heart monitor, and the rustle of pages being turned as her roommate reads Madame Bovary.
She cranes her head backward to look at her vitals. Blood pressure is still low, heart rate is still elevated. Even she knows that these are classic symptoms of dehydration. Her urine was orange.
Orange, though...that could be from the diuretics she's been taking. Eight a day...the box said the minimum was four. However, the box also said that dark urine would be normal after taking the pills. So maybe it's all right.
Her chest still aches, so she lets her head fall back to its normal position. Her mouth still tastes like mint from the stomach medicine. The ceiling is still spinning. The doctor is still out of the room.
She saw a heroin addict in the lobby, bent over an emesis bin. She wonders if he is still throwing up.
29 August 2007 @ 10:04 pm
I went to the ER today with an anorexic BMI of 15.9, chest pains, dizziness, and nausea. The only thing they treated was the nausea.
I'm feeling rather disinclined to trust doctors at the moment.
I'm feeling rather disinclined to trust doctors at the moment.
27 August 2007 @ 05:27 pm
If I could eat popsicles every day, I would be happy. Pomegranate ones. God. Melt-in-your-mouth, sweet and bitter at the same time, an epiphanic explosion of flavour.
Brilliant.
Brilliant.
25 August 2007 @ 12:07 am
I tried not to eat today, but the food ended up slipping past my lips, anyway.
It was an accident. I was standing in front of the oxygen bar, watching cerulean air spin up through plastic tubes that curled from the nostrils of strangers, and suddenly the world went cold. I could not breathe, and the pavement looked almost viole(n)t, swaying before my eyes. I could feel coals pressing against my sternum, a tearing through my chest wall, my heartbeat rattling through this shell of a body. Uneven, arrhythmic. Flutter, flutter, flap.
had six brownies, three candy bars, two bags of popcorn, three laxatives, and two diet pills.
Student health was closed so I sat and watched faces go by carrying corn dogs and turkey legs from the block party, envisioning birds and various cuts of pig drifting as blue ghosts behind them, with dripping eyes and mouths that hang open.
I am really glad that I am a vegetarian, because if I ate meat, I think that it would come forth as vomit in the shape of cows and fish and birds, brilliant, and in a bright green hue.
It was an accident. I was standing in front of the oxygen bar, watching cerulean air spin up through plastic tubes that curled from the nostrils of strangers, and suddenly the world went cold. I could not breathe, and the pavement looked almost viole(n)t, swaying before my eyes. I could feel coals pressing against my sternum, a tearing through my chest wall, my heartbeat rattling through this shell of a body. Uneven, arrhythmic. Flutter, flutter, flap.
had six brownies, three candy bars, two bags of popcorn, three laxatives, and two diet pills.
Student health was closed so I sat and watched faces go by carrying corn dogs and turkey legs from the block party, envisioning birds and various cuts of pig drifting as blue ghosts behind them, with dripping eyes and mouths that hang open.
I am really glad that I am a vegetarian, because if I ate meat, I think that it would come forth as vomit in the shape of cows and fish and birds, brilliant, and in a bright green hue.