Tuesday, 25 August 2015


For a brief, fleeting moment this morning, she saw herself. Or at least what she thinks is herself. What everyone else claims to see.

She bent over to put on her tights and was struck by the way her ribcage juts out. She was mesmerised by how her concave stomach folds over itself and disappears into her ribs. By how her hipbones hold out her underwear, creating a little peekaboo pocket of air between the peaks.

She saw how sick she looks. How miserable she looks. How dead she looks.

She straightened up.

And saw her thighs. Her fucking fat, disgusting thighs. There's a thigh gap there now -- one she never dreamed possible -- but who the fuck cares? It means nothing when your legs are still sticks of rancid butter, melting in the summer sun.

She saw the parasitic flesh clinging to the underside of her arms. It jiggles when she  moves it. It waves all on its own.

It's fucking repulsive.

She saw all her flaws, amplified by a million.

No matter which way she looks at it, she is repulsive. Too big or too small. She is not baby bear's porridge. She is never just right.

Back when she was a real girl with a whole and healed brain, she'd ask her class that. She'd use it to gauge their understanding of the concept she'd just taught. Who thought it was too hard? Who thought it was too easy? Who thought it was baby bear's porridge?

They'd giggle like it was the funniest thing in the world. Every time.

She misses that.
She misses them.
She misses teaching.
She misses having a brain that worked.

She misses the girl she once was.

Sunday, 23 August 2015


Every day is the same. She has nothing to look forward to. The things she once enjoyed no longer hold any appeal. She hates getting out of bed in the mornings [afternoons] because each day is just another expanse of hours she no longer knows how to fill. There is no joy in her life. Sure she can smile and laugh on the surface, but that's as far as it goes. She is dead underneath.

She can't concentrate long enough to read. Before she can reach the end of page one the words dance before her eyes, rearranging themselves to spell out the constant chorus singing inside her head. Hypocrite, hypocrite, you're a hypocrite.

She can't sit still long enough to watch TV or watch a movie.

She workouts constantly in an effort to lower the volume of the noise inside her head, but it does little in way of relief.

She sees her friends and speaks to them every day, and she can pull it together for those brief hours and pretend to be a real girl with a whole and healed brain, but it does nothing to quell the storm inside her.

She can leave the house and go places and be normal but she's not normal and all this pretending to be a fully functional human is exhausting. She is exhausted all the time, but she can't even sleep.

She loves her dogs and she loves playing with them, but even that no longer helps. She does it for them. She does it because it's not their fault that their owner is a fucking lazy fat sack of shit.

She loves her mom and as far as her mom knows she is doing better, but she's not. She's not doing better. She's not doing okay. She is not okay at all.

She doesn't want this life.
She doesn't want her life.
She doesn't want life at all.

The closest she gets to happiness is when she steps on the scales each morning. She counts her ribs and rolls her fingers down the marbles of her spine before dragging the entire weight of her to the bathroom to measure her sins. She has three scales, lined up like soldiers. Judge, jury, executioner. Ultimately it doesn't matter what the number says. It's never low enough. Never. Even when it says she's smaller, the relief is incredibly short lived. Not three seconds go by before the tapeworm starts replicating inside her head. It could be lower it should be lower why isn't it lower why aren't you smaller you fucking fat sack of shit you should be better than this.

How is she meant to fix herself when she doesn't understand what is broken. How is she meant to fix herself when she wasn't whole to begin with. How is she meant to fix herself when the problem is rooted deep within her soul. The problem is fundamentally who she is. All of her is broken. She was born with missing pieces. She doesn't work. She is defective. Return to sender. Refunds are available on faulty stock. We're so sorry we sent you this shitty imitation of a real girl with a whole and healed brain. Please accept this refund along with a complementary set of steak knives, valued at $89.99.

She doesn't care about the past. The memories don't matter. The thoughts don't matter. The flashbacks don't matter. It happened and she let it and so crying about it now is self indulgent and sluttish and pathetic. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter and she doesn't matter. She doesn't she doesn't she doesn't.

She doesn't want this life. If she could, she would donate it to someone in need.


She is an organ donor. She wonders if her undernourished elastic heart would be of any benefit to a person clinging to the final strings tethering them to life. They can have it. They can have all of it. All her organs. All of her.

After all

She lost herself a long time ago.

Friday, 7 August 2015

Wednesday, 5 August 2015


[A kinda-sequel to Patterns In Behavior.
Minor Trigger Warning.

Thank you so much for reading.

Stay safe xo]


I enter the room slowly.
I try not to breathe at all.

The receptionist smiles at me. Speaks to me. Invades my personal bubble of space with her kind eyes. They're on me, those eyes. I smile back and pretend I can't feel them tracking me as I cross the room towards the chairs.

I stop in front of the second chair. The one between the mustard coloured chair and the black couch.
My chair.
My place.
I release my breath, and sit.

For the last time.

I don't know how I know it will be the last time, but it will be. I know it will be. I knew it from the moment I opened my eyes from the sleep I did not get. I knew it as I pulled back the covers and planted my frozen toes onto the frozen tiles. I wavered for a moment, unable to connect my thoughts to my actions. Unable to collect my thoughts at all. I waited. Barely breathing. Barely moving.

My brain spluttered and turned the ignition.

I became unstuck.

But still, I knew.

I've spent too long tip-toeing along the edge to not know what it feels like to fall.

I think while I wait.
I do not count.
I do not vibrate.
I do not extrapolate and calculate and vindicate.

I sit still.
I think.

I go through the morning in my head, searching for the glitch.
I know there's a glitch, somewhere.
It's like a tiny worry bead, rolling around inside my head.
A pebble in my proverbial shoe.
Worry, worry, worry.

I cycle through the events three times over.
The glitch does not appear.

I cycle through again. Again. Again.
Worry, worry, worry.

Get up. Pee. Weigh in.

Worry, worry, worry.

Gulp water. Gulp meds. Brush teeth.

Worry, worry, worry.

Shower. Get dressed. Do hair.

Worry, worry, worry.

Hug dogs. Make bed. Leave.

Worry, worry, worry.

The bead bores a hole in my skull.
It makes it harder to think.

I hear my name. When I look up, he's standing in the doorway. His lips move, but only static fills the air. I blink and rise, surreptitiously shaking my head. Trying to shake the bead free.

It stays lodged firmly in place.

Worry, worry, worry.

I clutch my bag as I follow him down the corridor. His shape blurs before my eyes, slowing me down. I blink again and reach for the banister beside me. I need to stop, I think. Just for a moment.

Worry, worry, worry.

My hand slips along the chipped white paint. I stumble, unable to grasp it as I want to. As I need to. I steady myself before I hit the floor.

The bead rolls free.

Worry, worry, worry.

He turns around. My boots stomp loudly on the floorboards as I struggle to stay steady. The walls shudder. Shhhh, they whisper. Don't you know there are sick people here?

He says my name again.
The static grows louder.
The bead rolls down the back of my throat and onto my tongue.

The glitch wavers and shifts.

All at once, I know what it is.

I release my slick hold on the banister and stand there for moment, wavering. The paint chips cling to the salt on my palm. He says my name a third time. I look up to answer him and tumble forward.

Tumble, tumble, tumble.

The floorboards are not are hard as I expect them to be.

I'm still falling.

Falling, falling, falling.

I command my eyes to open.
They grant me a compromise.
I see him through a curtain of eyelashes.
He is gripping me.
Helping me lie down.

My eyes close.

Tumble, falling, worry.

My heart huffs and puffs up a very steep hill. It stutters and takes a moment to sit down.

Rest, I say gently. You've worked hard. Have a rest. It's okay. Have a rest.
My heart smiles gratefully.

The remaining strings connecting my thoughts to my actions are neatly snipped by an unseen pair of scissors.

I feel myself go limp.

Resting, worry, tumble.

Frantic fingers dance along my neck. Hands knock on the cage around my chest. An ear hovers above my lips, listening. Checking.

Checking, checking, checking.

My heart raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head.
No, old boy, I whisper. It's okay. I've got this one.
He smiles and settles down to his nap.

My ears register that the static is louder now. They lazily sift through the noise until it starts to clear. They pick up words. Phrases. Panic.

The glitch buzzes in my head.
Tell them, it hums. They deserve to know. Tell them.

When I open my mouth, the bead rolls free.

They pick it up and read it. A list winds around its fragile surface. The letters glisten in the morning light.




The glitch continues to hum.

The memory plays in sepia, slowly and soundlessly. The edges crackle and waver. I see myself in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. There's a number staring up at me from the tiles. I try not to see it, but I know it's there. Taunting me. Haunting me. Flaunting my weaknesses for all the world to see.




I ignore it and take my morning meds.
And my evening meds.
And all my meds.
I do not stop until all my meds are gone.

The glitch crackles again and disappears.

His face swims into focus. It's buried behind the two blank faces of the ones poking me and trying to coax my heart out of his slumber.

He looks scared.
I feel terrible.
I didn't mean it, I want to say. I don't even remember it. I didn't want to. I didn't.

I did.

I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I repeat it over and over again until one finally makes it across the broken strings and onto my lips.

"I'm sorry."

His face changes.
I wonder if he looks angry.
I wonder what he'll tell my mother.
I hope she'll be okay.
I hope she will forgive me.
I hope she'll understand.
I think, fleetingly, of my dogs.
I wish they were with me. I know they'd understand.

The room begins to darken.

I'm standing on the edge between awake and asleep. My heart checks with me one last time. I use my remaining strength to nod.

We both close our eyes.

I waver.

I fall.


Sunday, 2 August 2015


She went to America last year. She bought two pairs of jeans that could not fit her.

One was size zero.
The other was size double zero.

The monster inside her head said, that's the first target, lardass. It's all about the numbers. Zero is nothing. Zero is empty. Zero is what you are and so zero is what you must be.

After all. As we all know, in tennis, zero is love.

Today she tried on the size zero.

The monster inside her head screamed in protest. He breathed fire and burned her from the inside out. 


Her hands didn't listen. Traitorous bastards. They took off her sweat pants and tugged on the size zero.

Much like Cinderella's glass slipper, it fit.

The monster inside her head was shocked into silence.

For about three seconds.


The monster wasn't lying.
The monster never lies.