ana-sthetic

Raising my shirt above my nipples, I inspected my torso in the bathroom lights.  Seeing the swooping shadows slice across my skin always made me smile.  It meant progress.  It meant the fat was melting away and allowing my ribs to show through the pallid skin.

Every morning, after peeing, I'd raise my shirt and check on my shrinking frame.  It felt good to see those ribs.  It didn't feel good to diet or exercise but it was nice when my pants fit, when my chest was flatter, when I could run my hand down my stomach to smooth out my shirt and could feel the cool metal of my belt buckle without the lump of fat resting on top.

It was a struggle to not eat my favorite foods, denying myself sweets, getting up and exercising, waiting, wondering when that promised energy was going to kick in.  It was difficult, frustrating and exhausting.  Yet, the presence of the bones helped me get through another hungry day.  I loved food but I loved the feeling of being thinner as well.  I think, although I love food and thinness equally, I disliked myself, thus the food always won out.  Because I didn't like myself, I didn't take care of myself, didn't discipline myself, let myself go in more ways than just the physical.

One of the reasons I was able to lose weight was because I felt I was doing it for something.  I had a goal, some kind of image in my head of what I wanted to look like and how it would benefit me.  When I was in high school, I always had a fantasy that I would transform myself over the summer and come back and be different, thinner, better.  I didn't want to be known only as the fat could who could draw.  I wanted my peers to see me in a way they hadn't before, see me as someone who was desirable, handsome.  Approachable.  And the summer before my senior year, I did it.  And I was noticed.  And it felt good.  But, I still had a long way to go. 

Community college rolled around and I began to look to the future once more.  I knew where I wanted to pursue further education and I once again went on a diet and exercise kick, losing more weight than I did in high school and becoming the thinnest I had ever been in ten or so years.  I did it because I was preparing myself for real college, preparing myself for people and projects.  I knew college would be such a huge transition filled with enough pressures and I didn't want my physical appearance to be a hindrance to the large amounts of socializing I was planning on doing.

I was thin and felt good by the time I got to SCAD.  I slipped up during the first quarter, falling victim to the clichéd freshmen fifteen but I was back on track after winter break.  I kept myself accountable and started vlogging about my weight loss and checked my ribs every morning in the mirror.  I weighed myself every week.  I went to the gym with my roommates.  I had class and three different projects to work on at any given time so there wasn't much time to eat.  There was even a time when I severely restricted my food intake.  I didn't exactly starve myself but I was pretty close to it.  It didn't disturb me, though, because I felt good at the end of the day.  Yeah, I was hungry and tired but I felt I had finally managed some kind of mental control over myself.

And then I graduated and came back home and let myself go again.  With Mom's Southern cooking and no more classes or a job, I sat at home and managed to undo all the years of hard work, slowly swelling back to my high school hugeness.

Of course, it wasn't apparent to me how large I was getting as I sat around all day in elastic sleep pants.  It only became obvious when I tried to actually go out and do something and put on jeans and couldn't button them.  How could I get so big so fast without even noticing?  I stopped vlogging, stopped weighing, stopped lifting my shirt in front of the mirror.  I lost all accountability.  I also discovered Ben & Jerry's brownie cheesecake ice cream, so that didn't help matters.

I've lost and gained weight so many times now that it all seems like this large smear in my memory.  I can't differentiate days from doughnuts.  And I find myself at the bottom, yet again, looking up that long ladder of weight loss and wondering if I can make that climb one more time.  I'm not sure if I can.

Of course, not having a job wasn't the reason why I gained the weight back.  Well, not directly.  I mean, it was the reason I gained weight but not because I was bored.  It was because I was depressed.  College turned out to be a giant wreck of three years.  And with no job and all that time to reflect on my tumultuous time there, I ate to cope.  Despite all efforts over the years to control my eating habits and exercise regularly, I never learned to eat for nutrition instead of filling a void.  When it came to food, I suppressed the physical act of eating and completely ignored the emotional baggage that made me binge.

And for months now I've been saying I'm going to lose the weight again, that I'm going to go through that arduous weight loss journey once more.  But, I haven't because I know it's hard.  I've been there before and knowing how difficult it is makes it all the harder to get started.  It's difficult to learn how to deal with my feelings through methods other than food.  Nothing I've tried seems as satisfying.  Admittedly, I haven't tried very hard. 

But you know what's not hard?  Pizza, pasta, cookies, sweet stuff.  Cheese.  Bread.  Starches and carbs.  It's comforting.  It's my anesthetic against the everyday external conflicts and incessant internal torture.  And I know it's temporary and ultimately more damaging but sometimes I'm so hurt and angry that I just want to stop the pain in that moment and I don't care how I do it.  Fix it now, figure it out later.  Just stop the pain.  Just get rid of the sadness.  I'll deal with the consequences another time.  But, I don't.  I deal with the consequences with more food.  With inactivity.  With hating myself just a little bit more.  Instead of wanting to put out the pain, I should have just sucked it up and dealt with it.  I guess a little hurt never killed anyone but what if you're already dead?  I think it hits me harder.  I also think I'm incredibly weak and give in to way too much way too soon.

I need something else.  I need someone to care.  I need to care about myself.  I need to know that I am worth working on.  That I am not stuck in mediocrity.  I need to climb out of my festering funk.   It's easy to fall, to let your problems snowball, to just go with gravity.  It's hard to stop mid-fall.  It's as simple as catching yourself but when you don't have any hands or feet you just continue to tumble.

I'd like to one day be able to see my ribs again.  Not break them with bad habits.

water cooler crumbling

As if work doesn't suck enough, all the good people are leaving and moving on to better jobs.  Some of the bad people are, too.

One of my favorite coworkers called me last Sunday and told me she's turned in her notice.  She found a job pertaining to her degree so it's definitely a good thing.  For her.  I mean, I do want to be happy for her and the grain of non-selfishness within me is happy for her but it sucks that I'll be losing someone I enjoy working with.  So many people who work there are negative and manipulative and she wasn't about any of that.  She clocked in, did her job, no b.s., and left.  She was also just a good girl in general.  And I'll probably never see her again.

It seems the trend with me and girls is they'll communicate with me for as long as we are placed in a certain situation together, such as work or school.  I met a lot of great girls in college and as soon as our classes together were over, I didn't hear much from them again.  Same with when they'd get a boyfriend/husband.  The husband thing I can understand a bit more but it just kind of sucks because I always think we have a good thing going and then I find out it wasn't good enough for them to hold on to me.

On the other end of the coworker spectrum, one of my least favorite coworkers also found a job.  Once again, I'm conflicted.  As much as I should be happy to be rid of her (and believe me, it is a relief), the circumstances surrounding her departure are less than savory.  Not only was she one of the most worthless employees I've ever had the misfortune of encountering, she also wasn't that great of a person.  Well, she comes bouncing into work one day saying she found a manager position at another job.  After I shat myself, the jealousy kicked in.  She obviously lied during her interview.  Like, I'm not joking when I say she was a raging loser at her job.  Even the managers knew she was useless and expressed that often.  So, for her to get a manager position at another job over me is a real kick in the nuts.

It's not even so much that she got a better job than me but that she just isn't deserving of one and I feel like I am.  I work my butt off everyday and it's thankless and exhausting and stagnant.  Where's my opportunity to grow, to gain new experience and a raise?  I know I'm sounding bratty and selfish and that life isn't fair.  I've heard it a million times but it still sucks and I just have to express how I feel about it.  It's hard enough filling out application after application and getting my hopes up that this will finally be the chance to break away from retail hell and then I never hear anything not even an interview, and yet this chick who never did anything and never had any responsibilities (because no one trusted her) weasels her way through and now she's happy and I have to witness it.  Heck, I've gotten associate of the month twice and associate of the year and I've only been there eight months.  That's got to say something about my work ethic but I guess no one seems to see that.

And she will be replaced by more mediocre workers.  And my favorite coworker will be as well because quality people like her don't stay here in this area.  They move on to bigger and better things as soon as they can.  The rest is just trash and our company sweeps them right into the doors, slaps a name badge on them and let's them loose on the public.  And I guess that makes me a little trashy, too, since I'm also here.  Although I did try.  I did to to college.  Even did well at it.  But grades don't matter when it's content and creativity employers want to see.  Things I don't possess anymore.  But, I gave it a good shot.  So maybe I'm not so much trashy as just a little bit unpolished.

I see so many high school and college students treat the job like it's unimportant.  And maybe to them it is.  It's even unimportant to me but I don't treat it like that.  Yeah, I hate this job but I also have a responsibility to do a good job.  People rely on me.  And I try to do every job to the best of my ability, no matter how invested I may or may not be in it.  But these kids just swoop through and don't take it seriously and it's frustrating because I have to pick up their slack but I'm also quite jealous because they can be so laid back about it all.  For them, this job is just pocket money until they go to college or until they finish college and get a good job.  It doesn't matter if they don't do a great job because they don't plan on being there too long anyway.  I don't have that luxury.  I have student loans.  I have other bills.  And I can't screw around and risk losing my job.  I can't be care-free.  I was raised to take jobs seriously so it does come natural to me but I also don't have a choice like the rest of them. 

Size, straighten, colorize.  Watch as customers destroy a stack of shirts.  Clean up after them.  Watch it happen again.  Ask every customer if they want to fill out for a credit card.  Ask them for their e-mail address at the end of the transaction.  Ask them for their zip code.  Tell them about our survey and beg them to rate us a five so the district manager will be happy.  Offer to order something for them if they can't find it in the store.  Even if they do find it in the store, mention we can order anything in the store in multiple sizes and colors anyway (and when we do try to order something for them, it is usually out of stock online as well as in the store).  Size, straighten, colorize again.  Watch as more customers ruin an hour of straightening in three minutes.  Check fitting rooms every thirty minutes.  Get change for coworkers.  Size.  Greet every customer in your department.  Create conversation with them.  Straighten.  Just offer.  Colorize.  Help the other departments straighten their stuff.  Call a manager for help if you have more than three people in line.  They show up ten minutes later after you've checked everyone out and squeezed as much personal information from them as possible.  Offer them magazine subscriptions at the end of the transaction.  On their receipt, highlight how much they've saved.  Colorize again.  Straighten again.  Measure clueless people for dress shirts.  Watch as they unpin and unbutton dress shirt after dress shirt, try them on, decide they don't want them.  Fold and pin them back.  Straighten.  Don't forget to greet and smile.  Return clothes even if they reek of smoke or are stained.  Return even if their receipt is expired or they don't have one.  Return anything because the customer cannot be unhappy.  Show them it is okay to be irresponsible as we'll take care of them anyway.  Be nice to them and show them they can take advantage of us and knock down a stack of shirts because no one will stop them.  And the new thing is we are encouraged to say, "It was a pleasure serving you today."  Some higher up got that trick from Chick-fil-A because customers were apparently more satisfied when they were told it was a pleasure to be served.  As if putting up with their crap wasn't demeaning enough, we know have to let them know how much of a pleasure it was to endure their halitosis and ignorance.  Gosh, the company is taking tips from a fast food joint now.  We're doing so well.  Size again.  Straighten again.  Put up with bad attitudes and body odor.  Feel like crying.  Feel like screaming.  Feel like killing.  Go home.  Do it again the next day.  And somewhere in there, try not to lose your mind.  Good luck with that.

And now, I don't even have anyone good to work with anymore.  So, it's just going to get worse.

book notes #3

I finished writing my novel last Friday night.  Because I had the day off, I dedicating it to finishing.  I will admit that I probably rushed it a little bit but that's what the second draft is for, eh?

It feels good to know I wrote a book.  It's bittersweet, though.  Anyone can write a book.  Not too many people can write a good one.  Am I one of the good ones?  I suppose time will tell.  For now, all I can do is try to make it as good as I can within my....uh, I hesitate to say...talents.  I think one of the reasons it's taken me so long to write this book and even more so, what's taken me so long to write my memoir, is because I am absolutely terrified that I suck.  It's one thing to sit back and wish that I could be a great writer and animator and overall a great artist but it's another to actually produce a work and put it out there and bomb.  It almost feels safer to wish for future admiration rather than go out and really try for it and fail.  Because what happens when I fail?  Where do I go from there?

I know I have low self-esteem and maybe I don't see how...talented (there's that icky word again) I am but in all honesty, I don't necessarily think it's my low self-esteem at work here.  I just genuinely don't think I'm great.  Maybe I'm not the worst writer in the world.  But, I'm not amazing and for me, if I'm not amazing, what's the point of even trying?  There's so much garbage in the world and just about as much mediocre work clogging up people's heads and I don't really want to add to the junk pile.  Then again, not everything has to be amazing to be influential.  Or maybe I'm just a bad judge of good art.  But art is subjective.  Can you see how complex this whole thing is for me?

I just come across random blogs sometimes and I see how so many people are so much better than me and I think to myself, "These people deserve to have a book out.  Not me."  But, I really enjoy writing.  And if I like it, why shouldn't I continue?  And if someone else likes it, why shouldn't I share it with others?  I guess it goes back to the fear of rejection.  But, people will criticize anyone.  Because art is subjective.  Not everyone is going to like the same piece.

I also hesitate to work on it too hard because I don't want to put so much of myself into the project only for it to utterly fail and cause me to never write another word again.  I know that seems extreme but so are my emotions.  It would just seem like a huge waste to dedicate so much of my time and then I won't sell but three copies.

I started printing out the novel so I could begin editing it but ran out of ink halfway through.  I thought I had an extra ink cartridge but it turns out it was color ink and not black.  It kind of irritated me because I had it all set up and everything but now I'll have to wait until I can get some more ink sometime next week.  I guess it doesn't even matter all that much since I'm going to now focus on fleshing out the characters instead of working on the actual content of the book.  Because I wrote the whole thing in a rush, I don't think I was able to make anyone three dimensional...or believable...or even likable.  That's kind of a big deal to have good, likable characters.

Then, I have to get into plot and dialogue and weave in the twist that I have at the end of the story.  Plus, my closing is kind of weak so I need to work on that.  I have a lot to do.  I'd love to post snippets of the story but because everything is so rough right now, I'd rather wait until it's a bit more polished.

It has come to my attention that I might not have even provided a basic synopsis for the story.  I really thought that I had but I guess I have not.  It's a pretty basic premise.  A guy named Chris and his girlfriend named Jenny are attending a Zombie walk when Chris is bitten by one of the attendees.  At first he and his girlfriend shrug it off as an overzealous zombie fan but then Chris starts getting sick.  As his health rapidly declines, he begins to think he was bitten by a real zombie.  And there you have it.  I didn't want to go too far over my head so I kept it simple with two main characters and their situation.  I figured since this was my first foray into novel-writing, I shouldn't include too many characters or interlocking stories because then I'd just be setting myself up for a big mess and most likely a big failure.

I just need some talent.  And motivation.  And Ritalin.

the man who killed me

You know how you always hear about the people who are haunted by those they've murdered?

It doesn't work that way.  It's actually the opposite.

When you wrap the rope around someone's neck, you aren't only tying off their air but tying yourself to them.  Think of a celebrity who has been killed and you'll know their killer.  Think of the store clerk shot by the robber.  Think of the children cut up by their classmate.  The slain become slaves, tethered to their torturers, yanked by the neck and forced to follow the ones in control of the rope.  Your killer will stay with you like a footprint in your soul.

When I died, a piece of him went straight to hell with me.  A voice trapped in my ear, a memory locked in my mind, a touch tucked under my skin, forever bubbling up and seeping through every pore and part of me.  Killing me over and over.  Breaking and mending and shattering and tending.  My eternal punishment.  An inescapable escalation of pain and humility, scarred along my body, navigating the wounds to find an impossible solution.  The bruising, the petechiae, the shattered glass of innocence lodged into my chest and arms.

He did so much harm and still does.  Time has tackled the worst of it but he still manages to come through clearly on certain days.  The rope is slacked, never severed, and I can still feel its pull.  He still manages to sting.  Yet he is untouchable.  I was rendered a ghost of bone but he is the indelible demon, intangible and translucent.  God-like, deaf and unwavering in decision and deed.  Stealing my life while robust in his own.  Ending me over and over, my sinew, soul and spirit crumbling forever under the weight of his hand, his tongue, his indifference.

Sometimes my hell is presented as a two-way mirror.  I sit and watch, locked down and languid, my eyes pried open as he grooms himself for hurting, corrupting the clean, bashing his brethren, seducing saints, all the while enjoying the spoils of the world.  He combs the teeth from his hair, washes the blood from his skin.  He fingers the strings of his guitar, floating up a melody of melancholy, a soundtrack to my suffering.  I see him wag his tongue and smile his small-toothed smile.  Through the glass, I can see what he's done to me, to others.  I can see him.

But he only sees himself.

book notes #2

I wrote 5,538 words yesterday.  It's about twice as much as I've ever written in a day.  I'm pretty proud of myself.  Of course, it did take all day.  I wrote a little bit, watched television, ate, surfed the web, wrote some more, and then repeated the process until falling asleep. 

Because I have been off this weekend, I suppose I haven't been so stressed out and that has allowed me to have a clear mind to write.  That's another reason I hate my job.  It's so mind numbing and all consuming that even when my shift is over, all that residual anger and frustration and fatigue comes home with me and all I want to do is go to sleep, but I don't go to sleep because the faster I go to sleep, the faster I'll be back at work.  I need a bigger buffer zone than that.  But since I'm too tired to write, I just sit around and do nothing productive.  I hate that I'm that way but I can't think of a better solution so I just kind of coast for now.

It seems that I can write until I hit some sort of wall with the story.  I'm kind of trying to let the story tell itself without putting too many restrictions on the direction, therefore the story is going its own way and that often leads to bumps in the road.  Depending on how much energy I have or if I'm thinking clearly, I can overcome those obstacles rather easily or I'll step away from the writing and not come back until a week or two later.  I think the combination of work and hitting one of those rough patches made me hesitant to get back into the swing of things.  In fact, that's why this whole process has taken so long.  I managed to write a little over 50,000 words just in the month of November last year and since then it's taken me 4 months to write a little over 28,000 words.  That's not very good.  I think if only I could have continued at that pace, I'd be done writing and well into editing by now.  I suppose I shouldn't beat myself up about it too much.  It is my first book and I am battling outside factors.  Just the fact that I'm working on this thing almost consistently is a good sign.  I think I'm pretty close to finishing the story and it's taken less than a year.  Way better than the memoir that I've been putting off for years now.

As I said, the story seems to be shaping itself and I like that.  I feel uncomfortable trying to change too much.  It's almost as if maybe my subconscious needs to tell the story a certain way so I'm kind of letting it take the reigns.  I feel like if I get too involved, it might muck it all up and it won't be as good as it would be had I just let it all happen.  Plus, so far I'm pleased with the way things have happened.  I'll be writing and suddenly I'll think, "Hey, this is the point where this needs to happen."  And then it does and it opens up wonderful new avenues for the characters to travel and it all feels very organic and natural and I like it like that..  It's actually kind of fun to see how the story unfolds as I write it instead of having this rigid outline that I have to strictly follow.

I was hoping to be super close to finishing by this weekend.  I was going to write every day this week and try to come close to the conclusion by tonight.  Well, I didn't even start until yesterday so I'm way behind but I think I wrote just about as much in that one day as I would have over the week so it's kind of worked out.  I just hope that today is as productive as yesterday was.

My only real problem now, and this is a minor one, is I have no idea what to name the book.  And that's really weird because I am usually really good at coming up with titles for the stuff I write.  In fact, I'll come up with a title in my head and then base what I write around the title.  I guess I'm a title first kind of guy.  I'm not saying I'm great at titles but I think I am.  I remember my nonfiction writing professor in college didn't like any of my essays' titles.  He said they were too cutesy.  I would agree with him but I like cutesy so it works for me. 

It is bothering me, though.  I'd like to think that maybe something will happen in the story that I can pluck a title from.  I love it when I read a book with a sort of obscure title that you're not sure how it relates to the book but then toward the middle or end of the book the title comes up in a character's dialogue with another or it comes from a memory or an observation and suddenly it all comes together and makes sense. I love that.  I hope I can recreate that. 

This is so lame.  The tentative title is Decay.  I will not be sticking with that if I can help it.  I feel like it's hard to name a zombie book without stepping on the toes of every other zombie book title out there.  Anything to do with rotting or deterioration has pretty much already been taken.  And let's not get started on how many ...of the Dead titles there are.  Plus, there's no zip to my title.  There's nothing to hook the reader into reading it or buying it.  Decay?  Where's the creativity?  It's kind of frustrating because I'm normally so good at coming up with titles but this one is really escaping me.

There's also a part of me that wants to discuss the book but at the same time that would spoil some of the surprises that pop up throughout the story.  I'd also like someone to read a rough draft just to give me pointers but I don't want to ruin anything for anyone.  In a perfect world, the story would be perfect and ready for everyone to read and enjoy without having to point out my (probably numerous) missteps.  But, I really do think I need some outside help.  This is my first book and my first foray into the world of large-scale fiction so I'm probably making a nice mess of things without even realizing it.  Sure, I've written short stories but there's a world of difference between short stories and novels.  I think I'll try to push the story as far as I can until I feel like it's decent enough to show and hopefully whoever reads it will still be entertained, even if they are proofing it for me. 

mile-an-hour mind

You know how driving long distances can make you exhausted?  You're not physically doing much, just working your hands and a leg, but you are so aware of your surroundings, concentrating on road signs and landmarks, that by the end of your trip you can feel mentally mowed down.  I know when I drove the eight hours to and from college, it took me nearly three days to recover.

Well, this is how my mind feels all the time, with or without a speedometer.

I'm always focusing on something, always wrangling my thoughts, fighting the urge to be pulled in one thousand different locations, unfolding my brain like a map to cover so much ground, making notes and scribbling directions so fast and furious that I write holes into the paper as I burn rubber with my regrets, constantly creasing until the paper crumbles.

My job isn't physically demanding but the stress is emotionally overwhelming.  My living conditions are not detrimental to my body but my spirituality is stressing my heart.  I never do anything yet I'm always tired.  I know my parents think I'm lazy, and maybe they are right because I will admit there's a slice of sloth in me, but mostly I'm just exhausted.  That's why I think I'm not artistic anymore.  It seems the older I get, the more disturbed I become.  And the more disturbed I become, the less creative I am.  I'm too preoccupied to push myself as an artist and a writer, preoccupied with everything ranging from garbage that doesn't matter to larger than life issues I cannot control, things that should not take so much of me away from myself, things that I should have let go a long time ago but can't for whatever reason.

My mind is racing at one hundred miles an hour but my life feels stuck in first gear.  And I have to wonder, when will my mind stop wandering?  When will I find a rest stop for my cerebrum?  I need a place where I can relax and release the tension, a space where I can be still and take in the scenery.  When will it end?  Where will it end?  Will I reach my destination?  Will my head eventually just run out of gas as I run myself into the ground or will I crash and burn and finally shift into shambles?

(sk)intact

Those Proactiv commercials really piss me off. 

I've had problems with my skin ever since I was around twelve.  I know this isn't anything new or shocking as most people go through a pockmarked pubescence to some degree or another, but the bad skin wasn't just a side effect of physical maturation.  It lingered.  It was trapped in my clogged pores, presenting itself in clusters of pimples, blackheads and under the skin bumps.

Because of my pimplesplosions, I had to take a crash course in skincare.  I have tried almost every single product you can find at the drugstore and none of them have provided very good results.  Some even made my skin worse (thank you Neutrogena Acne Wash).  On top of the pimples, my skin was dry, irritated and flaky around my mouth while my forehead remained an oil slick.  I naively went in trusting that these products would clear up my skin as they claimed they would.  When it got worse, I realized something was amiss.  So, I tried to go the more natural route.  I tried those home remedies as well, including salt scrubs and egg white facials.  I've put more lemon on my face than you can shake a tart 'n tangy stick at.  While tasty, the results were less than satisfying.  I went online and researched acne and how you should take care of oily skin.  Some said alcohol would dry it up.  Some said alcohol would make it worse.  Some say you should moisturize oily skin.  Some say you should not.  I even researched ingredients and realized a lot of ingredients in drugstore products are cheap and they suck.

And yes, I've even tried Proactiv.  Thrice.  I honestly can't remember the first time I used it.  I just know I returned it.  I don't think it made my acne worse but I don't think it really helped, either.  It was just kind of...there.  I also tried Murad and that stuff didn't work, either.  Even if it did, I remember one of the products in the line smelling horrid and I thought I wouldn't be able to use it even if it did clear up my skin.  I finally had to resort to Accutane to get my acne under control.  Those were the best months of my life, skin-wise.  Not only did my acne completely clear up, it got rid of my blackheads and banished all facial shine.  My skin was finally perfect.

Then, the Accutane messed up my liver and I had to stop taking it before I finished up my round of treatment.  Screw my liver, my skin was glowing.  But, I suppose doctors have to care about that kind of stuff so they took me off it.  Several months later, my skin still looked good.  But, the oil eventually returned and then the blackheads and then the pimples.  I always wonder if I would have finished my treatment if I could have permanently rid myself of the blemishes.  There are days I would kill to get a hold of those controversially effective pills, liver be darned.

Of course, the acne wasn't as severe as it was pre-Accutane.  Just a pimple here or there or even a small cluster of zits.  Nothing too terribly serious but it was enough to bother me.  At one time, my skin had been so horrible and then it cleared up so beautifully and I just hated to see it go back to it's former grossness.  Because of that, I developed a slight obsession with getting my complexion creamy again.  Those brainwashing Proactiv commercials were really playing on my insecurities and I caved and ordered it a second time.  I thought, "Hey, maybe it didn't help because my skin was so severe but now that it's mostly under control, this stuff will take care of the occasional bump."

It didn't.  I returned it again.  So, I started anew and went back to the drugstore.  And back to researching.

It's all hugely annoying, really.  You try to do find products with good ingredients only to run into claims from one company that says a certain ingredient is amazing for the skin while another says it is horrible, such as mineral oil, petroleum, menthol and parabens.  Of course, one company could just be saying someone else's products are horrible just so you'll buy their stuff.  For the longest time, I tried to avoid products that contained ingredients that were thought to be harmful in some way.  Let me tell you, almost every product contained one or more of those harmful ingredients.  That left my selection extremely limited.  Eventually, I got over most of those claims after I decided that certain ingredients probably weren't as bad as once claimed.  I guess you just have to really do your research and find out what you feel comfortable putting on your face.

So, when the drugstore stuff wasn't cutting it, I ventured into high-end skincare, spending exorbitant amounts of money on what ended up being the same crappy ingredients in prettier packaging.  I spent way too much time and money figuring out that high-end products either are just as bland as the stuff you can pick up at the supermarket or my skin really does suck and nothing, no matter how expensive or well formulated, will work for me.  I had to wonder, where did that leave me?  Here I am spending a student loan payment on grooming products when I could splash my face with some soap and water and come out with the same results.  It was stressful, which is funny because stress is correlated to breakouts.  I'm worrying about how to fix my skin and the worrying is just making matters worse.

It seemed no matter what I used, added, omitted or changed, nothing ever made too much of a difference.  Over the years, it seemed like my skin started to clear on its own.  Those small clusters of pimples turned into one or two.  But those one or two were still extremely annoying.  By no means do I have terrible skin, at least not in the eyes of others.  The annoying part is when one zit clears up, another takes it's place somewhere else on my face.  So, while I'm not a pizza face, I am usually sporting some kind of pimple or another at all times.  I'm sure a lot of people can deal with that.  I can't.  So, I continue to search for that one magical ingredient/product/combination of products that will give me that healthy glow I used to possess post-liver damaging medication.

And because of my rabid search for clear skin, I once again caved and bought Proactiv...for a third time.  It's crazy because I know the stuff isn't the miracle it's made itself out to be.  I used it twice with bland results and yet, those commercials are so captivating and positive and it really does make you believe that stuff will make your skin supermodel clear.  It's sad how they take advantage of people's low self-esteem and desperation.  I suppose every time I succumb to those annoyingly persistent commercials, I think to myself, "Well, it sounds good on paper.  Decent ingredients and it's actually cheaper than what I'm using now, so let's give it another shot."  And I did.  And I still don't like it.  I don't hate it.  Let me say that it's not terrible.  But, the first time I used it my skin felt like it was on fire.  That is pretty bad considering I'm all about putting acid on my face (salicylic and glycolic being my favorites), so my skin should be pretty resistant to powerful ingredients.  Not this stuff.  First of all, the scrub in the cleanser is way too rough.  It's supposed to be beads but it feels more like tree bark and chipped up razors.  I can't imagine anyone with bad acne getting any benefit from such a harsh scrub.  If anything, it would probably aggravate any blemishes on the skin.  The toner and lotion aren't that bad, though.  It is drying, however.  Like, really drying.  You have to slowly work your way into that three-step routine.

After two weeks, I realized I wasn't feeling the stuff.  If I can be honest, I really just wanted to try it again just to remember how it smelled and felt on my skin.  I suppose I was having product nostalgia.  One of the big things I have about products is how they smell and how they feel on my skin.  Another reason I don't care for drugstore products is because they smell so strongly.  They might not always smell bad but when you use a facial cleanser that you have on your face for approximately thirty seconds and then you end up smelling it on yourself at the end of the day, that's a problem.  That's why I prefer fragrance-free products, which are extremely rare at the drugstore.

Through years of trial and error, I found a group of products that I feel mostly good about.  They range from high-end to super cheap.  I've tried to put away the notion that expensive means better or that I have to use one single brand of products.  I found out the hard way that no one line of products are perfect.  No matter brand you use, there's usually a clunker or two to be found.  I've realized that I will probably always have problem skin and the best thing I can do is just take care of it using products that I really believe in, stuff that I feel won't exacerbate acne and might actually reverse past pimple damage.

But, I'm now facing a new problem: wrinkles.  Despite my age and the fact that I have oily skin (they say oilier folks wrinkle slower and less than dry people) and the fact that I'm never out in the sun, I'm starting to notice crow's feet and laugh lines.  Just my luck.  Once I control one skin problem, another pops up.  I suppose I'm destined to look haggard.  But, that doesn't mean I won't fight it tooth skin and nails.

I'm going to start saving up for Botox now.

a separation of flesh

I guess three years was a good run...

I keep saying I'm going to go back to eating meat.  But, I just can't bring myself to do it.  I have a concern that my body might have a reaction to flesh for the first time.  You know, it has been three years since I enjoyed my last piece of animal carcass and I am concerned that by re-introducing my stomach to meat, it will be like, "WTF?" and eject that stuff with a heavy dose of diarrhea real quick.  I don't know if that would actually happen and if it's worthy of such a worry but nevertheless, I'm apprehensive.  Therefore, I always say I'll wait until the weekend when I'm off from work so I can eat and take a sudden massive dump if need be without having to worry about crapping on the carpet in front of customers.

"This weekend, I'm going to do it," I say.  Yet, I never do.

I guess it's just because I haven't made peace with eating meat again.  For so long, I was steadfast in my vegetarianism, but it was easier when I was living in Savannah.  I wasn't eating so much crap and had healthier meat alternatives.  Now, things have changed.  It's much harder here.  I'm so fat and unhealthy and miserable.  Yet, I don't want to change.  Well, I do want to change but I don't want to have to eat meat to do it.  I also don't want to have to eat vegetables.  Basically, I want to have my vegan cake and eat it, too.  You know, without it making me fat.  Not gonna happen.

So, I'm going to have to make some compromises.  Try to choke down some spinach along with my salmon.  It will be tough on both fronts but I'll have to push myself out of this pudginess.  I just feel really bad about the whole situation.  I suppose you really realize how much you do (or don't) believe in something when faced with obstacles that hinder your own well-being.  Really, my vegetarianism doesn't have to be as hard as I make it.  Eat more vegetables.  Eat nuts and peanut butter for protein.  Tofu can taste like anything.  But, for me, I hate almost all vegetables and nuts and peanut butter get old after a while and so do Tofurkey sandwiches.  I'm also not crazy about tofu.  Basically, I'm bored with my diet and I'm getting tired of it.  There's hardly any vegetarian friendly choices at restaurants (unless, once again, you like salads and vegetables) and no choices at all at fast food establishments.  The black box closes in again.

If I really felt strong in my convictions I would force myself to eat leafy greens and tomatoes and carrots but the thought makes me sick.  I have tried these foods and I can't deal with them.  I know taste is an immature response to not eating healthy foods but that's my reasoning and that's just how it is.  Instead, I'll be selfish and make it easier on myself an grab a chicken sandwich from a fast food joint and shrimp at a restaurant.  It's just that, I have so many issues with food as it is.  I have an unhealthy relationship with food.  I use food as a comfort, therefore if I'm not eating food that I enjoy, there is no comfort.  And where there is no comfort, there is more agony for me to take on, something that I am not sure I could handle at this point in my life.  It's more complex than that but hopefully you get the gist of it.  It's not as simple as green food is gross.  It's about what kinds of foods are going to help me from going off the deep end.  The other alternative is to just get fat and be gross and lethargic for the rest of my life, all in the name of not supporting the slaughter of animals for human consumption.  Or, I could just eat them and be done with it.  As much as I want to be an animal advocate, when it comes to me and my weight versus animals and their suffering, I'll choose me every time.

And I guess that's the sad part about it.  How can people take me and my animal advocacy seriously when I eat the animals I want to stand up for and give a voice to?  I'll just be another hypocrite.  But, aren't we all to some degree?  It's kind of amazing and frustrating how humans operate sometimes.  Our actions are often contradictory and I think that's a part of the reason why we are so complex- or screwed up- however you want to look at it.  We think one thing, say another and end up doing something else entirely.

One of the nice things about living in the country is the privilege of seeing cows grazing in pastures on my way to and from work.  We even have some that live outside our backyard.  They are really beautiful, peaceful creatures when you watch them just hanging out and eating and lying in the sun.  It always makes me sad to see them and think that one of those calves out there running with their friends or family might one day end up being my dinner.  From playing in a pasture to pâté on my plate.  I shudder at the thought.

Animals are born into agony only to die brutally just so humans can wear their skins for decoration or eat their flesh, all without a second thought to what they once were.  It all seems like such a waste of life to be put down and squashed so easily, so callously.  We take their lives for granted.  No appreciation, just gratification.  It feels like a lot of people don't take the time out to think about where their food comes from or how it came to be that way.  We see the sterilized breaded chicken bits in a bag or even the ground beef, pink and wrapped up and ready to eat with no semblance of what it once looked like and it makes it easier to swallow those hamburgers and to eat those chicken fingers.  As I've stated before, it's not that I'm even entirely opposed to killing animals for food.  I just don't like the way they go about it, causing unnecessary suffering.  I guess I just wish more people took the time out to appreciate the life that was taken so they could be comfortable.

Sometimes I feel silly even writing about these kinds of things.  Some people probably don't give eating meat a second thought and I literally go days and days thinking about it, worrying about it, debating what I should do.  I probably won't write about this much more, either.  I mean, I'm no longer a vegetarian and I've already posted about my journey several times so there's really nothing more to say and no reason to re-hash anything, unless it's to say, "Had a tuna fish sandwich today.  Hate myself.  Thanks for reading."

I'm not going to completely give up vegetarianism.  I'll try to keep my meat consumption limited.  I'm going to try to avoid beef and pork.  I don't guess there's really any reasoning for picking one animal over another except chicken and fish is a bit healthier.  Remember, I decided to start eating meat again for health reasons (but mostly because of my weight).  I want to always keep that in mind.  I didn't just flippantly decided to devour flesh again. 

As I said, things have changed.  Although I'm going back to eating meat, I feel guilty about it.  I probably always will.  After being a vegetarian for so long, it feels natural to have an aversion to meat and skip over eateries that I know don't have anything I can have and passing by various meats in the grocery store and not thinking too hard about it or missing it all that much.  Now, I can have those things.  I am no longer limited in that aspect.  It's almost liberating, although not so much for the animals.

Friday, I ordered a pizza from Mellow Mushroom, the most amazing pizza place I've ever had the pleasure of going to.  I ordered a favorite of mine from my pre-vegetarian days: the Funky Q chicken, consisting of barbecue sauce, cheddar cheese, grilled chicken and Applewood-smoked bacon.  Up until the very second I got on the phone with the lady I ordered it from, I was hesitant.  As I stated earlier, I kept saying I'd do it but I could never bring myself to venture into that territory.  As she asked me what I wanted, I blurted it out and that was that.  There was no going back or changing my order.  I was going to eat meat again after three years.

I brought it home, opened it up and took out a few slices and started eating.  I psyched myself up by just saying I was going to do it.  I wasn't going to think about it or feel guilty or hate myself.  Of course, that would come later, as it always does when I overindulge with pizza or anything other "naughty" food.  The meat part would just be a bonus bout of self-hatred for me to endure.  And I did it.  I ate a few slices and didn't think about it and I was no longer a vegetarian.

It was delicious.

I think that I'll always carry some guilt with me about this.  I'll always feel a bit conflicted.  But, I'm kind of used to it.  I feel conflicted about so many aspects of my life and guilt is something that usually comes along with that because I feel like I never make the right choices.  I'm always messing up something, feeling inadequate and useless.  So, we'll just add one more thing to the pile and hope I don't crack under the weight of it all. 

Finished off the pizza today.  Hate myself.  Thanks for reading.

black box

"How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die?  A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa.  How could I compete with that sort of thing?"
-Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

I've realized that my life has always been limited in one way or another.  My parents limited my world by never taking me anywhere.  I limited myself socially by never going anywhere.  I sat at home and ate and got fat, which ruined my confidence.  The lack of confidence caused me to run away from people and their judgments.  I don't drink.  I don't smoke.  I don't party.  I don't eat meat.  I don't eat vegetables.  I don't swear (much).  I don't have sex (with others).  I'm from a small town, thus nowhere to go and nothing to do.  I don't have a girlfriend.  I don't have a best friend.  I only have acquaintances and they have already moved on to other locations.  I work a stifling job and am forced to interact with stifling people.  I don't socialize or metabolize.  I simply fill a slot on this earth.

It's the world that grabs me by its mechanical hand and puts me in the shower, puts me in my job, puts me in the seat of my chair, puts me in front of people and forces me to open my mouth and speak.  I don't go willingly.  My will is in my bed.  It's in a good book.  It's in sleep and food and the small part of my brain unaffected by cynicism and disease.  It wriggles its way into the tucked away part that can still fathom hope and what happiness might feel like one day.

I am limited.  My life situation limited me.  My parents/friends/enemies limited me.  I limited myself.   I'm trapped in my own black box and everyone has had a hand in constructing it.  And it's devastating as a writer and as a person to feel so enclosed.

I've joked that I should fall in love and break someone's heart or have my heart broken just to have a story to write.  I say that I should get drunk just to see what it feels like or do something naughty to feel the thrill of breaking rules, engage in behavior that forces the blood to rush faster, the heart to beat faster, the surge of excitement and adrenaline.  I should travel and meet and kiss people and give and take and be a real person.  Or at least emulate a real person.  I'd like to think the benefits would be two-fold:  I'd have personal experience and material for stories.

The great obstacle is actually obtaining that experience.  I've developed a Stockholm Syndrome of sorts from being locked inside this black box.  It's suffocating and soothing all at the same time because I don't know any different.  I know that I don't like it but I also know that I have a fear of what else is out there.  I'm terrified of the outside world.  I'm terrified of the experience because I might not like what I find outside my uncomfortably comfortable box.  I'm terrified that I might not be good enough for the world, that I might not be good enough for the people of the world.  I peer through the cracks of the black box but the world outside is too bright and daunting so I shrink back into the blackness.

I've heard some say "write what you know" and while I am ambivalent toward that sentiment (I've heard pros and cons of writing from knowledge versus having fun and making it up as you go) I can't even follow that advice because I don't know much of anything.  I know about food.  I know about...hm...sleeping.  I know about being lazy and watching television.  And unless I can turn the topic of sloth into a success in both life and the written word, I don't think I'll get very far.

Ah, it's that good old fear, driving me further into the corner of my black box, insisting I stay where I'm miserable yet familiar with the feeling of darkness and hopelessness.  How is it possible to overcome this fear?  How can you take a stand against something that feels as natural as the flesh that wraps around your bones?  How is it possible to shake off a force that has been your only source of constant presence (albeit unwanted) for nearly your entire life?  That is the great question.  I fear the insurmountable answer.

dismantle

I didn't even realize how long I was gone...

I have been numbing myself with sleep and food and television and books.  I have some huge problems in my life and I have simply ignored them in favor of garbage.  Food garbage, television garbage and sleep steeped in bizarre, unsettling dreams.

I hate my job more and more and people more and more and myself more and more.  I honestly don't know how much longer I can do this.

I am trying to tell you that I am horrible and I don't think I've fully convinced anyone.

But, you don't really know me.  You know what you read and you get my side of the story but there is so much rage and hatred inside of me that you would probably puke if you only knew half the truth.

So, from this point on I will dismantle the good guy image I have built up for myself for the majority of my life.  That's not me anymore.  I don't think it was ever me at all.  I am falling away from myself and discovering something darker.

Nothing makes sense anymore:  God and gluttony.  Food and family.  Sex and death.  Flesh and flowers.  Love.  I will take these topics and pick them apart until I am satisfied that I have sufficiently resolved my hesitation and confusion with them and I will hopefully find some semblance of peace with my conclusions.  Or I'll only find more madness.

Either way, I'll be working toward something, which is more than I can say for myself lately.