When I get up at 4:30 in the morning to wolf down my breakfast, a path is woven, and I wonder, am I in control or being controlled? Because I need and have become accustomed to my solitude, it usually doesn't cross my mind that I have no restraint - until I have none. Guzzling down my coffee and pouring cereal into my gullet is surely not normal. But it's my normal, for now. I am not steady on my feet, yet. I can't justify this compulsion other than the fact it's a routine that I've become comfortable with.
I joined a book club. I'm still not sure if that was a wise decision or not, given that it takes me 3 xanax to just read for a few hours at a time. I don't know when it happened - one day I could read with no interruption and the next day I couldn't stop the racing 'I'm not good enough' thoughts. That was January of 2010, a full year, and still, I can't read without popping a few pills beforehand. It's ludicrous given that I love books: the scent, the tangible turning of a crisp page, the binding, the very words that transform into pictures. That right there though is what I'm afraid of, the images. I lived out of reality for so long, I had forgotten life and it's vibrancy. I eschewed reality and embraced fanfiction - from which stemmed my OCD-bulimia. I am screwed. I can feel it in the very marrow in my bones.
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