[EDIT: 3/24/11 I wrote this under the influence. So excuse the GARY rambling.]
It's hard to say when I decided I was capable. Enrolling in 5 courses (English 2, Geometry, World History:part 2, French 1, Health:part 2) sounds absurd, given that it took me nearly 3 bulimic-crowded-years to complete 9th grade. But back to capability. It spread like a heinous disease, point for point with my anorexia. The more I restrict, the more I lust for knowledge. I read like a glutinous snorting/rearing pig, and take 4 xanax and 3 adderall a day to keep my flock of thoughts sequestered in a padlocked pen. Functioning, like my labored breathing, is unfathomable without my drugs. Dear Lord, I'm Gary personified.
Gary, my fun-loving 40+ in seniority, pill-popping friend, is who I'm referencing. I love him, dearly; not a puppy-love sort of crush, but a all-encompassing stifling love that expands day by fleeting day. I've known him as a sort of uncle figure all my life, and I've always favored him, always felt crushed by the weight of our fastening personalities.
I have a friendship with him that fetters me, and I'm always concerned for him, his life choices, and his girlfriend preferences. Not jealously, but more like a festering agitation for his well-being in those relationships. I could never be jealous, I only yearn for a blissful relationship for him. It's hard to intelligibly make this clear in my own head, never mind in a blog post. But, to be neat and fair, I love him and only wish for him the best in life. I'm doubtful he'll ever vacate my thoughts and future choices, but when I'm in a relationship just based on a no-strings-attached liaison it's easy to forgive and forget my love. But by the next day my stomach is roiling at my betrayal to my one-sided love.
I suppose I've only managed to disappoint, and that's a hard cross to bear.
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
early bird catches the worm
I wake up early - twilight hour early, birds not even twittering early: 4-5 am.
My compulsive nature compels me to trudge out of bed at 4am and drink coffee, study french and have a minuscule bowl of cereal. I am not a person with an eating disorder, but an eating disorder personified. What is that? Nerves? My fear of having no solitude? But even with that awareness, I am an automaton and ritualistic at 4am: roll out of warm bed, turn coffee pot on, take adderall + xanax, go to the bathroom, blearily walk downstairs to pour my 1/2 cup ration of cereal with sliced banana, grab coffeemate and mug, and then hurry up stairs and scarf down my food like a dying person guzzling their last sumptuous meal. Halfway through I comprehend this is not normal, eating a bowl of cereal and 3 full mugs of coffee in 10 minutes but I can't discipline myself. It's a strange experience, realizing that when you wake up at 4am for the solitude and peace, you don't earn any of it because you're too busy stuffing food down your gullet to notice.
A night ago, my mother purchased more correspondence classes for me, to occupy my interminable time, and so no binge lists intrude my thinking. I appreciate the expediency she applied, and surely what it took to lobby the credit card from my father's hand. He wants me to complete high school as exhaustively as possible, covering any and every subject no matter the cost. It's a vicarious exposure to High School he never had, being shipped of to military school at 14, and then getting GED and masquerading as a hippie for a decade - give or take a few years. He's assigning all his ramshackle aspirations onto me: a doctor, an archaeologist, a scientist. I would be happy simply editing manuscripts. That was my dream. To sit, and smell, and immerse my soul into the words of fresh copy paper and polish the story into a gleaming book or article or an anthropology of short stories. An Editor.
But with all this newfangled technology running about, is that even a logical option anymore? I want to be affiliated with a quaint, idyllic publishing house. Will Piedmont Community College help me discover that? The kindle, the nook; what happened to the magical thrill of turning a page, of tangibly clutching a book rapturously for the next sentence? I feel cradled in a swath of library smells, of old books and new books. The phenomenon of words transforming into otherworldly adventures is something to live for, and console you in times of need. They have the revolutionary power to refine our thoughts, give a new perspective in our lives, and motivate us to rearrange our perceptions.
My compulsive nature compels me to trudge out of bed at 4am and drink coffee, study french and have a minuscule bowl of cereal. I am not a person with an eating disorder, but an eating disorder personified. What is that? Nerves? My fear of having no solitude? But even with that awareness, I am an automaton and ritualistic at 4am: roll out of warm bed, turn coffee pot on, take adderall + xanax, go to the bathroom, blearily walk downstairs to pour my 1/2 cup ration of cereal with sliced banana, grab coffeemate and mug, and then hurry up stairs and scarf down my food like a dying person guzzling their last sumptuous meal. Halfway through I comprehend this is not normal, eating a bowl of cereal and 3 full mugs of coffee in 10 minutes but I can't discipline myself. It's a strange experience, realizing that when you wake up at 4am for the solitude and peace, you don't earn any of it because you're too busy stuffing food down your gullet to notice.
A night ago, my mother purchased more correspondence classes for me, to occupy my interminable time, and so no binge lists intrude my thinking. I appreciate the expediency she applied, and surely what it took to lobby the credit card from my father's hand. He wants me to complete high school as exhaustively as possible, covering any and every subject no matter the cost. It's a vicarious exposure to High School he never had, being shipped of to military school at 14, and then getting GED and masquerading as a hippie for a decade - give or take a few years. He's assigning all his ramshackle aspirations onto me: a doctor, an archaeologist, a scientist. I would be happy simply editing manuscripts. That was my dream. To sit, and smell, and immerse my soul into the words of fresh copy paper and polish the story into a gleaming book or article or an anthropology of short stories. An Editor.
But with all this newfangled technology running about, is that even a logical option anymore? I want to be affiliated with a quaint, idyllic publishing house. Will Piedmont Community College help me discover that? The kindle, the nook; what happened to the magical thrill of turning a page, of tangibly clutching a book rapturously for the next sentence? I feel cradled in a swath of library smells, of old books and new books. The phenomenon of words transforming into otherworldly adventures is something to live for, and console you in times of need. They have the revolutionary power to refine our thoughts, give a new perspective in our lives, and motivate us to rearrange our perceptions.
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