Listening to the Demons’ Song

Do you ever have one of those days where you just HATE everything about yourself?  Well, I am having one of those days.

First of all, I have to say, coming out of depression is hard fucking work.   I always feel like I have to watch myself for any signs of incipient depression in order to fend off another fall.  However, the even harder part is that the demons are panicking because I am starting to pull away, and they know this is possibly their last shot to keep me hooked in their pointy talons.

When I was depressed, they didn’t have to work so hard at keeping me down.  I did a fairly good job of it myself, thankyewverymuch.  I berated myself on a daily basis (minutely basis, truth be told), and I pretty much knew I was a piece of shit without them having to reinforce that knowledge.  In other words, I made their job really easy for them.

Now, it’s a bit harder.  Why?  Because I am starting to rebel.  Not purposefully, mind you.  I’m not saying, “Hey, fuck off, demons, you worthless pieces of shit.  You’re not needed here any more!”  In fact, I’m not paying them much attention at all, and that is pissing them off to no end.

So, they are waving their talons in my face and stepping up the attack.  And, since they have been around forever, they know which buttons are the best ones to push.

The first:  my weight.  I am feeling incredibly fat and ugly and undesirable.  They are telling me, “No one is going to ever want to fuck you again.”  Which is very, very sad, especially if you’re me.  By the way, I read a review of a book that reinforces the idea that a woman thinks about sex once every couple of days whereas a guy thinks of sex once a minute.  My reply?  Who the fuck stole my brain and replaced it with a guy’s when I wasn’t looking?

Anyway, I feel disgusting.  I know it’s in part because my mom is here, and she has her own body image issues.  She does the, “I worked out today, so I can eat ice cream” thing that so many women have been taught to do.  She has always been trying to lose that last mythical five pounds.  She reinforces my bad self-image thoughts quite effortlessly.  I know she thinks I’m an elephant, but then she wants to take me out to dinner and feed me.  I said to Choolie that she’s like having my very own women’s magazine come to life.  Every fucking women’s magazine has a big, “How to lose a bajillion pounds by only eating persimmons and running ten miles a day” ad on the cover juxtaposed with a big, “The world’s most yummiest triple chocolate double peanut butter quadruple the butter fudge–recipe inside” ad right next to it.  My mom is like that in person.

And, let’s face it, the closer I get to my yearly appointment, the more I think about how she’s going to shame me for being so grotesque.

So.  I vacillate between wanting to starve myself while doing seven hundred sit-ups a day (yes, I actually did that the first time I lost weight, plus dancing for up to seven hours a day.  Lost forty pounds in two months) and eating a bunch of crap food, purging, and mumbling that since I’m gonna end up alone with only twenty-three cats, Dirk the Dildo and his pal, Buddy the Butt-Plug to keep me company, I might as well eat whatever the fuck I want.  I might as well be as big as a house if I’m going to be unfucked.

No, I didn’t say the demons’ voices were reasonable.  They aren’t.  I can see that in my more sane moments, but when I am in the throes of my ED thinking, I am anything but sane.

In Taiji, there’s this exercise Choolie had us do.   You lay on your back with your feet straight up in the air and your legs pressed together.  You have to have your lower back firmly pressed into the ground.  You start slowly lowering your legs towards the ground until your lower back comes up off the ground.  A year ago, I could lower my legs maybe a third of the way down.  Choolie had us do this again recently, and I could lower my legs all the way to the ground without lifting my lower back.  Holy shit!  I couldn’t believe it.  I felt really good about it.

And that is my dilemma.  For the most part, I want to be strong.  This is a good thing.  Strong is good.  I want to be able to defend myself, and I want to be able to walk with confidence (instead of just faking it).  When I used to have defined biceps and a three-pack abs (half of a six-pack), I delighted in my muscles.  They were hard and sleek and ready for action.  I looked good with muscles, damn it.  However, if I had muscles, then I wasn’t skinny.  See my dilemma?

I don’t find skinny women to be that attractive.  I like my women with meat and curves and full full breasts.  Oh my god.  I could dive into the sweet sweet curves of Salma Hayek and never come out again.  I could luxuriate in the wonderfulness that is Queen Latifah, and I would happily curl up with Margaret Cho for some snuggles.

In other words, I am not attracted to women who look like twelve-year-old boys.  So, why the fuck do I want to be one?

It bothers the crap out of me that I can’t shake my desire to be a skinny, curveless woman.

Then, there’s the idea of me being in a relationship.  I am kinda back to being indifferent to being in one (which is good because I don’t see it happening any time soon), but the demons are whispering that I am too much of a freak to find someone who will put up with me.  They say that I need someone more stable than I am (true), but that anyone more stable than I would want a more conventional life.  Then, they toss in all my negatives (intensely moody, critical, not a cook or a house cleaner, by turns aloof and clingy, fatalistic at times, incessant worrier, not social, not traditional at all, not a fan of movies in general or TV in general or anything mainstream, really.  Even the things guys usually complain about such as women being high-maintenance is actually something many guys seem to want, and I am not that at all.  I hate shopping and the mall and I will never ask if something makes me look fat because I don’t want to have to make my partner lie.  I am against marriage, don’t want kids, am grumpier than hell in general, and very very very sensitive.  Plus, I am nigh near insatiable in bed, which isn’t as much a bonus as I thought it would be.  That’s the short list), and I start freaking out.

I have never lived with a romantic partner.  Hell, I have rarely been in the same state as a romantic partner.  I am thirty-nine years old, and I have no idea if I could actually be in a real, day-to-day relationship.  I try to think of actually being with someone for real, and it seems so strange to me.  The demons are hissing that no one could put up with me on a daily basis, and while I don’t automatically take it as gospel truth any longer, it’s hard for me to completely dismiss them as I have nothing which which to counter their assertions.

It’s not well known, but a dangerous time for suicide is right after an intense depression spell.   When I was really depressed, I didn’t have the energy to kill myself.  Sad to say, but true.  However, once the depression breaks, I find some energy.  And, I haven’t completely become sold on the living idea.  I’m not that far yet.  In addition, it’s hard to let go of the old way of being without having anything solid to take its place.  I know that I cannot live as I have been because that’s simply not sustainable any longer, but I don’t know what I am going to do in the future.  Just the fact that I think I might have a future is freaking me out.

This new skin isn’t comfortable yet.  It doesn’t fit quite right, and I don’t know how to take it in so it’s more snug.

I have been having terrible migraines lately.  I realized that it’s probably a part of inhabiting my body.  In the past, I had a headache all the time.  However, I preferred not to be in my body, so I was able to ignore said headache much of the time.  Once in awhile, I would be jolted by a headache, but then I would just exit my body again, and it would be fine.  Or, I would take seven ibuprofen which did the trick–until I found out that it really wasn’t advisable to take that many ibuprofen at one time.  I’ve switched to Excedrin Migraine, which works with only three pills.

Anyway, now that I’m in my body, I am noticing more of the pains.  I had a migraine for five days.  I was taking three EM twice a day–until I read the bottle.  The max dose is two capsules in twenty-four hours.  Oops.

I am uncomfortably aware of my body in ways I never thought possible.  Sometimes, it’s a good thing such as when I feel how absolutely fertile and ripe my breasts are.  Funny story, I like to roam around the house topless during the night.  I was getting ready to go to bed around six a.m. one morning, and I was saying good-night to my cats.  I live on a golf course, and I keep the blinds on my sliding door open because they don’t shut properly.  Anyway, I looked outside and there was a golfer looking for his ball in the woods.  If he had turned his head to the right, he would have gotten an eyeful of my tatas!  OK, it was funny to me.

Other times, I am just aware of how…there I am.  I hate the fact that I take up so much space.  I am OK with my face (except it being too round), and I love my hair, but I hate my stomach with a passion (and yes, that’s channeling my mother).  My breasts are fine if a tad too big.  My hips are fine.  My butt is too flat, but serviceable.

My waist, though.  Oh, my waist is the bane of my existence.  I hate hate hate it (as evidence by the scars on it), and if only I could lose a hundred pounds….Yes, I know it’s as insane as my mom’s mythical last five pounds, but I can’t shake it from my head.  If only I looked like this, then I would be happy.  If only I had my 24″-inch waist again.  Sigh.  Alas.  Hand to the forehead.

Then, there’s the question of my life.  My mom told me that it was a shame I hadn’t been published yet.  She mentioned a paper I wrote in college and how good she thought it was.  Then, she said she wanted to read my novels when they got published.  I said she wouldn’t like them.  She said it didn’t matter because reading them would help to understand me more.

That actually blew my mind.  I mean, first that she remembered a paper I wrote eighteen years ago.  Second, that she has that much faith in my writing.  Third, that she actually wants to read more of my fiction.

I want to make writing/performing the mainstays of my life, but I am unsure as to how to do this.

I feel like a newborn with no skills.  For the first time in my life, I know what I want from my life (and not just what I don’t want), but I am at a loss as to how to actually attain my goals.

This is the frustrating part.  When I was depressed, I had no expectations, no goals, no hope, and no vision of a future.  Now, I have expectations, goals, hope, and a vision, but it all seems so nebulous.  So, it’s even more frustrating than just being depressed.


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