like a fool

she thought things were going okay.


i had a good week last week. and i don’t use the word good lightly. normally i say ‘okay’ or ‘alright’ because i’m always afraid that if i describe a week as good and actually think things might be getting better (as if) i will somehow sabotage things and crash. harder. and lo and behold, after a good week i had a really fucking bad one, and it’s only thursday.

here’s what happened:

  • i found out my service dog application has been passed to the next stage and that they are able to train a dog to my specific needs, which for me was to reduce socially unacceptable stims which generally piss people off (read: knocking, clicking, impulsive laughter followed by self-shushing, shaking my head to shake away thoughts, tapping… you get the idea. not super socially acceptable) and to recognise distress and panic attacks
  • i was able to see two of my friends, G and D for coffee
  • i spent another day with G, and we went to the park and there were so many dogs which made me really happy – dogs!
  • i started dexies (an adhd med. depending on where you are in the world this could be called aderall or ritalin or dexamphetamine) which have made my head a bit quieter. as a scientist (lol), i had to make sure it wasn’t a placebo effect and followed up my hypothesis by skipping the dose for a few days… in which my head got loud again and all the urges piled on top of me and i wanted to fucking die. seems like proof enough to me.

and here’s all the bad shit that happened:

  • i found out the service dog organisation i applied to is not a charity and it costs a ridiculous amount of money to have one trained to my specific needs
  • self harmed on campus. this is a big deal, since i used to sh exclusively at home. it’s part of the ritual, i suppose. but realising i can’t cope with anything anymore i’ve started carrying blades in my backpack
  • overslept too many times which disrupted my time which made me anxious which made me urgey which made me cut
  • my dr is disappointed in me. i am even more anaemic than usual, and my sodium is getting dangerously low. she’s threatening to admit me – FUCK that! and my doctor is great, and always finds time to see me, so i don’t like to disappoint her
  • after a really bad day, which included a fight with my mum about money and tattoos and generally how shit of a daughter i am, i forced myself to stick to my schedule and go to work. i tutored twins for two hours in english which made me feel a little better until i walked home and realised the ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS I HAD JUST EARNED somehow DISAPPEARED FROM MY FUCKING POCKET. so that was the cherry on top for a really shitty, shitty day.

so that’s me. glad to have a good vent.


peace out,

rosie bogs, lover of dogs.

this is where i’m at tonight

i sat in the shower crying, eating cold pizza, hating myself with every bite since it seems like all i did today was eat and when i try to count cals all i want to do is die because i broke so many fucking rules and i wish i just fucking wish i could throw up. what kind of shitty bulimic am i? a fake one. the kind of bulimic who purges by exercising.

it’s not fucking good enough.

a friend told me recently that the lack of a gag reflex is entirely wasted on a lesbian.

well fuck her. because i would give anything to be able to get rid of this binge. instead i just keep eating and eating and gaining and gaining. i had reached my goal weight a month or so ago and it felt amazing and then in one shitty week i ruined all that progress. stupid fat bitch. next time i feel like binging i’m going to cut instead. punish myself in advance. with every bite i’ll go a little bit deeper. until i hit the fat of my thighs or forearms and can slice it out from beneath my skin. because that’s the only way i will ever be thin – if i slice the fat out myself.

tonight i am nursing a bottle of vodka. you know you’re an alcoholic when you can have about 6 standard drinks (australian) without even feeling tipsy. i almost had beer for breakfast but i love my job at the pharmacy, and can’t bear to lose the only thing that gives my life any fucking meaning.

so i’m nursing my vodka, proper vodka this time, 37% alcohol, and proper nursing, since i carried it back from the shops clutched tightly to my chest, mostly because my latest set of stitches are MAD infected and really fucking hurt, but the pus hasn’t reached the surface so there’s nothing i can do about it. maybe if i get sepsis i will finally fucking die.


should i write more drunk posts? they’d probably be pretty fucking funny, hey.

byee

rosie bee

Humpty Dumpty

I slipped. I broke down.

I went to emergency, where, just like humpty dumpty, they glued me back together again.

(FYI the glue didn’t hold a day. I was insisting on stitches, but the doctor wouldn’t listen)

I don’t have any words. I don’t know what I’m supposed to write here anymore. It’s not that there’s nothing to write about, it’s more that I feel like I can’t do my feelings justice with times new roman in pt 12.