| I believe I have finally experienced the antithesis of candy nirvana. Henceforth, any item of sugary ilk will taste sublime in comparison, for this was without a question the most godawful taste surprise I've had the misfortune of enduring since my days of childhood dares.
Because of a titillating combination of PMS and procrastination, I hadn't finished writing my Islamic shari'ah essay and was jonesing for sweets. (I'm bad, I know. I'll self-flagellate when finals are over.) So, in my groggy stupor, I oh-so-cleverly decided to pilfer a handful of mixed licorice candies from the Bulk Barn package in the cupboard. Maybe I was childishly fascinated by the whimsical geometric shapes, or the pastel-on-black colour scheme, but I excitedly ran back to my room with a fist tightly crammed with sugary goodness. Or so I thought.
As I read through my encyclopedia, I nibbled absentmindedly on a pink cylindrical piece - mmm, oddly coconutty with a pleasant licorice aftertaste. A couple of minutes later, a black-and-white striped cube found itself devoured, leaving behind traces of mild citrus/licorice. All was well. Then... the oral anathema. It came in a squat tablet shape (common to mints and other such innocuous bonbons), covered in light blue beads. Harmless enough. Then I bit in.
Oh, the horror! It gooshed onto my tongue like a soggy jujube, bringing with it the taste of licorice and.. tar? nicotine? turpentine? petroleum? I couldn't quite place it. But the jaunty exterior had belied the evil beneath - this was not candy, this was the taste of SATAN HIMSELF! I chugged down the rest of my cold coffee, trying in vain to cleanse my palate. I cracked open a Diet Coke and gulped down a mouthful as I ran to the bathroom, where I scraped my tongue vociferously. Half a tube of toothpaste later, I'm still feeling the effects each time I swallow. *shudders*
The moral of the story? Don't trust those damned mixed licorice candies. No good can come of it. | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment   |
| By the by, I just caught wind that the ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88.8) 21plus_ana chickies were planning a group-chat. Of course, it's using AIM, a program which renders me a helpless ninny for its lack of intuitiveness. But what the hell.
In case anyone is remotely interested, my username shall be.. brunnlinde.
Oh, how startlingly original of me. Shock and awe. :P | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
| | Security: | | | Subject: | Fragility. | | Time: | 01:41 pm | | Current Mood: |  morbid |
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| After the first restful night's sleep in nearly a week, I'm feeling pretty damned good. My thought processes are clearer and I finally managed to remain awake during the hour-long busride to work. Hurrah! But with all this positivity, I'm questioning why I'm musing on all things morbid, this morning.
This body.. I feel it dying all around me. Like some ancient, craggy Scottish castle, this fleshy husk teeters on the brink of an eroded highland cliff. It's only a matter of time before it begins to heave and crumble, tumbling into the froth below, giving up its place in history forever. Perhaps I'm romanticizing again.. Or maybe I read too much Brontë. But I've never been so keenly aware of my own mortality as I am right now.
I stepped into the shower this morning, feeling my heart perform its spongy ballet, and wondered exactly when this will have gone too far. What price am I paying? Am I damaging my nervous system? Will I suffer from kidney failure when I'm 35? Exactly how much time am I stealing from the future to purchase this mock-thinness?
I boggle at the fact that, according to psychiatric records, many anorexics seem to believe there is no harm in starvation. How could one not be conscious of failing health? Of every skipped heartbeat? Colour me hypochondriac, but nary an evening passes where I don't lay in bed, wondering whether I'll be allowed to experience yet another day. Whether my father will enter my room dutifully, at 6am, to find his dearly departed daughter. (No wonder I never get any restful sleep.)
Perhaps my tendency toward introspection has afforded me an objectivity not seen in more "hardcore" anorexic cases. Perhaps they're further along in the disease than I am. Perhaps I'm not as malnourished as I could be. And part of me wishes that I were, because having the disorder and being conscious of having the disorder is a double-whammy, for it's tantamount to facing a self-imposed death sentence. You deal not only with the illness itself, but with the fact that it could be prevented... if only you didn't want it so much. The selfishness of my actions never fails to surprise me.
I have to stop this. But I don't want to. Therein lies the suicidal rub.
I think too much. Back to work. | | comments: 7 comments or Leave a comment |
| Apologies if this is incoherent. I've had all of 12 hours of sleep over the past three days, and should probably not be considering such weighty (har har) issues. But my hard-copy journal is currently under my mattress, and I'm stuck at work, so this entry shall set sail across digital seas! Arr. Avast.
Recently, I've been thinking a great deal about the issue of control and its insidious metamorphosis from guiding principle to subliminal detriment, in the world of eating disorders. When I reread yesterday's post, I realized that I'd touched upon the clichéed paradoxic idea of having a conscious decision to gain control (lose weight) result in an unconscious decision to lose control by giving myself over to anorectic compulsion. The more I read on anorexics, the more I'm coming to see that this switch isn't uncommon; yet it's seldom explored in any depth, much less explained. Where exactly is the event horizon? At what point does someone become unknowingly drawn in against their will?
( I am the best of servants and the worst of masters... )
I suppose the question intrinsically remains: why am I both expected but not allowed to be perfect?
* Oddly enough, this dysfunctional bodily relationship is a near-exact microcosm of my family environment. Hmm. | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
| | Current Music: | Queen - Killer Queen | | Security: | | | Subject: | Holy doodle! | | Time: | 10:05 am | | Current Mood: |  w00t w00t w00t! |
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| Jesus, Joseph and Mary in Tinseltown. I think I've entered some sort of alternate dimension: I lost 2lbs overnight. Poof. I'm at 131.5lbs, three and a half pounds away from my June Challenge goal. Crikey. This only makes my story all the more relevant...
Christine, a middle-aged co-worker with whom I'm friendly, just finished her "good morning" rounds, and ended up sitting in my cubicle, talking about her latest diet. Considering the circumstances, I'm the last person to give advice, yet she solicited me for my opinion on the G.I. (glycemic index) regime. She asked me about which foods I considered "safe". Har dee har. Try none, lady.
But the crux of the encounter, the moment which prompts me to record this mundane conversation, came when she got up to leave. She said, in all seriousness, "You're so lucky that you don't have to worry about things like this! You're so skinny!"
Oh. My. God. I have never, ever in my entire life been called thin, much less skinny. At least not by someone with a straight face.
I can feel the insane cackling bubbling inside me, welling up inside my empty stomach. I think this calls for a walk during lunch, so I can let it out without sounding like a braying loon. Hee hee hee... :D | | comments: 9 comments or Leave a comment |
| | Security: | | | Subject: | Liar, liar. | | Time: | 02:11 pm | | Current Mood: |  scared |
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| I've started down a dangerous path of lying about my disordered eating habits. Up until now, I've gotten away with taking meals to my room, or eaten minimal amounts in front of my parents/friends. Avoidance has always been key. But over the past week, I've actually started lying. I'll tell my mum, "Won't be home for supper, going out!" and will grin painfully over my Diet Coke "meal", with Ells scarfing down a deep-fried platter, telling her that I'd already eaten at home.
This scares me. It's one thing to keep this a secret, and a whole other can of beans to lie about it.
I feel as though I'm standing at the edge of a precipice - behind me, a life of slothful, lardy repugnance; in front, a future of being lighter than air, and loved by all. But instead of willfully jumping over the cliff, diving with abandon into what seems to be the ideal, I feel like the ground is crumbling underneath my feet, and I'm falling in against my will.
( Wooo wooo... Next stop, Depressive Ranting! )
I'm stuck in this logical fallacy of having complete control, yet no control at all. And I don't know how to stop it anymore. I thought I could play it safe, but this has gone beyond anything I've done before. Hell, I even rushed to the bathroom in the middle of a meal yesterday, to go partially purge a dressingless salad. A salad, for christsakes! That's fucking sick.
But what's even sicker is that for all the pain this is causing, I don't want to heal. I don't want to get better. Damn the world. | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
| Christ on a cracker, I wish people would stop posting quiz results in communities.
Over.
And over.
And over.
I don't care how relevant the results might seem, the fact remains: QUIZZILLA TESTS DO NOTHING BUT INCORRECTLY PIGEONHOLE YOU INTO RIDICULOUS CATEGORIES, BASED ON MOSTLY IRRELEVANT PREFERENCES. THEY DO NOT MAKE YOU SPECIAL. PLEASE REALIZE THIS. >_ | | comments: 4 comments or Leave a comment |
| It's nearly June, so the office feels fairly empty. People seem to like their vacations early and extended, here, so I'm pinch-hitting for the EA who's currently off gallivanting somewhere in the Prairies. And things couldn't be duller. Yawn, yawn, yawn.
That makes my working hours very dangerous.
When I'm bored, my thought turns to food. Or the lack thereof. I begin to obsess over calorie counts, masochistically logging in and out of Fitday, wondering whether my mug of coffee was indeed exactly 8oz. Should I include the packet of Equal? How much milk did I use? How long until I have to face lunch? Should I throw it away? Maybe I should buy a Diet Coke…
Boredom is what made me fat in the first place. As pornographic as it may sound, I like to keep my mouth perpetually busy. And I especially enjoy the act of chewing and swallowing. The feeling of the tiny bolus squeezing its way down my esophagus is pleasant, and probably designed to provide some sort of evolutionarily-wrought comfort. Darwin would understand, I'm sure.
Maybe I should take up Pica. Seems like a cheap enough hobby. Though finding a decent restaurant might be a chore.
In short: I'm bored. I need something to take my mind off the guilt of having willingly eaten a dressingless tomato & romaine salad with non-fat ricotta. Help! :P | | comments: Leave a comment |
| | Current Music: | Something by Evanescence, most likely. | | Security: | | | Subject: | B&P on Lebanese | | Time: | 02:56 pm | | Current Mood: | determined |
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| This week, I'd made a promise to myself that, from then on, I would not eat after 7:30pm. Some doctors say that food eaten two hours prior to bedtime is more easily stored as fat, due to the body's decreased metabolism during sleep periods. Sounds a little fishy, but it's the perfect excuse to give my friends when they get testy about my lack of food consumption.
Of course, having made that promise only days before, I arrived at home last night to find a tray full of Lebanese food waiting for me – hummus, tabouleh, and a hot, garlicky chicken donair. (Talk about food porn. Lebanese is probably one of the most will-weakening cuisines, IMO.) The clock read 8:30, but still I grabbed the donair and rammed it down my foodhole as quickly as possible. And, for the first time, I began thinking about purging DURING my meal. "Well, the damage is done, so I may as well consume the entire platter. I’ll just purge later." Sick, sick, SICK. I've never done that before.
All told, I know that I only ate half the donair, and a few forkfuls of tabouleh, while the pitas and hummus lay untouched. But I felt like I'd gorged ceaselessly for hours, and my tummy felt full of lard.
My father tried to coerce me into washing the dishes but I feigned illness at having eaten too quickly, and skedaddled off to the washroom. Blarg, up it came, until I was sweaty and dry-heaving. I ran to the bathroom during commercials, half-heartedly trying to get thinspiration from a bony Catherine Zeta Jones, in "America's Sweethearts". (Most a propos quote in the movie: "You buttered my toast. Nobody's ever buttered my toast before. Of course, I don't normally eat toast..." – Ha! She finally admits it! Hehe.)
So now my heart hurts and I'm dehydrated as hell. I feel worse for having purged, but I can't help feel it was better than having that junk in my trunk. I shall let yesterday be a lesson to me - no food after 7:30 at ALL. For real, this time. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| | I knew it was a mistake to bring my jar of camping peanut butter to work. | | comments: Leave a comment |
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brunnlinde's journal
heh.. go me.
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