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deviation in storage by Hippopotamidae

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AlloenDreams
United States
“...throw roses into the abyss and say:
'here is my thanks to the monster who didn't succeed in swallowing me alive.”
friedrich nietzsche


(terribly inactive but promises to respond to all notes and does really try her best to get to everything else)

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like a bow, bower, bounty,
i am bending at the break

there is nothing clean about this.
there is no precision, no half-point
there is no beginning, no end
just fragments:
my heart spilt on linoleum,
crumbling like plaster,
spent like a heavy sigh

i am heavy
just not in the typical sense
no, i am small.
regardless of what my eyes,
my hands, my numbers say
i am a small soul
in a vessel the size of an ocean.
i am lost, drifting 
from my head to my heart

smaller means silence
peace, the thrumming of my pulse
the only crescendo
no screaming, no tears 
my brain is quiet 
no matter how loudly
it all crashes around me
my brain is too hungry,
too hungry to hear, 
to hurt, to think

thinking never did me any good 
over speculation, existentialism
why am i alive?
smaller is not a reason:
a lifeline, a siren,
a phone call, a sos
along the curve of my chest.
smaller is sadness
carved into flesh
not superficial collagen,
no,
it is me shrinking
to show how small i feel inside.

i am still too small
i am not a big girl,
good girl.
i don't know how to do
my taxes, change my tires, 
clean my teeth, make my breakfast,
i don't know
when i got so small
when i grew in reverse.
maybe i never grew at all.

growing is progress.
but from growing
i have never gained anything at all
except a few more heartbeats,
more murmurs, more moments,
more second chances
but where is my first?

i feel senseless, 
not weightless, weighted
i am too heavy,
tethered let me go
let me go
senseless
wrote this two days before my mom's birthday, before my car accident in september. before i fucked my freedom and control up.

i miss my car. i miss the numbness. i miss purging and i miss being small even if it all came at the price of my car. even if i could have avoided the accident if i hadn't done nothing but purge for days before it. part of me doesn't care. i feel worse, now.
Loading...
recovery has always been more like a wish in my mind. beyond all the journal bravado, the big smiles for my therapists, it was always something i never considered i would have, but rather hold for brief periods throughout my life.

i tried my best to lie to everyone, to lie to myself that i really wanted it. and some days, i did. my most passionate, lively journals and pieces on here about recovery were me attempting to hold that motivation, just for more than a few days it hours, to pin it under glass. but, it never really stuck. i've never looked at recovery as a permanent state --i've always viewed my mental health to come and go like seasons at best, but it is so much more like weather: unpredictable, but nevertheless always changing. there are some places where its mild year-round. where there isn't a constant tug-of-war between sunshine and rainstorms; i just don't know how to get there. i'm still not there.

but i'm tired of growing and shrinking like the tide: of my body growing in-out-in-out faster than i can comprehend. i'm tired of numbers, of calculations, of obsessing over my physical self. but there's also the agony of growing. of seeing someone i don't recognize in the mirror. of someone inches bigger than i know i truly am, but cannot disconnect from myself.

i gained all the weight back in just over one month, gifted by my stagnant metabolism. i couldn't stand the way he held me anymore, like i would bruise at his touch, like the welts i left on myself were his own. goodbye had become please, no more. stay here; be here when i come back for you. i couldn't take how the stomach acid tasted in my mouth; it made me feel so dirty. it burned my knuckles until i was raw inside and out. i felt like another person in the mirror, but not smaller. 

i know what recovery feels like, i have glimpses, moments: it is driving, signing at the top of my lungs and for the first time in months, feeling unafraid; it is looking myself in the mirror, face slick with vomit, and saying: this is the only ugly piece of you, and you chose to let it out again. lock her up;  it is packing a late picnic lunch and sitting on the promenade with him and in a moment of passion, kissing him so hard everyone stares and grinning: fuck it, lets get ice cream. 

and i'm not there, now. i'm battling with this body, still. with grief so heavy i think it adds on all the pounds i see. but i'm making right choices. good choices. i'm undergoing medical monitoring through a pcp i trust and likely having an endoscopy to find out why food makes me so ill, anymore. i decided rather than to lose another friend, to listen --i went to see a counselor at my university for weekly sessions and am being weighed at the health center by a nurse that calls me nothing other than brave. 

i am still trying to lose weight, i won't deny that. i've regressed again; dinner is my only meal, but i eat it right. i keep it down, even though my body seems intent on rejecting it. i'm not purging anymore, my body brings up enough food on its own. if it stopped hurting so much, it would be easier. i just hope this has a name, a cure, a diagnosis other than age-old angst. 

i don't know that i'm going to ever really recover: this is my albatross, and i think like the scars on my arm, regardless of how much time passes, i will always carry it. but i need to start making more good choices, to be a better, more responsible person. i'm not leaving this earth with nothing but pages of sad words and a vomit stain, and that's all i am right now. i might not recover, but i can be better. i can do better. i want to be better, sometimes.
i am not a small, needy 
sepulture
waiting to be filled
i have all the bodies i need
here,

i am self-contained,
folding in on myself
realizing my chest is no home
for a heart because
i am a timepiece without a 
tick, the choir girl
who never sings,
proof you can fold paper
more than seven times

i am sitting here, 
fingers in my mouth, counting
all my chances, chips,
nights i have woken from 
dreams of pulling my teeth
from my gums;
weighing out the difference 
between
one more time and 
one last time 

i still smell like death, 
dirty bathrooms, 
nothing anyone would want to hold
i am not your little angel-girl
your butterfly baby,
i have purged myself of that,
purged until i am raw, 
new in loss, in death, 
i've peeled myself away
like the flesh of an apple, 
in one neat coil on the bedroom floor

i am closing in on myself
like a sigh,
like the wave kisses the shore
before it swallows it whole
and my little heart 
is beating so loud,
for a body too big, 
so big all its efforts
are echos, now
lacuna
i'm going to try and write more. going to try and let it out. this is ugly and flawed and incomplete but i am, too

i'm ruining my life again and i don't know why i started and i don't know how to stop but this, rather than purging lunch, was a start
Loading...
recovery has always been more like a wish in my mind. beyond all the journal bravado, the big smiles for my therapists, it was always something i never considered i would have, but rather hold for brief periods throughout my life.

i tried my best to lie to everyone, to lie to myself that i really wanted it. and some days, i did. my most passionate, lively journals and pieces on here about recovery were me attempting to hold that motivation, just for more than a few days it hours, to pin it under glass. but, it never really stuck. i've never looked at recovery as a permanent state --i've always viewed my mental health to come and go like seasons at best, but it is so much more like weather: unpredictable, but nevertheless always changing. there are some places where its mild year-round. where there isn't a constant tug-of-war between sunshine and rainstorms; i just don't know how to get there. i'm still not there.

but i'm tired of growing and shrinking like the tide: of my body growing in-out-in-out faster than i can comprehend. i'm tired of numbers, of calculations, of obsessing over my physical self. but there's also the agony of growing. of seeing someone i don't recognize in the mirror. of someone inches bigger than i know i truly am, but cannot disconnect from myself.

i gained all the weight back in just over one month, gifted by my stagnant metabolism. i couldn't stand the way he held me anymore, like i would bruise at his touch, like the welts i left on myself were his own. goodbye had become please, no more. stay here; be here when i come back for you. i couldn't take how the stomach acid tasted in my mouth; it made me feel so dirty. it burned my knuckles until i was raw inside and out. i felt like another person in the mirror, but not smaller. 

i know what recovery feels like, i have glimpses, moments: it is driving, signing at the top of my lungs and for the first time in months, feeling unafraid; it is looking myself in the mirror, face slick with vomit, and saying: this is the only ugly piece of you, and you chose to let it out again. lock her up;  it is packing a late picnic lunch and sitting on the promenade with him and in a moment of passion, kissing him so hard everyone stares and grinning: fuck it, lets get ice cream. 

and i'm not there, now. i'm battling with this body, still. with grief so heavy i think it adds on all the pounds i see. but i'm making right choices. good choices. i'm undergoing medical monitoring through a pcp i trust and likely having an endoscopy to find out why food makes me so ill, anymore. i decided rather than to lose another friend, to listen --i went to see a counselor at my university for weekly sessions and am being weighed at the health center by a nurse that calls me nothing other than brave. 

i am still trying to lose weight, i won't deny that. i've regressed again; dinner is my only meal, but i eat it right. i keep it down, even though my body seems intent on rejecting it. i'm not purging anymore, my body brings up enough food on its own. if it stopped hurting so much, it would be easier. i just hope this has a name, a cure, a diagnosis other than age-old angst. 

i don't know that i'm going to ever really recover: this is my albatross, and i think like the scars on my arm, regardless of how much time passes, i will always carry it. but i need to start making more good choices, to be a better, more responsible person. i'm not leaving this earth with nothing but pages of sad words and a vomit stain, and that's all i am right now. i might not recover, but i can be better. i can do better. i want to be better, sometimes.

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Comments


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:iconpreston-kei:
Preston-Kei Featured By Owner Mar 16, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello! Happy birthday.
I want to wish you the best of luck. I'm preparing two presents to give you this weekend, so I hope you like them when they arrive.
Reply
:iconalloendreams:
AlloenDreams Featured By Owner Mar 24, 2015
oh, i'm sorry for getting to this late! i was away for a bit for spring break and then came down with a nasty cold, so i was a bit neglectful to da. 
thank you so much though, truly. that is so incredibly sweet of you :heart:
Reply
:iconbirdiebones:
birdiebones Featured By Owner Mar 16, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
happy birthday babygirl<3
i think about you so much. I miss you, I love you.
Reply
:iconalloendreams:
AlloenDreams Featured By Owner Mar 24, 2015
thank you so much, jessica. i've been thinking of you too. this semester of college and everything else has been kicking my ass, and i've just been burnt out... i'm sorry i've been such a distant friend. i have a package made up for you, but i keep feeling like its missing something. i want this one to be so, so special.

i love you sweetheart, please hang in there <3 you are so, so important to me. never forget that.
Reply
:icontales-of-tao:
Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2014  Student General Artist
Hey, lovely, I've been missing you lately. I hope all is well. :heart:
Reply
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