Longitude

At first, I couldn't get out of bed and Dad was actually nasty to me for the first time in well, ever. I don't know how to stop him hating me - after all, I've been pushing him and pushing him, and this is what I deserve to get, right? So, instead of trying to figure out my life before I start more of the biggest conversations of my life, I stewed my bras in boiling water and Persil - to clean them, don't worry - and I needed a meaningful distraction.

So, I decided to read Waiter Rant (addictive) - cos, well he's Mr Prozac and with his serious and funny posts I get a perspective on NY life which I won't know about until I save up money to visit there sometime. Anyways, I was delving into his archives and found a post called "Leftovers" which just got to me for some reason. Maybe because outside of the tight circle of self-hating bloggers and the communities on Livejournal, 'bulumia' and 'cutters' is a taboo word. From the depth of silence that comes down when I mention in passing it outside of the circle, it's as if it's everyone's dirty little secret.

So, I thought about telling you about myself. I didn't think it was important. After all, who am I in the first place, and what does anyone else care? I guess it has to do with all the well, fuck-upity-ness of myself: Black, gay, cutter, bulumic, short, fat, female, intelligent, atheist... I'm sure I could killed, bullied, maimed and hated in regions all over the world, but that doesn't really matter to me, because I have people who love me - for now - and thats the most important thing for me really. I also have the sublety of a brick through your window - I have been known for calling my friend 'bitches' as a term for endearment, and when I want to, I can say 'NO' very easily.

But I guess why I bother telling you about myself is that firstly, a black lesbian can gorge on the amount of positive discrimination policies out there, and she can make a life for herself as her own person - be it Betty Browne, the potential genius, or as the multi-billionaire of her own company, the successful journalist, or... What if I told you I was one of those sad girls, who cuts herself AND has an eating disorder?

I figure on here, that is what my life is about: trying to explain myself, trying to excuse myself, and trying to get better. Right now, I'm trying to excuse myself. Here's a bit from the comment I left on Leftovers:

"Its not just because I see pictures of beautiful, tall flat-stomach people and I want to cry, but pressure - from your Dad, your family, youth workers, psychiatrists, doctors. Seriously - you could come up to them covered in blood and vomit and the first thing they'll do is weigh you. Actually, I think I'll put that in my blog...The truth is, the media fucks up a lot of people, but I guess throughout the ages the projected image of perfection has been tormenting some group of people throughout time..."

Anyway, I have to be off. It's my aunty's birthday and I have to revise before depression takes full hold of me...