Slinky strapless black. Strappy heels. Marilyn monroe hair. Smile plastered on.
Vodka and sugar and strawberries on ice. Vodka on ice. Someones rum. A bottle of red.
Cute boy. Surprisingly intelligent, and gentle. Nothing is lost.
Waking at 8am, blurry eyes and spinning room. Sitting fragile.
Hours later, nausea, nap, puking. Riding the porcelain express; this is the first time I regret it.
Rewind. Getting up at 1pm, heading bleary-eyed into the kitchen. Doing the dishes. Sorting through the the fridge for what needs cooking. Cooking through the list. Navigating many other people in my space. Cleaning. Listening to the voice saying my camera isn’t good enough, my presentation is dodgy, my recipes are inaccurate. Holding off rising panic as deadlines come and go. Pulling my attention back to the food; Do not burn it, find a better dish, do not spill it, you need better garnish. Taking my mat to the hill as the sunsets; pushing my body further and deeper into repetitions of downward dogs. Returning back to the kitchen with a sense of relief as the kitchen empties; feeling my imperfection less acutely. Cleaning more as 10:30 comes and goes. Packing up around midnight. Sitting in the shower, aching heels. Memory card in computer, review, insert, upload. Write and edit paragraphs. Mindless internet browsing. Laying down, maybe sleeping. Hands on chest and belly, waiting for the pounding solar plexus to subside.
The pressure builds and I don’t know how to release it. No sex. No drugs. No money.
Turns out that self-acceptance is the absence, of something. Something that goes away when you obliterate your senses. It doesn’t feel bad. It feels freeing, like it makes you able to outrun the dogs snapping at your heels. Like the mushroom boost on mario cart.
I woke up naked. I don’t remember getting undressed. My housemates drink and smoke all day, every day. And they said to me ‘that’s brain damage. I always stop before I get to that point’. Nausea rising.
My mother was, is, a raging alcoholic. My mothers mother was an alcoholic, with slightly less rage. If you asked my friends, they’d tell you I don’t drink. But if you stuck around long enough, you’d notice annual festivities of excess. Usually I find that amusing. The trail of broken/lost phones, forgotten kisses and morning fragility is like christmas, coming irregularly enough to live the rest of the year in denial of the horror.
‘The belly is at the centre of the immune system. Healthy happy belly, healthy happy everything’.
My stomach is decimated.
‘Refined sugar is a nutritional minus one. In the absence of the buffering affects of fibre, the body struggles to manage…’.