I was so happy. What happened to that?

I got my old job back.

The job that left me bruised and bloodied. The one that gave me hematomas that lasted for months. The one that left me too poor to pay my bills, but not poor enough to qualify for assistance. The one that made me feel like driving into a lake was a better option for my health. The job that haunted every hour of my life. The job that made me cry every day at 2pm, 5pm, 11:30pm, 2am and then to sleep. The job that was a constant reminder of how much I f***ed my life up at age 18 by being too crazy for college, too poor for college, too quiet and shy for college. The job that I walked out of a month ago because I couldn’t take it another second.

I was damn good at it, that’s the only reason I’ve been allowed the pleasure of returning. In this economy, walking out of a job, even a soul-crushing, oppressive job that makes you suicidal, is a mistake.

In the last month, I’ve applied for maybe 15 jobs. Not a single one has called me back. I know that if I were pulled into an interview, I would get at least a few job offers, but looking good on paper is not my strength. I went to college, but nobody cares because you’re not “educated” unless you have a $40k rectangle of paper that says you are. I dropped out because my chest felt like it was exploding in class. I was hospitalized. Now I’m $30K in student debt without a degree. The American system of higher education is a joke.

Anyway, they offered me my job back because I worked hard and did a great job. Also, the job is so terrible that nobody else wants to work it. I took it. And here it is, the night before I go back, and I’m wondering where I should go to swallow an entire bottle of Wellbutrin, washed down with a liter of vodka. I feel like I will never find anything else. That I’m stuck and there’s no way out. I’m in so much debt, I’m drowning in it. My “to do” list never gets any shorter, however my list of “people I can trust” list dwindles down by the day. I have nothing to look forward to. Fuck “making something” to look forward to. I can’t. I have nobody to share it with and no money to make anything out of. I’m completely lost and feel spent. I’m 26. Is life supposed to be this terrible? Is this normal? Please tell me it’s not. This can’t be “real life” for the majority of people. I’m in hell and I’m stuck here.

I just need to vent. I’m probably not going to go swallow all of my Wellbutrin tonight. I do kind of want that bottle of vodka though. I stopped drinking months ago. What am I supposed to do? I’m on meds. I exercise. I eat right. I get enough sleep. What am I doing wrong? What have I done to deserve this?


Just for curiosity’s sake:

  1. What assumptions do people make about you based on your appearance, and
  2. How do you know that these assumptions are made?

I imagine my brain like a spinning roulette board, and each little slot thingy is a random thought that I’ve had. Today, the needle stopped on “Your friends think you’re a b*tch under all of the goofy.”. Why am I thinking this and why does it bother me so much?

I think it’s because I classify myself as a “goofball”. I am a sillyheart. Under the depression, there is a Pippi Longstocking-type character in there. However, I have certain physical traits that lead those around me to believe I am the opposite.

I have resting “b*tch” face. I don’t like when women call women “b*tches” for fun. I feel like it’s degrading and trashy, so naturally this term rubs me the wrong way. Anyway, my resting face isn’t even mean. I don’t don’t have invisible staples in my mouth that cause me to smile all of the time (which seems disingenuous to me, there is my own assumption). I’ve been labeled as “hard to read”, “stuck up”, and “rude” just because of the way my face is. High cheekbones, sad eyes, crooked mouth. I would change it too, guys. I hate that people mention it like I’m proud of it. They are completely unaware that what they’re doing is making fun of my appearance and that it might hurt me.

I feel alienated and distant from many of my friends because they consider themselves “feminists”. They treat me like I’m a cog in the machine of the misogynist agenda because I am petite and “can’t relate” to what it’s like to be a “fat woman”. No. You’re right. I can’t. But I can relate to being a woman, and I can sympathize with the FA movement as somebody who feels the pressure to be thin so much that I’m willing to deprive myself vital nutrients. Why is it different, because I’m not heavy? Why can’t I be angry about fat hate also? Because I’m not fat? I hate racism, but I’m not a person of color. I have homophobia, but I’m not homosexual. Why is this any different? Because it’s more personal for you?

It hurts.


I Have a Stupid Eating Disorder.

And I really don’t feel like digging up a whole bunch of sad right now by explaining the history, though I feel a long, drawn out post coming soon.

Just stahp reading if you have an eating disorder right now. I’m frigging serious. I HATE pro-ana shit and that is not my intent with this garbage. So close your browser and go outside for a minute.

Anyway, I’ve eaten maybe 1000 calories today. Subtract the calories I burned running 5 miles in the heat of the evening (It was 88 degrees! What in the hell?!).

I don’t feel that bad right now. I think it’s experience + scientific knowledge. I know what to eat to feel good, so I only eat that. I just ate brussel sprouts. That was an entire meal for me. Whoopee!

My ED isn’t that bad right now. I mean, it’s always there. Sometimes it follows closer than I’d like, but I’m usually pretty good at pushing it away. I don’t know what’s going on with me right now. I cried all day yesterday and considered going to the ER because I was half considering driving into a telephone pole. I don’t get it.

I think I want to attribute it to being out of work (even though my last job made me even crazier), the heat, and needing twice the amount of meds I’m on now. However, I have no insurance, which means I can’t go to the doctor for an appropriate scrip. I try my best to manage it with exercise, doing the OPPOSITE of what I feel like doing (I feel like lying in bed all day so I get up and do dishes, etc.), and just a sprinkle of limerence. I feel like everything I do right now is a failure. Like my mother always said “I feel like everything I touch turns to shit!”.

I think in some ways, my ED isn’t about being thin (though for me, personally, that’s at least 90% of it – I have unresolved issues from being bullied about my weight relentlessly as a child by “friends” and family), and sometimes about feeling like I’m succeeding at something.

I have applied for 15+ jobs. I am overqualified for a lot of them, I am underqualified for a lot of them. That is my main issue, I think. Nobody wants to pay someone overqualified, nobody wants to train somebody underqualified. I have failed as an adult. But I can succeed at getting thin.

My friends have forgotten about me. I am obsessive about a particular person. I am hard to read and a little odd and do not make friends easily. I’m a horrible girlfriend. I have failed in the relationship department. But I can succeed at getting thin.

Do you see a pattern? I feel like the fact that I can see it helps me not feed into the urge to overexercise (a form of bulimia, by the way) and deprive myself. I can see it clearly. Hey, ED, I got yer number. Get the f*** back, bro. And because I’ve processed this with all of you and have it documented, I feel better. I’m going to go eat an apple and peanut butter now. Thanks for listening.



I’m Categorizing! Read!

I post a lot of personal stuff online in public because I am just like that. I mean it’s nothing incriminating or embarrassing, just personal. In real life, I am completely guarded. I wasn’t raised to open my big mouth and start blabbing about everything, quite the opposite. I guess I feel like on the internet, if you don’t like it, you can scroll through. If you do like it, let’s hold hands and make a toast to insanity together.

Anyway, it seems absolutely ridiculous to post “oh yeah, I had disordered eating thoughts today” or “oh my god, somebody help me, I’m panicking over this freckle on my knee” and then go and post my happy, pink, and very oftentimes, sparkly art.

My world, if I could have my own (Bob Ross seemed to think you could…), would be happy, pink, and sparkly. We would all live in the clouds, everyone would get a long, and there would be bubbles and stars and pink everywhere. My art is the exact opposite of how I’m feeling. The worse I feel, the cuter my art gets.

But fellow sufferers of panic d/o, travelers, and my clinically depressed friends probably don’t want to be bombarded with these images or plugs to visit my Etsy shop, where I’m floundering around trying to sell art online (close to impossible, by the way, but I live in the middle of nowhere, so local is even more out of the question).

So I created a blog specifically for my Etsy shop. It’s clakeart.wordpress.com

You can follow me there if you’re interested in my stupid, cute paintings. Or here, because occasionally, I may still post here, just without the plugging.

And if you just like to read me ramble about feeling like I’m going to have a heart attack at most times of the day, stay here with me and be my buddy.