“It’s not a measure of good health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society”
I’m not very good at self destructive behavior. Since I was 15 I’ve been trying to find my “thing,” all the while testing out different destructions that might fit my personality. I tried anorexia but that didn’t last through the afternoon because I’m obsessed with food, so I tried bulimia—I’d at least get to eat it even if I had to puke it up later. This didn’t work because I have the strongest gag reflexes of all time. I could stick my whole arm down my throat and I wouldn’t barf. I tried to just eat to excess but once I gained five pounds I thought of all the new clothes I’d have to start buying and stopped over-indulging.
I decided to move away from eating disorders entirely. I tried cutting, but, well, that really fucking hurt. I mean, I understand the concept of hurting one’s self on the outside so the inside doesn’t hurt as much, but I actually don’t think that happens. I don’t think the pain bleeds out; you just layer on the issues.
I’m pretty good at drinking to excess but I get hangovers so easily that I really couldn’t make it a habit. I’m too cheap to even consider trying hard drugs.
So. What’s a girl to do? My self-destruction is my non-conformity. I’m not sure if I could ever accept anything at face-value. I do not accept in how our culture is designed so almost everything that is main-stream is something I find problematic. This has caused me to be misunderstood, to be laughed at, to not make friends easily. Sometimes, I wish I would have remained ignorant to patriarchy, to capitalism, to feminism, to everything ending with an ism, but alas it is the path I have chosen. Perhaps I will end up in a mental institution. There is only so much screaming and fighting I can do before the crazy permanently sets in. But at least I’m not sleeping through it; at least I’m not sheepishly following the stereotypical path of heteronormativity, even if I am slowly deconstructing myself.