Tag Archives: anorexia

Isabelle Caro

This blog is certainly not an ‘eating disorder‘ blog. It’s barely a ‘drug addiction‘ blog.

I know this is nothing new, but categorization (though, at one end I’m obsessed with) is not, atleast for me, a way to make sense of the world in certain capacities.

That being said, this whole thing… this ghey-ass blaaaaahhhhggg is categorically in it’s uncategorical sense….

…really, if one thinks about it, a blog about self-destruction.

……

……

I want it to lay there. Because before I can justify or rationalize… I’d like for it to be one word… well, one hyphenated word anyway.

(a) its not an instructional on how to self-destruct

(b) it does not delve into synthetic psychiatric terms like self-destruct

(c) it does try to understand… but in terms that won’t trap (as in self-destruct)

But, in so saying, they are all stories, these are all stories (true or not)… each blog entry or whatever you’d like to deem it, is a story.

…a story that, in the end, carries the weight of the term “self-destruction”.

Rings around the Rosey of self-destruction.

So, when I read this…it’s like… I don’t know (because it’s not just another anorexic pseudo-model media personality dying)

I say this only because I saw an episode of something or another where it really made it seem like she was ‘over it’… trying not to die. Being the anti-anorexia, if you will. The poster-bitch. Like a thousand years ago, I saw it.

And maybe she was.

But what am I to make of this?

A thousand years after, she dies anyway.

What does that even mean?

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pink elephants

save me

save me

okay, so maybe addressing things that haven’t been addressed… in 100 or so, much-reluctant posts about things… about me… on a much-reluctant blog…

might

possibly be

helpful?

…yeah, I can drug-addict one to death. blah, blah fuckin’ blah.

but maybe…

…but maybe

…you know, it’s nothing. Those things that are more mundane. These things that I cannot WIN absolutely. …that I’m not so good at. that others could do with minimal effort and even more minimal care.

…these things that, at one stellar moment, I captured and, in turn, was. And these things that, in a naive thinking of immunity, I thought that I could never be. …but am to this day.

I’m sorry.

I’m really sorry. I thought that I would go there.

These things need to be said. Voiced. That’s what Americans do. They speak. And I’m the most  blue-class working artistic American

and, again, I apologize that I even quote this, but:

from the most capitalistic american novelist that seems to have this need to work and work and work…

(and I’m, maybe 11, at best when I first read):

“The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them —  words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understaning what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”

Yes.

I don’t speak about certain things.

…certain major things.

and I did think I could just do it right here. Right now.

But I can’t.

or I wont.

I don’t see them as major, maybe.

Maybe it’s “pride”… whatever that is.

Maybe I don’t comprehend the aforementioned’s stamp on me. Maybe I think it’s ‘whatever’.

… but it’s becoming more and more clear that it’s not “whatever”.

and it’s becoming more and more clear that the pink elephant… will soothe and comfort and save me… but it will never come to the forefront.

…I mean, it’s the pink elephant.

It doesn’t exist.

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