Tag Archives: eating disorder

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?

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

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.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

a minor detail

So, I have this minor lingering ‘thing’ (that would probably be addressed if I had ever gone to rehab or NA… but then, this blog wouldn’t exist, atleast in this manifestation, if I had) that plagues me and prevents me, in part, from easily sliding back into the human race.

Like, what the fuck do people do? As leisure and all of that?

The way I see it, this issue has developed and built upon itself in a slightly exponential manner via a few channels.

a. Relative sobriety, for me, meant that I needed to find substitute behaviour. The aforementioned substitute behaviour would have been work. Work for work’s sake. Very ‘meth’, if you will. Meth behaviour without methamphetamine. This, in itself, is very suspect. Though I might add the physical quitting of the actual using of the meth is far and away the largest step in the correct direction. …or atleast, that’s what common sense seems to dictate. And furthermore, I just need to add, I am naturally very inclined toward repetitive, action-oriented meth-like behavior in general. Some might classify this as slight OCD, I might (read: do) classify these people as retarded.

Okay, back to why this is suspect… I began working at a new place, but continued doing things that I’d been doing my entire professional time in Hollywood. …things that I could do with my eyes closed, both-hands tied behind my back …oh, and high on meth and drunk on white wine. For more detail, see: ‘this took a bit more planning…’ And this may seem a bit backward, but I had been doing these Hollywood assistant-type things, at this point for about two years high and drunk. Yeah, there were about two years before that where I wasn’t. But I wasn’t very good, either: shy, learning and really just unaware of everything. And so, I was sincerely afraid that I wouldn’t be able to continue to do these things in the way that I’d finally learned to do them (communicate on the phone, blahblahblah) if I wasn’t. …high and drunk. So, it became a very focused effort to get to work on time and do my job as well as I could. Plus, one thing at a time, man… I mean, I didn’t even know that I’d be able to function in any sort of human capacity in general without the glory of intoxication.

And it may strike a longer sympathetic chord when I remind one of the fact that Hollywood is Hollywood (behind the scenes business-ness or not)… meth makes you skinny with minimal effort. When one’s only expenses are meth and 2 buck chuck… the money that would have gone to food now goes to cute, funky clothing and highlights. And not to digress too much, but the alcohol drops one’s normal filter and heightens one’s warmth and humanity and certain degree of no-holds-barred honesty while meth acts as a strange but directed filter on the ‘normal’ filter that alcohol dropped. Then meth brings forth the stagnant ideas floating around the brain while the alcohol soothes the anxiety that the meth ideas bring forth. It all balances out in a way that, on paper, seems like, “why bother doing any of this?”.

I can’t say anything to this other than “try it”.

So, in the end, I was obviously able to do my job. And because obsession is rooted in fear and I am me… it, like most things, became a highly ritualized no-brainer. But a highly ritualized no-brainer that I lived and died by. I came in early (imagine that) and stayed late. I did nothing else. …well, except for the court-ordered weekly DUI alcohol program that wasted my money and ate my soul for three months. But after this, it was seriously almost three years of nothing but work, weekend hibernation, work… you get it.

Toward the end of my Hollywood tenure, I did become more comfortable in my own skin and thus went out just a bit; slightly dipping a toe here and there back into the land of eating disorders not-otherwise-specified… oh, and drinking half a bottle of white wine a night, after work. All mild stuff (not excusing any of the behaviour)… but it is what it is. I was milder in my self-destruction and older in my time-line. So, as it goes, the intoxication became less absolute, dramatic and spiky… and more the equivilent of a bud light or something absolutely… slow and exquisitely mundane.

…to be continued. (I mean, because you can’t just have an a.) that way).

Bookmark and Share

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Twitter

I don’t get it.

I don’t.

So, like… there’s (before the interweb-social-network-fuck) the concept and follow-through of creating a website for a your specific purpose. You’d have to learn HTML or have a crappy 2 dimensional website that gets lost in the mire or both. Or in the pre-latter years, a crudely functioning WYSIWYG-type interface. So, it’s easier. Whatever.

…still. One really needed to create said site. It was a whole new skill set to learn; to dedicate yourself to.

You have a ‘thing’… you want to create a website around said thing.

To jump or not to jump?

This used to be a question.

Not anymore.

Its just too easy now.

I’m not saying anything about anything. I mean, I have this blllll-ahhhh-g that’s monetarily free (sans domain name) on this widely used, weak blogging bullshit alternative to the sell-out ‘blogger’-blog (doggy-dogg… ha!) client. Like it’s okay that way.

I recognize my hypocrisy.

I’m just sayin’.

What the fuck is Twitter?

Alright. There’s creating a webpage… whatever. Then blogs/vlogs and/or social-networking arises… as does the nausea.

There’s MySpace…. for the obese tragic fourteen year old that hangs them self due to teasing from some supposed suburban boy, boy’s mother, neighbour, something… that she thought her boyfriend. He wrote really nice things, after all. And she was infatuated by words on a screen.

You know, instead of finding an exercise plan or, at the very least, eating disorder to soften the blow of existence.

“Way harsh, Ty”

Apologies. Really. I know, 14, 15… it’s hard… seriously…

…but virtual infatuation trumps actual disintegration in the land of denial and low self esteem…. apparently.

lazy. baby.

right here right now. now-now.

and more. and now and now and now.

Okay, and now: Facebook and MySpace is enough. Do we really need Twitter?

I mean, really?

Twitter is the electronic equivalent to the ADHD drugs (speed aka amphetamine salts… a younger, softer brother to the cracked ‘bennies’ used in the factory in the sixties… among other places… and among other analogues of amphetamine) that we readily dole out to our 6 year olds.

I mean, really?

Facebook… MySpace… kind of okay. But Twitter is every second… Twitter has people “follow” people and like-wise people “follow” you.

“I am a stalker…. Yay!”

Can no one just sit in silence for a second?

Again, being a non-meth-using-meth-addict (out of the woods for a staggering year and a half… I mean, if you can dig that)… I recognize the hypocrisy that runs through my veins.

Maybe I just don’t get it. But fuck it.

Like the short-attention-span drugs for developing brains are bad enough. Worse, maybe. But maybe not.

Because, maybe ‘human problem solving’ has reached a place where, although the aforementioned ADHD drugs are ‘prescribed’ by a ‘doctor’… through laconic desperation and the quick-fix of the American-Way the majority of parents actually recognize that the pills they administer their children are amphetamine; the Schedule II drug that they are.

And following this back-of-head recognition, they realize that they are making a choice. They realize that they can give their child speed or not.

I mean, this is all covered in a Myelin Sheath (some call it denial) of ‘medical prescription’.

But, I’d think, for the most part, there is a part of people that actually understand… because ‘medical prescription’ can only go so far as time stretches an epidemic of sorts.

Invidiously, it’s a drug. A controlled substance, at that. And invidiously you choose to or choose not to give it to your child… knowing exactly what it is. Whether it’s sanctioned by the FDA or DSM or APA or NSA…

And that’s the thing: one can update their status on Facebook. One can update their status on Facebook every hour, every minute, every second. One can be a Facebook WHORE! But you’re a whore in a larger sea of things that are going on.

People don’t have Twitter pages. They just have their crack-whore updates.

Again, I may not really ‘get’ Twitter… but it seems like crack.

…that homeless black people smoke out of pipes in the alleyways of New York in the eighties.

And So (because I can only understand things in stimulant drug metaphors):

A created website = Methamphetamine or one of it’s long-acting brethren

Facebook/MySpace = Adderall or Ritalin or the latest dirty speed pill for kids

Twitter = Crack; homeless, urine-smelling, rock-buying crack-addict-crack

But the thing is that, it’s too soon for the public to recognize this fact. Delineate. It’s all the same. It’s nihilism.

But just like the prescription speed epidemic… people will sense it in the back of their heads in a year or so and, only then, be responsible for their Twitter updates.

CRACK!

 

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: