Well, Whining Won't Fix Anything. in Always Recovering, Never Recovered.

I do not make a good Rapunzel. For a start, my hair falls out at a faintly alarming rate when I drag a brush through it, so a goddamn lard-arse prince climbing up it would leave me looking like a post-meltdown Britney before I could say “take the fucking stairs instead, you oaf”. Also, I’m not big on sitting on my ass in ivory towers, waiting for a chisel-chinned Mr Charming to come save me.

Slightly incongruous as it is, given my ever-unsuccessful attempts to fix myself, I don’t like to hang around hoping that a problem will just undo itself. If something should work, and doesn’t, I will batter myself against it like a fat-bummed bluebottle on a windowpane until I can make it work. And if you discount my divorce-worthy relationships with food/myself/living, I have a pretty good success rate. Because I’m a stubborn little fuck.

So last night, while I was living the dream (or at least paying the mortgage) chucking cheapo groceries at shelves, I was thinking about what I wrote the other day. Yes, it absolutely breaks my stupid little heart that I am such a waste of what I could have been… but almost everything I mourned in that little requiem to the dreamer I was, is something I could still do.

So I will.

Because I like a challenge, and I hate losing, and fuck me I am seriously going to need some powerful distraction over the coming weeks if I can stick with this whole getting-therapy-not-thinking-about-killing-myself-eating-something-other-than-apples-and-cornflakes thing, because my body is going to change and I am going to HATE it.

So I’m going to do all the things I was boo-hooing about not doing.

1) Call the friends I danced in sticky-floored dive clubs with. Wear stompy boots and lots of bracelets; go haunt the badly-lit basements we Friday-nighted in at eighteen. Oliterate eardrums with obligatory playlist of punk/rock/metal etc; obliterate mental function with warm, watery vodka mixers. While there… be incredibly nice to these lovely, lovely people, who are somehow still in my life despite my propensity to roll in and out of theirs at will, dependent on my current mental state. Get drunk and declare undying friend-love for all of them. Headbang/mosh/pogo the night away. Mission accomplished.

2) Walk. Pick a day with clear winter-blue sky, take lots of music, drink the scenery, breathe crisp cold air. Do NOT be massive douche and work out afterwards how many calories it burned.

3) Re-read Krupskaya’s memoirs. Or Service’s biography of Lenin. Or both. Enjoy sensation of brain not turning to queasy pulp the way it does when reading terribly-written chick lit.

4) Record and watch entirety of Cheltenham Festival. Cry a little bit at equine beauty and bravery in action. Pretend crying did not occur, as is rather naff. (Note to self: there is literally NO THING quite as naff as saying naff. Do not be doing this in public.)

5) Draw something. Make it look vaguely like the thing it is intended to represent, if possible. If not, lie about what it was supposed to be. Cover every available surface in pencil shavings and paint. Have fun.

6) Go horseriding. Tear around a very small sandy arena on a shaggy pony, cutting all the corners and doing a rubbish job of sitting up STRAIGHT, leaning BACK and keeping heels DOWN. Feel breathless, battered, and hopefully happy. Thank shaggy disobedient pony for tolerating an absolute lack of talent on its back.

Maybe I’ll add to this later. Last time I (umm, I don’t really have a word for embarking-on-getting-better. Is this a gap in the English language or my vocabulary?) Okay, last time I decided to try eating-like-a-normal-person-ignoring-the-fatness-and-not-eating-the-contents-of-the-medicine-cabinet, I had a list of things I wanted, that I thought I could achieve if I stopped fucking myself up. It helped to have something to hold on to that might make the muffin top and thunder thighs almost worthwhile. And, I did achieve all of them. Because I’m a stubborn little fuck.

So, here goes nothing/something/everything. This entry feels strangely private, which I don’t really understand… possibly because it sounds like me talking? Definitely makes me want to crawl back beneath my nice fluffy blanket of metaphor, it’s safe under there.

In other news… literally shook so hard ALL THROUGH first-session-with-therapist that I could actually see his desk wobbling, and I wasn’t even touching it. Hope I can knock that off, it was quite massively embarrassing.