#mychronicles

[atoast-to-thefuture]

God, what a life it must be to be average-sized.

[atoast-to-thefuture]

To exist, what a wonder.

I push people away when they get too close and matter too much to me, yet I look for help whenever I'm drowning. Then, when people respond to my cries with half-hearted attempts, I'm filled with frustrated disappointment, and I resolve to never let anyone in again. I can only ever help myself, and the sooner I learn that, the smoother life will be. But then what is the point of having friends? They don't provide adequate comfort or advice when I need them to, so they're only mere, social play things, perhaps? Only I will ever truly understand the situation, so why bother trying to fill someone in when they'll only offer mediocre and cliche phrases.

[atoast-to-thefuture]

If someone is hurting, leave them alone. They'll talk to you if they truly feel it's necessary.

[atoast-to-thefuture]

Yesterday was the anniversary of my late grandmother's death, a woman who meant the world to me. Tomorrow is my abusive father's birthday, a reminder of the pain he's caused. Today? Today I struggle with whether to fight for the friendship that's meant everything to me for the past two years.

So I drink instead.

[atoast-to-thefuture]

help

[atoast-to-thefuture]

Oh, February.

When I was little, February was always the best month of the year. Birthdays were a celebration of living, and I counted down to each one, giving myself a metaphorical pat on the back to congratulate myself on making it through another year.

However, over the years, February has grown to encompass a lot of events I'd rather forget. In second grade, my great-grandmother passed, and suddenly I'd lost the days where we'd sew together and watch her soap operas. Then I learned that my biological, abusive father's birthday was just four days after mine, and the concept of him celebrating his life gave me goosebumps.

Then, in the ninth grade, I lost my favorite person in the world—just two days after my fifteenth birthday. It was sudden and completely unexpected, and her absence is still felt whenever I need a shoulder to cry on. She was my ally in life, and one never truly heals after losing that person.

Not to mention my 18th birthday, which ended in the nosedive where I attempted to take my own life. Hah.

So this month, simply getting out of bed is sometimes an insurmountable struggle for me. Leading up to each birthday, I'm always hopeful that I'll finally enjoy celebrating my life again, like I used to; however, these past couple have more so become a sad realization of how screwed up I've become. My list of drug experiences have grown longer, and my moral boundaries have slowly faded into gray. In no way am I proud of who I am, and the celebration of my existence is now just a spiteful reminder of the three-year-old who loved Spiderman and walking around in her grandmother's hats.

Please February, end.

[atoast-to-thefuture]

For the past four months, I've been battling with the idea of fat, and within the past few days, I'm quite sure I've lost. I haven't been eating regularly since September, skipping the majority of meals because of time constraints, but then I find myself gorging during the rare times that I do eat.

Obviously this is not conducive to maintaining any level of fitness, but at the same time, I've reached a point in my life as a disabled person that I can't work out with moderate ease. A few years back, I read an article by someone suffering from lupus about how each day you start out with only so many spoons, and certain tasks consume a certain number of spoons. By the end day of the day, you're prioritizing tasks based on how many spoons you have left because sometimes the spoon deficit runs into the next day. Occasionally there will be an extra spoon, but that's rare and often followed by a day with less spoons.

This metaphor still continues to accurately summarize what it's like to live with a disability, and I can tell that my general allotment of spoons is slowly dwindling as the days go by. It's taken nearly twenty years for my handicap to spread to the majority of my body, but my back has chronically hurt for nearly a month now with no sign of reprieve - and eventually, I'm going to have to accept that I've only ten spoons.

Maybe I should just accept my body image and try to love it? I know that's supposed to be a mandatory part of life, but I don't think I've ever accepted my physical self. At this point in life, I'm not even sure if I can learn how to do that. I just continue to wear sweaters two sizes too big, and since it's winter, that should be okay... right?

Regardless, I don't know what to do. Every time I see a photo of me, I tear myself apart for ten minutes scrutinizing every inch of cellulite, and I'm pretty sure that's not a healthy thing. But then again, I don't do many healthy things, so why not accept it and add it to the list?