“Interacting with other people does not come naturally to me; it is a strain and requires effort. And since it does not come naturally to me I feel like I am not really myself when I make that effort. I feel fairly comfortable with my family, but even with them I sometimes feel the strain of not being alone.”—Peter Cameron.
If I am forced to eat nothing but fresh fruits and vegetables at the mercy of my excruciating stomach problems, I’d rather not eat for the rest of my life. In the last year I’ve been diagnosed as lactose intolerant, having 3/4 components for Coeliac disease, I’ve been prescribed countless drugs to increase my metabolism and oesophageal function, undergone a gastroscopy, endured numerous blood/allergy tests and doctors appointments yet there is still no solution for the pain that cripples me almost every time I eat gluten, wheat, or lactose. There is an ever increasing list of foods/products that I refuse to cut from my diet due to ignorance: McDonald’s/Hungry Jack’s, hot chips, pretzels, waffles, chocolate, steak, pizza, pies and sausage rolls, chilli, coffee, orange juice, Coca Cola, ice cream, tomato paste, and basically anything full of preservatives that cause me to spend the following twelve hours (sometimes longer, and multiple attacks over the span of a few days) completely immobilised. Majority of my nights are confined to laying on my back with my head elevated because any other position inflicts more pain upon my stomach, some what as though my ribcage is crushing my organs. I can only describe it as laying in a bed of fire. Not to mention that my one method to alleviate the acid build up is by self induced vomiting. Wish me dead.
I am so butt hurt that instead of seeing Between The Buried And Me in Sydney tonight I am sitting in my room entertaining my cat because karma is dealing me a massive FUCK YOU and I shouldn’t bother making plans because nothing ever falls in my favour.
"Wow, your capacity to apply Freud and D.W. Winnicott to photographic practice via application of camera as mechanism of trauma is fantastic. Clearly well investigated psychoanalytic framework at play and well articulated in its application to images. There is further study in this topic and I would urge you to consider it."
- Feedback from a photography seminar and correlating essay I wrote the night before it was due.
“I buy all of your favorite foods so I will be ready when you come home because once I did this and you said “this is how I know you love me.”
I go on long walks alone and think about a poem my friend wrote that goes ”this is how you die by distance.”
I hum the sound of the dial tone under my breath. I stare at my hands and wonder at their uses. I consider pawning my thighs. I consider auctioning off my hip bones. I put my breasts in a box on the top shelf of the closet. I do not need them now.
I think of all the things I have to tell you when I will see you. stories like:
I just found out pumpkins are technically fruits
and Cary Grant’s first job was in a traveling circus and most mammals are born able to walk and learn to run within minutes, so we are not crazy for moving so fast.
this morning I wrote your name in the steam on my mirror, even though I knew it would fade within minutes
in my best notebook I wrote “I miss you” ten thousand times
I wrote “I think I am missing one of my ribs” I wrote “I envy the way leaves know exactly when to fall from the branches and when to come back in the spring” I wrote “everyone else isn’t you. it turns out that’s a huge problem for me.”— Things I Do When I Cannot Hold You, Clementine von Radics.
I spent the best part of my night (apart from eating Baskin Robbins) reading something I shouldn’t, and now I can’t tell if I’m angry, feeling sympathetic, or emotionally stunted. I’m not tired but I really want to sleep, forget everything.