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emptyyourthoughtss · 2 years

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I’m Dating Again

TW: Eating Disorder Content

I've decided to date again. I'm not sure if I'm ready for it, but I've decided to date myself. So I went out to dinner with her the other night. Table for one.

There was a pit in my stomach from the minute I walked in. It felt like everyone was staring at me. Judging me. For being alone. l was uncomfortable the second I had the idea. I couldn't get comfortable in my seat. Couldn't look the waitress in the eye. I scanned the menu for comfortable food. Something I would feel good about eating in public. When the waitress came to my table, I ordered with my head down, wringing my hands as I spoke. It felt like I was apologizing for bothering her with my presence. I felt guilty and like I was wasting her time. I ate a small appetizer and choked on my tears as I chewed silently. I didn't even know I felt this way until I took my first bite. Is it always going to be this hard?

I tried to block out all my thoughts and took in the sounds from the scene around me. Sound scanning. A technique I learned from an old therapist. I used those sounds to hide my urgent need to weep. A few clatters of plates, take a deep breath. The sound of fresh cups being picked up from the stack, a choked tear. By the time my main course arrived, it felt easier. A little less embarrassing. I was just eating, after all.

I sat in silence while I carved into my waffles. I wanted to throw my AirPods in. Put on my favorite podcast. I wanted to avoid being alone. I had a book in my bag. I thought about pulling that out, too. I could read while eating. I've done it before. Plus, I'm at a really significant part in this book. Her husband cheated on her FOURTY THREE times. She's just finding out, and it's driving her mad. I realize I'm reaching for a distraction. My current therapist says I'm looking for company and need to fight those urges when they get strong. Stick to the plan, Jasmin. I can eat alone. The uncomfortable feeling was good this time. I needed to feel it eventually. I needed to be okay with being alone. It had been way too long since I experienced it. I let myself sit in it. Every single second. It was hard, but I made it. The check hit my table, and it was cheap. Cheaper than I expected. I guess I'm just used to a table for 2.

As I walked out, I felt myself starting to cry again. My feelings pour out of me, and I have no chance of reeling them in right now. There's been a lot of crying these past few months. It's been healing, and I'm grateful for every tear, but there have been many more than I'm used to. It's a little annoying, but it's better than suppression, right?

I've started wearing waterproof mascara to adapt to this new version of myself. I stop walking to my bus once I realize how hard I'm crying. This is not a few tears. This is going to be a storm. I turn the corner, isolate myself in the diner's parking lot, and I cry until my anxiety disappears. After a few minutes, the knot in my stomach unraveled, and the nerves began to settle. I wasn't shaking anymore, but I still continued to cry. I could tell this wave of emotion was far from over. I feel these waves somewhat often, and they can last a while. I guess I should get comfortable in this parking lot while I can. I sit on the parking lot floor, back digging into the building with every shoulder shake that comes over me. I let myself cry.

My anxiety has turned into anger, and I sob even harder as the knot in my stomach gathers again. This stupid fucking knot is a physical symptom of my anxiety that I thought I lost years ago. Still, today she's back and stronger than ever. How convenient.

I was angry at myself for feeling SO anxious that this knot was back. I thought I kicked this years ago. I made it this far in my journey; why am I still anxious? Even in this stupid fucking parking lot. I should be celebrating. My anxiety overwhelms me, and I hate that I let it ruin this moment. I start feeling angry again. I was angry at her for leaving all over again. Angry at her for being my best friend. Angry at her for leaving me with no one who understands me like she does. She would know what to do right now. She would know how to comfort me. In another life, she would scoop me up from this very spot. Buckle me up in her car, kiss my cheeks, and tell me everything will be alright. I'm so angry. I'm so angry at myself for feeling safe around her. I'm angry that I don't feel safe on my own. I'm always worried someone would hurt me again. Being afraid for your life all of the time is exhausting.

I'm so angry at my new life. I was once a confident girl (maybe I still am? We aren't there yet). I'm now the girl who cries in the parking lot of a diner. All I could feel was grief by the time the anger was gone. Grief for who I used to be and who I used to be with.

I had managed to find a way to cry over her again. It's been months, and I'm still crying over her. What the fuck is wrong with me?? I cried and thought about her sweet smile. I cried when I remembered how she held onto me tightly in public spaces. I always cling to the things I love the most in times like these. I cried for who we used to be. I cried once I realized we'd never be together again. I cried, thinking about every way I pushed her away. I cried, thinking about every way I tried to control her. I cried because id never be able to hide behind her again. She'll never make me feel safe again. She was SO GOOD at that. I always felt safe around her, even at our worst. I always felt safe. God, this cry is exhausting. But God, it felt good once it was over. It lasted about an hour.

I need to be loved again. I'm dying without it. So I'm giving myself a chance no one else has. I am working on breaking my bad habits, but I'm far from finished. I'm honest with myself daily. Still trying to make sure my honesty doesn't cross the "toxic self-talk" line but still honest.

I talk to my therapist twice a week. I'm open with her about my eating disorder, which I've never done before. Its become worse and worse the past few years. It started with skipping meals at a young age, but I quickly started skipping the "eating thing" entirely, and it stayed that way for the past three years. A bite of an apple here. A bagel when I feel dizzy. Hash browns when my hunger gets so bad it becomes rock-hard nausea.

My body has started to change from all of it. It's a little scary how quickly my body has responded to this lifestyle. Still, something about it feels a bit rewarding, too. I've found myself using the last loops on all of my belts, eventually exchanging those belts for the rope kind that uses pulling as a mechanism rather than holes. I'm using binder clips to hold up skirts and sweats that fall past my waist, and paper clips are my new fix at keeping my bra straps up enough that they almost fit my back. I don't weigh myself. I know better than that. So I pretend I don't know what my moms talking about when she says I'm too skinny and that "I need to eat." I scoff and tell her she's crazy.

I'm obsessed with numbers more than usual lately. Constantly counting and adding the digits from license plates that pass me by. Counting the letters in your first name and adding them to your last name, then dividing it by every day it's been since I've last seen you (.1625). I'm not sure when this whole eating thing started to morph into something a little darker, but that led me to therapy twice a week. Throwing up has become my new secret habit. I can sneak it around the people who know me a bit. I've been caught a few times, but I have learned. Throwing up, even on an empty stomach, is my new form of punishment. I wouldn't call it bulimia, though. I'd have to binge for it to be considered bulimia.

I want to take myself out more. I want to go out on dates! I ended up going to my first concert alone the other night. A gift to myself. I was filled with anxiety in the beginning, as always. Afraid someone would hurt me, as always. A thought that is sure to follow me for the rest of my life. Afraid I wouldn't make it home. I stifled those thoughts with music. I stood in line listening to music, my AirPods filling in as a second presence. I was longing to speak to someone as I waited in between acts. Tried to talk to strangers, but they weren't you. Decided to live in my own head instead.

When the show started, I forgot I was alone. Unlike anything I'd seen before, I danced and sang my heart out. I was dancing and enjoying myself at a concert SOBER!! When it ended, balloons rained down on the crowd. I took one home with me as a reminder of tonight's accomplishment.

I didn't think of anyone else the entire way home. I went to a concert alone, and I didn't miss you. I understand now how live music pushed you into her arms. I understand how a few shows have brought you two together. The magic of that night made me love myself a little more. I can only imagine how it made you feel about her.

I need to be cared for. I need all of MY love and attention right now. I love coming home at the end of a long day. Being able to shed my clothes and worries from the morning. Tucking myself into bed and getting high. Feeling the euphoria and buzz in my mind. It helps me unwind. That's my self-care right now. It's not the best habit, but it's something. I can date myself. How hard could it be? Eating alone is done. Concert by myself is done. Sleeping alone is done.

So yeah. I'm dating myself. It's slow. It has boundaries. It has its easy days. There are always hard days. But I'm trying. That's enough, right? Is this one of those situations where "it's the thought that counts"? I doubt it, but I'll get there. Relationships are hard work.

#queer writers #writers on tumblr #narrative #self love #self healing #self care #blogspot #blog post #breakup #relationship #spilled thoughts #thoughts #journaling #online diary #writing #disordered eating thoughts #eating disoder recovery #therapy #healingjourney

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emptyyourthoughtss · 2 years

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It Was More Than A Mango

I don't know too much about myself. What I do know is that my father left me when I was very young. My mom at 21 years old was left to take care of two kids. My oldest sister was about 8, and I was 3 (I think that's how old I was, I don't ask my mom about that. Always felt like it wasn't my place to). We moved around a lot. Always finding a home that would suit us best. Our budget. Our schedule. My mom didn't drive, everything we did was by bus/train. After all, this is Brooklyn. We ended up in Sunset Park by the time I was 7. Small apartment on 55th street. Down the block from Cookies. ***A place, for those of you not familiar, with bootleg toys, cheap kids' clothing, and school uniforms. We frequented it quite often. $25 could get you a bootleg Dora doll and a new shirt and I was fucking OBSESSED*** The streets of Sunset Park were my favorite in the summertime. That's when the street vendors were out. I'd beg my mom to look for cash every time we would pass. We needed snacks and we needed them now. Fresh piraguas, mangos, and quenepas by the pound. All were sold by the same woman on our block over the sound of salsa music. She spent her summer days working for her children, who accompanied her through some shifts. The younger girl drew on the sidewalk and apartment building with chalk while the two boys kicked around a ball. They'd ring bells on other days and repeat her selling points to get the attention of passing pedestrians "Piraguas! Mangoes! Quenepas!" A family business. I've come a long way from that apartment but I crave those treats every summer, even now. She was out the last few weeks of school and she stayed there all summer long. We passed her as we enjoyed our summer. We passed her on the way to the bus, saw her after weekends with Nana, and noticed a customer with her while we carried groceries from the cab. She was always working. Sometimes with one kid, all three on the days she brought music. She worked as hard as she could. Let nothing stop her. But that was years ago.

I was making my way into Battery Park on a sunny June day, funneling my way out of the Staten Island Ferry and I saw them again while passing by, girlfriend in hand. Vendors. On this hot summer day. A flashback and reminder of home. Many women stand here. They remind me of her. Shoulder to shoulder ready to take on the New York crowd every half hour. Frantically ringing bells, their children joining in and shouting the selections to everyone passing by. "Mangos! Cherries! Mangos! Cherries!". They worked hard. They spent their days in the sun with goodies and a goal. I pat my pockets, I never carry cash anymore. I ask my girlfriend. She’s from Staten Island, she’s never had these treats. She’s half black/half white but Staten Island finds a way to dissolve anything but white from its people. We start to speak at the same time. “Hey babe do you hav-“ “Mangos! Mangos! Mangos! It’s like a song. Mangos! Mangos! Mangos!” she giggles and dances in a slight shuffle. I frown. It’s like a song indeed, but not one I’d like to sing. What’s there to sing about while this lady waits her days out in the sun? What’s there to joke about when she’s trying her best to provide for her family? I think about the lady who used to work on my block. Did she even live there? Did she travel around until the money was better? The idea of it being a song made me angry. Sick to my stomach. She was trying her best. Providing her best and here my girlfriend is, completely ignorant to financial struggle, putting on a song and dance for me. One about poverty. One about being Latina. It felt like she was singing about me. It felt like she was singing about her. It felt like she was singing about every Spanish woman I know. Every poor woman I know.

She grew up in a well off family. Not poor, not rich. Sure, they had their problems like any other family, but not the problems I had. Her parents were divorced but she had two. I had one. Her mother got remarried so at 16, she had three. I still had one. She had a brother from the same father. I have two sisters, but all three of us have different fathers. Different genetics, different backgrounds, only thing we had in common was our mother. The lady who did it all. Her father paid child support. I’m the only child of my fathers that’s never gotten a check. Same with my older sister. They owned two homes in New Jersey. "Higher middle class" as she liked to call it. She had a cleaning lady that showed up weekly. My family has never owned a home in our life. Rented one and it didn’t last long. No one was able to afford a mortgage. Her and her brother were given cars when it was their time to drive (16), they both got jobs and didnt have to pay bills, and once a year, they were shown the world. They all went on family vacations. A thing I always resented her for. Having money. Having a family. She was half black and half white. People confused her for Puerto Rican because of her ringlet curls and caramel colored skin. She hated every feature that made her unique. She struggled with her blackness. I thought it looked beautiful on her. Her father was white,the skin color passing down to her brother, but he had some of the families ethnic features, a beautiful blend of the two parents. Her mother is black, the same caramel color as her daughter. Spitting images of each other. I could cry if I looked too long. Her mother hated me. But I loved her twin. Two different backgrounds. Two different mindsets in this moment right now. So many layers underneath it all.

As she sings the mango song, I start to feel defensive. She sings it as we swipe our metro cards, as we make our way down the subway stairs, and as we walk onto the nearest subway car. I feel angry. I need to quiet her song. I'm triggered. I can feel the hot words rising. The anger bubbling in my stomach. The need to criticize her. The need to shame her. I suppress it for as long as I can before it comes flowing out of me, like lava. How could she judge the situations in front of her when she’s never even seen it before? When she’s never even tried it. When she’s never had to go through it. I shut down and hiss at her to stop. Half begging, half demanding. I'm embarrassed by her. I'm embarrassed by myself. The disrespectful words I use against her like weapons. I want to disappear. We made it to this train and she’s angry at me for silencing her. The tension is so thick it could kill me. How do I explain this to her? This micro aggression. She says I know she didn't mean it, which is partly true. I love her and she say she loves me so how could she shame my background? How could she put down the community that has lifted me up? How could she love me but then shame the people who were born just like me. Struggling. Hard working. Trying to survive. Then again, how could she, a person of color, make a comment like this and then get mad at me for being angry with her? Where in all of this is my mistake? At our next stop, A Mexican man gets on our train. Holding a guitar and a cup of change. No. Don't do this right now. She smiles wide at me and I uncomfortably smile back, hoping this smile will ease the tension of our bicker. This is just too ironic, isn't it? She leans over to me and says, "Wanna guess what song he's about to sing?" I think of my roommate. Her Mexican heritage. How hurt she would be by this song. It angers me even more. I’m Latina although I struggle to consider it true. Without my father around, I thought I could erase that side of me. Hide behind the nose my Austrian ancestors gave me, the dark brows that don’t have to be Spanish. They could be Austrian too. But in this moment, I can feel the Latina in my blood boil.

How could you love me when you treat parts of me like this? Sure, it wasn't meant for me. But it was meant for me to hear. Meant to shame the part of me I already struggle with. Meant to expose that side of me for something other than hardworking. Something other than strong. Something other than resilient. Maybe it isn't about the race, let's just say that. Then what was it? Do these people come off to you as beggars before a husband, a wife, a child? Sure she didn’t have the experience of being poor like I did, but does it make us that different in a time like this? I'm Latina. Even if I don't speak Spanish. Even if I don't speak to my father. Even if I was raised by my Polish-Austrian mother. I am who I am. My last name is Spanish. I am exactly who she shamed. That day hurts me still more than I could ever explain. I don't think she ever understood what that day did to me. She shooed it away. Didn't care to explain. Didn't care to apologize. Didn't correct her language. Didn't want to talk about how harmful it was for me to hear. She called me miserable. Said I was a Debby Downer. I guess I'd rather be that than racist towards the person I love. The rest of our day soured by this experience. She loved her Latina girlfriend openly in front of her friends. Put her arms around my Latina waist. Grabbed and kissed my Latina hips during sex. I'm sure she loved me then. I'm sure she loves us then. But what about after? Behind closed doors? Is she really fighting for me? Did she really love me?

#blog post #writing #relationship #latinx #queer writers #writers on tumblr #journaling #healingjourney #self love #representation

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emptyyourthoughtss · 2 years

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You Make Me Sick

I’m sick every morning over you. I throw you up like a bad night out. My stomach lurching with every lie you tell, forcing the foundation to crack. Bubble and bruise, you know food gets me good. How could you hit me where it hurts the most? It’s like you know i’d die without you. Wither and crack under every last breath. Wish I didn’t remember you as being good. Wish all the reasons I hated you could come back to me now. There’s none today. There’s no fuel for me this time. Can’t do this now. I have to tell myself you’re never coming back or i’ll never let it go. The hold you have over me, from so far away. It’s unhealthy, really. I don’t want you to go but whatever you do, please don’t stay. I can’t survive another two years of this. I need you though. What am I supposed to do?

Codependency is the only way I know it. I brush my teeth with it every morning and pray I can taste it. I travel back and forth now for work. Across the small sea. It’s my way of pretending im leaving. I fly up and away, somewhere unfamiliar. Im just like you, see? You live in every crack of my mind. You live in my home keys. You live in my favorite shoes. You live in that stupid fucking neon sign you left bolted to the wall in our room. The one you pretended you gave me. A friendly favor. Always giving me your unclaimed baggage, knowing that a piece of you saves me. I take it. I always do. Something deep down inside of me is hoping, praying you’ll be back. Back to claim it.

I don’t do well with ghosts. They haunt me easily. My third eye is open at all times, leaving them the power to perceive me. Something far from divine. I live this new life waiting for you to orbit back to me. The cycle we kept up a million times. Five years feels like forever.

Sometimes when you’re asleep, you forget to dream. Im assuming thats what it felt like, loving me. A sleepwalk. Something you knew so easily. Someone that made you feel seen. All I do is dream. Dream that this works out and that you’ll one day make it up to me.

I knew I was right. I knew another shoe would drop. I felt it in my stomach but pushed it away for you, you were so good at that. Made me believe everything you did was for us. It was good. I knew you weren’t who you said you were. Is the cycle finally over? I’ll still wait. I’ll wait to find out. My head won’t let me do anything else. I’ll wait as long as I need to. I don’t get over things easily. Can you tell? Even if you say it’s over, I know better than to believe you for your word. I learned the hard way. I don’t get over things easily.

I wish I didn’t love you. It would be so much easier if I didn’t love you. Why did you make me love you? I was almost over you. Then I gave you everything. This time I gave you EVERYTHING. My demons started catching up with me and you left me as soon as I had them at bay. You made me give you everything. Told me it was the only way. You wanted to see me for who I was and it scared you away. Now im left on my own. To deal with everything you took away. The only thing left of you is everything tangible. Thats the shit I cant move. The shit that wont look away. Its my house. Its my home. Its the place I go when I wanna get away. How do I get away now? Where do I go? Your presence weighs on me heavily. Such a sad gravity. How do I continue this life without you around me?

#blogspot #writers on tumblr #breakup #narrative #writing #spilled thoughts #reltionships #relatable #i feel sick #codepency #self care #self healing #healingjourney #blog post

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