Melanie's ordinary life

This is my simple story, but no ships sink and no dolphins jump, there is still joy, there are still sorrows, I should be able to tell our children. I slowly am losing my mind. His memories will be as old as me one day, I need not wait, I should be like my big fat neighbor girl, better a newly wed, like the one moving in.

I fell in love with a blind boy who had a large parrot. It used to shout when he went to forage for its food, not in his presence. He used to give it food and water. When it died he kept on feeding the skeleton, the bones, I saw that but couldn't say, various noises in the dark lonesome house, our meetings, were interpreted by him as efforts of the bird to fly. I never told him. He was so friendly, I couldn't risk it. It's not for me, romance and comedy. I told my story in parts; as what to do; in those everyone has one radio shows, their remarks were about the deep reason behind a fabrication of Oscar Wilde's nightingale or birds poking a rose thorn into the heart to make it red, it made me angry, the silence fragmented reply tones, about my inner desire to have his babies and all.

"You've ruined everything. You gave in. You're weak." I whispered fiercely. These are crippling diseases of silence. We are all silently screaming for something attention, love, help, escape or forgiveness. His begging for me to eat became a daily grind. He would stand by my locker, with his teammates yelling down the hall for him, and beg me to eat. I couldn't open the door of my prison to allow others in so that they might comfort.  Although we might be looking to fill different voids, we never ask for the things we need. We feel unworthy, that for some reason we don't deserve them. So, we play the game of guess what I need from you. You're inability to guess just feeds our feelings of worthlessness. A poor self-image, low self-esteem, yearning for a better body, loss of control; these are things that most 15 or 25 year old have in common. Just quarter-life depression. They like coffee and diet pills.

"Look, look, look there goes another, red, blue and white sparkles are falling into water. I'm so sorry", managing to stifle a sob. He said I did it well. "Don't you understand? You saved me." Perhaps, but how many others could he have acquitted? Even guilty? Deciding what is true and what isn't now seems to me, a lack of modesty. He iterated it to be vanity. "Do you love me?" He does not answer this directly but answers that he dreams of me and that it was a nice billboard with people looking at the fireworks, in reply to if we can be a couple like that. Like perhaps the most agonizing aspect that torments the family and friends of a girl who literally eroded slowly into nothingness.

We enjoyed more than physical favors, sometimes it's not about all night long crack and alcohol fuel-led parties, there is a time one gets bored. There is a point that one reaches when dying becomes effortless and living requires agonizing rebirth. We could use this energy but we fail, I may be bipolar, that's what I realize reading books like "Death not an end of life" and other self-help genres, he isn't going bald or anything. I am not rich either, barely holding a job to pay. What would happen if he proposed marriage? His smile never ceased to melt my heart. His deep voice, often made others jump but I knew better. I have a heart murmur or angina. It's saying it's been years don't think, don't think, it's almost a decade now, I'm a girl, I can hold it in forever, it's not for me to die a loner in clutches of anorexia. It says few get out of it, why not me?

Light is a motif that occurs frequently in red or blue. My life is going into despair and disaster. Three of us got sent into this asylum, one girl is an orphan who never stops being naughty with boys even after getting caught penultimate times and the other is silent, smoker, aged with a friendly younger brother who made all efforts to get his sister Mary out of the asylum. Treason and charges of murder prevent that, Mary I think told me among a continuous drone, about killing her husband. What can we do? We are sinners ostracized by society.

Classified as a repeated over-dosage patient, when I was last hospitalized for anorexia, my doctor said I was obviously in a lot of pain and asked why didn't I try using my voice instead of my body to tell that I was hurting, to tell them what is it I need? This baffled me at that time, I didn't need anything. In the hospital I tried to swallow all pills near my bedside, only I failed to swallow, lucky me. I did see my brother cry, I was lying in my hospital bed bawling as they tried to stick the IV in my arm with medicines for complete lack of periods.

I just hope this manuscript will be read, I am desperate, people may learn, my struggle and eventual death may serve as a haunting reality. What else can I lose, I already have a hundred sessions of therapy, may be they'll stop my sedatives and I'll have a cruel and unusual death of sleep deprivation. I see everything red; I want to rub some on my cheeks and lips. Am I being creepy? My self image portrays badly, that's why I'm never hungry, all nerves exposed with no painkillers, antinociception, it's more than a concept. I have absolutely no idea how to end,  if you can predict,  please go ahead. I love jazz that's not wrong is it? I am in AA - anorectics anonymous.

I just woke up and turned on the lamp next to my bed. Since it's nighttime I was getting blinded by the brightness of the bulb. It's very red. My high school graduation dress made a surprise appearance from the back of my pile of things called closet, last week, dug out in an effort to supply vintage clothing for a fashion show in the local high school. The fabric was brittle with the accumulated filth of years; the yellow chiffon muted under a layer of dust. The green velvet ribbon around the empire waist had faded to melancholy tones of gray. I don't really know how it happened. It had been a very bad weekend and I had come home, screaming at my mother. I don't eat as it's the only thing I feel I have control of and the traumas I've encountered in my life.

My parents and all of my four brothers and sisters are compulsive-addictive types, or something. When I was in fourth grade my seventh grade brother made high school varsity happen. Many of us continue to struggle with these addictions. I began experiencing chronic digestion problems. My brother, who I had grown very close to despite my jealousy, noticed when my weight dropped. He sometimes picked me up for lunch, which meant he skipped fourth period, just to make sure I ate. I never did.  The main symptoms I experience when it occurs are, that I get very bloated after meals and sometimes feel like I have a rock in my stomach. I become very lethargic, low-energy and have panic attacks and throw up. I am not sure whether, when this occurs. I'm never hungry, that's all. My parents knew but tried to deny. My siblings were scared.

Why wouldn't everyone just leave me alone? Over the next 3 months, I carried on managing to lose weight even though I was put on a menu plan to make me put on weight. I wrote depressing, sad messages in my diary, and I used to cry for hours on end in my room. This is where something new came in. I would lose blood in my arms thinking the blood that came out would make me lose weight. My mind had entered insanity, and my brain was being starved of any sanity I once had. I remember I couldn't throw up, something inside wouldn't let me. So I used to just starve for days after wards. Something skewed my vision of me and the world around me. Unaware as to how I looked to others, people would come up to me at school and tell me I looked really ill. This infuriated me more, and I would starve for even longer as I was convinced I was unloved and unpicked by all.

Everyday is a battle. A battle just to get out of bed. Especially are the cold evenings I wake up into. As you can see, I didn't put anything triggering about my habits in this because I know how people like me feel, I think they want to know everything they can do and I don't want to harm anyone. It's also a bit rambled because the thoughts are so jumbled in my head. It's hard to decipher or filter the mono-rail of my thoughts. If you think my story is tragic, then there have been far too many such tragedies of loving, bright people. So at times exhausted from panic, more and more each day from the numbness of starvation I think, you know what? Sometimes, it's even fun!  "There, there you are getting obsessive again." Please don't get me wrong, someday soon I'd like to share my story with a happy ending, but for now, it's my precarious ordinary life.

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