Jessica

"I denied in my capacity to love...."
My momentary creation of happiness and warmth is always sabotaged by who I truly see myself as; one that takes up too much space in this world and one who is not worth the love she is given. While denying my narcissistic behavior, I can say that I am still trying to figure out who I am and where I am going. Staring at myself in a mirror, I see the vast improvements that need to be made upon my character, upon my physical form, upon my emotional stability and without hesitance, I dive headfirst into an endless sea of want. Want is a sin by the flesh that cannot be helped and my desires overwhelm my logic, spewing forth the anger and pain I have consumed within my soul and at times, onto paper where I seem to find my only solace.
Breathing has become a chore and for what seems my endless supply of control, I have lost all capability of truth and consequence. My actions do not necessarily dictate my meaning and purpose but seem to perpetuate my unhealthy behaviors and mental breakdown. Although this may seem dramatic to some, it is not; the life I choose to lead was given to me as a child by society and by the people who came to judge my future. I was washed away in a current of materialism, landing on my own and left to whither away. While I live life one moment at a time and with more heart than I ever thought possible, my heels drag at the thought of normalcy.
Normalcy is not what I wish to acquire, but just a sense of peace and understanding not only for myself but for those who surround me. Indulgence is not an option any longer and I fear that before I find myself, it will be too late.
*Impressionism and Weakness
*Malfunction and Resistance
*Acceptance and False Pursuit
*Standstill
Impressionism and Weakness:
Children are taught at a young age to revere individuals who are powerful, successful, and above all else, beautiful. They are trusted with this information and seen fit to formulate who is worth this reverence and who is not.Who are they to make this kind of decision and who are they to cope with what the consequences may be in their coming years.
I started dancing at age five, almost six; the day my world turned around and I became a victim of a spiraling madness where I have yet to see light and up is still down. By the time I was nine years old, I was gulity of idolizing almost every woman around me who evoked success and sickness. I envied their protruding bones and weakened backs, their sunken eyes and hallowed cheeks that I would follow with my eyes until my neck strained. I wanted to be beautiful, I wanted to be loved, I wanted to be weightless; I wanted to be them. Jealousy and determination gave way to a view upon life that emphasized the constant need of frenzy and ache. My impressionism took hold over my being and soon I was consumed with such an ideology of what I had to be, that I indeed, lost all sense of who I was; focused only on becoming less of myself and more like the skeletons I watched move on a dancefloor every evening.
Malfunction and Resistance Stubborness is not a virtue but a hell that affects the disordered. To the death is an understatement and the concern you should have for yourself is overthrown by insatiable hunger for the unattainable. Try as I might, I could not rid my mind of the idea of self harm; I'd watch movies about women who took drastic measures to self improve and I could not do anything else but to sit there and admire their willpower, stregnth, and above all else, rattling bones. I made a solid determination to dissapear by any means possible. My mind would stay coherent enough to keep up my grades, which in my perfectionist mind, always had to be stellar. Self harm was not only induced by means of starvation, vomiting and excessive excersising through hours of ballet and the local gym; it came by way of self mutilation; first through my arms, and then wrists and legs. I was beginning to malfunction as a human being and by the time I was in highschool, I could feel myself in the middle of this ferocious hurricane, unable to escape but only feeling the calm at the center.
Resistance was futile and I quickly surrendered any hope of becoming well; my body relied on the sickness and pain it was fed on a daily basis and I became a shell; hollow on the inside and easily broken. I morphed into this creature that could only find flaws; nothing was ever good enough to be called acceptable and even if it was, my belief was that of constant improvement. The wheels of my brain were clogging and I would never realize the consequences of my actions until years later when it was too late and I came upon irreversible damage.
Acceptance and False Pursuit
I began to accept my disease as a part of who I was and then ultimately, it was my only definition of who I had become. My brain twisted and my heart reached out for recovery, yet I became content with my pursuit of perfection, of death, of sickness and unfruitful labors to become something I never thought I'd be. Every moment possible, I would stand in front of the a mirror, a window, a door..anything with a reflection and count the imperfections that invaded my thoughts and my abilities to cope with the hell I had created for myself. I lost friends. I lost family members. I lost relationships; all due to the madness that I forced upon the souls who's only mistake was to love me. A journey that began almost a decade ago suddenly turned into an overwhelming metaphor for a tomb; cold and heartless and deserted-left to stand the weathering of time and misuse and desolation. I mimicked a corpse. I was lifeless. I was breathless. I sustained myself on the ludicrous beliefs that I was fed and was forced to swallow. Whitman once spoke of the "road less traveled", yet I had fallen head first into a clearing of constant circles.