Laus Veneris

they’ve all just come flooding back, i’d worked so hard at pushing them away.

I can’t fucking do anything right.

The doctor suggested I try talking to him.

He just shot me down.

why am I crying? He doesn’t deserve my tears.

just enough that you could bring yourself to talk to me,

that would be lovely.

But you were drunk at the time and your not there. But I’m going to talk anyway, since I think you’re checking this. Or maybe your friend is. I don’t know, I can’t tell, and I don’t care, either way it was someone from your hometown that visited my page over the weekend when you went home. So since you aren’t replying/speaking to me, I’m going to put it here. That way I’m not bothering you with my presence by directly talking to you. But hey, I doubt I need to: I’m sure I can do that by just being alive but whatever.

Well I need to talk, I need to feel wanted (not by you, necessarily)- not as though i’m always the second choice. As though people are putting up with me. I know they are/do.

I’m not suicidal. Not anymore. I don’t know why I went downhill so quickly. I guess I was so stunned that I couldn’t catch myself. But I’m ok. I think. All the thoughts have subsided and they’ve returned to where they came from. I feel like i’m writing a bad extended metaphor without the metaphor.

I’m going to the doctors again on Wednesday, but I told you that.
How do I tell them that I have these thoughts about everything: like my skin, my appearance, my weight, my inner thoughts about how much I hate myself? I mean, I sometimes look in the mirror and think I’m alright, passable, maybe not as hideous as I thought. Then I go outside or I see my reflection again and I’m back to square one. I’m never going to be pretty. Even if I ever got thin (which is more unlikely than you talking to me again,) I wouldn’t be able to hide my physical appearance behind the layer of fat that softens the blow to the eyes. Or does it? My favourite words to describe myself is ‘repulsive’. Just say it, out loud, that sneer you get as the tongue brushes the back of your teeth, that’s the face, with the sickened glare. That’s how I think know people secretly look at me.
It’s quite an emotive word. Re-pul-sive. It brings about such ideas of the disgusting. Oh god, I’m writing like nabakov (although I never could write as poetically as him.) - subconsciously channelling his words.
“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Li. Ta.”
God I love that book. And Jeremy Irons. Not How I imagined Humbert to be but he does it well.

I don’t want to sound like one of those girls who are always like “owwh i’m so fat in my size 10 jeans with my 32DD boobs.” No. I’d be happy if I saw that. Maybe not the huge boobs. Also another reason I can’t do things with guys. I cut them. It’s gross. You can see the cuts when I wear lower cut tops- they’re outside the cup of my bra. They’re not hugely visible but I hate them so much. I know they’re there. There’s about 10 of them, criss crossing. I don’t know why I cut there. Well, probably cause at the time I wore t-shirts/hoodies/jeans all the time. I didn’t wear nice clothes. I had a staple of 6 main shirts and two pairs of jeans and a few hoodies: 3 long sleeved tops (all the same design) in Khaki, Grey and Black, 2 3/4 sleeved tops- both the same design but one was red and white stripes and the other, stripes two shades of khaki and a red mickey mouse top which was actually short sleeved. I’m sure I had some other things to wear but I remember my friend’s mum asking my mum if I owned anything different cause I never varied what I wore. Why am I babbling on about this? I guess what I’m trying to say is I’ve never had any confidence and I hid behind those clothes. I’ve always hated my appearance/my size/my height. I still have no confidence, but I’ve learnt to pretend like I have at least some- I’ve got clothes that sort of look ok on me: at least I think they do, they’re better than looking like a grungy tramp.

Last week a friend asked me to name two things I like about my body. I had one thing. My left eye. I couldn’t even like my right eye. It’s horrible. It’s wrong. If I could, I would change everything about myself. Maybe not by much in some cases. But tweaks here and there- like my nose, It’s manly and gross. Why couldn’t I have a smaller, more girly nose? Why won’t my hair ever do anything I want it to do? My face shape- round faces are the worst. No hair cuts/glasses suit round faces. Not fat round faces. Round faces only look good if your thin.

I’m eating again- properly. No not properly actually. I’m binging on everything. What’s wrong with me? I go from extreme to extreme.

When I was 15 I started a 365 self portrait project. I was going to make myself get used to how I looked. Maybe even like how I looked and try to find out how to be more photogenic. But mostly just get used to the idea that this is me, suck it up and deal with it.
At first, I was always looking for a cool photo, one where I looked good and was interesting to look at too. Then I became obsessed (in a bad way) I’d retake so many photos. I’d get depressed because they were all terrible. In the end I quit on like day 320 give or take. I’d forget to do them/ couldn’t be bothered with it anymore. I saw more blemishes in my skin, more things that I couldn’t stand. I used to think my teeth were quite nice. I never needed braces and they’re pretty straight. But that’s not the issue. They’re not white enough, they’re not aligned properly, they aren’t straight at the back, not straight enough anyways.
My nose isn’t girly, it has a bump in it, it’s too big. My eyes aren’t good. I’m not going to say what I dislike about them because once I noticed it it has bothered me every time I look in the mirror and I don’t want other people to notice. That’s why I avoid making eye contact with people. I figured people only ever really glance at people’s faces. When have you ever studied someone’s face. I do it sometimes and after a while they’re appearance changes, you notice things you’d never noticed before. (not in a creepy staring at someone for ages way, but like every time you see them, look at something you’ve never bothered to look at before. It’s funny really, the first time I did it, I noticed my ex-best-friend’s teeth. They weren’t aligned like, her two front teeth weren’t central and one was in the very centre and the other off to the side. She’d been my best friend for 7 years and I’d never noticed it.)
Anyways, my eyes. They aren’t coloured enough. I want them to make up their mind, be bright blue, more blue, or be more steely grey. Not boring and in the middle. Also the yellow circles around my iris are wrong. They aren’t yellow enough/thick enough. I want them to stand out more/be interesting- no one says Wow! you have beautiful eyes to me. They’re just boring and plain. They’re also too small. Why can’t I have bigger eyes with a nicer shape? Why can’t my eyelids be less fat and let me wear eyeliner without looking like a twat?

My thighs. My arms, my feet, collarbones, stomach, neck, ears, face, ankles, knees, wrists, hands, elbows, skin… Yeah, I hate all those things about me. Just everything is so flawed. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I’m still waiting to grow up. I keep wondering if I’ll ever be able to have a childhood where I’m not so self conscious. It’s not a real childhood, feeling different to everyone else, hating your appearance, the fact that your bigger than everyone, even though you danced twice a week, went swimming, did sports/gym at school.
Didn’t help that in secondary school I became the goalie in Lacrosse. I got fatter. And I sucked at it. I’m not good at anything that I do. Why do I even try?

But yeah. It’s kind of nice to pretend like you might read this, and maybe even care. I know right? I think I’m a little delirious from tiredness. But anyway, I don’t know why. I hardly know knew you. Or maybe it’s just nice to think that someone will read this and give a fuck about me. But I can’t talk about this with people. Not in real life because they always say the same things. “But you’re fine” “But you have a lovely smile” “you have such a nice figure- you’re hourglass, that’s perfect.” No, Marylin Monroe was hourglass. I’m fat.

They just haven’t seen my flaws yet. I have.
urgh. I don’t want to guilt you into talking to me. That’s not my intention. I just don’t know who to say these things to. I can’t tell the doctor. They’ll just tell me to stop being so stupid, to grow up and live with it. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve googled to see if I can get cosmetic surgery on the NHS- to fix my eye, my nose, my ugly lips, my puffy cheeks. (ha puffy… losing weight would help that… it’s called fat.) I can’t even get liposuction/have my stomach stapled so I’d eat less. I’d have to pay with the money I don’t have. I try to stop myself from eating bad food. but then I get obsessive. I stop eating. Well, I eat enough to get by, but less than 1000 cal/day. less than 900 is great and less than 800 and I’m buzzing. I can still be full and eat that much.

What was it Emily tweeted about me when I ordered a take out pizza with my friend, Lexi. Yeah. She said I was double-fisting it into my mouth. I had 3 slices. Not even half a pizza. I can’t eat pizza w/o thinking about that now. I feel guilty when I eat, everything, not just Pizza. But I still do it- I binge. I guess Emily was right. I’m disgusting and huge and it’s all my fault cause I eat so much. I feel guilty cause I know I don’t actually need that much food. I’ve survived on less than 900 calories and I know that’s a lot to someone who’s really restricting, but I couldn’t not eat, not when I was doing a full day of school and 1 1/2 hours of sport a day. WHY DIDN’T I GET THIN? I need to just resign myself to looking like this.

Joe elbowed me in the ribs when I was sitting next to him the other day- he was leaning over me to reach something. Anyhoos, he said- “I’m sorry, what did I just elbow?” “Don’t worry- it wasn’t my boob- just my fat roll which is as big as.” not that my boobs are big. Being fat and having bigger boobs = gross boobs, not nice ones.

Urgh. Just urgh. <that’s some thoughts that I cba to type up now. Besides, you’d just laugh because it’s pathetic to even dream.

Also, I know you don’t particularly like Lauren for whatever reason, but what you’re doing- or what i’ve heard from her that you’re doing is what a group of girls did to me in sixth form. It’s different because they were my best friends for 7+ years. But the sentiment is the same. They made me want to die. I felt so pathetic and worthless. (I still feel pathetic and worthless, but the feeling was stronger then.) I don’t mean to sound like I’m telling you what to do, but just be careful. I think the saying goes “everyone is fighting their own battles, try not to be a cunt.” How do you think it feels to have people make plans around you and not include you? If your going to talk about needing two girls to live with next year while she’s in the room and then say you can’t find any- that’s gonna make you feel like shit. I remember them all whispering, making plans.
Like when my friend Nick said something like “oh yeah, Tuesday’s gonna be fun” when he was standing right next to me. I asked him what he was doing on Tuesday and he said, “oh, um. nothing- *whisper* hey Alex, can I tell her?”
Yeah.
I spent so little time in school in upper sixth. I was late every day cause I’d cry before it and I’d cry my way home (it’s difficult to drive and cry, particularly when you leave school and realise one of your *friends* is following you for your 20 minute journey because they live up the road from you.) And in between crying there and back, I’d spend my free periods phoning my mum and guess what. crying. a fucking 18 year old reduced to tears by a bunch of cunts. I spent months crying myself to sleep- usually until around 3 am. I had no sleep. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, well, do what you want. Just be careful. It hurts. 

God I wish I could go back in time.
Actually no, I wish I’d chosen Edinburgh as my firm. At least there would be scottish guys with accents everywhere. Yeah, but it would be no different- I’d still be the same me and guys don’t like this me.

Is it sad that I’m still waiting to turn into a swan? I’ve been waiting for as long as I can remember. Always thinking- when I’m older, and pretty, with a boyfriend who thinks I’m beautiful and wants what I want, doesn’t mind my insecurities or the fact that I’d never believe him when he said I looked nice.
But that won’t ever happen. Guys don’t like me. Not like that. At home, I’m one of the guys, always a friend. Never pretty enough to be anything more. Or, I had friends till we drifted apart. Cameron, Aidan, Rory, Barney, Paul, Ryan, Nick, Andy. Everyone, I can hear your voices, ghosts. I miss you all. But you don’t even think of me, I bet. I can’t hear Amy’s voice any more. That has left me and I’m no longer haunted by it. But I can still hear Sarah and Rom.
I live in my memories. I don’t live in the present any more. Not really. I keep hoping that I can go back to revisit those memories.
Lying on top of that mound/hill, watching the stars and pressing into each other to keep warm and then getting into so much trouble with Mike when we got back to our tent. I can hear him now. 
It’s funny, my hearing isn’t particularly good in general but my memories rely a lot on sounds. Possibly not the exact words, but the tone and the meaning.

Wow. Therapeutic typing.
And now I’m tired but I must write an essay. I’ll wake up early to do it.
Night tumblr. 

Tony Cragg’s work is included in my ART book. (I bought it in America which makes it even more amazing cause he’s from liverpool. He’s known… but not that famous.

Anyways, I never realised before, but he’s on the same page (584 if you have the book) as Anish Kapoor (the guy who designed Cloud Gate in Chicago and that big red sculpture at the London Olympics.) That’s fantastic.

I love Tony Craggs. He seriously needs more recognition. No, he’s no Moore or Hepworth, but I think he’s up there with them.  His sculptures are so organic, I love them.

Ok, I’m going to stop procrastinating now, put my art books back on my shelf and stop pretending that I need to use them to find examples of palaeolithic cave art.