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"Marion- you tell me … I am always trying to do the best for myself.

Which is true. I don’t quite hold to the idea that human instinct is to pursue happiness. As far as human instinct goes, I don’t think there’s one overwhelming pursuit involved in it… or that human instinct is even something totally overwhelming in itself. It’s a mould that’s extremely easy to break, as easy as it is to mature from childhood into extended adolescence… or whatever. The first step is to refine the indefinite essence of Happiness as such. Happiness is not all-important, is in fact an illusory concept, but what exists in the realm of importance is a really, really vague concept of fulfilment… (daargh! Convulsions there!) and it’s ninety percent of the battle to really define that fulfilment, without setting it within bounds that can constrict and suffocate it. One must change the model of fulfilment to fit your own character, your life and the various external self-defining talents and gifts that make you you… And in the end, fulfilment is not a static, perfect state… But rather the state of the life that you feel you should be leading, according to your own standards, more or less, forgiving yourself as you occasionally fall short. As falling short can teach you much more than winning in every way. If you were perfect in holding to your own standards, there would be no definition, no savour to life as the struggle, the fruitful and glorious struggle it is. And how would you know who you were? We shoot for the moon, miss, and reach the stars… Yet we have to deafen the voice within us that tells us we fail. Wisdom can be achieved only when we fail and learn, our kaboom forming eloquent and instructive relief against the fabric of our own inward, essential standard, to be good, to exist. As goodness is a translation of balance and existence it is, of course, such.

Happiness in itself is also a desolate, dead-end concept. Seek to define happiness and you find yourself either fleeing into abstraction, or falling into concrete goals and ambitions which stifle the ultimate, unresting power of the mind. It is a chemical reaction and nothing more, one of many that must be experienced within the ultimate gamut of feeling in the bumpy sea-voyage of humanity through the coral reef of societal notions… reaction piled upon reaction… and one that has no meaning unless in relief against the many standards of emotion constructed by the societal being within the mind…

Occasionally I “fall”, but the essential nature of being human… not instinct, but a metaphysical fact… is that we are always trying to do the best for ourselves. Sometimes our mind, in its imperfect calculations, misleads us… We end up drinking too much, falling into eating disorders, self-harm or other razzmatazz… In the end all we can do is accept these as uphill (by virtue of the fact that they are an active struggle) detours on the path to self-fulfilment… and employ all possible powers in discerning the road WE wish to travel in seeking fulfilment from that which submerges us in guilt and misery, which are all ultimately unproductive… bring us up to the axles in mud… Guilt and misery are the fog, the grey areas that exist between the conscious factors of existence…

Unproductive!

One day I hope to be productive and fruitful in employing the talents that I know I have in… Taping off some part, some segment of the mind or existence, and providing a kind of roadmap, employing the language I have learned, that might help others in despair or confusion… Or at least stencil the pattern of my own acquired reason and willing to spread comfort over some part of the minefield of the human heart… And achieve peace in my own life in demonstrating that there is peace, there is love, there is joy and there is happiness to be found in everything, if you silence your own protestations against it, these jagged edges caused by the contact of accumulated voices= official history, against us... And the ultimate journey in life is to learn how to let yourself go, let yourself grow in the dark wellspring of your own heart, your own silence. You can take your time, you can fall… But take these falls and your grief as brushstrokes against the canvas of your existence, continuing after the body’s death, into mystery… It’s not about demanding answers from the world, it’s about asking questions, revelling in possibilities… There is no definite road to be taken in life, other than that what we choose for ourselves… how the veins of our deep and mysterious life throb along the surface, traced by our curious minds, our curious hearts.

I try to choose not to lead my existence crippled by disorder, i.e dissonance between conflicting intents, but to employ it in consolidating the struggle… for myself, not against myself but against the irrational confusion, i.e., conflict of voices (perhaps disorder may be equated with confusion)… that has infected my mind, a built-up crusting of grief, of unresolved hurt and anguish caused by years… Of years and years struggling alone without the help of an adult consciousness, something that is a chemical fact… I could not exist in this way without reacting, and without the bitter acid of these reactions staying within me and corroding at my ultimately… self-healing psyche. I must stay afloat. I take up the flag of adult existence at the end of adolescence as the fighter for my younger self, and knowing… that the self is resilient, that it can heal, it can grow even under the pressure of a firm fist of loneliness that has been there ever since I can remember. I am sure that my character will never change itself into that of a being which is confident in the felt company of others, but rather that which has learnt to revel in solitude… And that is an advantage, for where else does the self have room to express itself but in the infinite cavern of its own silence… Being shy is something that I can accept. It may even be endearing, hee hee. Being socially phobic… is a thorn in my butt, and something I don’t want to accept. Fear of encounter with others is irrational. I generally trust and like every person I meet, and… not instinctively… I have learned to regard all others that I meet as somewhat superior to myself, due to my inability to define myself but tame swallowings of the surface paradings of others. Yet now I think… Don’t the paradings reflect the insecurities? Yet as far as the infinite mystery of the human psyche goes… How can you compare infinity to infinity? All people are equal in being amazing and beautiful and wonderful, despite the unfortunate c lashes their surface being, i.e. accumulation of circumstances… might occasion with mine…

I suppose within this economically wealthy, “Western” society, we have to reteach ourselves the art of accepting existence as the simple, essential struggle. We have spiritual bankruptcy as other societies ‘ave monetary or physical bankruptcy. Accepting the fact of consciousness and existence without… not without ambition as such… but without the kind of ambition that looks to external cultural and societal factors to define itself as such. What I mean is that… I feel that society and societal values, by their nature, must be fought against by the individual, the question… in order to assert it. The system is a mould that must be broken, as it is too small to hold the shape of a developed, self-aware, spiritually conscious human being, or… a mystery, an unexplained and infinite factor. In a way, anorexia exploits that desire by feeding and partially answering within one, with morsels, the wish to transcend and be refined out of the mould, the dead, empty shell and hull of things, the various transactions of values contained in the thinnest of coin that we call Normal. You seek to answer spiritual starvation with physical starvation. But how, one asks the blethering, blipping monster, how does thin and thin alone achieve this goal? Ach, it's damn hard, it’s damn hard to starve, you tell me… but does that make it worthwhile? Does the pain and agony of starvation and seeing your mind dissolve before the juggernaught of Hunger make you any more worthy? Holy people have fasted, but the message of their holiness was not the fast, or even of self-denial… The message of self-sacrifice is not to deny the body but to appease harmful, self-destructive desire by eloquent balance, the soul of beauty and the essence of truth, as Keats would say.

My… experiments with the world outside myself have resulted in disastrous relationships with the opposite sex that have caused me to retreat further within myself… But I can at least tell myself, even when I was at 67kg, even if I am not looking for male admiration… it is a slight, guilty assurance that I was assured of my attractiveness by the attentions of… several. And that at least leads me to think, 67kg ≠ hideous, unattractive monster. I was seriously unattractive as a child… My mother even on many occasions called me “Plain Jane”… I had a flat nose, pronounced freckles and skin very pale from a pronounced dislike of outdoor activity. I would sit in a closet all day just so I could daydream. But I grow in satisfaction with my face as it matures, if not my lumpish, misshapen, monstrous body… something I find awful, the essence of a pile of vomit, or a binge-n-purge brandished against myself in self-anger… That’s something I live in shame of, the occasional binge-n-purge, something that enables the hate inside of me to flourish and live in warfare against myself.

I feel a little bit like the battle of Stalingrad, the Soviets struggling for survival against a fascist state in the ruined city of my current crippled existence. Let’s forget about the unfortunate facts of the Soviet regime and think about what their ideals were, freedom for the suppressed . Even if freedom technically means in Communism, the suppression of the individual within the mechanism of the State… It’s those guys fighting against a regime that seeks to engineer murderous perfection for the whole human race, consolidated in an organic being, the racial nation as a physical body in which the spirituality is perfected… Anorexia is fascist. It seeks to refine hate, death and perfection within a physical mould as an answer to all our needs as a physical, emotional, spiritual, psychic and societal being. It carries a high flag and the torture chamber is an integral fact of existence.

And it carries the attractions that fascism does to the psyche.. The sensation that one can consolidate existence within a comprehensive mould defined by absolute power, of which absolute slavery is a side of the same coin…

Just deserts, desert? ; )

After reading through this I notice I refer to the “self” as a flimsy and abstract notion… partially because I am aware of its existence through my calculations and blind acceptance of common perceptions… but not in any more “meaningful” (where does “meaning” reside?) sense. I do not know myself. The self is unknowable. And yet I hear myself… as a plaintive, deeply submerged voice. The echo in the shipwrecks I see in my nightly ; ) nightmares. As a child… and I almost feel the tears coming, as I do with every therapy session, the tears always want to come. Where, where is it safe to be open, without fears of humiliation, without the sharp strike I have employed in myself in lieu of others, as I have learned to define my existence in relief against attacks from others? I feel so empty a lot of the time… is that my borderline personality disorder, or is that self-employed, self-suppression… and I have to dig through the layers of pain and memory to uncover myself… First, I have to accept pain, to flesh it out for contact with ye olde shovel. I want to cry and not fear judgement, how simple and how weak, yet how natural that is, in our society, tears are a sign of an admission to certain feelings… Yet I have to admit these feelings, I must, they are in me, they are a part of me. You might hate me for them… I am not quite ready to admit that you are not right to hate me for them, the luxurious pain hits and strikes again.

Yet, feelings are there, and I cannot be blamed for them. Is that right? Feelings are a logical, inevitable reaction within the self. And I am not a… distorted and monstrous being. Yet since I can remember I have had re-enforced within dear Me that I am in some way… wrong, in the primitive language of the child that springs to answer that. Even when I was three years old, and consciously accumulating memory, I was aware of the laughter of others around me, noting my simple faiths and joys, and totting them against me in their definition of me., Andrea Graves the odd… with the odd name.

Tears, tears are such private things. I want my tears to come, private, without the gargoyle of MISTER EATING DISORDER hovering over me…

I feel... in thinking, that I am forming my self in contrast to self-destruction and disorder… the self that I wish to be, that I aspire to be… the fighter, the swimmer with her head above water. The campaigner ; ).

I hope these written, considered words define who I am to you, even if not in quite the way I may have intended, although I had no specific conscious considered intentions, defined within my current pile of ache. I trust in your intelligence and expertise to form them against established psychology. I really want to know who I am… in any kind of way, defined against psychology, societal notions, even base reactionary instinct… Even to afford me some kind of definition would be grateful, my disorder robs me all of these… so I think, so I am led to believe…"