Stagnant Change
Taking a bit of a break from digging up the corpses of my college essays for a personal post. It's been fun to go back and read everything I was working on and reminisce about our little apartment in the city, kitty-corner from Domino's and a short walk to the bus station. It was tough making it work, but that little apartment, the parties we hosted, the little thrill of opening the door and standing on the balcony to watch the Rite-Aid shoppers...it was the first taste of adulthood freedom I had that I actually enjoyed. I didn't feel confined and alone like I did on campus. If I wanted to see life happening, real life, not the aggravating bustle of my fellow students, all I had to do was open my door.
I've been missing that feeling lately. I feel cloistered away again, in this big old house on this quiet street. I hate the quiet. It makes me acutely aware of how alone I am.
I'll never go back to rural living. I don't care if it's cheaper. I think the lack of other people does something evil to you. If all you have is yourself, your own thoughts, you become inconsiderate of others, less patient with them and more self-concerned. I've seen it in family members - small things become big issues, and a conversation becomes criticism, and they always retreat back to self-isolation rather than deal with the consequences of their behavior. Solitude for them is peace instead of suffocating.
Time has been moving so quickly lately. I'm too tired to do anything I want to do -- even getting on the computer to write this is something I've procrastinated. It's easy to sit and read articles about how this country is sliding into fascism and there's noting we can do about it now, and then you look up and it's totally dark outside. I wake up exhausted and disappointed I have to live to work another day away.
Things are changing so rapidly, but yet everything feels the same. It's like I'm standing still, watching the world rush around me. I am so lucky to be able to say that. I'm lucky to have my job, my apartment, my husband. I wish I had the time to enjoy them.
I've been getting fatter, which would have bothered me more a few years ago. Right now, all I can think is: who the fuck cares? If I'm fat and unhealthy, what does it even matter? If that's the way I die, that's what was meant to be.
Recently, I stumbled upon the world of "feedees". Via cute chubby guys, to cute fat guys, then to guys gleefully weighing themselves and announcing their recent gains - I scrolled curiously at first, then in horror as I learned about "death feederism": people who are sexually aroused by the idea of eating themselves to death. Before death, they post about hoping to one day become helplessly large, too big to do anything other than be bedridden. Some incorporate the shame and helplessness of this situation into such a fetish - others post about wanting to be forcefed by their "feeders", disabled by their fat, then taken advantage of by their caretaker. People wishing diabetes, heart attacks, and immobility upon themselves. I think I'm like one brain tweak away from having that combination of shame, self-hatred, body issues, and relationship with food lead me down that road. Thank god I don't have this fetish because I have all the Indicators for it to succeed at killing me.
On that note. It's time for dinner.