nobody asked, but...

1:44pm: it is almost two o'clock and i have just gotten to pick up where i left off last night before leaving the office.

ew. i just said that. and it's the foremost thing on my mind. i hate that.

something more interesting, something more interesting...

nope. i've got nothing. i think i've slept a grand total of eight and a half minutes since sunday, so i have that constant feeling of only semi-presence, like whatever i do doesn't really count because it's another me doing it. i've also stopped eating, kind of. i haven't really been hungry for days. even when my organs tell me, "amanda, you're hungry. take care of that." the idea of eating still strikes me as awful and nauseating.

maybe i have an eating disorder. could i get out of work for that? call in bulimic? "sorry, i can't come in, i'm binging. i'll try to swing by before the purging, though, sound good?"

probably not, i guess.

3:30pm: some days, a chocolate-chip cookie is better than fucking.

10:07pm: i need out of here. now. please, someone come get me.

i think i'm going to cry.

11:39pm: something i need to write about soon (but probably not tonight):

"The fundamental paradox of abuse activism is that, by its very nature, abuse is the kind of thing you have to experience in order to understand it enough to be a meaningful agent for change-and yet the knowledge that makes us useful in the battle can also paralyze and silence us. 'Once a thing is known, it can never be unknown,' wrote Anita Brookner. 'It can only be forgotten.' We women learn-all of us, whether peronally or by observation-that in the final analysis, a man can maim or kill us if we piss him off. And if he does, the first question asked would probably still be: 'What did you do to make him so mad?'"
-Lily Devilliers, Insult to injury: How Pop Psychology Hijacked the Domestic-Violence Discourse, Bitch Fall 2003

i've written a bit about what growing up was like for me and how it's affected how i live now. i very rarely use the word "abuse," for a number of reasons, one of which is that i don't like the cult of victimhood that seems to surround the word. yet, i can't read a paragraph like that and not know. i can't forget, and i can't unknow, it's still raw and it still informs so much of how i live. i see the patterns more clearly than ever, i see myself trying to please at all costs, and the guilt of failure is like a full-body cast, immobilizing me. i see myself trying to be the consummate good girl, although sometimes being the good girl means being a bad girl. "if you take me home, you can do anything you want to me." is really just "let me please you." dressed in fetish-wear. and of course, "let me please you." is the less scary version of "please let me earn your love." it's a cycle i don't know how to break yet.

oops. i guess i wrote about it now. there's always already more to come, though.