Many times before I’ve written in one of my journals that I wanted to turn my life around, loose weight, change my eating habits, my diet and my exercise routine.
Basically I’ve wanted change since the age 12 and as I am writing this, I am 24 years old.
I am sick and tired of always feeling like I look bad. Because in all rationality, I probably look attractive to some, nice to others, and loved by a few. In the delirious side of my brain, I want a bruised spine, defined collarbones and hollowed cheeks. Rationality argues that these goals are unhealthy, unrealistic and dangerous. That wanting to be sick is minimizing the seriousness of other people’s sickness. Delirious pouts and kicks, eats a Drumstick and fantasizes about purging it until my throat bleeds.
Because maybe if it hurts enough I will finally understand. And maybe I’ll be different from everybody else and actually know when to stop. Maybe I’ll starve without ever being hungry.
Rationality is a pussy. It’s always scared of being hungry, because that means I’ll need to figure out what to eat and which amount of it.
Hunger is a distress signal that blurs Rationality from Delirious.
12 years later, I write in another one of the many journals I keep to track (inconsistently) various parts of my brain, the same stuff that’s kept me awake at night, sad and miserable for years.
And at this point I don’t know if it’s Rationality or Delirious that wishes for it’s dreams to come true, because the scared part of me can’t always tell the apart.