Me & Rex.

"I wanted to kill the me underneath. That fact haunted my days and nights. When you realise you hate yourself so much, when you realise that you cannot stand who you are, and this deep spite has been the motivation behind your behaviour for many years, your brain can’t quite deal with it. It will try very hard to avoid that realisation; it will try, in a last-ditch effort to keep your remaining parts alive, to remake the rest of you. This is, I believe, different from the suicidal wish of those who are in so much pain that death feels like relief, different from the suicide I would later attempt, trying to escape that pain. This is a wish to murder yourself; the connotation of kill is too mild. This is a belief that you deserve slow torture, violent death." 
— Marya Hornbacher

A rather sad opening to another depressing post. We're going to talk about my "friend" Rex.

Now Rex and I first joined forces when I was fifteen years old. It was the right time to meet Rex, I was deeply in love with a boy who, in return, told me I was too "chunky" and "not his type." His type was, and still is, women with a catwalk figure, with the beauty and appeal of a Kate Moss. I, being a chunky, awkward teenager, was definitely not ever apart of that group, nor will I ever be.

I was devastated following that rejection. I went home and cried, promising myself that I would change my diet, exercise more and generally be more healthy, then he would want me. So I did, for months. I had the best diet of anyone I knew, I ran every morning and was complimented for all of this. I felt so ecstatic that I was closer to my goal, but still, none of it mattered if I wasn't his "type."

I got down to a very healthy 60 kilograms, all from a combination of willpower and effort, but then I met Rex. Rex, who promised me that I could be his type, who promised me beauty and perfection, all the things I lacked. I believed Rex. I became a Vegan under his guidance, I amped up my exercise to over two hours everyday, regardless of school and homework, this was more important, THIS WAS MY LIFE! School, friends, family, my social life, all of that came second to Rex and our goals together.

The problem was, no matter how much effort I put in, no matter how little I ate, Rex was never pleased with me. I had depression before I met him, but it was lacking motivation and a genuine cause, now I had the fuel to feed my illness. My disappointment and despair made it grow, it made Rex grow, until I felt like he was the only thing I ever knew and felt.

Striving for perfection, like Rex wanted.

The side-effects of meeting someone like Rex are well-documented. Apart from the obvious physical changes, he is all-consuming of the mind and causes people like me to do things which normally, they would never do. Even in my darkest moments before I met Rex, I never considered suicide as an option. I was raised Catholic and while I did not think it was a sin, that people who committed suicide chose the easy way out, I could never bring myself to consider it. I usually just wished I could be invisible at home and definitely at school. Then people would leave me alone, instead of reminding me what a waste of space I was.

The first time I ever considered dying was because I had a bowl of cereal. I locked my door, sunk to the floor and couldn't stop crying. Suddenly dying seemed to be the only option I could think of. But then a  close friend of mine, Dom, called me and said I had to come meet her that night and that I wasn't allowed to say no. So I couldn't then, I had to go meet my friend, I wasn't allowed to wallow in my despair.  When I saw her all I could think was, "you saved me, you saved me and you don't even know it." It is a fact that people generally underestimate the impact they have on people's lives, usually for the better. I didn't die that day or even think about dying for many days after.


The second time came around though, and this was followed through, it was the first suicide attempt. Rex not only told me what to eat, how much to eat, how much exercise I had to do, he also told me how worthless I was, how my family and friends hated me, how my existence was a joke to everyone around me. I believed him of course, why wouldn't I? I thought everyone was laughing at me behind my back and Rex provided many examples that proved the theory to be accurate. With that in mind I realised that even though I had an important trial exam that morning, school had to be ignored for the greater good. What was the point in trying to attempt it anyway? I was only going to fail again. No, I had  to die and not fail. So I took a cocktail of drugs and went to school anyway. I ended up in hospital and met Doctors and nurses who only reminded me that if I ate a "piece of cake" (as one nurse said), then I wouldn't be in that position. I didn't tell them I had actually taken pills, I just let them assume because that is what human beings are good at, assuming things with no evidence. I realised I was playing Russian Roulette with my life by staying quiet, but Rex and I were angry. Angry at the fact that these people who are supposed to care, didn't even bother to look beyond the physical. That is why, to this very day, I despise doctors and their assumptions.

                                                            I thought this was almost perfect. 

The second suicide attempt was actually much like the first attempt and the first thought of dying, before an exam and after eating a cupcake. By this point, Rex was my best friend and my worst nightmare. He wouldn't leave me alone, quite like my friend Sarah at this very instant. Same method, same result, a sure sign of insanity. At least this time I had a lovely male nurse named Dean to look after me, even if he did force me to eat buttered toast. Rex hated him on sight. My Dad did too, but for different, more parental reasons.

At school and thinner still.

The point of all this, of me describing to you the darkest moments of my life, is to draw attention to the present day. The fact is, Rex NEVER goes away, not completely. He's been laying dormant for years and all it takes is one small thing, one offhand remark and BOOM, Rex is back with a vengeance. These past years, I was always aware of him lingering in the back of my mind, but now the downward spiral into depression has opened the gates for him. It's too hard for the mind to try and fend off two different sources of pain. Unfortunately for me, this means I have to deal with the the self-pity and self-hatred, combined with thoughts that my physical imperfections are the cause of all my problems.

It's not helped by friends telling me how much weight they have lost, how their new diet is working so well for them, how being thinner has made their relationships that much better. It certainly isn't helped by a friend I'll call Hannah, shoving pictures and evidence in your face of your own imperfections, reinforcing every little doubt you had about yourself. To me, you see, appearance is very important, but not in a vain way. I could care less about what people thought of the way I dress (most don't like it) and I really couldn't give a flying fuck about what people think of my ever-changing hair, but I will ALWAYS care about comments regarding my weight. People don't realise, those jokes and jibes, they're never forgotten. I am blessed and cursed with an exceptional memory for conversations and though I may forgive someone for calling me chunky, I will NEVER forget those jokes or slights against me. NEVER. That extends to more than just my appearance though, I generally don't ever forget a single criticism. I guess this "talent" of mine is as much to blame for my current predicament as my friend Hannah is.

I'm writing this in the hope that you will just UNDERSTAND. I don't want judgement, I don't want to be told I'm wrong, because I KNOW, people like me KNOW what we're doing, what we're feeling is wrong, but we can't help it. Unless you have personally met Rex, you don't understand how much of a charlatan he is. He can be your best friend and your archenemy simultaneously. He can be your greatest source of comfort when you look in the mirror and all you see are collarbones, hipbones, when you can feel the dips between your ribs and your legs no longer touch. He becomes your worst tormenter after you have eaten, whenever you step on that scale and the numbers are not low enough for you, when you're so hungry and all you want to do is die, he amplifies all those thoughts and feelings of self-loathing. He will never leave you alone.

It has been years and today, all Rex wants from me is to be perfect. All my depression wants from me is to die. Together they both think I should either be this incredible perfect woman, with bones jutting, a high IQ, successful, or I have to die. I'm stuck in the middle and there seems to be no way I can emerge unscathed from within my own mind. My body is a war zone, with every scar a reminder of a mental battle I've had, and I've had quite a few. Together and with Hannah, they've told me no one will ever want such a scarred (mentally and physically) person and I agree. That doesn't bother me anymore. I gave up looking for my soul mate when one of my closest friends scoffed at the thought of me finding him. Why bother?

The things my friends don't usually understand:
1. Why do I, a person living with Rex, care so much when they diet or they don't eat?
That's simple, because I love them. I love them so much that I don't want them to suffer like I do every day of my life. I don't want them to feel hunger or to strive for "perfection," they're all beautiful and brilliant people.
2. Why can't I just accept that I'm "beautiful"?
That's harder to answer. I have thought about that a lot. The most honest answer I can give is that, if I left myself believe that and found out that it was all just a lie, that it was a joke on me, there would be no coming back from that for me. I'd die out of shame and humiliation, from the fact I was so gullible that for a second I was acceptable, just as I am. It's a defensive mechanism for me. Even when my closest friends compliment me in the back of my head I'm always wondering, why are they saying that? What do they want from me? What's the motive there? That may sound cyclical, but in my life I have learnt that most people are not nice, they're only nice when they want something from you. Once they have it, you're history.

Today:

Below are recent creations by me, designed to inspire my quest for perfection.

This is the cover of my "thought book," what I allow to inspire me everyday.

The mantra of Rex, the motto of people like me. 

This is one of the side-effects of letting Rex be your mind's roommate. This is what happens if I fail. 

I don't know at the moment what I'm supposed to do. There's no solution to my problem. Everything is just different shades of grey and I can't grasp an answer. I would give anything to divorce Rex, to leave depression lying in some dark alleyway, but they're like my friend Hannah, they're NEVER, EVER, going to go away. Not unless I go with them.

I've been through all of this before, my life is completely circular. Funny though, I can't actually remember how I did it then, just when I need to remember how the most.

So what do I do now?


"You never come back, not all the way. Always there is an odd distance between you and the people you love and the people you meet, a barrier thin as the glass of a mirror, you never come all the way out of the mirror; you stand, for the rest of your life, with one foot in this world and one in another, where everything is upside down and backward and sad." 
— Marya Hornbacher

I just want you to know who I am.

To get straight to the point, I have had absolutely no luck recently.  Injuries, depression, worries and friend's problems, it's a lot for one person to deal with apparently. I had a fabulous birthday, everything was perfect, it was too good to be true. Obviously it was a little too good, because this week has just proved to me that good things don't ever last longer than a few days for me.

These past few days have been a slap to the face, a snap back to reality. All I can say is that life, specifically my life, is terrifying, disappointing and painful. It's even more painful when you really don't want to be here anymore. There are a handful of people in this world, family and friends, that would break my heart if they left me. The people that can make you laugh, smile and cry, sometimes simultaneously. Perhaps that's a good motive to go first, then I don't have to suffer that pain. Selfish, but even the thought of my parents ever leaving me is too much to deal with. I'd hate for them to leave and it hurts me to think of leaving them, even though I've tried to quite a few times now.

Sometimes though, those people you cherish the most aren't enough to halt the inevitable or destroy your despair. Even if you're in love with someone and you want to give them everything you have and share every moment with them, it just isn't enough. Just being in love with someone is an ordeal in itself, it's a bit like a thunderstorm. There's bright lights, loud noises and you're startled, but then there's rain and it's both fierce and calming. You're frightened, but at the same time you can't look away even if it means you get completely soaked to the bone. You can recognise something beautiful and terrifying when you see it and it makes you stay, despite all the fear. That's always what I've thought love to be anyway, something so powerful, destructive and beautiful all at once.

Even love and everything it encompasses isn't enough sometimes and really, if that isn't enough, what else could be? Hicks said there's a clear choice between fear and love and while I think the man was brilliant, sometimes there isn't that clear choice and that fear and your love for people meld into something dark and twisted. That's true despair.

I took a look at my life recently and I didn't like what I saw. I am so sick and tired of pain and hurting people, most of all I hate to disappoint people. I have been such a disappointment. I behaved myself throughout school because my sister was the rebellious child and my parents expected me to be good. I went to University because my family wanted me to go and be successful, not because I wanted to. I studied History because I originally loved it and so did my Nanna, but then she realised I didn't want to be a History teacher and she grew disappointed too. I've made all these choices and shaped my life around all these expectations and what I'm left with is nothing I originally wanted and absolutely no aspirations of my own. I've missed out on all the things other people my age have already done, all those relationships and stories they can tell, but I can't because it wasn't right of me to do those things when I was expected to be such a prim and proper person. I'm not saying I wasn't true to myself, I always wore what I wanted, listened to musicians who inspired me and picked my own influences, but my main choices were made for me. Maybe that's why I'm in such a mess now, I have no one to make my choices and I'm much better at managing other people and their problems than I am at managing myself.

This week I just wanted some sort of answer. I wanted to know where I was going. I wanted some sort of epiphany or talent that would take me somewhere. Instead I realised I had absolutely nothing, apart from my family and a few close friends, I have nothing of value to offer anyone. It's a terrible thing to rely on other people for your own happiness. I realised this, I bother people too much. I had some sort of moment of clarity when I realised that ending this, whatever this is, was the only thing I could choose for myself. I went from being so completely surrounded by darkness into somewhere brighter, just at the thought that I would never have to worry again. I wrote out all these notes and letters, not suicide notes, just notes of gratitude to everyone that I thought was significant in my life but who I had never gotten to thank. I wrote one to an art teacher I had whose kindness used to make me cry, another to one of my history teachers who I was always a bitch to and said something nasty to, something I still regret three years later. I wanted to thank him while I had the chance because he was actually amazing, perhaps a tad intimidating though. So I wrote out all these notes and they were heartfelt and genuine and I wrote them with feeling, like they would be my last ever words and my last chance to let them know how much I valued their impact on my life. When I woke up the next day, I was completely devastated. All my despair returned, all the things I wrote still sat there and I still can't touch them now. It's a bit like being tortured by some sort of mirage you see in the distance and as soon as you brush your fingertips against it, it just slips away again.

I spent hours and hours today just worrying and crying. I'll probably do the same tomorrow and the day after that, because there is no point to my life at the moment. There's nothing I want to achieve, there's nothing I want to do, I just want peace and some ending. I don't want to disappoint people but I don't want to be the same person. I've gone too far now though and I can't change anymore. I can't be bothered competing in a world full of people and I can't be bothered pretending to enjoy life. My father wrote on my birthday card last week that I should "love life" and all I could think of was that yes, I really should, but I don't. God I love my friends and my family and I would do anything for them, all I ask is that sometime soon they let me go. I just don't belong here anymore and I can feel it in my heart that these days are limited and those few moments when I laugh or when I smile, they are fewer and farther between. I don't want to leave though and be remembered as this loner, depressed girl, who hated parties and sat by herself. I want my family and my friends to remember how much I loved them and those moments when they made me laugh or smile, they were genuine moments. I want them to know how much their company and their happiness meant to me. Seeing my friends and my family happy has I think, been the highlight and greatest joy of my life.

Death is inevitable, but kindness is immortal.

"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal."
Albert Pike

Talking about death to any living human being is a certain way to end any conversation. It's like the Police showing up at your house when you're having an awesome party, unless no one showed up, then you're grateful for any social interaction. I'm not saying the Police are the physical equivalent of death, it just so happens that there are negative connotations attached to that particular career choice. I didn't start it, society has spoken.

What has always confused me, ever since I could properly comprehend what death actually is, was why people didn't ever want to talk about it. Whenever I try and approach the topic with other people, they call me morbid or depressive. That bugs me. I'm not purposely being morbid, I don't consider it a depressing subject at all. Just because the majority of people are so determined to ignore death until they can't any longer, is not my problem. Ignorance may be bliss, but in this case ignorance is more like religion and bliss is only a self-sustained faith that eventually dies because that is what people and ideas do, they die. There, I've said it. We are all going to die.

And if we are all going to die anyway, shouldn't we all just enjoy ourselves? People tell me to stop smoking, it's going to give me cancer. To them I say everyone has their vices, it's how we know we're still alive. The problem is that people don't want to die, well, more specifically they want to prolong the inevitable. I can understand that, I won't jump on the bandwagon of trying to live for a century, but I can understand the logic of it. Who wouldn't want to live until they're at the age when they can't do most things for themselves and their independence and self respect are almost completely gone? It sounds amazing.

Just because some people have realised that if they live healthy and respectable lives they can live longer, doesn't mean that we all have to live that way or die that way. Actually, does it really matter  how a person dies at all? If someone lives a happy and healthy life and then dies in a tragic way, is that worse than an alcoholic who has drank themselves to death? I don't think people should even try and measure how much someone deserves to live, because I don't really believe anyone deserves to die, nature will cut us off when it is our time. Even the worst criminals, the lowest of the low, shouldn't be put to death for their crimes. I don't believe in Capital Punishment because that's just an eye for an eye isn't it? It doesn't even undo what the person has done, it just degrades the living into taking another unnecessary life.

Apart from my semi-political ramblings, what I really wanted to say is that we really shouldn't fear death. We shouldn't avoid talking about it because everyone thinks it's a tad depressing. That's just a person's perspective and for me it isn't so bad. I hope I last for however long it takes me to make some sort of impact on people's lives or to make sure that the people I love are truly happy. Following Pike's argument, if we make a difference to someone else's life, if we make someone laugh, if we help a stranger or just do what everyone is capable of doing, then will death be so depressing? You can die completely unburdened and safe with the knowledge that you actually made some small difference and you won't be forgotten. I think that is what people fear the most perhaps, being forgotten in a world with millions of people. Maybe that is why people choose to breed, I don't actually know, I'm not currently a breeder. What I do know is that I've never forgotten the old lady who used to give me lollies and hugs when I was very small. She lived alone, down the street from me. I've never forgotten her small acts of kindness every time we met and walking past her old house now, as a twenty year old adult, I still have fond memories. Those memories prove that kindness and the impact you have on other people will always keep you alive in a way. People will never have to worry about being forgotten so long as they can touch someone else while they're alive. That is the purpose of our lives I think.