Will you still love me

when I’m a delightful clattering of bones?

Will you still find beauty in my soul

despite the emptiness of my presence?

Inches of me are disappearing

yet my gluttony is ever present, bulging,

bursting at the seams.

Will you still love me

when the rational no longer applies?

Will you break under the weight

of my weightlessness?

Tears of desperation

but none of understanding, comprehension.

Only fear of this disjointed beast.

Will you still love me

when I am sunken and hollow?

Will you still love me

when my heart is caged by bars of bone?

Will you still love me?

I will love you.

Completely, foolishly, and blindly,

With all my heart –

Until it erodes.

So blaringly, alarmingly, unbearably LOUD!!

I feel like someone is ripping apart the seaming that goes along the outer shell of my brain and the contents is slowly starting to leak out. And every time I try to focus on one thing my thoughts automatically turn to something completely different – one of the stress factors that is chewing up my life.

This is when I wish I wasn’t so good and acting. Then maybe someone would be able to see that I’m not okay and that I desperately, more than anything, want someone to talk to. But I feel so trapped inside myself, buried beneath my own need to convey to everyone that I’m okay – that I’m strong.

Really, all I want to do is scream. I want to scream so loud that it shatters the glass that I have built between myself and other people so that they know that I’m falling apart. Because I am. And I can’t do this by myself anymore.

I want to be around the people that love me. I want to surround myself with them so this emptiness inside goes away. And at the same time I want everyone to go away because their lives in combination with mine is stifling. There are all these voices inside my head, screaming, prodding, shouting that I need to be more then what I am; that I should be able to fix problems that aren’t even mine to fix. And I can’t sleep because these voices don’t. They’re unyielding.

“Be better”.

“Be stronger”.

“Be more disciplined”.

“Work harder”.

“Go farther”.

“Be more.”

Where did my voice go? My voice is the one that yells at the voices to be quite; that I don’t need them telling me what to do. My voice is the one fighting to find balance that seems completely unattainable. My voice is the one that is corroding beneath my skin.

When did it all become so convoluted? It’s crazy because I know I didn’t feel like this yesterday. Or the day before that, or the one before that. Or maybe I did feel like this – maybe I’ve become so good at acting that even I can’t tell when I’m okay and when I’m not.

Pretty painted facades. They look so good on the outside yet are so intrinsically ugly.

We’ve come so far, we’re so progressive and enlightened, with technology and politics breaching the boundaries of what once would have been considered fantasy. We have entered into an era where it has become possible to achieve things that fifty or even twenty years ago would have been considered impossible – or at least highly improbable.

It’s amazing what we have access to now – absolutely mind boggling. And this is only given my twenty years of experience, most of it being spent in the arena of adolescence. My parents, who have more than double my experience, can vouch that the world has gone through incredible change over an amazingly short period of time.

And although these changes are vast, it is not these innovations that make me worry about the state of the world.

It’s the things that haven’t changed that send up warning flares. More than just warning flares – just flares. Bright neon flares. It’s already progressed past the point of being a warning because what’s being warned about is already present. It has been for many decades. It’s the value systems that sprouted so early in history, so suddenly, and yet it has persisted.

Here’s a hint: it’s predominantly a value system shared by women, although men are getting increasingly more involved as time goes on. Still unsure? What if I told you the average women in North America thinks about this an average of nine times a day? I bet most of you are catching on now.

Thinness. Being thin. Weight.

It’s amazing to me how much we, as a civilization, have made such gigantic strides in matters like equality and peace, yet the self image of our nation, especially on an individual level, is still fraught with gnarls about weight and it’s comparability to happiness. It’s crazy, and downright incomprehensible, the amount of control that we give the mechanical monster (aka – the scale) and how it dictates how we, as individuals, feel for a day, a week, a month… or longer.

How many times have you or someone close to you decided to skip lunch because the scale read five pounds higher then you’d like? Or decided to go on a ‘cleanse’ because you have a special birthday event coming up? Or even just looked at a friend and thought: ‘Geeze, Suzy looks so freakin’ skinny! I wish I looked like that! Maybe I could too if I just laid off the _____ (fill in your favorite guilty food/drink pleasure (s))’.

Ladies and gents, we have a serious problem.

What has developed through countless generations is so much more than a ‘mild concern regarding our appearance’ – it’s a full blown obsession. What’s especially scary is that most of the time we don’t even realize that we’re participating in this self-destructive attitude because everyone seems to be doing it. We make the comments every day, sometimes in passing and sometimes for hours on end, about how we wish we were something that we are inevitably not. There are few things more disturbing in my mind then self-inflicted emotional mutilation that has become socially acceptable on a national basis.

We make the comments so effortlessly, so passively, that it seems like nothing.

Except it’s not nothing.

In fact, to some people, it’s everything.

Out of every recognizable and terrible thing that we can say to each other, especially given the creativity of the new generation, it’s still astounding to find that one of the most devastating emotional blows to be administered can be given by uttering the words “you look like you’ve packed on a few pounds” or “so there is really something to that freshman fifteen.”

I bet it would surprise some people to find out that not all wounds bleed upon impact.

Even surrounded by the most positive and supporting friends and family, I know few people who could find something positive out of receiving news that they have “gotten fat”. Can you blame them?

We live in a society that is so tightly wound about achieving the airbrushed standard of beauty that gaining weight or having a ‘fat day’ is enough to send us spiralling into a pit of all-consuming depression. And we perpetuate this standard, sometimes even unconsciously, as we talk to our closest friends and relatives about which parts of ourselves that we wish we could simply zap out of existence. And then we go even further by discussing how we are going to shrink those offending body parts by eating nothing but grapefruits for the next two weeks, thinking nothing of abruptly starving our bodies if it means achieving the bootylicious body of Beyonce.

Now, this isn’t supposed to be some self-righteous rant about how we need to simply let it be and become completely and magically Zen with our outer appearance. It’s completely unrealistic given that our appearance is something that we tend to place a lot of time and energy into.

Honestly, I’m quite hypocrite. Because as we speak I’m struggling with my own inner demons that have, for the last few years, been steering me to so some pretty outrageous things in the search for inner and outer content that I have yet to fully find. But it’s because of those inner demons that I find it necessary to write this article – because I know I’m not the only one struggling with them.

I just want to put it out there that this thin-centric frame of mind, and this obsessive tendency to compare our physical “shortcomings” to another’s (whether it be the celeb’s, a stranger, or your best friend) is something that we should try to stifle. Because this perpetual desire to embody someone that we’re not is becoming such a common topic of interest that being “normal” or “human” is almost downright unbearable. I struggle with comprehending that there are things about me that are never going to change no matter what I eat, how I eat it, or how long I run on a treadmill – but the bottom line is I do understand that. But that doesn’t mean I’m completely immune to the psychological masochism that surfaces whenever the subject of diet or weight comes into play. None of us are. So maybe, just maybe, if we stop perpetuating this perfectionist mentality we will all start to feel just a little more comfortable, a little more content, with the bodies we have been given.

Weight, diet, health, exercise – they have taken on worlds of their own. It’s hard to find any group of people that don’t talk about some aspect of their physical well-being in regards to their weight and how it affects their lives. These words and thoughts that we throw around so carelessly to each other can have the insignificance of a mosquito bite or the severity of an infected stab wound depending on who you are talking to.

So please, please, if you can take anything away from reading this article let it be this: be aware. Be aware that what you say and what you deem acceptable for yourself also has an impact on the way others perceive the ways of acceptable behaviors towards themselves. Words, even one’s that are meant in passing or jokingly, can act as huge psychological triggers to any person who has ever had lingering concerns about their body.

So there it is. It’s not impossible, it’s not unrealistic. It’s just cutting back.

Our bodies, and our minds, will thank us for it.

I was wondering about something today. Well, actually, I was wondering about quite a few things today… but one in particular has been bothering me a bit more than the others. Are you ready for this monstrous word that I am about to abruptly spring on you? Here it is:

Relationships.

I know most people reading this will go “is she serious?” And I am. In my world the word ‘relationship’ makes my stomach flutter in a way that is a little more problematic then simple butterflies. This is because it’s more than just some lucid term describing the bond developed between a set or sets of people – it’s a commitment. And there, folks, is the problem.

For as long as I can remember I’ve always had a very independent mentality. It’s not that that I’m anti-social by any means; it’s just that I’m someone who is very fond, and extremely comfortable, in seclusion. I’m sure that a lot of people feel the same way (or that’s what I’ll keep telling myself so I don’t feel like a complete loon). Space, to me, is an integral part of relationships. It’s like… the icing filling in between two Oreos. The two chocolate cookies are perfectly fine but you need that sweet space in between them in order to fully appreciate the contrast in the Oreo.

I find this especially true in romantic relationships. If someone is not willing to give me space, or the independence necessary to fly solo, then the relationship crumbles.

That’s where it gets complicated though. You see, for a people pleaser like me who fears confrontation and assertiveness above all else bad relationships tend to become prolonged because of my inability to state them as being “over”. I can feel nothing but unhappiness and stifling dread whenever I look at someone and there’s a pretty good chance that they’ll never know.

My last relationship lasted two years – a year and a half more than it should of. And this is all because I have a horrible vice that prevents me from hurting the feelings of others at the cost of my own. I have this chronic fear of hurting others… of making them feel any of the emotional turmoil or discomfort that I go through on a daily basis.

I want a relationship. I want something wonderful, and spectacular, and to be able to feel the spark that can only be felt when two people truly connect on some higher, seemingly psychic, plain. It’s letting someone get that close, both physically and emotionally, that sends me into a panic.

I’m not afraid to admit that the concept of love scares the living hell out of me. Not family love, or friendship love, but relationship love. That scares me. The promise of time, commitment, and togetherness with another human being that encroaches on a lifetime of being defined and identified as a singular being – it terrifies me.

Love is attachment. Love is anchoring. Love is unsystematic. Love contradicts the very seaming that composes the fabric of my life. It is thundering contradiction to the way that I have lived my life.

Even imagining the way that other people must feel in order to confess love makes the hairs on my arms stand up, my stomach twist. Sometimes it is a pleasant twist and sometimes is vomit-inducing. When I’m in relationships it’s the one word that I don’t want to hear for a very, very long time. Because, for me, love is not a word that people should be throwing around like some playground toy at recess. This word can turn lives upside down, fix or break relationships, and establish an interpersonal connection between people that can span entire lifetimes.

Love is the word that people get married over.

It’s also the word that they commit suicide over.

Love can be felt, heard, misunderstood, misinterpreted, inebriating, all-consuming, and addictive. One four letter word can change your mentality – it can change the color of your rose-colored glasses And because love can be defined as more than one thing, can evoke foreign and incomprehensible feelings, and is infinitely malleable, I’m not sure if I truly want it.

So where do I go from here? When I’m unable to let people get close, to let them know how I feel, then meaningful relationships are a near impossibility. My thoughts and actions are filled with such fierce overtones of independence – overtones that I’m not willing to change.

I think that I need to fix whatever it is that’s broken inside of me that prevents me from letting people get close. The fear of getting hurt, and more so the fear of hurting others, is a hurtle that I need to conquer in order for relationships to progress past the point of casual introductions.

Until then, nothing is going to change. Things will change when I decide to do the same.

The only way I can talk to others, even my closest friends and family, about myself is through the invention of imaginary people who have the characteristics that I can’t — no, won’t — admit to others that are actually my own. I inflict my own flaws onto imaginary friends, imaginary acquaintances, so that I don’t have to fess up to being a truly messed up individual.

Case-in-point: last night. I was walking with a friend when she brought up the topic of dieting. She was talking about how she was going to try and eat less, cut carbs, cut fat intake, exercise more — the the typical things associated with a crash diet. I know, I know. Crash diets are bad. I told her this. I told her that one of my best friends back home developed an eating disorder that all started with her crash dieting, eating nothing but raw veggies and a ridiculously low amount of calories a day. She became obsessive about food: examining labels, counting calories — making sure she never ate above 1000 calories. Then 900 calories. Then 800 calories… so on and so forth.

This is absolutely true. Every word of it. Except the part about this happening to one of my best friends. That parts absolutely not true.I bet you can guess who “one of my best friends” really is, huh? That’s right, it’s me.

And “one of my best friends” isn’t the only person I’ve invented, I’m sorry to say. There is a long list of “friends” and “relatives”, all of which suffer from a series of different personal problems. That’s right, problems, as in plural. Just like most people in the world I have more then one. The scary part of this? Most of my problems have names and personalities attached to them.

But I can’t tell people that. I can’t tell them because it’s selfish of me to be this way. It scares me that even as I wrote the sentence directly prior that I’m not sure exactly what I’m talking about: the eating disorder or the lying? Maybe both? Maybe neither?

I’m the girl that doesn’t have these kinds of problems – I’m the one that people come to for advice and good laugh — I’m the one that people come and talk to when they have problems. To tell them that I have this constant occupation of food, this selfish obsession — well, I just can’t do that. Not yet anyways. Not until I know that things won’t change. This is where the lying comes in.

It’s like this defense mechanism that I’ve developed over the last three years. It’s like… a wall, in a sense. I get to hide behind the wall, completely anonymous, feeding the people on the other side information about myself without them ever realizing who I am. Then I watch, truly voyeuristic, for their reactions to my personal revelations.

Acceptance? Surprise? Disgust? Revolution? I’ve seen them all. I know what my friends and family think about certain subjects; their views and opinions on everything from food preferences to sexual preferences. It’s one of the perks of being such a ready listener — you learn more about people then they ever really realize they are telling you.

So I hide. And I act. And when I do these things I don’t have a care in the world. Well, except for how to prevent people from catching me in the midst of one of my lies. The solution to this dilemma seems simple: just stop telling lies. Not exactly a earth-shattering piece of advice but it would solve the problem at hand, right? Maybe. Another interpretation is that it would just start a domino effect of other problems, each of them (at least to me) more horrible then the ones that I must deal with on my own. At least when I internalize problems they don’t haunt everyone else.

And as I sit here and write this, I realize that another day has gone by in which I have interwoven the truth with the lies. It makes me wonder if there will ever be a time where it will only be the truth that prevails. And then another thought crosses my mind, instantly transporting me back to my high school English classes.

Will the truth really, truly, set me free? Or will it just set me free into another cage?

My name is Kai. And I don’t know if I’m free.