VIRAGO

Chapter 20

      And so the visit became something else; the darker shadow I'd foreseen. Unintentionally, David had added to my bruised feelings; a soft fruit on the turn. The badness spread to my distal regions, eventually claiming me. His ruminations triggered a vigorous shaking of my emotional pan; actions that brought my imperfect nuggets to settle. Laid my tarnished character out on display.

In my defence, my failings have been necessary rather than any form of conscious choice. I never set out to be a bad person; does anyone, really? I take no pleasure in wounding others; when I hurt people through my failures, I'm driven by an internal force; it remains the only thing I can attribute my compulsions to. The decisions I'll take ownership for, but it's important to understand how at the time, there truly has been no other course of action available to me, no alternative route for me to walk in order to be the better person.

Take the space I created between myself and Meghan as an example. From the moment I left the delivery suite with her I set up boundaries, markers that would encapsulate the void which remained between us for the entirety of our relationship. There was so much more to it than mere feelings. I was; as any good mother should, taking account of my baby's needs and I knew with absolute certainty that she would want to take responsibility for her actions. Not right there in that second of course; goodness she was barely a day old. I was to start as I meant to go on; after all, mothers are responsible for shaping their children's future are they not? Boundaries and punishments are vital ingredients in this mix; you wouldn't let your child scrawl over all the walls in marker pen and escape discipline, now would you?

There was never any physical punishment; I find the thought abhorrent. I directed that inwards, inflicting it upon myself in various forms; cutting, banging my head against solid structures until I lost consciousness. Eliminating or gorging on food and of course my favourite, the flaw finding. They've delivered an intense feeling of security to me, these routines I've developed over the years. Each one a physical mass, occupying the empty spaces in my life that one could argue should be filled with real people.

Control first, comfort second. Soothing, calming ways of identifying the non-perfect parts of me; you'd be surprised how enormously that helps deal with the trauma of each new find, each new criticism. I grieve a little each time I've completed a routine, but the exact application of my products in their recommended order feels like a huge exhale, or on one of my extremely rare good days, akin to a hand placed in the small of my back.

It's all about the reward, it always was, for me at least. Way back when, in the bulimia chatrooms, it was the promise of reward driving people toward me. Teenagers; in and out of hospital, zig zagging between forced parental nutritional feeding and chucking up the contents of their intestines. It was a place they could get a like, or a smiley face; validation that others were going through the same shit. We all just needed a way to get through the day, through the next family meal.

Loathing of soul and self transcends borders.

A while back, my nocturnal meanderings led to a vlog of interest, one I engaged in for some time. The authoress claimed to have similar tendencies to my own; laughable really, she went about flaw finding with what I can only describe as part time enthusiasm. Performed up to ten checks some days which I thought demonstrated a real lack of commitment. Her shared experiences concluded with a piece of advice; to concentrate on the positives in life through compilation of a gratitude list, to be reviewed at regular intervals when the subject felt low. The idea had merit; honestly, I could see the potential should you have anything to be grateful for.

I could also see no value in even attempting to locate a pen.

Once I'm in a rut, I find it very difficult to extract myself. Wheels spin and mud sprays, creating a cacophony of noise and heat. I'm unable to gain any traction to claw myself out and so I spent the time after David left, dwelling. By mid-afternoon my sense of dread had built sufficiently to create a feeling of restriction on my upper chest. An image as vivid as it was crude; boulders precariously stacked, my sternum laden beneath a tower of rocks. I was forced to seek emergency aid in the form of eighty six sweeps only to return deflated, having achieved sticking plaster results.