Sunday, August 29, 2010

Still Fucking Bonkers

Before Weight Watchers...
...After Weight Watchers

Earlier this afternoon, I had to go into our - sorry, his - house to get more stuff for the hospital. Actually, all I needed was a bra, cuz I forgot to grab any the last time I was there. I didn’t want to be having any Edgewood-type moments while in hospital, and get accused of trying to cleavage my way out of eating dinner, or whatever it is a braless anorexic might be accused of.

Back to the house. Any and all traces of me have been removed from his home.

It hurts so fucking much, but the worst is that now I’m wondering - he didn’t take the stuff down until after he got my email, which said that I would come and get my stuff out of his house when (if) I am discharged from the hospital. He took the stuff down after that.

What if he wasn’t going to break up with me? Maybe he was going to stand by me while I went to treatment? What if I lost him for fucking nothing? Because I was too terrified to call him and hear the hate in his voice, and just assumed that that was it?

I actually howled when these thoughts occurred to me, and just dropped like a pile of bones to the kitchen floor. Dad came running, and for the first time ever looked terrified and overwhelmed by what he found. But the pain was just so intense, I couldn’t stop howling. He dropped to his knees and picked me up and just held me while I screamed and sobbed and begged God please, please, why won't you fucking help me?

I’m not praying that anymore, though. I just want to fucking die. I am so very, very tired.

Mum and Dad are on suicide watch again. How embarrassing. They've taken away all my meds and disposed of any other pills in the house. They have also confiscated my car keys.

Music. Write. Music. Write.

Stay alive for one more night.

DETOX - DAY 5 ~ Sunday, August 22nd

6 something am


So my editing last night? You know, rereading my entire blog for the past nine months?

God. They are so very, very angry.

I mean, I think that they are still reasonably well written, but I barely recognize myself in them. It’s just one post after another about how miserable I am and how much I hate Baby Momma.

It was eye-opening, to say the least. It will prolly prove very comforting in the forthcoming days as our relationship comes to an end - a very bitter, angry end, thanks to me. But I am going to try to keep these blog entries in mind when I get really down, that maybe it was for the best, and now we can both be free.

Yeah, right.

It was nice to read my writing again, though, and actually get excited about maybe doing it again. I’m also really looking forward to my move to the hospital next week, as I get to have my computer AND Mr. Reznor (iPod) AND internet! I’ll get to watch all my shows, listen to all my music, and write every day. Which I have begun to notice is a very, very good thing.

Was bored and restless again this morning, and wide awake by 4:30, with no hope of getting back to sleep. I tried eating a slice of bread with jam and then lying down again, but my eating disorder was having none of it. It wanted food, and it wanted it NOW.

At 5 o’clock I couldn’t take another moment of the raging inside my head. I left the women’s dorm and padded quietly down the hall to the Nurse’s Station to get some food.

“May I please have something to eat, maybe some bread?” I asked the RN. “I’m starving.”


Get this - she REFUSED. The miserable fucking cow refused to give me any food! Which, if I didn’t have so much food stashed away in my drawer in the dormitory, would have really pissed me off!

Miserable Cow said that she would put our breakfast out early, at 5:30 - even after I told her I had already been up waiting for half an hour. But there wasn’t a mother licking thing I could do about it, so I had to just turn around and go back to the dorm room, to wait it out.

Well, when I say ‘wait it out’, obviously what I mean is 'eat everything that was stashed in the bedside drawer'. English muffins (so gross not toasted, don’t ever do it) and jam and peanut butter and crackers. I threw it all up again, and by the time I was done, it was finally breakfast time! 

Huh! How bout that? Every day is a Saturday! Go to sleep, wake up, yo, it's Saturday again! (Remember the group Black Sheep? Haha!)

Since I was the only inmate awake, breakfast quickly turned into another binge and purge, but whatever. At least I finally had something to DO.

When I went back for a second try at it, I brought along some more of my writing to read while I ate. I totally forgot about “Donkey Punch”, the article I wrote for It didn’t get published, since the magazine never came to be, but I thought it was really good anyway, and I was proud of the work I had created.

After breakfast, I showered and blew my hair dry, put on some make-up, and got my jeans (and hairspray! shhhh! I won't drink it) out of storage. I styled my hair in a simple, low ponytail, with my bangs to one side, and put on my wide leg jeans, chunky belt and black La Senza camisole top.

I looked critically at my reflection in the mirror , and was relieved to see that I was looking almost human again. Cheered, I trotted out to the common area to have my second (oops, I guess I mean third) breakfast.

The nurse caught me before I could get to the breakfast counter.

“Kg!” she called. “Blood pressure check.”

Fuck! I reluctantly turned away from the yummy, yummy cereals before me, and went to sit down. I had to unzip my sweater to get my arm out for my blood pressure check, and while they changed the strap to the little kid's one so it would fit around my arm, I looked up - and straight into Ol’ Blue Eyes’ ol’ blue eyes. He was watching me from a few tables away.

Um...So... I should prolly mention a very stupid thing that I did last night.

It was sometime after the last "Group" of the night. I walked into the common room, looking for coffee, and Ol’ Blue Eyes was at the counter. I went over to get a mug, and as is his usual new thing, he poured just a couple of drops into my cup, then went to put the pot away.

Without thinking, I gave a little shimmy of my shoulders and held out my mug. “More coffee please!”

He laughed, but had only seen it in his peripheral vision, and told me to do it again.

“No,” I grinned. “It's only funny cuz you couldn't see it.”

“Do it again,” he cajoled, waving the coffee pot in the air to indicate that my refill depended on it.

So I shook my shoulders again and repeated my line with my mug held out, and he laughed again.

“You are unbelievably cute,” he said, pouring the rest of the coffee into my mug.

“Aren’t I?” I smiled winningly, and walked away.

For the rest of the night, I kept wondering; what the FUCK was I DOING? What the fuck was I thinking, shaking my tits at a dangerous ex-con with a violent history of mental health problems? Am I fucking retarded?

I ended up brooding on it all night, trying to figure out what would make me do something quite so spectacularly stupid.

And then this morning, it finally hit me.

I. Am. Bored.

That’s it, that’s all. I’m bored. I’m so fucking bored that I am deliberately stirring shit up - parading around in front of Blue Eyes to make him want me more than he does M-whore-gan, so I can then gloat and create more drama with her, even though I really don't give a shit about either of them. All so that I might have something to fucking DO for a while.

It never occurred to me that I might be a shit disturber, since I go to such great lengths to just stay away from people in the first place, but this little episode keeps nagging at me. For the first time I had to take a step back and consider my behavior. What the fuck WAS that last night?

I ended up getting more than I bargained for, though. Big surprise.

As I was helping myself to my second bowl of cereal for my second (or third) breakfast this morning, Crazy Ol’ Blue Eyes came over and stood right beside me, so that our arms were touching.

“Nothing sexual,” he started, and I thought, “UH oh.”

“Uh huh,” I prompted him, when he failed to continue.

“Nothing sexual,” he started again, then must have changed his mind, cuz he suddenly blurted out, "Will you talk to me later? You’re so special and interesting, especially in here. I just really want to find out all about you.”

“Sure,” I shrugged, and gave him a charming smile before walking away with my cereal.

FUCK! I fumed to myself. Nice work, Kage.

And that's when I knew. I knew what I had been doing. I wanted to stir shit up, then just sit back and watch the action - but I didn’t want to actually be a PART of it. I just wanted to watch the drama of OTHERS unfold. And if it wasn't happening on its own, I'd get in there and start throwing wrenches at different people and different situations, just to get things started, to see what would happen.

Huh. How bout that.

That's pretty douche-tastic, actually, innit.


Didn’t write earlier, as I had a nap after morning “Group”. Haven’t been feeling well today, acid reflux is really bad; prolly cuz I’ve been throwing so much lately. Duh.

Thought I was going to be throwing up lunch today too, as Norma had made omelettes, sausages and homefries for everyone, and I couldn’t see a way out of that one - technically, I could eat everything but the sausages. I was seated at one of the plastic tables, obsessing about it, when Norma called me up - and handed me a nice big salad and a single-serving can of fat-free vegetable soup! I could have wept for her kindness; I didn’t have to throw up my lunch today!

Oh! And another New Girl joined us today, sat at my table even, and get this - she’s a dancer too! Well, former dancer - Tiny Little Tammy’s in her forties now, but she certainly hasn’t lost her competitive edge. As soon as she confirmed that I was a dancer too, I got a fucking earful of all the contests and titles she had won, how her high her show price had been throughout the country, blah blah blah.

Then she grabbed my hand and announced to the room at large, “I just knew you were a dancer with those huge fake boobies!”

Yes, well. Thank-you for relieving me of the responsibility of letting everyone else here know that my boobs are a) fake, and b) huge.

Suddenly I realized, hey, she’s old (er), and I pulled out my book, Highways and Dancehalls, to show to her.

“It was written by a girl from BC, who was dancing around the same time as you, and it was published the same year you won the blah blah blah...”I said, waving it around.

She didn’t even glance at the book. “Someone should write a book about me,” she said instead, and began listing all the reasons her life was so interesting, all the world traveling as a model, the twelve porn mags she did, etc, etc.

I slipped the book back into my lap unnoticed, and all I could think was “Please God, don’t ever let me turn out like this.”

After lunch, Tiny Tammy followed me outside, still yammering away about her various titles (ok, sweetheart? Who cares? You’re still a drug addict in a fucking DETOX CENTRE), and sat with me to have a smoke.

“Hey! This guy works at The South Strip Club, too!” she said suddenly, and beckoned someone over.

I squinted up at the acne-ridden specimen making his way towards us. I had never seen before in my life, and said as much.

“Yeah, he works in the kitchen,” she said. “And he still has pictures of me from when I won the...” and she was off AGAIN, somehow bringing the story round to how this other dancer out East was so jealous of her that she stole all her costumes and trophies! Wow!

Strip Club Cook sat down beside her, and I let the two of them have at her while I turned away to chat with some of the other nutters for a bit. This girl was seriously beginning to drive me spare. I couldn't wait to make my escape.

Speaking of conversation with Ol’ Blue Eyes went a lot better than I expected to.

I was outside in the courtyard, smoking, reading and trying to avoid Tiny Tammy. The sun suddenly darkened over the pages, and I looked up to see Crazy Ol’ Blue Eyes standing dircetly next to me.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi,” he grinned, leaning in to stare me straight in the eyes, which I HATE.

“So, nothing sexual,” he started with that same fucking line again.

I looked up expectantly. When was he gonna finish that goddamn sentence?

“But you are gorgeous,” he gushed.

“Oh!” I said, a little taken aback. For some reason, I wasn’t expecting him to say anything innocent like that.

Ah, but worry not - the raunchiness was still to come.

“Now, tell me about you,” he said, still staring at me with those intense blue eyes.

“Okaaaaaay,” I said. “Well, I’m a dancer. And a writer, sort of. I love my dogs and I love my books. And, um...well, that’s about it.”

“That’s it?” he said.

“Yup, that’s me in a nutshell,” I said. Then, squirming under his relentless gaze, I started to babble.

“Have you ever seen Austin Powers? ‘This is me in a nutshell, help I’m in a nutshell!’ “ I waved my hands around like Mike Meyers does in the movie.

A moment later, I dropped my hands.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m just babbling, you're making me nervous, staring at me so hard."

“I know all about fetishes,” he said suddenly, like he hadn’t heard a word I said. “My mother, she got me started on fetishes. I lost my house because of a fetish.”


“Really?” I said, intrigued despite myself. I was totally imagining the worst - bestiality, rape and sodomy, maybe a little necrophilia. “What fetish?”

“Foot fetish,” he said, and I immediately tucked my cracked toenails out of sight.

“A foot fetish isn’t so bad,” I reasoned, and told him about the old retarded guy who used to pay me to walk on him in my stiletto boots, back when I worked at Fantasia’s. I would always have to take the boots off after I walked on him, so he could smell my feet and my BOOTS - and my boots were disgusting! I don’t know how the man SURVIVED, let alone kept coming back for more.

I didn’t tell Ol’ Blue about that last part, though. Just the walking-on-him part.

Then it was time for afternoon “Group”, and I was able to make my escape.

Until after “Group”, of course.

Blue Eyes cornered me in the courtyard as I was trying to go back inside from my post afternoon-"Group" fag.

“You’re always stubbing out your smoke when I come out,” he complained, watching me stub out my half-smoked Sooooper Slim.

“No, I’m not,” I replied, and put the half-smoke back in the pack. “I was already butting it out before you came outside.”

“So when are you gonna talk to me?” he asked as I stood up.

“What do you mean? I gave you my entire life story earlier,” I said with a grin.

“Yeah, right,” he smirked. “I wanna know more about you.”

In my experience, people who say shit like that? Just want you to give them an opening so they can talk about themselves. Or, as I was afraid would be the case with Blue, some more fetishes.

“Do you wanna read something about me?” I asked, suddenly inspired.

“Did you write it?” he asked.


“Okay,” he agreed, so I ran to the girls dorm, and grabbed one of the blog entries I had reread the night before.

It was a fairly light one, just about how I tried to do a stag sober and almost ended up getting beaten with a belt; and when he asked for more, I gave him the “Donkey Punch” article from

I was just returning to the common area to give him the article when he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into a hug.

“Um...?” I said into his chest.

“Come here,” he said, and wrapped his arms tighter around my waist. “I feel sorry for you.”

“Ah, I’m good,” I said, pulling out of the hug and waving him off.

I handed him the article, then decided I had had enough fun for now, and went back to the dorm to lie down.

I have to admit, though. I am keen to hear his reaction to THAT article.


Curiosity drove me at length back out to the common room to seek out Blue Eyes.

He was sitting at a table, with none of my papers in sight (is he keeping them???), but the moment he saw me, he beckoned me over.

“I know what you’re going through,” he said, and I snorted to myself.

No, you don’t.

I asked him what he thought of the article.

“I’m not sure if I understood it all,” he said, and my face drooped with disappointment. I was really hoping to get some kind of reaction, and that wasn’t it. I mean, yes, I know he’s violently insane, but still - it’s a fucking good article.

“Were you talking to the Marine in person?” he asked.

“What? Oh, no, we were texting,” I said. That wasn’t so bad, I thought. Maybe he got the article, but a few semantics here and there weren’t clear. I crouched down in front of his table, and waiting for some kind of reaction.

“I understand what you’re-” he started again, but I cut him off.

“Yes, yes, but did you like the article?” I asked, exasperated.

“Yeah, I did,” he said, but his eyes were far away and kinda weird.

Leave him be, Kg, I chastened myself as I stood up again. You can’t get blood from a stone.

“So you have a baby?” he asked before I could walk away.

How did he know - ? Oh, right. The blog posting. The picture of Baby and I.

“No, she’s actually my boyfriend’s daughter. Well, ex-boyfriend,” I said softly.

“You guys broken up?”
I snorted. “Um, yeah.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not since I’ve been in here,” I said.

“Are you okay with that?” he asked.

I paused for a moment, considering my response. My body was still doing the strange Survival Adrenaline thing, where I couldn’t feel anything but pure surges of positive energy. I told him as much.
“Are you gonna go back to dancing?”

I hesitated, and he groaned.

“I know I don’t know you very well,” he said, “but I do know that you are way too smart and way too pretty to be doing that shit.”

“Thank-you, but it’s just....” and I started rattling off my usual list of reasons to stay; the money’s good, I’m good at my job, I need to support myself while I am in treatment, I'm too lazy and stubborn to do anything else.

I finished by telling him about answering the phone for Gigi and taking the bookings, and said I might just do that to get by.

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “That’s like saying I won’t do crack, but I’m gonna keep selling it. You know you’ll go back.”

Sigh. Yeah, yeah. I do know that.

After dinner

Blue Eyes invited me to sit at his dinner table tonight when he clocked me wandering aimlessly, looking for a place to sit. I thanked him and plopped down in the chair beside him, and said hello to the other two inmates, Cici and Hastings.

Cici and Hastings were chattering away, but Ol’ Blue Eyes just sat there brooding, his thick brown arms folded across his chest, not looking at any of us.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

He turned his bright blue eyes on me. “Just reality is setting in,” he said. “I’m outta here in a few days, and I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Before I could reply, he scrapped his chair back and walked towards the courtyard doors.

I called after him. “Do you want me to save your dinner?”

He just shook his head as he walked out the door.

Laureen suddenly appeared at my side, and I squeaked with shock as I turned around to find her right beside me. But I forgave her a moment later when I saw the effort she had put into my dinner tonight. Since everyone else was having turkey, she had made me two veggie patties and gave me cranberry sauce, buttery mashed potatoes, peas and a dessert of mixed fruit.

“Wow, Laureen!” I said, touched that she had tried to include me in the special meal. “Thank-you.”

She fussed over me for another minute, then bustled back to the kitchen to start serving everyone else their turkey.

I started the meal with the best intentions of keeping it down, but it was just so fucking good, and I couldn’t stop eating. When I left to purge, I reasoned with myself that hey - I was going into an anorexic hospital next week! I needed to keep my weight down, didn't I?

I went back to finish the single-serving, fat-free veggie soup Laureen had also given me, and after dinner I went up and thanked her profusely for my special meal tonight, and for always making such an effort with my vegetarian meals.

She was so overcome that she actually came out from behind the serving station to give me a hug.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” she exclaimed as she hugged me. I threw my arms around her and hugged her back - I really do appreciate all the effort she puts into my food.

But guess who DOESN'T appreciate it?

Ha ha! M-whore-gan! Rahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Whoo, she was pissed tonight! What a stink she raised.

One of the first people to be served, as soon as M-whore-gan got her soup, and with twenty-odd very hungry addicts behind her, she demanded, “Who do I talk to about the menu here? I’m hypo-glycemic, I can’t eat a lot of this stuff.”

Said after she’s been here, eating the food, for two fucking days already.

Poor Laureen, she looked so overwhelmed at the timing of such a complicated issue.

“Well, you have to talk to the nursing staff about any dietary requirements, and then they inform us,” she stammered, wiping the sweat from her brow. The happy Cuban lady beside her kept handing out soups to keep the line moving.

“Fine,” snapped M-whore-gan, but as Laureen started to serve up her food, she said, “No, not that.”
“Okay,” said Laureen, dropping the mashed potatoes onto another plate instead. “Would you like gravy for your turkey?”

“What’s in it?” M-whore-gan asked, and I heard one of the guys in the back of the line go, “Oh, for fuck’s SAKE.”

“Is it just turkey based?” she pressed on.

“Yes! Yes,” Laureen gasped. “Turkey, and flour, and -”
“Okay,” M-whore-gan finally agreed, and we all watched as Laureen poured gravy onto her turkey.

There was a cheer when she finally left the front of the line and it was able to move forward again.

As she made her way back to her table, she shot my big beautiful salad and I a look of disgust.

I snickered. Stupid little shit.

6:50 pm

And now....dah dah duh DAH! (That’s music). It’s time for Tonight’s Big Drama!

I was sitting up in bed, writing in my diary, when the door to the Girls Dorm was thrown open, and it banged loudly against the wall. M-whore-gan came storming in and headed straight for her bed, then started tearing things out of her drawers and throwing them in her laundry basket.

“Are you okay?” I asked from the other side of the room.

“No,” she said tearfully.

“What’s wrong? Are you leaving?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, and gave a little sob.

Pfffft. I knew a fake crier when I heard one.

I pressed on. “Do you have somewhere to go?”


“You know you don’t have to go,” I told her as she picked up her full basket. And without another word, she stormed right back out the door again.

“Huh,” I said to Debbie, who was sitting up reading in the bed beside M-whore-gan’s.

“Huh,” Debbie agreed.

We were silent for a moment.

“Dibs on her pillow,” I told Debbie, and she laughed.

Princess M-whore-gan had to bring in her own ergonomic (or whatever) pillow to sleep on, because, according to her, her ex-boyfriend had snapped her neck (what....?). Twas just another tick on the long list of things that made us all hate her so much.

But the drama wasn’t over yet! Suddenly all the female inmates streamed into the dorm room, and for whatever reason they all came and gathered around my bed, everyone talking at once.

“...the tiny dancer was with her...”

“...sitting in her lap, while she was on the phone...”

“...that homeless guy Harold went too...”

“...they may have gotten drugs from inside the detox centre....”

Sitting up in bed, holding court as I was, I saw some temporary relief of my boredom, and set to work, stirring that shit UP. I addressed each of them in turn, inviting each girl to share with us all she knew. As it went round the circle of girls, I asked each individual speaker questions and egged her on, and by the time it came round full circle, it had gotten bigger and more exciting and more unbelievable than ever. By the end of it, M-whore-gan was practically a Satan-worshipping baby-killer, who took her lesbian lover Tammy out of detox on the back of Harold the Hapless Unicorn.


Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. Good times. Good times.

The actual story was much more boring, and went something like this.

M-whore-gan was on the phone, and Tiny Tammy (who has a TITLE, thank-you) was sitting in her lap. In fucking detox. I guess they must have been dialing for drugs and scored, cuz they both suddenly jumped up and ran to the Nurse’s Station and demanded their shit.

The only thing I wasn’t able to figure out was what role Harold-the-Hapless-Hobo could possibly have played in this little drama, since he apparently left with them.

All I could think was, Gross! Harold was a fucking MESS, mottled, diseased skin and disfigurations on his hands and face, I couldn’t stand to be anywhere near him. He didn’t even have any fucking SHOES when he first came in! He just walked through the spit and the cigarette butts in the courtyard every day in his goddamn socks. It was disgusting.

Ugh! It gives me the wiggins just thinking about him! I can’t imagine what possible use those two stupid little shits might have had for that wet-brain hobo. Incredible.

The last bit of the mystery was, did they get drugs from inside the detox centre? I helped get the girls riled up about that one, too, then decided to have a quick nap while the staff sorted it out.

Turns out, of course, that it wasn’t true. But it certainly caused a bit of a stir!

And now, with the drama over and the boredom creeping back in, I find that I am actually looking forward to my upcoming stay on Unit 32. Even though I will be forced to quit smoking, it is a small price to pay to be able to have Mr. Reznor, my iPod.

Then I won’t have to stir shit up to relieve my boredom, because I won’t have anything to do with the others during my downtime. I will be lost instead in my own little world with him. Thank the Lord. I fucking hate it when people talk to me.


Going to bed early tonight. Don’t know if it was all the excitement from meddling this afternoon, or just the unbelievably depressing nature of ‘Highways and Dancehalls’, but I am exhausted.

A demain!

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