Today’s date is February 3rd, year 2024. That means in about two months I’ll turn 22. Wow. Bummer. Shocker. Whatever. Why does it matter.
As I was eating dinner, I was thinking about myself. How hard it is to be me. How nobody understands what it takes to be me. What it takes to live my life. To be so mature. To go grocery shopping. To make dinner, lunch, and breakfast. To hold myself back from eating out. To watch everything I eat. To have this lifelong obsession with food. Google, can you stop fucking recommending me words to write? It’s annoying. Anyways, I’m writing to nobody, just to thin air. To a spirit, to an idea. I’m writing because I have to, because it’s a compulsion to do so. Not because I give a shit. And yes, I swear. Whatever. Not so much in real life. Sometimes, when I’m sick in traffic and raging because I drive standard and I hate driving standard especially in traffic. I truly believe that women should not be allowed to drive standard. It goes so-against my nature. I’m supposed to be flowy and soft and cute {an ethereal, divine creature}, and driving stick just fucking ruins it. All of a sudden I’m a dude who drives a truck and lives on the sea. What the fuck. Anyways. I love these streams of consciousness. They’re super fun and unpredictable. Like neither you nor I know what I’m about to say. And that’s the best part. And the worst part. Because I never even finish a thought. And I’m too scared to publish any of this, because what if people find out?
What if people find out?
That I’m not an enigma?
That I’m a real person?
What if people find out that I have memories, a past life, and strange dreams about things I shouldn’t talk about?
I would want to burn the digital evidence proving that I exist. Sometimes, especially when I overeat, I have this insane, burning urge to delete my existence. As if I were a letter on a screen, or a word misspelled. Delete. Go back, erase. Throw in the trash. Obliterate. Disappear, like a dying star. Is this poetry?
I remember when I was sixteen and I would write these agonizing poems and send them to my then-boyfriend. I felt so alien. It was a difficult time. I reminisce a lot about those days and I still cannot understand why. Maybe because I was skinny and I felt like being skinny was really, really important. Actually, my life depended on it. Literally, my well-being was hinged on the number of my weight. How much I weighed. Reflected how punishable I was. It was so messed up. I wonder if anyone has gone through the same. No shit, bitch. Obviously. It’s called an eating disorder. How many articles and quizzes have I taken over the course of my life, measuring whether I had an eating disorder or not? The result was always ambiguous, like ehh maybe you do, maybe you don’t. But when I was 16, it was like… yeah definitely, seek professional help now! In red colors or something like that.
But honestly in Puerto Rico I’ve never heard anyone speak of eating disorders. It’s actually bizarre. I actually ponder if any girls here have bulimia like I used to have. Well actually yes. When I got sober I met a couple. True. I mean, it’s not a topic of discussion at your local bar. Or whatever.
This is getting really vulnerable. Why would I ever post something like this?
Am I that desperate for attention?
Or is this actually good shit?
Love
Dalila