How to beat your therapist at her sick little game.

I know it’s bad when I have trouble sleeping. Like my brain is a computer with ninety nine tabs open and i don’t know where that fucking music is coming from. Lately—after having contorted my body into places unknown to man and failing to find a comfortable position—I get up from bed and lay on the cold hardwood floor. I stay there, face down, chest pressed against oak, until my cheeks go numb. It usually lasts about two songs—yes, it’s bad enough that I can’t sleep without my favourite album on replay. My body melts into the base of my room and we become one. It grounds me—no pun intended.

“The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.”

Sylvia Plath, the bell jar

I know it’s bad when I randomly notice my hands and feet shaking because I forgot to have breakfast. I don’t find pleasure in eating food. To me, it’s as enjoyable as any other everyday task, like brushing teeth or taking a bath. A few years ago, I got to a place where I became so used to the feeling of hunger, I didn’t even know I was starving. By the time my parents noticed my frame drastically thinning and brought me to the hospital, I had already reached a concerningly minute body mass index. And so it went. Doctor appointments and medical exemptions and nutritionists and weight checks before showers. As of now, I haven’t weighed myself in at least a whole year. That’s what I call progress.

I know it’s bad when I start giving a shit about my friends’ love lives—enter Layla. She’s the type to attract those obnoxious white boys whose whole personalities revolve around whiny underground rappers and wanting a gothgirlfriend (by goth, they mean a girl who wears minimal eyeliner, black nailpolish, and occasionally a corset). All her exes have been so cartoonishly evil, I’m surprised her current girlfriend didn’t have to defeat them in a fight, Scott Pilgrim style. Speaking of, her girlfriend, Audrey, can barely be seen as an upgrade. They’ve been together for a few months, nearly breaking up every two weeks. At first, I found myself entertained by the narrative. Audrey is so outrageously childish it was almost laughable. But as time went on and after numerous fights occurred, I got tired. Not bored, but pissed. It’s not like I was solely interested in their story for entertainment purposes, I care about my friend and hate to see her stuck in yet another shitty relationship. There came a point however, where I realised that no matter the advice I gave, how right I was, she was bound to do whatever felt good in the moment, as self destructive as it was. Long story short, the pattern kept endlessly repeating itself to this day. The same fights about the same premise resulting in the same outcome. Maybe that means they’re meant to be, I couldn’t tell you.

Serena Motola (2018)

I know it’s bad when I make impulsive decisions regarding my appearance. Getting new piercings, dying my hair a new provocative colour, shaving off my eyebrows, you name it. Just the other day I was debating on whether I should get microbangs. I talked about it with two of my classmates—a boy and a girl. They had an overly negative reaction, warning me about how awful it looks, how ugly it’ll make me. Crazy how as a woman, even the concept of becoming less visually appealing provokes such a strong, aversive reaction. The insult I’ve been called the most is ugly, and I don’t think it’s because I’m truly ugly, rather it’s what people deem the worst thing a woman could be.

I know it’s bad when I reread my old entries searching for flaws. I hate how querulous I sound, how you can tell exactly what type of books I like through my prose, and how in my first published article, I used the word thinkingtwice in the same paragraph. I write to feel better but I don’t. I write and it mostly goes to waste. I keep theorising about notions bigger than myself, in order to feel a sense of importance, but those essays fall flat. Truth is, I am small. I am small and inexpert and insignificant. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean this in a self deprecating manner—being small isn’t always bad. It can be very freeing, actually.