my november so far

basically the continuation of this except i'm too lazy to change the format and i have so much shit to say but not enough words to describe how i'm feeling right now..! erm don't read if eating disorders trigger u

November 24, 2024

It’s been a week since I last sat down to write, and honestly, I feel like I’m about to explode. I don’t even know why I’m doing this—no one’s going to read it, and even if someone did, what would they think? But whatever, this is more for me than anyone else. I need to let it all out before I completely lose my mind. So here’s your warning: this is about to get messy. Like, I’m-losing-my-grip-on-reality messy.

Where do I even start? The past few days have been such a chaotic blur that I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone process anything. It’s like I’ve been sleepwalking through life, just going through the motions with no real awareness. My brain? Completely fried. My body? Running on autopilot. I had to scroll through my tweets just to piece together what’s been happening because my mind straight-up deleted it all. But the one thing I do remember—crystal clear—is what happened yesterday.

So, let me set the scene. My uncle’s dog, this seemingly innocent ball of fluff, decided to betray me in the most personal way possible. One moment, I was petting him like a normal human being. The next? Chomp. Right on my finger. I didn’t even process it at first. I just looked at my bleeding finger, thinking, “Oh. Cool. That’s happening now.” It didn’t hurt, not really, but the blood was enough to make my uncle spiral into a full-blown panic. “What if it’s rabies?!” he said. Never mind the dog was just vaccinated. Suddenly, it was DEFCON 1 in our house.

He made me squeeze the bite to “bleed it out,” which—pro tip—is not what you’re supposed to do. Thanks, Google, for confirming I’ve been doing everything wrong. I washed my hands for what felt like an eternity, scrubbing at my skin like I was trying to erase the memory of the bite. But my uncle wouldn’t let it go. “You need an anti-rabies shot,” he kept saying, and honestly, at that point, I was so over it, I just gave in.

And then came the parental intervention. I told my parents, hoping for some kind of support, but nope. Instead, I got hit with, “Why were you petting the dog in the first place?” Like, excuse me? Was I supposed to predict that this dog, who’s usually chill, would suddenly decide to reenact Jaws? But sure, blame me. Because clearly, I’m the villain here.

Fast forward to the clinic. The doctor started throwing around all these medical terms, like “Category 3 exposure,” and explaining how rabies spreads faster through fingers because of the nerves. I nodded along like I understood, but inside, I was panicking. And then they dropped the bomb: I needed not one, not two, but five injections.

Let me break it down for you. First, the anti-rabies shots—one in each arm. That was bad enough, but then came the tetanus shot in my left arm. My arm was already sore, and they just kept stabbing me. Next up: a skin test on my right arm. They jabbed me, and it felt like my arm was on fire. I had to sit there for 30 minutes, enduring this slow burn, waiting to see if I’d have a reaction. Spoiler: I didn’t. But the pain was so bad I kind of wished I had, just to make it feel worth it.

And then came the real nightmare. The ERIG injection—or at least, I think it was ERIG. Honestly, I’m not even sure anymore. They stabbed my poor finger, right near the bite, and I swear I’ve never experienced pain like that in my life. I could feel the vaccine spreading under my nail, turning it this eerie white, and I just sat there, horrified, unable to look away. My finger still feels numb, and every time it gets bumped or touched, it’s like someone’s twisting a knife into it. I’ve been told not to wet my hand and to brace myself for three more rounds of shots—starting on the 26th, conveniently right after my exams. Yay.

Speaking of exams, let’s talk about how I’m supposed to focus on anything when my life is currently a dumpster fire. I can’t eat half the foods I love for a month. No chicken, no eggs, no egg-based foods—basically, everything that makes life worth living. I can’t even look at a fried egg without feeling like I’m being punished. It’s almost comical how this situation managed to ruin every aspect of my life at once.

But here’s the thing: in a twisted, messed-up way, this whole ordeal feels like a gift. I’ve been slipping back into my eating disorder, and now I have the perfect excuse to cut out food. It’s like the universe handed me a reason to starve myself on a silver platter. Today, I ate three meals—only because it was Sunday and I had to keep up appearances. But starting tomorrow? One meal a day. No excuses.

My weight has been stuck in the 60s for what feels like forever. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a number on the scale that didn’t start with a six. It’s like this invisible wall I can’t break through, and every time I try, I just end up crashing back into it. Seeing that number again at the clinic yesterday made me want to crawl out of my skin. My uniform doesn’t fit the way it used to, and every time I look in the mirror, all I can see is failure.

I’ve tried telling myself that I should fix my relationship with food, but honestly? I think it’s too late for that. It’s been years of this—years of starving, binging, counting calories like a maniac, and obsessing over every bite. How do you even begin to fix something that’s been broken for so long? The thought of eating “normally” feels foreign, almost impossible.

Instead, I’m leaning into the chaos. I’m thinking of making a planner—something to track my weight, my meals, my progress. It feels almost ironic to be so organized about something so self-destructive, but at least it would give me a sense of control. If I can’t fix my relationship with food, maybe I can at least manage the damage. Maybe I can turn this into something productive, even if it’s born out of a place of complete madness.

Right now, everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control. The dog bite, the injections, the food bans, the constant blame—every little thing is adding to this growing pit in my stomach. I don’t know if I’m angry, sad, or just completely numb at this point. Probably all three.

But one thing is clear: something has to change. I can’t keep living like this, stuck in this endless cycle of self-loathing and chaos. So yeah, I’m hyperfixating. Again. Forget studying, forget midterms—none of it matters if I can’t stand to exist in my own skin. I don’t care if this obsession wrecked my grades last year. I’ll flunk out again if it means I can finally look in the mirror without wanting to cry. I'm planning my weight loss journey instead of studying for midterms. Because at the end of the day, what’s the point of being “successful” if I can’t even stand to exist in my own skin?