Pictures of me.

There's a picture of me as a child on my wall. I'm sitting in the garden reading Matilda by Roald Dahl, a fitting choice because I'm around four in the picture and thus am emulating the eponymous heroine. I'm wearing a white frilly t-shirt, white socks and sandals and blue stripey shorts. I've got a visor on, it's also blue and I'm wearing it like a tennis pro. I've just turned round to see who's disturbing my reading, I think someone probably shouted because I zoned out when I read.

I remember wishing desperately that I could sprout long hair like sleeping beauty and the little mermaid. I'd have liked it to be blonde or black instead of my own colour. I always want what I don't have, and I have since I was a child. Now I want to be thin, which it seems I was looking at the picture. I have come some way on convincing myself that my body shape is the best, there's simply too much of it. I carry weight round my bottom half- this means that my legs look strong. I'm tall and broad, so I look strong and sporty rather than squat and chubby; my build tends to athleticism though I'm not at all athletic, so I look thinner than others my size or weight by virtue of having large bones, though they poke through my decollete more than I would like. I am flat-chested, but I can deal with this because it means I'll never ever look matronly; he keeps describing people as matronly, and I know that I am not. I am always fidgeting so I can't be. I could be a man, from behind, or in front.... but that is better than being matronly.

I wonder what my five year old self would think if she saw me in a line-up of girls, and was asked to pick which one she'd want to be out of them. I'd love to know what other people really and truly think of my body, or of me, but uncertainty is what makes us.

Pope Joan.

It occurs to me that I like the idea of loving you for your car crash body, or in spite of. I have contracted the saviour complex, akin to that of my Grandma. It's disturbing that I feel the need to render someone so passive, in order that I can be the saviour.

I read about Pope Joan the other day. She's a legendary female pope. She dressed as a boy to continue her learning, she was promoted to Pope and all went swimmingly until she gave birth in a public procession (or mounting a horse, depending on which version you read). They tied her to the horse and dragged her through town, or stoned her to death, or sent her to a nunnery and the baby became a bishop, according to legend. That's why popes have to sit on the seat and someone proclaims, "testes habet and pendulous something", "he has testicles and they dangle stupendously". People are bastards. I don't think it's a real, true legend, apparently the dates are wrong, but I'm sure something like that has happened because people are continually terrible to each other. Reading it made my insides contract, and I couldn't sleep after because it seems so terrible.

And what a brave new world it is we live in.

The black dog stalked me down the road today. It has become his habit, he seems to enjoy it. There is a certain terrifying elegance about his quill-sharpened teeth and the lope of his soft foot falling silently on the floor.

Hug me till you drug me, honey
Put me in a coma
Hold me honey, snuggly bunny
Love's as good as soma.

I love those five lines. If I was a musician, I'd put them to music, or I'd sing them or something. Aldous Huxley's not a patch on Orwell, but he's still fantastic.

Someone else I love is still confusing me. Sometimes he wants me to touch him, sometimes he doesn't, never in a sexual way. He eked out of me today how I really and truly think about myself, and I think he finds me dour. I can't always be lively.

I've got a hairbrush I'm desperate to clean and I just can't work out, for the life of me, how to get the dust out of the roots of it. I'm reluctant to placate consumerism by buying a new one. What on earth should I do?

I will have to dust soon because a thin layer of my own dead skin is coating my room.

I finished a book that detailed the inside of someone's upper lip. I wonder what your upper lip is like. I wonder what your car crash body is like. It's none so terrible from the outside, with your three protective layers against the world. It's your torso. Maybe you're just like me underneath, and you're worried about the size of your waist, or your stomach, or anything else.

Here are today's.

one and a half scones with creme fraiche-450
a tuna baguette-500
oranges-50
stir fry-100
half a scone-150
raisins-50

1300. Unlucky because I'm a triskaidekaphobe, but alright.

I adore looking at people's parents, because one person's face is suddenly two faces. I adore tracing.

raisins-50
some cereal-50
stir fry with peanut butter-130
apple-40
oranges-40
smoothie-115
sandwich-300
wispa-210
cranberry and brie panini-550

1480

I wore a shirt today, and it felt tight all day. It was a fat day today, really and truly. I need to start exercising, then I could stop food fixating.

What was I going to write about?

Maybe an Irish myth.

Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster, went to train with Scatchath, a scottish warrior queen, who offered him the "comfort of her thighs". I wonder why? Was there some sort of Irish-scottish allegiance so far back? People always think I'm irish, because I've got red hair, an irish nose and a penchant for green. I'm a little scottish, but not at all Irish.

Calories today-1630

And I don't like it. I need some fruit and vegetables, desperately. Today I had four portions, it should be over five.

He does like me? He's always saying I'm ugly, teasing me. This can be good or bad. He doesn't like spotty people, and I am spotty at the moment.

I nearly thought he might say something tonight. We were sitting and touching our feet together, or our knees. Sometimes hand and knee. God, he's beautiful, pompous, ridiculous, and wonderful. I spent the time mentally fitting myself round him, thinking how I could so easily grow into that space under his arm, how I could grain my head into the stoop of his back.

I feel like I'm writing to him sometimes, though I'd die if he saw this because I whine so much in it. If it's not about him it's about how I look, both utterly superficial. I'd consider myself intelligent, yet most of my time I'm morose, supposing about maudlin things.

I'd write him a letter beginning, "dearest".

He said that his body was a car crash again today. Every time he says it makes me wonder what is wrong; or if there is anything at all. He's such a perfectionist, I'd bet there isn't. If there was, i would kiss every scar. I'd cast a hand over whatever it is that lies beneath the three habitual layers he wears and I'd tell him that it didn't matter, or that it did but only to make me like him more. It shows what he has been; I know he hates being anchored to anything, but I like it. It makes him surer. And I'd never tell anyone. It would be for us, together, like our secret.

Everyone can see my fat, but I wonder how I'd feel if he said he liked it. I don't like the thought at all of it being acknowledged as me, or as part of me. I don't want to be a person that is a fat girl. I don't accept it because it is not me; that is not who I really am. Maybe this is how he feels about himself. I don't think I'd like it more, even if he did.

There's a place your mother goes when everybody else is softly sleeping, they're sleeping.

I'd like to write a book about someone being insane in a workhouse. I think it would be a good idea.

I want to go to Russia.

I want to look like Annie Lennox.

I don't know if I still want you after today, not that that matters because you never wanted me. Noone ever really does, do they. I'm always the androgynous one in the corner, looking strange, looking around to see if anyone will acknowledge me. I don't really have anything at all to contribute.

There once upon a time lay a girl in a transitory state, waiting to awaken herself....

Fat fat fat.

A bad day today, for two reasons.

You always tease me but you were harsh. You were annoyed with me, for eating in a certain way- and it was embarrassing, I didn't like you after it. I felt like I'd won because I finished it with, "if you don't like it get your own". You can be such an arse sometimes. You're petty, and manipulative because it makes you feel bigger to knock other people down. We got over it and I wanted to touch you, like I always do. Why do I only ever pick people that hate me? Or that pretend to hate me. Or that don't like me at all and just use me for a while till someone better comes along.

I wouldn't have minded if it hadn't been something that I've constructed so many problems around. Food is such a shaky area. That isn't the right word. I did the food ok today though. And if you're always teasing me about being fat, does it mean you think I'm thin? You tease me for being practically chestless as well.

That was another bad thing- I saw some photographs of me from last nights party and I look hideously fat. They're disgusting. I feel disgusting. I felt fine last night, then I saw these and I thought, oh no.

I want to make a film that looks like an Annie Lennox video. I saw her on TV tonight; I really admired her, till I found out how strangely intense she is. I suppose you have to be to get things done. I wish I could have some conviction about anything other than my own hideousness. That's really the only certain thing for me. It means I'm not judgemental, and I'm not a horrible person; but I seem always to come off worse in arguments, and I hate that. Actually, I don't know if I am not a horrible person. I could well be. I'm just having a dull phase at the moment; I always feel a lack when I'm not involved in drama stuff.

I like you. Another one of those.

Darling, I wish I could call you that. I never would because it would sound so strange falling from my lips, I'd get the accent wrong and it never would be so magical.

Brown skin, you know I love your brown skin. It's so true. If we're together and I'm bored, watching a play or something ludicrous, I always look at your hands. I like to imagine slipping my arm under yours and stroking your fingers. You've got delicate hands really; they're big, but they're so clean. You're so clean, and your fingers are long and tapered. Your nails are perfect.

You were ill this week. If you wanted me to I would feed you gherkins and hot water and orange juice. I'd wait till you coughed and hold your head against my chest, and stroke your hair to soothe your headache. I'd smooth down the tops of your eyelids as you slept and kiss your forehead whilst I traced your perfect lips.

Hmmmm

I went to her party tonight; the girl I liked. I still like her, but I can be angry with her sometimes too, and I don't know what to think. She's lovely but I don't think she really truly cares; she's rubbish at handing people their stuff back, for example. And of course, the way she treated me was awful. I shouldn't have read her online diary, but she was so cagey about everything. That doesn't mean it was my only recourse though.

I felt really hideous for the first part of today, and then at night I felt far better. Probably because I was wearing makeup and different clothes. I don't know what it is that governs my feeling hideous or pretty. I woke up feeling fat and disgusting- I've ate more than ever today, it's disgusting, I've just been on a rampage as concerns food lately. That could be it. Anyway, I got back, still in full regalia (I was dressed as a cat) and I felt so much better about the way I looked. I was socially awkward at the party, I think people probably noticed. But I felt so much better once I'd had a look at myself.

Fallen seraphims and other whims

I did the calories ok today.

I miss the play, though I'm not sure it was that good.

I handed in an essay. I don't think it was very good.

I saw him. We'd seen each other every day for quite a while, and I didn't realise how much time we'd spent together. I missed him. He might have missed me- he said it was strange not seeing me all day. Then he called me fat and told me I was ugly. I like it when he does that. Sadomasochist.

I asked him whether he was gay or not, but we were with other people and he said he wouldn't say. Does that mean don't try me, or I'm not sure? We sat close and his fingers touched my thigh. I was happy like that for a good while. He's so beautiful; he's tall, and he's got blue blue eyes and long dark eyelashes. His hair's tipped with auburn at the fringe, and dark everywhere else, I sifted glass from it. I used to put foundation on, when we were in the play; I don't know if he knew I was always more delicate with him than I was with the others, because I liked touching his face so much.

This crush is getting ridiculous.

I wish I'd achieved more

because Alexander the Great would have conquered most of Europe by now, so I don't feel like celebrating.

Today's eating.

2 cubes of chocolate-140
tomatoes, mushrooms, cheese and bread-300
half a brownie-200
an apple-40
a chicken burger-550

Things we do and things we don't.

We stay at each other's houses till three in the morning, not talking about anything in particular.

Last night you asked me why my foot was touching yours, and I said it was because I was cold... which I was, but I don't know if you knew.

I've started referring to things said when we're together as "we".

You taught me how to waltz (I didn't know that I already knew how, I just didn't know it was called a waltz).

You nearly knocked me off a ladder, and I nearly knocked you.

We insult each other constantly.

We went for a drink and talked to other people; you didn't speak at me for nearly five minutes, preferring to look at someone else that had travelled to similar places that you had. It was irrational, but I got worried. I talked to people too.

We went to yours and talked to your housemate. I kept staring at your hands.

You made me touch the scar on your leg, but I don't think you like it when our feet touch. I re-plastered your thumb and drew another black ring round your wedding finger, and though I don't believe in anything like that, or even that we'd be together that long, I did like holding your hand in mine whilst I did it.

I feel like I'm constantly being tested by you... and maybe always falling short as well. I know where we stand as friends, but I'm sure that I don't just want to be friends. But I would rather we were friends than entirely awkward. And I don't want you to use Jane Austen lines against me like you did on that other girl.

Heathcliff and Kathy on the Moors.

Here is something wonderful: we go off together and I wear his coat. I give him my scarf and we sing silly Kate Bush songs and jump about outside in the dark, I am Heathcliff because his coat is so eighties, and he can be Kathy for the time being.

I'm glad

I'm not a fat girl. And someone said to me recently that they couldn't imagine me being a porky kid, which was lovely. He said I had broad shoulders, but I don't think he means it as an insult. Does he like girls with broad shoulders? Does he like girls?

Superstitions.

I'm creating lots around my play so that it'll be good. It was a good first night, and the second night will be alright, but I want it all to be amazing. I don't think I kept under the count yesterday.

What I ate yesterday

A cheese and carrot sandwich-400
an apple-40
a bacon and onion sandwich-300
a bag of salt and vineager crisps
a piece of cake

In short, utter crap. Today so far I've had two cubes of chocolate and cheese on toast with tomatoes and mushrooms. Which is better.

Under the count.

I need to eat more fruit, I'm getting loads of spots.

I asked him if he wanted dinner tonight; not as a date, just as in an I'd-cook sort of thing. I spoke to one of my friends about him, and she said that once he'd said to her that he'd only ever had a real thing for one girl, and that he thought he might be gay or asexual. This doesn't bode well for me. Unless I count the fact that I look a little mannish. I think I'm too spotty for him to like me properly, and he's really clean. I'm probably not clean enough. Or too clingy. He said he'd have dinner tomorrow night, but replaying it, I can't tell if he meant it or if he was just desperate not to talk to me anymore.

I think sometimes that he's a self-promoting geek, and at others I just want to hold his hand. I worry about whether my friends consider him strange, because he is, but then again I am nowhere near normal myself. I'm usually happy in the real world, I just let it all out here.

I am worried about the play, and my schoolwork, and various things. Whether my familial relationships are disintegrating, whether I'll have a fulfilling life etcetera etcetera.

I am in a play with a girl who is really petite. I say this every time I'm in a play, I think that what I mean is that they're petite compared to me. This girl is about five feet three tall, and she's slim. I am obviously a good half a foot taller; this makes for a comedic stage partnership, because we look so very different. She looks young, I look old. She is tan and blonde, I am pale and wan with dark hair, like a vampire. I am tired of this distinction being made; it was made in last year's play. I was told I looked like the girl that was my daughter (who was also small and slim). Anyway, I'm sick of being the mother because I'm taller and wider. I'm never the love interest, or the pretty girl. I get callbacks for those parts but I never actually get them. I can't do anything about being tall, or about my face or the general breadth of my shoulders, which are indeed very broad. I think my collarbones can look stupid; I just look like a man, and I'm tired of it. When people say that we look so different, I think what they're really saying is, "you're huge! Far larger than her!" I don't want to accept it as me, because I want to be the pretty girl. I've felt like this since I was about three and I thought I'd have grown out of it by now.

I was never a bridesmaid. I always thought, in some way, that that was because I wasn't pretty enough.

I wonder if that one girl was slim and pretty? She probably was. They always are; the fatties are never the love interests.