I love cocaine. One of the reasons I love it so much is it significantly reduces my desire to eat. I think I’ve done so much cocaine in the last two years that I’ve permanently damaged my appetite. This should concern me but it doesn’t. On the contrary, I’m thrilled about it. I learned from a very young age that being thin is practically a woman’s duty. I’d rather forego the pleasure of food than not be thin. I’m never satisfied with my weight. I’d like to be 5 lbs. lighter. I weigh myself often; typically only when I think I won’t hate the number that pops up on the scale. I only ever weigh myself first thing in the morning, completely naked, before I’ve had anything to eat or drink and after I’ve evacuated my bladder and bowels. On a good day I’m 129 lbs. or lighter. Anything over 130 lbs. is a bad day for me. If I’m feeling concerned about my weight, but I’m worried I won’t like what the scale tells me, I have a pair of shorts that act as a gatekeeper. They are perfectly form fitting, with absolutely no give, and have one of those obnoxious interior side zippers that are a bitch to zip up. So long as I can get that zipper closed, no matter how difficult it is, I feel good about my weight and can go about my day with a skip in my step. I haven’t had an issue with closing that zipper in over two years and I have cocaine to thank for that. Having a good relationship with my drug dealer is a high priority.
The most thin I have ever been as an adult was 120 lbs. I’m 5’8 to provide some perspective. I was 22 years old and had suffered a terrible heartbreak. I lost so much weight so fast that in the time it took some clothes to be shipped from home to where I had moved to, my clothes no longer fit me. My pants just slipped right off my hips to form a sad pile on the floor at my feet. That made me so happy. I remember thinking that if a broken heart was the price to pay to be that skinny it was worth it. Much to my chagrin, as time passed and my heart mended, the weight came back. I wished to be able to bottle heartbreak to take in small doses in order to remain skinny. This was long before I ever tried cocaine.
I hate working out. It just feels like punishment; monotonous, boring punishment. I’ve tried all kinds of different gyms and classes. I hate it all. The closest I got to enjoying a work out was when I very briefly got into jogging. I enjoy being outside and I live by the beach in San Diego where young, attractive men saturate the area. I first moved to Pacific Beach when I was 28 and I reveled in the attention of men. I have a body that men like to look at and boy did I like giving them a reason to look. Jogging on the boardwalk of the beach provided an optimal opportunity to validate my ego while showing off my dedication to fitness. I could practically hear people thinking, “Wow. Look how dedicated to fitness she is. How impressive.” As I breezed effortlessly by. It was never effortless. I walked anytime I didn’t see a cute guy around. Reoccurring shin splints quickly put a stop to this shallow routine.
Next to my weight what causes me the most consternation about my body is my skin. From my earliest memories I have been a compulsive picker. I grew up on 20 acres of orange grove in North San Diego County and spent most of my childhood outside. You can imagine the scrapes and cuts a vivacious youngster like me collected. As my battle wounds would scab I would unceremoniously rip those scabs off, over and over again, causing inconsequential marks to turn into ugly sores that would ultimately leave ghastly scars. I often wore long sleeve shirts and pants to school, even on hot summer days, to cover up the mess I had made of myself. If I managed to summon up enough self control to not pick during my waking hours, my efforts would be dashed when I inevitably tore into my skin while I slept. My mother would put socks over my hands before bed, in an attempt to help me. The socks were quickly pulled off. I always had blood on my sheets and clothing.
Puberty was a nightmare for my skin. Zits provided an endless outlet for my neurosis. Popping a pimple is deeply satisfying for me. I used to watch videos on YouTube of people popping pimples to relax me. I am 34 years old and I still get pimples on my face and body. WTF? I am nowhere as bad as I was in my younger years but I still pick. You know the expression of being comfortable in your own skin? I don’t think I’ve been comfortable in my own skin a day of my life. I think the closest I ever got to being comfortable was from frying my skin with the sun. A sunburn was the best way to rid my body of acne. The burn would turn into a tan and a tan camouflaged my scars. However, this process came with its own set of problems; searing pain from the sunburn and then dead skin peeling. If I accidentally went overboard and got myself too crispy, the peeling would be worse than having pimples because I would go too far and end up peeling off chunks of healthy skin.
About 5 and a half years ago I decided to do something drastic. After years of unwittingly marking up my skin, I intentionally marked myself permanently with art. I designed a tattoo of lotus blossoms to cover up the worst of my scars. During the process of getting tattooed, I discovered how much I enjoyed it. It fed my need to tear up my skin but without the shame. This was my choice. I was not a victim to my compulsion. It felt empowering. The tattoo grew. The lotus blossoms cover a significant portion of my front and a raven almost covers my entire back. To this day, looking at my tattoos gives me pleasure.