�

the keyboard at school sticks a little less. the monitor shines a little brighter. knowing that this is where countless frantic students have tapped out their mediocre theses in desperation...this makes me feel comfortable and warm. this cushioned seatt that swivels and rolls, should i get antsy or need to roll a few feet away from my words to gain perspective. and an email from my history t.a. saying that it's ok, i have a week to write the essay - and here's what i'm doing wrong. and here's how to do it right. love from a stranger. a wing to crawl under. such a little thing, as morrissey sang...but the difference it made...

it's been two weeks since i last saw fred. cliched to say that it feels like forever. i think he'll ask if i lost weight. no, i don't think so. it's because i'm not wearing my uniform of choice for the Fat Army - the one baggy pair of jeans that don't make me cry, and the oversized hooded sweatshirt that has rolls of its own, disguising mine.

i'm wearing shorts. a steal at $20, they are plaid - i know, a mistake to wear "patterns that highlight problem thighs, butt" (as i'm sure cosmo would tell me) but comforting. i have worn plaid shorts and a tee-shirt, converse shoes, since 8th grade. i'm wearing these plaid green shorts, my Queen t-shirt (bought at the end of 8th grade) and a men's black ribbed sweater. my legs are little pillars, extra strong from the increase of weight to carry for the past two years. i'm rollerblading for the second day now. my feet cramp and burn from the heat of friction.

my legs are white, with hazy freckles. i'm a feminist throwback - my legs are hairless. wonderfully so.

will i break down at fred's? i wonder. i broke down twice yesterday. i sob when i'm in bed. these days, however, socks is with me, and she asks what's wrong. i remember two years ago, to stop this ritual of sobbing myself to sleep, i would turn on the bright bedside lamp and pull out the dulling exacto knife. i gave myself something to concentrate on, a type of challenge. i would be doing the same now. i have tasted it for so long...but there are promises in the way.

a promise to socks that i wouldn't hurt myself like that again.

a promise to myself in 7th grade that i would never feel "like that" again. what i meant was, i would never want to kill myself again, but i've broken that promise over and over and over and over. i've felt even worse. but i promised myself i would never look at it as an option, and i haven't.

and it's the hardest thing in the world to deal with. that the sacred "only way out" isn't even there. you can't even do that...you have to suffer through your messes and deal with your stupid problems until it all goes away again.

can you do that, k.? you know you'll never concede defeat. not because you don't want to, but because you can't. you're not even strong enough to break down.