Monday, April 29, 2013

running away in a fabulous outfit

"The best things in life are free. The second best are very expensive." - Amen to that. 

Recently I've been swapping shifts like mad. Swapping all my shifts so that I'm at clinic, and not at the hospital. My registrar Cam, is on nights, and that means Joe is my registrar for the week. Well fuck that. I've somehow managed to spend the last two days in clinic, and somehow I will manage to avoid him. I feel like whenever I see him, I am overcome with a desire to spit poison at him. And I can be hideously bitter when I want to. 

I've been bitter since coming off night shifts. When I was on nights, the night registrar called me fat. We were talking about junk food and he said to me "yeah, you are a bit fat aren't you". Well. Some part of me knows he was joking and that he was just trying to push my buttons, but those words have reverberated in my head ever since. 

I’ve got a growing fascination with Alannah Hill and Temperley London. To be frank I can’t really afford either of those brands, and as of yet I have not bought anything Temperley (except my qualification gown) but I do have half a wardrobe of Alannah Hill. It’s something that I crave more and more. Styles and ways of dressing that has never really appealed to me before. More and more I am leaving the corporate, powerful, structured styles of Cue. More and more I am leaning towards the super feminine, flowing, soft and expensive. 

I think I am doing what I have always wanted to do. Mold myself into something that all men want, but none can have. With my clothes, and my conversation I am clearly pricing myself out of their league. With the way that I act, I make it clear that I do not think they are good enough for me. I’m not sure if that’s the end result I want, or if I am waiting for one guy to step up and prove that he likes me enough to push past all that. Not that I know any of them well enough to make them like me. 

In a weird way I am cutting off my nose to spite my face. I am pushing away what I want to get what I want. It is incredibly counter intuitive to say the least. And I don’t think it’s working at all. 

Now I’m going to be perfectly honest, since this is the only place where I can be that honest. Part of me doesn’t believe Joe is engaged. I know for certain he is, but since I have not heard him directly talk about Stephanie, or their wedding, or any of that, I am somehow holding out hope. I hope that he leaves her for me. Which would be a horrible mistake for him to make since I will not marry him. 

I wish I knew what it is about Joe that I like so much. I don’t get it. I wish I could just forget about him. God, I hope that I can just forget him and just behave normally around him. 

I just. I don’t know what I want anymore. I want a break. I want a rest. I want to get away from the hospital. And go somewhere by myself and think. 

This not having a boyfriend thing, it’s really getting to my head. People are starting to honestly think that I am a lesbian, which really won’t be helping my boyfriend bid. If nobody mentioned my singledom, I may not be so bothered by it. But as person after person after person expresses surprise at me being single...I always feel compelled to tell them that I have never had a gets inside my head.  I start to ask the same questions. Why am I still single. Why don’t I have a boyfriend. Why. 

I got my lashes put on. And I am still fucking ugly. Only surgery will fix me now. Only facial reconstruction will make me pretty. And I’m seriously considering it. 

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

losing weight! and fucking engaged.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep." 

Let's start on a good note. THE DRESS FITS. IT FUCKING FITS NOW. It is night number 4, I don't know how much weight I've lost but I'm now at 120lbs and the dress fits. Part of me is SO RELIEVED. That is a Vivienne Westwood dress, not cheap, so when it didn't fit, my heart just sank. I can't say it's a perfect fit, the buttons up the front are tight, and it doesn't look great when the buttons pull...but the point is, I can get it on...and I've yet to work night number 4, so I'm not even halfway there yet. 

I'm hoping by the end of 7 nights, I will be properly fitting that dress. Not just squeezing into it. And just like last night, the start of night number 4 and the nausea is setting in. Something about night shifts does that to you. I still eat my one meal a day, but the amount that I'm able to eat is steadily decreasing. 

Look down at my tummy, see rolls of fat, feel disgusted. Squeeze the fat all over my body, feel even more disgusted. I am still so fat. I am so fat that it makes me feel sick. Fat and bloated. I need to start working out but I'm so tired. So very tired. 

I've decided that with my next pay cheque, I am going to buy myself a coffee machine. It's probably not a great investment, but whatever it takes to get through right?

So some news, I've found out that Joe is FUCKING ENGAGED. I am completely and utterly mindblown at this news. When I heard, I was like...W.T.F. I guess I feel there is something in him that is so un-marriable. Well, maybe for me anyway. Even though I am in such disbelief, now that I know who is fiancee is, a lot of things make more sense. His fashion sense for one. 

See, I've always believed that the way a man dresses can be a dead giveaway to his relationship status. Joe has always puzzled me. His shirts and pants are always well ironed and he is always well groomed, but, but, his shoes! And the style of his clothes are I had written it off as him having like, an OCD complex about wrinkles or him having a really nice mum who still does it. But his wife! (future wife) Absolutely lovely girl. Delightful, I really like her, but the woman has no taste in clothes. It's a pity too. She's absolutely cute as a button, but dresses like...well, if I were to ever dress like that it would signify me completely giving up on life, but I guess fashion just doesn't matter that much to her. 

Funny thing is, when I heard the news I just felt the wave of hate crash into me. There is so much hate flowing through me that it gives me energy. I can't sleep. Which sucks because I'm on night shift. I can't eat. Which is a lie because I stuff my face every evening. (On a side note, I am losing weight despite the fact that I eat each night and haven't gone to the bathroom for days so yay.) I can't fucking do anything. All I want to do is run, but I can't because of the torrential rain outside. 

I can't work out who the hate is directed towards. Do I hate Joe? His fiancee? Or myself. I'm not sure. And I don't know how to work it out. All I know is that I hate something. And boy, do I FUCKING HATE IT. I want to fuck something up real bad....reeeeeal bad. I don't know what I want to do. I want to hit something. 

And something inside me just feels dead. 

And a voice inside is starting to scream and wail. You stupid idiot. You broke the one rule. Always presume they are taken until proven otherwise. The one time you break the rule, look at what happens. You fucking broke the rules. And what are you going to do now? Try to fill a hole inside you that you never knew you had but secretly hoped Joe would fill. Now he can never fill it. But food won't fill it either. 

Yes, yes, hope is gone and all that stupid crap. But live in the moment and the only thing that remains now is how you deal with it. Think of it this way. There is a space to fill. If you are smaller, that space will also get smaller and smaller until it goes, and then there will be no hole to fill, and then you will be okay again. Now isn't that a better, more logical solution than eating your pain away. 

Friday, April 19, 2013

hoping for the best

"Problems have solutions. A lifetime of fucking things up fixed in one determined flash."

You know your life has problems when your hairdresser can see something is wrong when you show up for a ten minute fringe trim. Skye has been the first person in a long time to recognise how hard I'm working, and that yes, it is fucking difficult. That's what happens when all your other friends are doctors, when you're all working the same fucking job, you don't want to be the one loser to complain about it. 

I book in to see her in another 4 weeks. She looks at me, and I know that I don't need a haircut in 4 weeks time, even with my high maintenance cut. But I'm near tears at this point and she comes and gives me a hug and books me in anyway. I walk out as fast as I can, because if she hugs me again, I will cry. I feel angry and upset that I'm still fucking working. I've only got 7 days left in my marathon month of work, but I'm growing impatient. 

I feel like such a whiney ass. I just need to suck it up, box it in, man up and get on with it. This is no different from any other doctor. I hate being this frail when everyone else seems to be so strong. 

My weight is...I have no idea. I've been way too scared to weigh myself. Given that the last time was 118lbs, and I know I've gained all the weight back since then, I just know I'm going to have some sort of mental break down to see a number back in the 120s. 

I had another sort of wake up call today. My Vivienne Westwood dress has arrived. It's IT40 in size, which is my usual size. But it doesn't fit. It's too small. I can't button it up past my waist. It fucking sucks. It FUCKING SUCKS. It's an expensive dress. And maybe in 10lbs time, I will be able to fit it. I should be able to fit it. Fuck. It makes me wonder how much I actually weigh. My only hang up is that, it doesn't button up over my boobs. Now, my boobs are one of the only good things about me. 

When I say that, I mean, my boobs are the only thing about me that I think guys like. I'm not pretty or skinny, or anything. But I have a great rack. I wear a 32DD size. Which I find absolutely ridiculous, it doesn't feel like a real size at all. I do feel that I would rather be skinny, and ditch the boobs, but I'm so torn because men so obviously like them. 

That last sentence sort of makes me feel like I will end up as some serial killer's victim. Which tells me that I should stop my serial killer documentary marathons. 

I'm hoping night shifts works its magic on me again. I'm hoping and praying. I dropped 6lbs in 4 nights last night. I'm working 7 nights this time. I'm praying I lose at least 10lbs. If I'm up for it, I might try to do some exercise at the same time, but realistically, I know that probably won't happen. 

All this, all of what is going on makes me feel like I'm more depressed than I give myself credit for. And I know I need to get some sort of help for it. But really, when do I have the time. If I had the time, I'd get enough sleep for a start. 

On top of all that. Joe. Ugh. I was going to say that I don't know where to start but the truth is that's is because I have nowhere to start. Nothing has happened. I text him a few times, no reply. Fuck. Okay then. The logic tells me he's just too busy, sees the text and forgets to reply but it doesn't feel great. 

And the more I think about it...well. I remember seeing a patient with him, one with a history of self harm. He saw her scars, she said, I used to self mutilate and his response to that was "what gives you that?". I mentally facepalmed so hard. What gives you that? Fuck. He's too unobservant to notice my scars, either that or he doesn't think I'm capable. Fuck. Makes me realise I don't think I'll be able to tell any man about this, ever. Only one of my friends knows about it. And besides her, only the professor. 

There is a whole other story about the professor. But this post is full of enough self pity already without me going that way. 

NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT. I fucking hate it. This has to change. I need something to start going well. I don't know how much longer I can carry on like this. I need something. ANYTHING. I need something to go well, I need something in my life to be right. And please god, let that be my weight. 

Saturday, April 13, 2013

living a life of excess

"Digging to the rhythm and the echo of a solitary siren, one that pushes me along and keeps me so desperate and ravenous, so weak and powerless."

Well. As this rotation goes on, parts of me are dying off. Dying off. I apologise for the lack of posts lately but I've just finished a 13 day stretch of work, I have a day off, and I'm about to start a 14 day stretch of work, including 7 night shifts before I have another day off and go into, this time, just 5 days before a weekend. Fuck me. Which means that in just over a month, I'll have 4 days off. Fuck me. I'm so burned out already and I'm even halfway there. 

I have a vague memory of complaining on here, or complaining to a friend of mine (see, I'm so tired I can't separate my blog from my real life) that Joe was too busy to notice that I fancied him like all hell. But fuck me, now I AM too busy to notice that I fancy him. So how can I expect him to notice. 

When I have quiet moments, I sit and think of Joe and in those moments I want nothing more than for him to just wrap his arms around me. Now I understand why older doctors were urging me to start dating in medical school, because when you work, you actually do not have the time. I'm sure it's not possible. 

It's hard to describe what it feels like to work this much. I mean, through 6 years of medical school I've listened to all my predecessors complaining about their working hours and telling me to leave hospital early whenever possible. But to be working these shifts, wow. I have so much respect for my colleagues and everyone who has gone before me. This is fucking hard, getting up at 5am every morning, going to bed past midnight. I have moments during the day when I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But a coffee fixes that. 

Meanwhile I've been living some sort of mad life of excess. In all regards. I swear this is the longest PMS session I've ever had. I've been eating like mad. I had this insane moment of sudden clarity...I've gained all the weight I've lost, was complaining to my friend about being fat when I looked down at the Carl's Jr Oreo Ice Cream Thickshake in my hand and was like, oh. 

There are no words to describe how much I've been eating. I've also started drinking calories. Normally it's water, or coke zero, or zero calorie ginger beer. I've started drinking things that have calories! On top of all that food! 

But food, weight, whatever, I know I can restrict and go and lose it all again. Suddenly I have confidence in that aspect of myself. But fuck me, it's the spending. 

I've spent $1000 on ASOS on wintery things. Then wanted to whip myself because I have more than enough of wintery things. Then a day later I spent $1500 at Alannah Hill (if you don't know her, look her up...that shit is fact, here is a link to her online shop) on more cardigans that I don't need. The only thing that I bought there that I definitely needed was my graduation dress, although that's an arguable point because I had previously spent $1500 at the Alannah Hill outlet in Melbourne, including a graduation dress just a few weeks ago. Then went and bought $300 worth of shoes...which is only 2 pairs, but I guess last week I spent $500 on this sounds bad. 

But it goes on. Then I bought a $500 leather jacket from Oasis, which was dumb because I already have a beautiful Michael Kors leather jacket. Anyway. Then I went onto the Outnet, because I decided I could not quite afford Net-A-Porter, and bought a Vivienne Westwood dress, a pair of Alexander McQueen trousers and a pair of Nicholas Kirkwood pumps. Which came to a sum that I am too embarrassed to tell you about. 

Fuck that is a lot of money. FUCK. It looks even worse written down like that. 

Well it seems to be keeping me sane through the work. Which is something I guess. 

Friday, April 5, 2013


"I don't need a reason to hate you the way I do."

FUCKING HELL. Okay, I am absolutely sure I am PMSing, I know this, and yet I cannot stop myself becoming crazy psycho bitch cow. CRAZY PSYCHO BITCH COW!!!! RAWR!!!!!

Oh the anger that runs through my veins, you could bottle it and then hurl it at people as some sort of flash bomb. And I don't even know why I am so angry, I can't explain it. I just am. I just feel like destroying something. 

Well, I finally had the coffee date with Joe. Not exactly in the circumstances that I would have liked, him coming off two consecutive 20 hour working days and working today before doing tonight's night shift and me about to face two consecutive 20 hour working days over the weekend. We were both...not so much in a good mood, still, with a load of work on both our backs, we sat and had coffee for an hour before going to round together. 

Didn't help matters by wearing a pair of GORGEOUS (but quite tall) green suede heels. My feet were sore like all hell. Sore, like all hell! Neither of us had anything to look forward to and I think we were giggling out of sheer despair. 

I feel so confused after today. A big part of it is the PMS. I've never actually been annoyed at Joe before, despite all his short comings and faults, they've been okay. And weirdly enough, I felt annoyed because he was walking too fast. And I had to keep asking him to wait for me while I clattered behind him in my heels. 

Of all the things that should bug me, it was that that got to me the most. I felt like, I'd made such an effort to make life easier for him, most of which I don't even think he noticed, he couldn't even think to walk a tiny bit slower? I wanted to dip my stilettos in a wound full of pus and then stab him with it. 

Maybe he just needs to chill the fuck out. Go far away and forget everything. And just chill the fuck out. If I wasn't PMSing, I would say that I wanted to whisk him away for a weekend and do nothing. But since I am full of PMS, I want to knock him unconscious, stuff him into a bag and ship him off to somewhere else. Christ. SO FUCKING MAD!!! 

I think Joe's pretty aware of my crazy coming out. I was properly angry at him today. No doubt, after I bleed myself out, I will miss him and regret all this, but until that happens I will continue on my homicidal rampage. 

It's probably all a sign that Joe just isn't into me. And that's fine. If he's not into me then he's not. There's no two ways about that. Yes, it sucks somewhat. The more time I spend with him, the more I realise that he hasn't got a clue what's going on. He has no idea. He's too busy and too stressed to realise that I'm trying. I don't think he'll ever realise.

Well fuck that. 

This crazy psycho bitch cow is going to focus on weight. I should've known to venture into the fuzzy romantic side of life was a mistake. 

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

it's a date...I wish.

"Constant overstimulation numbs me but I would not have it any other way."

Well my tattoo has now reached the horrible itchy, peely stage and I'm going mad not scratching it. I've never wanted to scratch something so much in all my life, except all my other tattoos at this stage. I need to stop thinking about it because I swear thinking about it makes it all that much more itchy. OMG it's so itchy!

Spent all of Easter binging like mad. I'm pretty sure I ate non-stop all weekend, literally non-stop. I haven't the heart to weigh myself. I hate to think what it's done to my weight loss efforts. Good thing is, my reg is on night shifts and Joe is relieving him. So I've got him for the week. I can feel the adrenaline pumping all day and all night and I can't eat and I can't sleep and please God, let me lose some weight with this. 

I'm back to my old tricks again. I spent so much money today. Several tops, one pair of trousers and two pairs of heels later, I still feel empty as ever. I'm trying to fill a hole that only Joe can fill at this point in time. If I can't have Joe, then I will just continue to look fabulous. 

Our coffee date hasn't happened. Not for either of us trying, but logistically, it is too hard. He does apologise, and we try again later. But really, is it a date? I referred to it as one once. But I have a feeling that in his head, he will buy me a coffee, hand it to me, and just go. 

Dear Universe, I'm trying to be good, and I'm fairly sure I've never harmed anybody. In my life I haven't asked for too much, not too much at all. Please let me have this one, please, please let me have this one. Give me Joe, and let me take that fate, whatever that may be. Please, let me have this one.