A Walk Down Wardour Street on a Late December Evening

Note: I set out to write a cheery Christmas vignette, but this is anything but! The following post, an account of a past Christmas, contains mature themes, disturbing imagery, mentions of suicide, descriptions of eating disorder thoughts, and “sick photos”. If you are easily triggered, please exercise caution when reading. Thank you, and have a very Happy Christmas.

There were lights on lamp-posts. They flickered—on and off, on and off. Were they dying, too? Blurry through the haze. And they were barely visible now, hard to see; hard to keep her eyes open, she could hardly breathe. But really, they were just lights, lights in the darkness, what was there to see? Incandescent and rainbow, festive and free.

And there were pies in the windows—tiny, white, dusted with powdered sugar, filled to the brim with fruit—with apples, with cherries, with blackberries, with pumpkin, with rhubarb, with mince meat—with pecans, with chocolate, with creams… Should she get one? A smile cracked her lips, ripping through her cheeks, shredding like scissors on wrapping paper, and a laugh clogged her throat—a gurgling sound, a gravelly sort of choking. Was she gagging, asphyxiating? And my god, she couldn’t breathe. It was the thought—the thought of it, the sheer ludicrousity of it, the misery; it was just so funny, so funny that it was killing her. But she had to get going now; she really had to keep walking.

The pies could keep leering at her through the bakery windows for all she cared. She really had to get going; she really had to keep walking. She really wanted one, though; yes, she really did want one. But no, it was fine; she was fine. And no, no, she would not be getting one. Besides, she only needed to see them to taste them, smell them to feel them—in her mouth, against her teeth, down her throat, sitting in her stomach, squatting in her skin, boiling in her blood, infiltrating her cells, turning to fat. So no, no, she would not be getting one.

And there was tinsel on the roofs. She could see it despite the darkness. It was hanging, hanging, hung—silver and sparkly, limp but lovely. Oh how she wanted to take a piece! She could wrap it around her neck, drape it like a scarf, pull it tight and feel the warmth, tie it to a hook, hear a crack and feel the pain until—thank god!—she couldn’t breathe. Well, it was dark inside, too, she supposed.

And there was music in the shops. Tambourines tinkled as jingle bells jingled. Shop doors opened, spewing music, spitting warm air into the cold—yes, the cold, the bitter, biting cold; she could feel it in her bones, taste it in her lungs—was that why she couldn’t breathe?—, hear it in her ears—a popping, a pressure, a pain, a pleasure. There was a heaviness to it, to the music, to how it sat in her ears and how it sunk there; it gave her that airplane kind of feeling—the one you get when you take-off or land (when the cabin pressure changes), the one you have to chew gum to get rid of. But gum has calories, you know.

And there was snow on the sidewalk. Legions of boots stamped through it, leaving lesions on the pavement, letting crusty, brown blood ooze from their scars. The wind whipped them over, beating them like frosting for a cake, concealing them from view; the flakes fell down again, and instantly they were cadavers covered in sheets, those hospital corpses that no one had claimed—hidden from view, under a blanket, yet still so very, very there. She wondered vaguely where they went, the footprints in the snow, but it didn’t matter. She just kept walking, her shoes slapping the sludge, sinking a little deeper into the spoils they had made. It was too cold out, and the snow looked too much like powdered sugar. She didn’t want to breathe it in; it might make her hungry.

And there was a girl in the middle of Wardour Street, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, too close to the cars. She was waiting for one of them to hit her, watching with bated breath as they passed her by. Snow fell all around her, and the wind threw her from side to side; she was a puppet on their string, a statuette of sticks, stuck together with the stuff of nightmares. A clock chimed through the darkness, and her heart skipped a beat. It was Christmas time in London, the perfect time to die.

Pretty: A Rumination on the Word

I’m going to tell you about my least favorite word: Pretty, a word which here means, “superficially attractive” or “to some degree but not superlatively”. I have devoted over half of my life to “pretty”, to pursuing it, to apotheosizing it, to trying to be it. Pretty thin. Pretty smart. Pretty talented. Pretty normal. Pretty perfect. Pretty. I coated my face in makeup, practiced violin til my fingers bled, splurged on clothes I couldn’t afford, and literally starved myself to death. It got me nowhere, nowhere but a hospital bed in the cardiac ward. Laying there, makeup smudged and skin sallow, dressed in a hospital gown and tangled in tubes, I was anything but “pretty”. But have I ever been, will I ever be pretty?

No, and that’s okay. That’s great; that’s wonderful. I don’t need to be pretty, and I don’t want to be. Why should I be conventionally attractive when I can be uniquely beautiful? Why should I be decent when I can be extraordinary? Why should I be a comparative when I can be a superlative? Why should I be “pretty” when I can be so much more?

Very. I’m going to be “very”. Very intelligent. Very accomplished. Very kind. Very happy. Very me.