I want to rip every bone – excerpt

The following is an excerpt from my new book, which I am currently writing.

I have just reached precisely 6,000 words.  Not that that matters, but I thought it was a bit amusing that the total was such a nice, round number.

I don’t have a title for the book yet.

I am writing the entire book in verse.  This little bit takes up about two pages if it’s typed out in 12-point Times New Roman.

Okay, no more dilly-dallying.  Here’s the excerpt:

I want to rip every bone

Yes, you hear of cases of animal abuse.
You see the photos of the beaten puppies and kittens
Their adorable eyes on Facebook
They make our Facebook friends cry.

And you see the films about child abuse
And spousal abuse as well.
You tell yourself this happens in “other families”
Maybe divorced families, or families
Where there are drugs and alcohol and poverty.

I have seen on You-Tube
Real-life deaths, beatings, horrible disasters.
I have hardened myself to what people call “triggers.”

But when I hear of cases of patient abuse,
Especially abuse of a starving person,
I go nuts.

I want to rip every bone
Every organ from my body.|
I want to lay my ripped body out
In front of the Charles River in broad daylight
I want to bleed night and day.

O children,
I hear your cries.

I may be a Jew
But I know Jesus knew precisely what he was doing.
He lay himself right out there
Before the authorities, saying,

Here I am.”

And they took him.

Is every death, every suicide,
Just another Jesus,
Dying for the sins
Of these “eating disorders treatment” abusers?

I cannot tolerate that I was abused.
I cannot tolerate that I am told,
“Julie, you are ungrateful.
You should forgive.
It was all trivial.
Just let it go and turn the other cheek.”

So I am told I should not tolerate the killing of puppies?
Not tolerate spousal abuse and child abuse?
Donate to earthquake disaster funds?
While all across my own state of Massachusetts,
And all over America and the world,
Starving people just like me are robbed of their dignity
And their lives?

We come to them asking for help.
We are given a slap in the face.
Told how horrible we are.
Told we are sinners, liars, thieves, cheaters.
They treat us like animals in cages.
How dare they treat a sick, nearly dying person in this disrespectful manner.

I want to rip every bone from my body,
Tear out all my organs
When I hear of cases of patient abuse.

After I die,
They will lie about my death.
They will say it happened because I refused treatment
Or perhaps because I didn’t take pills
Or because I had so little “support,”
Whatever that is,
Or maybe because there was something inherently “wrong” with my attitude.
Or they will say “I didn’t want recovery.”
Or maybe my body just wore out.


Trust me, when I die, there will be massive cover-up.
There will be deceit.
They will say I am delusional about the abuse,
And that it never happened.
They won’t even bother investigating.

Bury all my words along with me
And all my ripped-out organs.

If she only had known – A letter to Dr. P, my former shrink who may even in fact read this someday

She was giving me those pills
And every day, I asked Joe,”What is happening to my body?
I don’t know why I keep gaining weight.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” he said,
“I don’t understand it, either.  I have never seen you
gain weight like this.  You know
how guys are, putting the pounds on all winter,
and then poof!
in a summer, it’s gone.”

And I think about now.
Poof!  A summer, gone.

Dr. P, you thought I was happy on that pill?
No, you were under some delusion.
All I could think of was that stupid weight,
And how badly I wanted to take it off.

I was a mediocre student
Because I never gave a thought to school and writing anymore.
I was focused on the gym now
And calorie-counting.

I spent over twenty hours each week at the gym trying to take the weight off.
People looked at me and I was the fat girl at the gym.
One day, I did the bike real fast, working up a sweat, and got a clap from people.
I felt so humiliated I never wanted to go back,

Finally, you took me off the pill.
And the pounds came off.
My writing took off.
And here I am.

I listened to the music I worked out to during all those years,
My “fat music,” which I’ve got on right now, right here in my apartment,
With tears in my eyes right now.

I can’t believe that during our last session, you were so delusional
As to tell me I was happy during my years on that drug.

After I finally exercising my butt off too much,
My body couldn’t take it anymore,
And I became injured.
I spent three months in a wheelchair
And if I was lucky, I occasionally could hobble using a walker.
I had nobody to help me out.
I cried every day.
I had no transportation except taxicabs about once a month.
They were too expensive so I didn’t get to go out.

My therapist’s office wasn’t wheelchair accessible.
Would I pay $1,000 to go back to those days now?
To be drugged to death, to have a therapist I disliked,
To have a body I couldn’t stand,
To be in physical pain every time I stood up.
People took one look at me,
The fat lady struggling in her walker,
They figured I was “mentally retarded.”
So they discriminated against me and
Helped me with things like dialing numbers and
Filling out forms.
Hey, I have a brain in my head.
Bug off.

I don’t think I want to go back to being drugged, Dr. P.
And you thought I was “happy”?

I think we have a misunderstanding.

Perhaps including a current photo of myself might be an appropriate way
To end this letter, but I’m feeling shy right now.
Let me only say that a picture is worth a thousand words.
I’ve trimmed down a bit.

And Joe is gone, too.
Ten years now since he died.

As he said,
In a summer, poof! You can be gone.

As fragile as the candles we light in church,
Which can be blown out with the slightest puff of wind.
These simple daily reminders
I felt like one of those candles while walking Puzzle this morning,
Feeling like I could be blown out by the wind.
Feeling like this tiny dog could pull me over.

You-Tube: Anorexia has profoundly changed my body, my mind, and my life

Do I recognize myself anymore?  What has happened?  Who is this girl I see?  What is this new hair?  Why do I walk so strangely?  The world seems different now.  People relate to me differently.

As if I am speaking from behind a great wall.

O great wall that surrounds me, perhaps I could blow my  trumpet now, the way I did as a young girl, and that wall would easily come crashing down. 

Has the girl run away?  Where has she gone?



Feminist utopia books in the 1980’s

These were books that I read with fascination back then.
I truly enjoyed each one.
These were like science fiction I guess.
I imagined living in these societies.
Yep.  No guys.  Free of them at last.  No more whistling.
That’s right folks, no more assholes.

But this represented a type of thinking, that, let’s face it, wasn’t true.
And you can’t walk around with an allergy.

No, you are better off learning to put up with men.
In fact, enjoy them.Most are decent.
A few are not.
The ones that are assholes gave guys a bad rap.

Now the same with cops.
It isn’t like all cops beat on homeless men and are gun-happy, right?
There are a couple that are,
A couple that come here to my building and do what they did the other day,
They came to my apartment because they were checking to see
Who the heck rang the emergency bell.
The left my door wide open
Which was a disrespectful and dumb thing to do
To a low-income person
Who doesn’t have that many belongings
And really didn’t want her apartment looted.
But on the whole,
Cops are decent, and most of them are okay humans just like the rest of usJust trying to do their job and maybe surviving their day
Going home, and feeding the kids.

So like I was saying….

I read these feminist utopia books back in the 1980’s, and I noticed some women
Were staying away from men completely.
Now this was this Lifestyle thing.
They would live and breathe other women and there would be no men in their lives.
They would arrange it this way, and this was indeed a possibility.
They would shack up together and even have girl children.

I even read, I am quite serious about this,
That women were trying to figure out how to tilt a test tube of donated sperm
Tilt it just so, to produce a girl child.

I mean really.  Did that work?  Hmm…let’s go see…where’s that census chart I saw?

Just kidding, folks.  It didn’t sound particularly scientific.  This was a pamphlet on how to bring a test tube across town.  Do sperm survive, and how large does the town have to be before they don’t?  Give me a fucking number.  I can see it now, rushing this test tube of sperm on the Red Line, and suddenly, the subway breaks down.

Oh shit, what now?

The subway gets dark and, um, no chance of baby, girl.

This ain’t gonna work.  You got dead sperm sitting in that test tube, completely useless.
The guy sitting next to you has no clue.  He’s listening to headphones on his iphone.
What are you gonna do now?
Well, better luck next time.
Then, the lights turn back on and the subway comes back to life.

Me, I was across the subway from you.
Me and my dog Puzzle.
I was that skinny lady with the dog, me and my screwed-up face a few nights ago.
Why did you fucking stare at me?
Yeah, I saw you.  You looked at me up and down, your eyes.
Yeah, I know the sweep up and down.And then, the turning away, and the whisper, “Anorexia.”
Okay, you and your disgusted look,
I got the right to be here.
I paid for the subway, too.
Fuck off.

Okay, so I took a lady from the 1980’s and I brought her onto the Red Line
And plopped her into two nights ago.
That wasn’t the best writing move, Julie.
You confused your readers pretty bad.

Actually, I totally love doing that.
I totally love being a little off key.
Being a little quirky.

Anyway, like I was saying, men have the right to be here, too.
So leave them alone.
We are not allergic to them.
We don’t have to be “triggered” by them.
Yes, it won’t hurt to touch a man.
It won’t hurt to be touched by a man.
You won’t break out in a rash.
You won’t have to go run and take Benadryl.
You won’t get a disease.
Believe it or not, touching a man will not give you AIDS.

Drop the myths, ladies.

Touching me will not give you anorexia,You can, indeed, give me a hug.
You can touch me and it won’t go all the way to the bone.
I do have skin.
I am human.
I have real feelings and thoughts.
Just like everyone else.

You can let your kids talk to me and they will not get anorexia.
I will not poison your children.
I will not teach them to count calories.
So quit worrying.



The eating disorders hospital in North Dakota refused to treat me….

They just called, saying, “We recommend that you keep doing what you are doing in your local area….”

I said, “You realize I have no therapist here.  I cannot find a therapist.  My insurance does not cover nutrition counseling.   I have no friends and my family has pretty much abandoned me.”

I should have added, “If I keep doing what I am doing here in the local area, it will kill me,” but I didn’t.

What I really wanted to say, but didn’t, was, “I’ll make sure you are sent an invitation to my funeral.”

What she said was, “We don’t really know what we can do for you.”

Well, fine.  I ended the conversation rather quickly.

I don’t really want a hospital, anyway.

Here’s the dilemma.  I don’t want to go to a weight-gaining factory like Walden Behavioral Care’s Alcott Unit.  I was talking to someone about this today.  Alcott’s interest is in stuffing the patients with anything they can, junk food snacks included, to fatten them up according to insurance companies’ demands.  If patients aren’t gaining fast enough, never mind the reasons, they stick a tube in the patient.  It’s all about numbers.  That’s why, when the doctor comes to see you, they’ve looked at one thing in your chart: the weight that you were that morning, and nothing else, not your feelings, nothing.  Because they have to answer to insurance.  Do I want a hospital like this one?  NO!

I was talking today with someone about hospitalization. She said just to keep me alive, because I am so suicidal.  She meant in a psych unit.  I told her the places around here are so bad that they will make me worse.  They do not provide “treatment.”  They only lock you up. The staff are bossy and uncaring and disrespectful.  It is especially bad since I am on care/caid so I am treated like a “Welfare case,” looked down upon even though I have more college education than just about any of the staff (doctors included).  So I said I would rather stay home and I am better off not being separated from Puzzle.  That’s the bottom line.

Another bottom line is that one reason I feel suicidal, probably the main one, is that I have gained so much weight.  Now if I can lose this weight, I won’t feel suicidal anymore.  If I can stop binge eating, I will feel damned good.

It really sucks that a lot of times, I tell people stuff and they don’t take me seriously or they don’t believe me.  Like when I told my shrink that I gained 28-1/2 pounds in four days.  She shrugged it off.  Well, the person I spoke with today (never mind who it was) said my shrink should have taken it seriously and should have believed me and ordered some medical tests at least.  I also told my CBFS worker and she said it was not possible to gain this much weight, however, she knows nothing about eating disorders.  I don’t know why they gave me this worker who does not know about ED.  It’s hard talking to her.  I felt like she thought I was exaggerating or lying.  This pisses me off.

My legs are no longer blue and discolored from skin stretching, but I had to walk a bit today and it was uncomfortable for my feet, because they are like little balloons.  Sometimes, my skin has a snapping feeling to it, and I know it is cracking due to extreme stretching from the weight gain.

Now do you believe me?

All I can think about is losing the weight I gained.  It is on my mind constantly.  If I can do this, I won’t kill myself, and I will feel so much better.  I need to lose an awful lot of weight.  These ED hospitals, if I go to them, they will make me stay at this weight.  I consider right now that I am living in a nightmare because of the weight I gained.

I was so glad the weather was cool today.  I had to be around people today and I mentioned that I was glad about the weather.  They were so clueless.  I was glad about this weather because then I could cover myself with my down coat and no one could see how fat I have become.  It’s not the same coat that I wore last year.  I hate that one so much, too many bad memories.  It’s a different one.

The only pants I wear now are pajama bottoms.  These are a plain brown pair I kinda stole from a hospital.  They are long and very wide on me so they cover my very large ankles so you can’t see the severe edema.  You can’t see that I have fat legs, and my coat covers most of my legs anyway.  It is a down coat and even if the wind blows, you don’t see how fat my thighs are due to the thickness of the coat.  My raincoat is good this way, too, because it does not show my fat thighs, but I wish it were not bright yellow, such a conspicuous obnoxious color.

I’m surprised I’m alive, actually.  I find it all rather amusing.

Wish I had the guts

Oh honestly, I don’t really care what people think of what I say on here.  You guys know exactly what I am talking about and what I wish I had the guts to do.

Folks that don’t have the guts to read what my writings or find what I say “triggering” or are sick of reading my writings or haven’t found me yet or (most likely) don’t give a shit are not reading this right now.  Or, of course, those that hate my guts and aren’t around for that reason.  Oh, that too.

And really, I don’t care.  The day I stop losing friends I’m really going to be rather shocked and it’s gonna take some getting used to.  “Goodbye, fuck you,” seems to be my motto.  So if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is.

Hey, does talk of wanting to die make you uncomfortable?  Then maybe it’s time we talked about it right here, right now.  And my reasons why.  If you don’t like it you can just close the window.

I saw on You-Tube (not that I watched the whole thing through, I got bored) a thingy about this young woman, late 20’s, who was anorexic and they had her frustrated parents on there.  I thought her parents looked kinda old to have a daughter that young.  Maybe they smoked and it made them appear older than they really were, all wrinkly and haggard and stuff.  She looked about her age.  She looked like she had been through a lot and actually presented herself in a rather mature manner, and it also looked like she made an effort to dress nicely, too.  I knew it was hard for her in regards to the clothes part.  Let me explain that part for a sec.

See, she had been wicked underweight, starving herself a lot, but then something happened, I’m not sure what, I think they forced drugs on her, and she gained weight.  Quite a lot.  Then she had some pain associated with the physical stuff that was going on (maybe she had some bone issues, they didn’t go into it) so she took pain pills too, and downers, too.  Mostly, she used the pills, which she was now addicted to, to cope with her bad feelings about the weight gain.  She took an awful lot of pills a day, many downers, and she’d built up a tolerance.  From what it sounded, her weight was about what a “normal” person might call “normal” weight for her height.  So was she “recovered” from her anorexia?

To me, she looked very, very uncomfortable in her body, and you could see her hatred toward her body in her eyes despite the fact that she’d made such an effort to dress well for the show.  She looked so much more comfortable with herself when she was thinner, at least to me she did.

I felt so, so sorry for her, not so much because of the drug addiction, which was now probably killing her (I didn’t bother to see the rest of the show, I got bored of the drugs part) but because I felt she felt so awful about her body and she said a number of times, “I want to go back to the way I was before.”

Wow, can I identify.  I guess a lot of folks would have said she was pretty good-looking but to me, that self-hatred obliterated it all. That’s how I feel about my body right now.

I haven’t showered in like a week or so, probably less than that.  I think maybe  Tuesday night I showered.  Then, since then, I haven’t bothered.    My legs are blue, all bruised from the skin having stretched so much from rapid weight gain.  Actually, it’s just as well I haven’t showered, cuz the skin is cracking all over the place and I would end up with bad sores like I have before.  If I showered, my skin would dry out worse.  The sores can get infected and take months to heal.  As for my belly, well, it’s bad, too, looks pregnant, worse than that, all stuck out and with stretch marks and bruising on that, too.  Normally, it kinda sinks in and you can see my ribs and stuff.  Well, no more.

I do take drugs.  I douse myself up with laxatives as often and as much as I can get away with.  This is for comfort.  It gets the food material out of my body quicker so I don’t have to carry it around for what ends up being all day and into the next.  If I did not abuse laxatives, I would quickly become impacted, anyway.  A normal body cannot process this huge amount of food without abusing laxatives.  Last year, I got impacted and miserable and I remember having all sorts of gas and stuff and it was bad, I was burping a lot, too, it was worse than this physically.  I think if I abuse laxatives, I lessen the risk of stomach rupture.  I think the electrolyte imbalance risk is also a problem, but stomach rupture is probably a bigger risk IN MY CASE.  Try explaining that to a doctor, and most physical doctors tell me I will throw up before my stomach will rupture and I try to tell them no, this does not happen, my stomach will not throw up. They laugh in my face and tell me to try some self-control.  Or give me some psycho mumbo jumbo that is not their territory.

I have been taking the meds I’m supposed to take but I’m sure they are having minimal effect.  Oh and I douse myself up with double-dose Klonopin so I can sleep all day whenever I get the chance.  This is so I won’t eat.  And so I won’t live, that is, so I won’t experience anything, so I can just shut down and be asleep and not do anything all day, pretend I’m dead.  I’d take 6 mgs, but I don’t quite dare.  I’m not exactly teensy anymore, but I’m not really grandiose either.  So 6 mgs would be a lot on a guy, too.  I took 4 mgs a number of hours ago but with all the food loaded up in my stomach, these pills have done nothing.  I figure my body will be digesting the food forever and forever and the Klonopin will kick in by 2 pm.  Then, I won’t be able to walk a straight line.  I hope I can sleep really, really nicely for many hours and forget that I’m alive.

I don’t take these pills for anxiety.  I take them to make sure I’m totally knocked out.  That’s the one and only reason I take them, so that’s why I take the largest dose I dare.  I hate the dopey feeling I get from them when I’m awake.  I’d rather not be doped up while conscious.  Actually, if I could be asleep 24/7 and just wake up to walk the dog and then go back to sleep again, I’d do it.  Just sleep day after day after day and do nothing.   Definitely, that’s better than spending my time binge eating.

Sleeping the day away is better than doing just about anything, better than hanging with people because people have been mean fuckers lately.  I can’t even stand walking down the street and walking near a crowd of people, I feel hateful feelings toward them.  Like I want to tell them what assholes they are.

These folks were saying, “Happy Mothers Day!” to each other, hugging each other and putting their arms around each other.  I wanted to tell them, “Yeah, assholes.  Go celebrate.  Eat and get fat.”  Cuz all that hugging and stuff is so foreign to me.  I have no family, no one to say, “Happy Mother’s Day” to, no one to put my arm around, no one to say, “See ya later,” or “It was nice seeing you,” or whatever.  It’s all like a different world to me.

Do you understand what I am saying?  I have NO ONE.  NO ONE.  No human to hug and love.  Boy does that ever make me appreciate  my dog a whole lot.

I guess when I hold onto that little furry creature, for hours and hours every day, I guess that makes me tell myself I don’t have the guts just yet.