This is a scrapbook of life as it happens, my life told through honest and open thoughts, emotions, words, and pictures. Too honest? Too open? I don’t think so. Much as we might talk about ending stigmas - whether around illness, appearance, disability, or anything that makes us insecure - I believe we still hide parts of ourselves in the shadows. I think if we shared more openly, we’d all see ourselves in others, and we’d all feel less alone.
Each diary post includes my real-time, “hot off the presses” diary entries, as well as my reflections on the key emotions and themes in those entries. This mirrors an important element in my recovery: the raw, unfiltered emotions - positive and negative - I experience, coupled with the thoughtful, healthy processing of those emotions.
Dear Reader,
Can you keep a secret? I hope so, because this is my diary – the living, breathing symphony of my life – and I’m giving you the key. These entries are not written as I sit suffocatingly still, in some back-breaking chair in my humble boudoir. There’s no silk orchid robe fluttering on my bare skin, no flamingo pink feather pen resting between my French manicured fingernails, and no red rose petals littering my snow white sheets. You see, this diary is not written in stuffy quiet and stillness, but rather in joyful noise and movement.
Sometimes words come to me as I nestle under my covers. Toes hugged by fuzzy pink socks, skin slathered in apricot body oil, messy bun drowning in dry shampoo. Other times, words find me mid-workout, during a set of high knees or halfway through a plank hold. In those early-morning moments, I smell and taste of salt and sweat, rather than of lilacs and virginity. Sometimes I write to you in my trusty little Subaru, as I cue up my favorite playlist, and wonder if I unplugged the curling iron. Other times, I write to you on my lunch break, curled up in a cozy window seat like a sleepy Siamese cat. Yes, sometimes I write to you then, letting sunshine season my daily salad, a cornucopia of roasted veggies made to fuel my body, mind and soul.
I write to you in between color-coded microbiology flashcards, and as I recite the bones of the skull during my commute, my own private talent show. I write to you wearing nude Chinese Laundry platform stilettos, while I strut and pose, making eyes and flashing smiles at blinding lights. I write to you when the world around me is loud; when I need peace and quiet, I find you, and you bring me home.
I write to you at 9:23 pm while I brush my teeth, wearing nothing but a smile and a faded, baggy college T-shirt that doesn’t belong to me. I write to you at 3:28 am when I awake from some horrid nightmare, or some equally heavenly dream. You come to me as I paint my face with opal foundation and rosy pink powder each morning. You find me hidden in shower steam in the evenings, a velvety oil cleanser washing away streaks of mascara and the day’s sins. I write to you in sullen parking garages, dank elevators, and cluttered grocery aisles. I write to you as I tie the pretty laces of my favorite white sneakers, as I dance alone, and as I walk among fields of emerald green and tangerine gold.
You see, I don’t write to you in essays, novellas, or endless odysseys. I write to you in rhymes, poems, and polaroids. This is a diary and scrapbook, a record of my life as it happens. It is the flashes of my mind, the flights of my imagination, and the rhythm of my heart tattooed on a page. Yes, dear reader, this diary is all of me, and it’s the core of Borderline Babe.
P.S. You take care of you!
I’m thrilled you’re here, but given its nature and purpose, Borderline Babe contains mentions of mental illness, disordered eating, self-harm, suicidal ideation, strong language, and other adult themes. If you find the material upsetting, please don’t read further. You can always come back another time - I’ll still be here for you!
