I'm really tired of myself.
I feel really cliche in all the worst ways.
I don't really remember ever liking who I am so that's not the issue really.
It's just gotten so hard to ignore the things I'm doing.
I've been teetering on a weird dotted line I had never noticed before.
I've actually considered getting better.
I'm not talking about the pathetic attempts at recovery I've tried because thinking that you can be healthy and starve and binge and purge and cut yourself is not rational.
I've thought about throwing it all away.
Sinking back into myself the way I had before I met Lukas.
I thought about dying in comparison to actually living.
I don't know which i want but this limbo of not dead but not alive is getting so tiring.
It's exhausting killing myself to no avail.
Starving for no results and slitting my own throat only to realize that my blade is plastic.
I am tired.
I don't know how to decide if I want to die or live.

My account on tumblr got suspended and I'm fucking done

I'm jealous of anyone who can be near you.
Being able to touch you; to wrap my arms around your neck and breathe in the cent of your skin.
To hear your laugh and watch the color rise in your cheeks.
To hold your hand and kiss you; there isn't anything I want more.
So when you ask if I am jealous I won't lie to you.
I wish to let my love for you seep from my pores and melt on your flesh.
My complexion might as well have a tint of green.

I purged clumps of blood yesterday.
I had this weird feeling afterwards.
My heart felt strange and everything got really slow.
I had to lay down for two hours.
I'm shaky and constantly cold.
My nails are always a weird blue purple color(it fades into orange and my nails look like a sunset).
Despite the fact that these should be worrying I can't help but feel proud that finally; finally, I am showing signs of sickness.
And then today I got my period.
It's a month late but that makes no difference.
It came back and I'm in so much fucking pain and all I want to do is scream.
And possibly cry which is guaranteed considering I'm a hormonal wreck.
I don't think I could possibly explain the disgust I currently hold for my body.
The longest I lost my period for was four months.
I feel like a failure and nothing ever work out right.
No matter what I do I'm healthy or faking it or not sick enough or don't warrant help and I'm just so fucking SICK of it.
I'm tired of sitting here being at a health weight when I feel like the living fucking death.
I'm tired of trying to prove the fact that I have mental illnesses.
I'm tired of people scoffing at me when I say I suffer from disordered eating.
I'm tired of not having a fucking diagnosis to justify my self hatred.
I'm really fucking tired.

I hate the not knowing.
I hate the second guessing.
I hate the nights I sit here alone wondering if you passed out or just don't feel like talking.
I hate alone.
I hate everything about alone.
I hate the emptiness.
I hate the constant worrying if I did something to make you start to resent me.
I hate thinking that you could resent me.
I hate being alone thinking that you think these things.
I hate not being able to ask you if any of the things I worry about are true.
Alone feels like shit.
Thinking you resent me feels like shit.
Being alone with the thought that you could possibly resent me makes me want to kill myself.

Don't leave me.
I don't think I could take it.

I'm scared that you'll get tired of me.
What if one day you wake up and can't remember why I was so special to you at the beginning?
Something in the back of my mind is telling me that you don't love me.
There's an increasing emptiness in your voice when you say those three words, or am I imagining it?
Is this my paranoia whispering into my ear when I'm on the edge of consciousness?
What are you thinking?
Why don't I already know?
I'm afraid of these answers.
I'm terrified that it's all true; that I've lost whatever it is that made you think I was worth it.
I don't want to lose you but I can't help but think that's what's happening here.

I read all of your comments and I appreciate all of you.
I think there is something a lot of you don't see though.
I am not actually trying to get better nor was that ever my intention.
I do not have any plans of sticking around for much longer.
I do not love myself.
I don;t know if I ever really knew how to.
I can't even fathom having a future.
I don't see myself going to art school or accomplishing any of the things I once hoped to.
I don't think I can handle any of this much longer.
I'm so sorry.

Leave me at the altar

I'm getting to the point where I think about suicide even if I'm not feeling upset.
I was with my family over thanksgiving and it was probably one of the hardest moments of my life.
Every time I would get a hug or a glance my way I would wonder how that person would react if I commit suicide.
My uncle killed himself when I was three weeks old.
I never knew him.
The only thing I can think of when I hear his name is how it must have felt to pull that trigger.
My six year old cousin kept telling me how much she loved me and how I was her favorite cousin ever.
I can't deal with that.
I couldn't take any of it.
So every chance I got I would refill my wine glass.
On my way to my cousins house I purged in a gas station restroom.
People heard me.
They talked louder so they could hear each other over the sound of me choking on my fingers.
I haven't cut in about three weeks.
I plan on cutting my upper arms tonight.
I can't help but wonder if I should try and get help before its too late.
There won't be another hospital trip because the next time I attempt I have no doubt that I will not survive.
There is something wonderfully comforting about that.

Tired

Its that time of year when I can't see the fucking point anymore.
Everything is just so exhausting.
I keep trying for the people I love but guilt can only go so far.

I don't even care anymore.
If I get desperate enough I'll cut myself in a crowded room.

Purging in public doesn't even phase me.

I stopped looking for reasons to stay a long time ago.
All I want to do is sleep.

I'm so done with being stuck in a life I'm not living.
I'm such a coward but I'm too tired to really give a fuck.

Just leave me your stardust to remember you by

Sadness is worse than any infectious disease in existence.
It kills all parts of you.
Your mind, your body, everything you wanted to be, and everything you were ceases to matter when depression seeps into your bones and fills the cracks of your universe.
Your universe is reduced to crumbs; ashes of something once incredibly beautiful.
Each strand of your personality rots down to thin tangled threads that can't hold you up anymore.
Everything you thought you knew and loved doesn't make sense to you now.
You are not a person.
You are not a human being.
You have no face.
You have no body.
You are yellow ivory dust.
A crumbled statue that used to stand tall.
You are nothing to anyone you ever thought you meant something to.
You are a whisper of a memory and that will never be good enough to hold their attention.
What are you if nothing matters?
Who are you if you have no features?
How are we to distinguish you from the rest of the peeling soiled wall paper?
How do I remember being someone who doesn't exist?
How do I even pretend to be a hollowed out shell of her when I'm not even that anymore?
I can't go back.
I can't go forward.
I can only rot where my feet meet the pavement.

My mom always tells me to write things down when I'm upset.
I always tell her I will.
I don't have the heart to tell her writing makes it worse.
Talking makes it worse.
I blog about my feelings and my fucked up thoughts all the time but it never does my mental state any good.
I never feel better about myself.
If anything I hate myself more.
It used to be only physical; I only hated the person in the mirror.
Now I hate myself as a person too.
"If you don't like it; change it"
I tried.
I have tried and tried to change the things I do so maybe I can be okay with myself but I can't.
I try to change my appearance and my style and my art and my personality.
I have tried to be a better daughter/friend/sister/cousin/girlfriend and I just hate myself more.
I don't even have any pretty poetic bullshit for today because I'm just so fucking tired.
I fail at school and relationships and art and being recovered and being mentally ill.
I fail at everything I try to do or become.
I am just so sick of trying.
I am so tired and I don't think I can make myself do it anymore.

If I can't be a successfully eating disordered person then I don't want to be alive.

I'm done.

It's that time of year again

Every few months something happens.
A little switch goes off in my head.
My hands start to shake.
For once in my life I feel alive and unafraid.
A voice in my head says "It's time."
So I grab a pen and start writing.
And when I'm satisfied with my poorly worded apologies I gather up my pills.
I pull my razor blade out and press down for old time sake.
I count and recount my little friends just to make sure.
Everything is neat and organized and I feel lighter than I ever have before.
Even lighter than those other times.
Because this time it feels different.
It's like I'm real but none of this counts.
Like if I do die I can still breathe and everything will be okay.
No matter what it feels like everything will be okay for the first time in eternity.
It's not like being triggered.
Being triggered could imply that one is upset before one attempts.
But this is different.
It's like my body floats away and I'm not really a person.
My eyes don't hurt and my skin doesn't crawl and I'm not overwhelmed by a thick repulsion I feel when I think about myself.
There is an absence of tiredness that feels very curious to me.
One of the only things I can always depend on is the never ending exhaustion that seeps into my bones and turns my muscles to putrefied JELL-O.
It's odd for me to feel so awake; so alive, right before I end it.
Every nerve in my body tingles.
This is it. This is it. This is it.

The first time I was hospitalized for a suicide attempt I told my doctors and mental health workers it wasn't a suicide attempt.
I told them it just felt right.
Like when you decide you want to be a lawyer or an artist.
You feel like this is something you could see yourself doing.
I could see myself dying.
I would drift off to sleep and my heart would stop.
Of course I also figured that maybe things wouldn't go according to that plan.
I just thought I'd try it; I'd try being dead.
"Whatever happens, happens."

Kindness

"Kill them with kindness."
I cannot handle kindness.
I cannot handle hugs or love or caring gestures.
I can't handle the pages that people dedicate to making other people feel better.
The words that they lace with their love of humanity and the goodness in people hurt.
They physically hurt.
I don't know how to react when someone is nice to me.
My first instinct is to cry.
To break in half and let my innards spill through the cracks of the floor because the pain is unbearable.
When someone tells me I am ugly or that I am a worthless excuse for a human being I can see where they are coming from.
They barely sting.
But when someone tells me that they would set themselves on fire if it made me happy or do something for me completely undeserved and not even asking for anything in return I want to rip my heart out and hand it to them.
I want to tell them that I would pull my flesh off inch by inch for them.
That I do not know how to show appreciation for comments like that.
I do not know how to accept their loving thoughts without a few gallons of self loathing.
I struggle with the words and I don't believe I could ever properly convey how much these gentle warm hands that people reach out for me to hold onto make me want to die more than anything else.

Counting

I am unsatisfied with the numbers in my life.
191 pills stashed (just in case).
Over 500 cuts and scars cover my body.
I have a BMI of (at the very least since I haven't weighed myself for weeks) 23.1.
I am above 130lbs but probably beneath 140lbs (I refuse to verify this with an actual weigh in).
I have gone at least 96 hours without sleeping at one time.
I have spent eight years loathing myself.
I have spent all eight of those years harming myself in various ways.
I spent seven of those years indulging in eating disordered habits and behaviors.
And still counting.
I'm always counting.
The number of people who remain in my life.
The number of people who have left my life either by choice or by a cruel twist of fate.
I count the number of seconds I spend wishing I was someone else.
I have lost the numerical value a long time ago.
The number I have left on my existential clock.
The number of moments I have wasted.
The number of years I have spent wasting.
Really though these numbers should mean nothing to me.
They are just numbers.
But these numbers rule my life.
They rule my thoughts and have complete control over my emotions.
They are the measure of my worth.
My value as a person written clearly in the amount of things I've done and accomplished.
Written in the number of lives I've touched.
But the positives ran out a long time ago and I'm treading in the negatives.
My value can't really decrease anymore but I feel as though I should get the credit for all my mistakes and all of my short comings.
All of them should be tallied least I have something I can say I'm good at.
These numbers are swirling around my brain and they keep my eyes locked open.
These numbers chase the breath from lungs and lodge themselves into the fleshy tissue of my throat.
They will choke me.
I will suffocate on all of my failures and die an agonizing slow death that I see fit as punishment.
I don't know how to measure my life in anything other than the moments I can not possibly bare to remember.

Wondering

I've been thinking a lot about time lately.
How much passes and how much is left.
I've been thinking about experiences and memories.
The moments we create would they feel the same if we relived them?
Would the people we met still hold the same brilliance; the same shine as they did on the day we first laid eyes on them?
Would the jokes still be funny or would they lose their magic?
When we experience new things we see them with wide open eyes and after a while their hold on us fades.
Our hearts feel differently about those moments.
It's like something that once meant the world to us is now worth nothing.
The feeling of being so deeply in love with someone; loving them for every ounce of who they are, and then suddenly losing sight of why you began to feel that way in the first place.
One moment you're life is filled with so much promise and you are living and breathing and loving every second.
The next minute you are crumpled like a used tissue on your bathroom floor covered in vomit and blood and wondering where you went so horribly wrong.
Everything is so fragile but we never really see that until the bones of our lives and feelings and memories are crumpling to dust in our palms.
"You don't know what you got 'til it's gone" takes on a world of new meanings when you apply it to everything you have ever loved and will ever love.
Because tomorrow I could be happy and healthy again or maybe I will die in three months from now.
Or maybe Lukas is only meant to be a blip on my time line when I want him to be here for the duration of my  life.
Maybe he will be my whole world.
One day someone will feel as though you are the air they breathe and the ground beneath their feet and everything that has ever mattered in their life will no longer hold a 1000 of your value.
And maybe one day that person will lose sight of you and why you were their source of being.
I feel as though I cannot trust the things I feel and think.
Everything feels so fleeting and maybe none of it maters anyways.
I feel so incredibly confused about life and love and time and memories.
Everything is hurting me tonight.
Its a night where all my beliefs coming crashing together and I wind up with a jumble of thoughts that barely cohere and are almost laughably unintelligible when typed out.
My thoughts are toxic tonight and I fear that if things continue like this I don't know what will become of me.
Hang in there is a scary phrase when you can't remember what you should be holding onto.
Should and shouldn't begin to lose meaning when you are staring down into an orange bottle and reasons-to-stay are turning into reasons-to-go.
Life begins to lose meaning when you only see the inside of your four blank bedroom walls for months on end.
Living doesn't seem to hold the same wonder as it did when you were ignorant and the world was still kind enough to tolerate.
Sometimes you get so tired that sleep will not cure your exhaustion.
Sometimes you get so hungry that food can't satisfy the growing emptiness inside of you.
Sometimes you feel like giving up and you look at your life and you loves and talents and short comings and mistakes and everything that has ever happened that you can remember and you wonder.
You wonder what is keeping you here.

Sometimes

Lukas is in inpatient.
I miss him so much I can't breathe.
Everything is too intense and too painful.
I don't really know how to cope with the feelings being thrown at me.
I wonder if this is what love is like.

There are days when everything just hurts.
The light that filters in through my curtains is too bright.
My eyes are screaming.
I can't sleep until the sun comes up.
I decided that I needed to save my last two cigarettes because I have to get proof of age so I can buy more.
I went through almost a whole pack in four days.
My throat burns because I've been purging so much.
I've started consuming only liquids and then purging them.
It's just so much easier.
It hurts sometimes though.
Like halfway through shoving my fingers down my throat for the twentieth time today I got this dull achy feeling in my bones.
Exhaustion.
My limbs are heavy and I feel like I'm living under water.
Except it's not really water it's more like sludgy tar.
I move so slowly.
I was so happy this past weekend.
Irritable and bitchy but actually content for the first time in a long time.
I smiled a lot.
Samantha and my mother were here.
I kept telling myself  "I'll be sick later".
I get little reprieves that way.
"I'll kill myself later"
"I'll cut myself later"
"I'll be a genuine fuck up later"
It only lasts for a few moments.
Never any longer than ten days.
And then I realize later will never come and I am secretly feeling okay without my permission and I relapse so fast I get third degree burns.
Cigarette holes in my hands.
Long beautiful wispy gashes that get deeper and deeper every time I visit my blade.
Because sick is comforting.
It's something I can depend on any time I need it.
Misery will always be there for me.
She will hold my hand even after I have thrown myself from my cliff.
But happiness is fleeting and cruel.
When it leaves it rips off pieces of me.
That pain that comes with my depression only feels skin deep but the pain that comes after a bout of happiness splinters my bones and pulls my muscles to shreds fiber by fiber.
Happiness can bring the worst pain imaginable.
At least with sadness you can get used to the pain.

Apparently I'm not enough of a danger to myself for my medical team or my parents to put me into an inpatient facility. But thank you. I'd love to actually have a doctor tell me that yes I have an eating disorder after seven years of putting myself through hell but that would require actually telling someone about my eating habits. And I don't think I'm ready to give any of that up right now.
Like I'm sitting here just woke up and I want to purge.
I won't purge everything I ate because for the first time in three weeks I decided to allow myself food without immediately stuffing my fingers to the back of my throat.
I am regretting it incredibly.
It could not have been over 700 calories in total but my stomach hurts because of how full it is.
I couldn't even have a normal human sized portion.
I feel like that unto itself should be a sign to those around me that I cannot take care of myself.
But the people that love me would do anything to not see what they do and my med team would never admit they had it wrong.
I unfortunately cannot admit myself to any inpatient facility.
I cannot initiate any type of treatment for myself because I am not a medical professional.
Because I carry no PHD and have no recommendation from someone that has I cannot get help that I require.
So instead I'm going to get sick and hopefully someone will decide I'm worth of treatment.
Or maybe I'll die first.

Cut yourself until you bleed

I am discontinuing my therapy.
When I turn 18 on Sunday I am not legally obligated to follow through with any treatment.
Seeing as my parents can now only suggest things; such as going back on Zoloft, I do not have to follow their instruction.
Really I'm just scared and tired.
I'm scared of dying and terrified of living.
I'm tired of not getting help and feeling like I'm not worth that help.
I'm tired of people ignoring me when i tell them how I feel.
I'm tired of feeling like such shit always.
I've been suffering from disordered eating for seven years and not a fucking person has actually noticed.
I am not disordered enough to get a diagnosis and I'm so done.
I'm done with not being able to do anything.

I don't know why I care so much.
His opinion shouldn't bother me as much as it does.
I shouldn't feel so triggered by him.
I shouldn't feel so pathetically insignificant in comparison.
But I do.
In everything I do and am I feel as though I am nothing.
My massive inferiority complex is probably grating on your nerves.
I just can't help but hate myself whenever I see him on my dash.
I can't help but feeling disgusting about myself.
My heart hurts.
I'm scared of my thoughts.
I'm afraid that I think it's completely logical to kill myself over another person.
A person I don't even interact with.
A person I've never even had a conversation with or spoken to.
A person who has never been a part of my life has the ability to make me want to die.
I'm so tired of myself.

I am not eating again until I'm getting into treatment.
That was the worst idea ever.
Also I love you all.

What the fuck was I thinking I can't do this.
What if they don't admit me because I'm not mentally unstable enough to meet their criteria?
What if the other patients think I'm just full of shit?
What if I go there and I hate it and still have to stay for a month?
What if I go there and they keep me longer than a month?
What if I get diagnosed with an eating disorder?
They will take it away from me and force me to eat and I can't handle this.
What if I don't want to get better what if I'd rather die?
Why did I ask for help?
I'm such a fucking idiot I can't do this I don't need help.
I don't deserve help I think I'm going to cut every inch of my skin.
I'm fucking done I can't deal with this shit.

I wish

It would be so much easier for me to ask for help if I felt justified in my own misery.
I feel like a fake.
I feel as though even though I'm siting here awake for over twenty four hours with new cuts and scabs and burns decorating my left arm and hand and left leg; I feel as though I am not mentally ill enough to deserve treatment.
I also cannot find a treatment center that does long term treatment.
I can't do short term inpatient or out patient.
I am drowning in a pool of my own vomit, blood, and tears.
There isn't time for me to sit here in my head stewing over how bad of a mistake this was.
Given a stay in short term inpatient I will come back and slip right back into my life.
In outpatient you might as well not even bother because I will be self harming everyday all day whether I have groups or stay home.
I rip myself to pieces every night to beautiful melancholy lullabies.
Beautiful songs that simultaneously dig long clawed fingers into my flesh and sooth my panicked heart with every lyrical line.
These songs claw their way to my very core and freeze there making it painful to move.
Painful to breathe.
Painful to think.
My life is woven between the chords of Blind by Train.
My screaming is lost; silently falling out of my mouth and rotting in a puddle of freshly spilled blood, among the sweet words that make up the song Rubik's Cube by Athlete.
My whole existence is wrapped up in horrifically sad songs.
I am comfortable here.
I am so comfortable with my razor in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Because "you can get used to a certain kind of sadness."
And I have.
I have not only gotten used to and grown accustomed to my depression, I have grown to like it.
It is the soul burning light off which I live.
My depression has become something like a lover to me.
That lover may abuse me and tell me I'm worth nothing to them but I am completely enamored with everything that they are that I cannot possibly imagine leaving.
I am in love with my mental illness and I do not know a life other than sick.
I cannot possibly imagine a life in which I am not drowning in my own self destruction.

I'm not sick enough.
I'm not sick enough to warrant help.
I do not look sick.
I do not deserve help.

Treatment

I'm getting a little out of hand.
My cuts are getting so much deeper.
I'm tired and I scare myself.
I'm incredibly impulsive and I would rather kill myself than go to school.
I'm going to try asking for help for once and seeing how it works out.
Wish me luck I guess?

Puss

I entertain the notion of "getting help" daily.
I allow myself to debate it for an excruciating amount of time.
But if I ever did walk into the doors of my nearest psych unit it wouldn't be to get better.
I'd use it more as an escape.
An excuse.
See?
Rachael is sick.
She cannot possibly perform as a normal functioning human being.
She is obviously broken and will need time to heal.
But recovery holds a certain amount of hilarity now.
I'm standing on the roof of a building telling people "I'm so much better now" as I toe the edge and wonder if I'd feel it when I burst against the pavement.
I stay up for days just to see the bags under my eyes.
I cut recklessly deep ten minutes before stepping into my friends car and heading to school.
I allow myself to bleed and bleed and I feel fine.
I do not feel suicidal.
I do not feel sick.
And this is when it gets bad.
The realization that "better" started happening when I wasn't looking.
That despite my frantic attempts to make myself feel like a worthless piece of shit, I smile much easier.
It scares the shit out of me.
Because if I'm thinking about getting help it means that I'm actually thinking about living to walk up on the stage for graduation.
I cannot handle breathing today if I know I will continue breathing through until June.
I cannot handle the knowledge that I look forward to things in my life.
That I am turning 18 in 15 days.
I cannot handle this.
Because when I am peering over the edge I am desperately trying to convince myself I am still sick.
I am still mentally unstable.
Because if I don't have my illness; my mental incapacity to deal with anything, I have nothing.
So I will go shower and then cut myself and rip open my infected wounds and laugh when they drip blood and puss all over my bed and carpet.
I will smile when tomorrow I look like I have been punched in the face.
I will laugh when I binge horribly and purge until I cannot stand.
I am still mentally unfit to deal with life.
So I'm gonna opt out.

Sick?

There came a time in my disordered life that I realized I would never be normal.
I would never meet the standards for happy.
My life will always be a swirling chaotic hell hole.
My fingers will always smell of vomit and I will have blood stains on my over sized sweaters.
Sleep will never come easy for me.
But at the same time I don't feel like I have what it takes to be qualified as a "successful" mentally ill person.
I feel like there will always be someone sicker more deserving of help than I.
There will always be someone who suffers so much more and I have not the energy to put forth towards anything; lest be my suffrage.
I am sitting here contemplating cutting myself.
Trying to cut deep enough so that I will need stitches and go to the psych unit and just escape for a while.
But I ate for the first time in two days, not even 70 calories and my heart feels swollen.
My stomach feels as though it will burst at any given moment.
I feel deflated and bloated and so very tired.
Taking pills would be easier but a suicide attempt isn't something I really want to put the effort into right now.
I wish I could just tell Dad that I cannot handle being a functioning human being right now but I doubt he would allow me that.
"Push yourself Rachael."
"Muscle through it."
"Just keep going."
I will wind up pushing myself all the way to the edge of sanity and fling my meat carcass over the edge.
Dive head long into mental anguish.
I feel like I'm already there anyways.

I should be sleeping.
I should be getting ready to face school tomorrow.
Instead I am writing an over due essay that has more to do with my personal feelings towards myself that Beowulf.
I am watching Lukas sleep over skype and wishing that I could be well or sick enough to warrant the worry of others.
Sick enough to go to a residential treatment center or kill myself.
I feel so weak.
I am so tired and my energy just evades me.
There isn't any solace or comfort here.
My exhaustion is overwhelming but not enough to justify my pain.
My mentality is not so far gone that I deserve the empathy of others.
So I am stuck between hoping for more and needing less.
Between the longing for death and the promise of life.
I am stuck and I am tired.
So tired.

Sex

I'm going through my blog and deleting a lot of posts.
I was a sick pathetic disgusting person.
I no longer personify my disordered eating and no longer do I worship eating disorders or disordered people.
I get nauseated when reading this shit.
But I came upon a particular post and I was very very close to throwing up.
Sex.
I was talking about it in theory.
I was sure back then as a little freshman that I would be a "virgin"* forever.
So sure of how innocent I was.
So sure that no one would ever touch me again.
I was comfortable in that thinking.
Comfortable thinking no one like Tommy would come into my life.
I feel sick thinking about him.
So fucking sick.
I don't like being touched anymore.
Even hugs make me anxious.
I'm afraid of my family members.
I'm afraid of everyone.
I get scared of living and time and breathing.
Sex is absolutely terrifying.
Every time someone mentions it I feel like someone is on top of me.
Smothering me and pushing.
Everything hurts.
I get shakey and cold and tired.
Very tired.
I'm exhausted and I don't want to be around people.
I have to go to school today.
I've been skipping since Thursday because I was twitching.
It finally stopped after I woke up today.
But I have to be around people.
I have to actually allow people to touch me and be near me and talk to me and I'm terrified.
I am so scared and I am so tired and I feel like everyone is always pushing.
I feel a weight on me every day from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep.
Its always so heavy.
I can't breathe.
I am so tired.


*depending on you definition of virgin because considering anatomy I was not REALLY a virgin. That was taken away a long time before this point.

EVERYONE GO SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY KAWAII BOYFRIEND LUKAS
http://eros-and-apollo.blogspot.com/

I don't even care

Sometimes I just want to watch my life disappear down the drain with the black vomit.
I want to watch it slip down in a mess of stomach acid and self hatred.
Sometimes I just want to be fucked up all the time.
I feel like if past lives were a thing I was a drug addict.
I'd like to just go do some heroin.
Brown liquid filling up the syringe.
I'd watch it disappear into my blood stream like the vomit down the toilet.
Maybe I wouldn't hate myself so much if I was fucked up all the time.
Maybe I would almost enjoy the pathetic feeble life I would lead.
I think I wouldn't mind dying of an over dose.
The last thing I would feel would be that incredible high sinking me down beneath the floor boards and into the Earths crust.
I would float all the way down past the core.
I could do that.
I think that on a regular basis.
Despite having beyond promised more than a few people I wouldn't disappoint them.
All I know how to do is disappoint people; hurt people.
It's not something I'll ever be proud of but maybe I can escape it all with a needle.
With crushed up ivory colored powder.
A thin clumpy line up into the nasal cavity.
I'd rather shoot meth though.
Glass sounds so much prettier than crank.
It sounds like a lot more fun too.
I think I'd fare better with heroin though.
I already sink pretty low it would be lovely if I could enjoy the decent.
I just get so tired of trying.
Normalcy has never been my cup of tea and it gets harder and harder to choke it down.
I have a deep unrelenting desire to fuck up everything I have going for me.
I'd like to let myself wither.
Die beautifully like a rose.
Covered in sweat bluish hue to my pale complexion.
Needle in my arm already rotting and festering while my dead eyes stare into nothingness.
No longer seeing.
Pure beauty.
Dying is such a pretty little thing.

Smile

I'm attempting recovery.
Sort of.
It's more like working out and eating healthier but restricting to the point that I used to.
And I probably won't stop purging either so really it's more like eating disorder magnified times fifty.
Awesome shit.
Not really.
I have coffee that's growing colder so I'll make another post later.
Probably not.
Love you. :*

Crusty hair

I'm ruining my life.
With every night I spend with my head down the toilet I get worse.
Eating makes me feel repulsive.
I can't take eating.
I can't take much anymore to be honest.
I can't take loud noises.
I can't take people.
I can't take complete darkness.
I can't handle being yelled at.
I absolutely cannot handle being touched in any way.
Touch me lovingly and I will break down because I do not deserve hugs.
Touch me violently and I will shut down.
I won't be able to breathe.
My world will collapse.
I cannot handle school or school work.
There are too many people with too many opinions and not enough pills or razor blades to make them leave me be.
There is too much responsibility and it makes me want to die.
Everything makes me want to die.
I don't know how to live anymore.
If I ever really did.

Repulsive

I am heavier than him.
He has been diagnosed.
He is gorgeous and you love him.
I am nothing compared to him.
Absolutely nothing.

Scared.

190 calories never used to mean terror.
Neither did watching the brown tinted vomit swirl down the sink.
Sometimes it feels too easy.
One second I'm smiling/ happy/ normal.
Next second screaming/ crying/ fucked up.
Diseased.
It's disgusting how easily starvation comes to me.
90 calories is comfortable.
100 is itchy.
Anything over 150 is tilting my universe.
Over 200 and I'm ripping at my skin, pulling out my hair, rushing to the nearest isolated place.
Whether it's the solitude of a bathroom, or a darkened corner of the back yard the occasional pair of headlights skipping over the girl with her fingers down her throat; it doesn't matter where.
As long as whatever was in me is now laying in the dirt/ toilet/ sink/ drain/ side walk/ plastic bag.
The weirdest place I've ever purged to this day has been my closet.
I've purged in bathrooms in four different states.
I've purged in over thirty bathrooms.
More than 20 of those being public restrooms.
I've purged at two of my friends houses.
At the park.
In the shower at four different houses.
By the tree in my back yard.
In the woods a block and a half from me in New Jersey.
The kitchen sink down stairs.
A dark street in Pennsylvania at 6:15 am during a "run".
It was so easy to lean over allow the contents of my stomach to just slide over my fingers.
A gag or two.
Silent puke.
I could have been washing my face.
It's usually hard for me to purge.
It always has been.

Taking thirty minutes to five hours to get what takes most bulimics minutes even seconds to empty out.
I have ripped tears into my throat more than sixty eight times.
This shouldn't feel normal.
And I guess that's the scary part.
The relief that washes over me.
Completely calm once the food is flushed, tears and blood wiped off.
My heart feels less heavy; weight removed from my chest and now I can breathe.
I am comfortable when I am sick.
The psych ward felt like a safety blanket a thick blanket they give you when you are screaming in shock and terror.
Of course you get tired of people watching you.
You get tired of the child gloves and demand an out.
But those people that walk around in scrubs with a dead look in their eyes; those people who have been broken at too young of an age to know how the world works, they are my people.
The people who know what it's like to take handful after handful of pills or cry in front of their plate of food on a particularly hard morning.
I hate being surrounded by people who are sane enough not to count calories religiously.
The people who don't know the pain of a swollen throat cause by purging.
The people who have never occupied a bed in the psych unit.
The people who don't know the feeling of dragging a blade across their flesh and hoping for the courage to press down.
These people feel wrong to me.
Just like full feels wrong.
Or smooth skin feels wrong.
It's foreign to me.
That scares me.
But not as much as the idea of recovery does.

Silence

I hate quiet.
With the absence of talking or music everything is louder; the noise of my fan seems to fill the room until I can't breathe.
It hurts.
Physical pain is brought upon by complete silence I'm sure of it.
Silence is one of the worlds worst tortures; endured only by those who commit the worst of crimes.
You are in your own head and I know that place isn't comfortable right now.
I know that when you get quiet; when you stop voicing things to me even small little things, that something has gone wrong.
Very wrong.
But how can I fix it?
How can I pull you out of your head and hold your hand the way I want to?
How can I make you feel needed and loved?
I know you feel incredibly small; insignificant, but I do not know how to make you feel like you are important.
Rather, I do not know how to show you how important you are.
When my life dangles on a thread you are the one that pulls me back onto solid ground.
Your smiles are my anchor when I'm lost in my sea of despair.
How can I show you what you do for me?
It hurts to sit on the sidelines.
To watch you struggle with your thoughts.
I know that feeling.
When you are WRONG.
PATHETIC.
WORTHLESS.
FEEBLE.
DISGUSTING.
UGLY.
When you see yourself as the soul reason the people around you are suffering it's not exactly easy to believe anything positive about yourself.
And why should you?
Because I say I need you?
But what of everyone else and what if I decide I don't care about you anymore?
I know that.
Those questions you can't answer.
Those hateful words that circle your head.
The ones that rarely ever ring true.
So as I struggle to get my thoughts out; tell you I love you in not so many words, the silence takes over.
It steals my voice and suffocated my thoughts.
We both sit here in our misery struggle for words or thoughts anything to make us feel as if we mean something to the person on the other side.
But we come up empty handed.
Because you cannot see how perfect you are and I see none of myself.
I just wish I could hold your hand; make you feel not so alone in your pain.
You really aren't alone.

I hate dreaming.

It's hard to talk about these things.
I hate being honest with myself.
I hate allowing myself to remember.
I hate myself for it.

"It's hard to stop,, you know?"
There was this girl that was in inpatient and outpatient therapy with me.
Both of us were in the psych ward for a suicide attempt.
She was abused sexually like me except her abuse went on for six years.
Her father is in a New Jersey prison.
He will never be allowed out of the state and he cannot live within 100 miles of her.
She told people.
She got charges pressed.
I didn't.
My therapist knows about the rape.
He knows it went on for four years but he doesn't know who it was.
He doesn't know that I live with him.
When this girl and I were in PHP together(we'll call her Andy) she broke down in therapy.
She talked about her abuse.
Later when we were waiting to get picked up she told me and another girl more.
We were talking about relationships and sex.
I told them I hated anything sexual.
I hate being touched and I NEVER touch myself.
Andy looked embarrassed.
She said that she did and then said "It's hard to stop,, you know?"
And there was the ugly side.
The truth I never wanted to admit.
The reason why sex feels so wrong and disgusting to me now.
The reason I can't stand being touched and I feel dirty all over.
Because I had enjoyed it.
Because after a while it stops hurting.
Your body doesn't know it isn't consensual.
It doesn't know it isn't supposed to feel good.
So when it stopped I was confused.
Not only because one day he was on top of me pushing and grunting and the next he sat there like nothing happened.
But because a part of me had gotten used to it.
A part of me thought that it was normal and got used to that feeling.
That part of me craved that feeling.
I hated myself for it and I still hate myself.
So at night when he was supposed to be crawling into my bed and he didn't I'd wonder where he went.
When he was supposed to be knocking on my door when no one was home I'd wonder why he wasn't on top of me.
Before I'd go to bed at night I'd create that feeling for myself again.
Replacing his prodding sweaty hands with my own.
And after I had realized what had happened I was mortified.
Disgusted with every part of myself.
I would go to sleep with a sticky sweat pooling on my stomach refusing to let my fingers go beneath the blankets.
I'd wake up with out any pants on.

My dreams are always memories.
Memories or what could happen if he came to my room again.
And every morning for a long time I'd wake up with sticky fingers repulsed by my own existence.
I was afraid to sleep over other peoples houses; afraid of what I would dream about.
I remember pulling my hair out when I was little.
Clawing at my stomach and thighs with stubby nails or shoving food down my throat until I felt sick.
It was my way of self harming.
My way of trying to externalize how disgusted I was with myself.
Of course when I found out about cutting and broke a picture frame during a panic attack the only thing that seemed right was to pick up the long jagged glass and slice into my flesh.
Starving seemed right.
And when I got there purging seemed right too.

There was this night at Kelsey's house we slept on the floor in her living room.
I woke up in the morning because her brother was sitting with her on the couch talking.
After a few minutes her brother asked if I had a nightmare.
I told him no and asked why.
"You were pulling your hair in your sleep and it looked really painful. And well..."
At that point Kelsey told him to shut up.
I never really understood the look she gave him.
I do now.
I only pulled my hair during those dreams.
Because when my brother was laying on top of me pushing into me he would wrap his hands in my hair and pull as hard as he could.

"It's hard to stop,, you know?"
Yes I knew.
I knew very well.
Because now even when I don't ever touch myself consciously, I'll dream about it.
I'll be sitting in a room tapes of my abuse playing behind me.
A college room with people studying to be some type of doctors in front of me.
And I'm not facing the "movie".
But I can hear it.
And I can't help it when my hands move on their own accord.
And I'm sitting in the front of the room with strangers staring at me watching my touch myself to tapes of my own rape.
I'm crying and silently begging myself to stop.
To run.
But I can't because I still feel the weight of him on top of me.

Stability is a joke.

Recovery was always a pretty little lie

Life is so tiring now.

Stronger?

I don't feel like it.
I don't feel like me actually.
It's almost like I'm getting better but when ever I catch myself making plans I get scared.
What is this life?
This isn't mine.
My life is filled with darkness.
Sometimes it's horrifying but it's comfortable.
I can live in the dark but all this light seeping through the cracks is making me nervous.
I don't want to let people in.
I don't want to get older.
I don't want to get better.
I don't want this.
All the implications of those beams of light are everything I am so afraid of.
Expectations.
Responsibilities.
Relationships.
Happiness.
Recovery.
Life.
This is not something I can face.
Maybe something I'll never be able to face.
But all the sudden I turned around and there were those little hopes.
Those dangerous little thoughts that said maybe this won't be so bad.
The thoughts and feelings I can't afford to have.
I can't allow myself to believe that life isn't something to be afraid of.
The moment I do I get used.
Abused.
Tossed to the side of someone else's prose like a piece of useless trash.
Only a minor detail to get the plot moving in their lives.
But then what happens in my text?
Complete chaos.
My world turns upside down and rearranges.
Everything is WRONG and in DISARRAY.
What is recovery?
Is it actively working towards wellness and health or is it waking up one day and realize your life is heading towards a future.
A future you didn't plan on living to see.
I don't know who this person is that wakes up and goes to school and eats and sleeps.
Who is it that wears my skin and talks with my voice?
These things she does and says makes others think she's getting better.
That I'M getting better.
But in truth someone else took over my brain and I'm sitting in the dark corners desperately trying to hold onto sickness.
My only comfort is my sickness and if I lose it I have to face everything.
I have to open my eyes and look at a world that I've been hiding away from.
I didn't ask for a purpose.
I didn't ask for smiles and laughter.
I didn't ask for interacting with people and forming relationships that will ultimately fail.
I didn't ask for all this hopefulness and wishing.
Optimism is not only foreign in my life but completely unwelcome.
I do not want to get better.
"Stronger" isn't me.

Terrified.

If there was a day in the past year that I was contemplating suicide the most that day would be today.
Nothing has ever looked more appealing.
Especially considered tomorrow I start the first day of senior year.
Tomorrow is expected to be a day that I learn how to grow up and deal with responsibilities.
I am considering hanging myself in my closet.
But for once in my life I'm trying not to be a coward.
I'm trying to pretend I have more of a future than planned suicide attempts.
I'm going to go into school walk into the guidance office and tell my counselor that I can't deal with this full schedule and I need to just take the bear minimum to graduate.
Then I am going to go through the rest of the day with fake smiles and try to not break down.
If I so much as see Tommy I'm done.
I cannot take the pressure of tomorrow and seeing that piece of shit's face.  
I cannot deal with the torment I'm going to suffer his year because I have more than my fair share of scars.
Visible scars.
Scars that exist because of self inflicted wounds I accumulated over eight years.
It's officially the eight year anniversary of my self harm.
The seventh of my disordered eating.
My twelfth year of school, fourth year of high school, and the year before my life changes so drastically that it won't even resemble my life anymore.
And I want nothing more than to stay in bed and hope that I never get older.
Hope that all of these changes don't happen and I die before I can get the chance to fuck everything up even more.

Thinking

I'm sitting behind my computer in my darkly lit room trying to gather the courage to face tomorrow.
I'm trying not to think about school starting on Tuesday.
Trying not to let the looming date for graduation bother me.
Trying to focus on things that are happening now rather than my ever evident lack of planning.
My future.
I never wanted one so how am I supposed to start working for it?
One day I just woke up with the knowledge that I'd have to work for things because I was expected to want them.
Expected to want to go to college.
Expected to want to get a job and possibly have a family down the line.
Expected to eat and sleep and do my work.
Expected to stop cutting and starving and hating myself.
Expected to get up brush off my past and insecurities and just keep going.
The problem is I can't.
And the closer I get to knowing that everything is moving on and leaving me in the dust the closer I am to walking backwards over that edge.
Backwards into the land of insanity and pills and gaping wounds that never seem to heal.
Backwards to the hospital or a grave if I succeed.
And it's daunting.
Knowing that other people are dealing with life and their issues so much better than I am.
Knowing that there are people who; despite holding a deep hatred for themselves, they still accomplish things.
I look at them in awe and jealousy wondering how.
How after all that time and energy put into their deep routed hate do they still have the ability to get up in the morning?
How are they able to keep walking when my knees buckled long ago under the pressure?
How are they able to do what I am not?
With each passing day it gets worse.
The suicidal thoughts were under control for a while.
Now they have tipped and are spinning wildly about while I try and catch my bearings.
A hold on something other than the gruesome fantasies.
To grab onto a thought that doesn't involve taking my double edged razor blade to my face; doing a little 'remodeling'.
How can I sit in class and look people in the eye and tell them that I am fine when I so clearly am not?
How can I face these people?
How can I keep moving when the weight on my legs has increased to the point of breakage?
There is bile on my toes.
I have small rips in the back of my throat.
My knuckles are sore.
My chest aches and I want nothing more than to go to sleep and never wake up.
Maybe I'll have peaceful dreams.

I get really scared

When someone I love hurts I don't know what to do.
I freeze up.
I choke on my words and they taste like bile in my mouth.
How am I supposed to help you?
What can I do to make you see what I see in you?
Is this how it feels?
The panicky feeling of helplessness that creeps into your chest as you watch them all drown; is this what it feels like to love someone?
When you are standing on the sidelines of someone else's story banging on the glass that separates you from them, how are you supposed to feel?
How are you supposed to reach out to them?
If you are sinking down; being eaten alive by quicksand, how are you to pull someone else out of their depths?
How do you make someone feel as if they are everything and the only thing that matters in your world when they would rather die than see who they are?
I feel as though these questions have occurred to those around me and I am not alone in my dread.
I understand now what it feels like.
Standing in front of someone with a medical licence the words suicide attempt tumbling out of their mouths.
You stare at their lips and suddenly forget how to breathe as the heart monitor beeps away in the room behind you.
The drip of the IV in your loved ones arm is haunting.
But its worse.
So much worse.
When you are sitting on the other side of a computer monitor and you read the words: Everything is wrong.
When you see someone you adore slipping into a place you know all too well and you are desperately trying to save them but you are unable to;
The feeling can best be described as terrifying.
They have fallen off of a very high cliff and you are keeping them up by the tips of your fingers.
They keep telling you to let go but you won't.
Not until your shoulder dislocates and cuts off the blood flow to your hand.
You are crying and begging them to just let you save them and they just smile up at you with a sad look in their eyes.
As if your feeble attempts to save their life is only reminding them of why they stepped off the edge in the first place.
You would die for them a million times over to see them happy but nothing you do is making them want to keep fighting.
There are people and events in their life that act as long bony hands.
Those hands rise out from the screaming sea below and grab a hold of your precious person.
The pain in their life pull against you and no matter how hard you fight to keep them with you, you know you are fighting a losing battle.
How is it so possible to love someone so much?
This love fills you up and breaks you open and leaves you bleeding on the bathroom floor.
You are crying and screaming and no one will come to save you because you cannot save them.
And you are both dying.
Slowly you are rotting away in your meat carcasses and one day someone will find you nothing but a pile of putrefied flesh.
It hurts.
When a piece of you; a person who holds your world in their hand, is withering away right in front of your eyes and you are powerless there are no words.
Nothing will make this better.
You are going to watch them wilt until you have shed your very last petal.

PSA???

Another post.
But so far(and I don't know if this is it for you guys) but a lot of the people on my reading list and tumblr dash have been talking about telling a therapist about some type of sexual abuse that took place?
And I just figure if I hadn't said anything about it I should.
I live in Ohio and the laws are different for all the states but
I was completely misled when I heard about the laws on 'reporting' sexual abuse.
In therapy you are usually told everything stays in this room EXCEPT:
1. if you are being abused(CURRENTLY)
2. if you are abusing someone who cannot defend themselves(elderly/animals/small children, and I think in major cases basically if you are abusing ANYONE)
3. if you are homicidal
4. if you are actively suicidal(some therapists/psychologists get their degrees out of the toilet mind you)

Circumstance number one is incredibly important in this case.
If you are currently being abused I advise you to TELL SOMEONE.
Especially a figure such as a therapist or you know someone of legal stature.
Things might happen to change your living situation and it could possibly be pretty scary and you might have to face whether or not to pursue a court case but the outcome will most likely(there are horror stories but there is with everything) be better than the horrific abuse you are facing now.
Now when it comes to sexual abuse cases in which you are not currently being abused you need to know something else.
If you live with your offender and you state this even if you are not currently being abused,
that person could be(depending on the circumstances and whether or not they seem 'threatening') under Megan's Law have files charged against them and be placed under the sex offenders registry.
And your living arrangements might change.
This isn't particularly a bad thing depending on your particular circumstances. 
But I feel as though I should make this post for people like myself who have suffered from years of sexual abuse and not only still encounter their abuser but are living with them and have to interact with them daily.

I could not tell my psychologist who my abuser was for this specific reason.
My psychologist also suggested(by this I mean he took my Dad into a session one day and said basically "hey why don't you tell him!" without really asking me about it- mind you some people don't get their psychology degrees from the sewer) I tell my parents about this abuse.
So now my Dad looks at me as though I'm fragile which is weird but eventually he'll get over it.
And that is MY Dad. That doesn't mean that if you tell your parents they will regard you in any way differently than they do.
Anyways yes you should probably not be stupid like me( not that I'm saying everyone who DOESN'T is stupid) and look up your state or providence's laws on sexual abuse/sex offenders before you talk to anyone.
I myself was going to tell my therapist who had abused me when my mother brought up the fact that hey maybe that would be a very fucking horrible for other parties*.
Anyways yes this has been a PSA of sorts.
Yeah sure.








*NOT THAT YOU SHOULD EVER CONSIDER ANYONE ELSE OR FEEL OBLIGATED TO PROTECT YOUR ABUSER. This is my case. Which is not your case. Which it may in fact benefit YOUR case to tell who the person/piece of shit is who ever dare motherfucking hurt you like that. I'd kill them for you if I was ignorant and didn't realize that maybe some of these sack of dicks may actually be family members or important people in your lives!

Desperation

I just purged vitamin water and macaroni and cheese chunks in the back yard.
I seriously spent five minutes out there and I got out only half of what I ate.
In about three more minutes I'm gonna go back out pretending I have a phone call.
This is what my life has become and it's sad.
I almost fell over into my own vomit pile.
I don't even have anything witty or sarcastic to say this is just how shit everything is now.
My fingers smell like bile.
My throat is sore but my mind keeps saying not sore enough.
The little voices in my head keep telling me to purge until I can't stand.
It was the equivalent to a small bowl(I filled a huge bowl so I could eat the whole pot but only got done about 1/3 of it).
My hands are shaking so bad right now it's hard to type.

It's funny actually

The people around me think that the worst I'd do to myself is cut or skip a meal.
But see there is so much more.
I've heard the horror stories about drugs and I've seen what they can do to people.
They get so desperate they'd do anything for their fix.
And
it does nothing.
I don't care.
I'd throw my entire life away in hopes of an "accidental" overdose.
It's not even an innocent curiosity but complete malicious intent.
The things I would subject myself to; no one can even imagine.
And my loved ones would be devastated if they could take a look at what goes on in my head.
For the longest time I had a thing for a druggie and actually knew a hardcore dealer.
I could probably still get back in contact with both.
Those connections have more to do with the people my brothers know.
It's a small world, really it is.
But I'm supposed to be the good daughter right?
Just a LITTLE fucked in the head nothing a good dose of Zoloft and a bit of therapy won't cure, right?
Right.
Anyways.
Trainspotting is waiting for me on putlocker so
bye bye lovies
stay strong okay?
Don't be a fuck up like me c;

Life's happenings

Lukas is at Otakon with his best friend Vi.
It bothers me slightly because whenever he gets upset I can't really make him feel better?
I just feel like a really shit friend.
I want to give him hugs and hold his hand and just be there but
That's kinda hard when he's in Baltimore.
I'm gonna pester my Dad again to see if he can visit because I miss him.
I worry about him so much and I just want him here.

In other news:
I hadn't eaten anything since Thursday so I caved and had six strawberries.
I don't think
that's even going to make a difference so fuck it.
I was supposed to do that running everyday thing but lazy.
And it actually didn't make me lose weight even though I had been running/walking more than four miles every morning and restricting.
You know me being that person who needs to see results instantaneously.
Anyways this is kind of a shit post and I'm gonna
watch movies and text Lukas.
tOodLEs

I'm a little sleep deprived.

I was watching Party Monster earlier and I thought "I could do that."
Drugs.
I'll tell myself after the thought that I'm too impulsive and it would ruin my life.
But really what am I doing now?
My right arm and both thighs are covered in cuts and it hurts so bad I can't sleep.
I deprive myself of sleep and of proper nutrients.
I rip my body to shreds; smile when the skin pulls and the little droplets bubble through the freshly formed scabs.
It's amazing how quick a wound can crust over.
Really the body is an extraordinary thing.
But
I don't much care for mine.
I treat it like shit and maybe I'm not as bad as others but I feel as though the life I'm living isn't exactly healthy.
Maybe I've been up for too long and have hit the lovely stage of mania that accompanies with my insomnia.
Last time I tried to kill myself I was up for days.
While mindlessly scrolling through tumblr I thought "I should kill myself."
So I tried.
I managed to write two lovely notes bidding my adieus and even cleaned my room.
Then I counted out 150 pills, separated them into piles of fifteen, and the proceeded to take them.
I only managed to get three of the piles down before the pills really started to kick in.
See that kind of overdose isn't exactly fun.
First you get the incredible head pain and become almost instantaneously delirious(depending on your cocktail of course).
The stomach ache comes later when you are sitting in the ambulance wondering why you didn't inject these drugs instead.
Paranoia, guilt, shame; they all wave over you at once and you don't know how to feel then because you are babbling unintelligibly over the phone to a stranger while slipping in and out of consciousness.
You are trying to figure out what wires someone decided to take out of your head because all the sudden you can't really think and everything is moving very slowly.
It occurs to you months later that hardcore drugs like heroin or meth would have been your better option.
The high would take away the realization of "oops I think I'm going to die".
Almost idealistic in my mind.
Again maybe I'll be more rational when I've had sleep.
Right now though if someone handed me a little glass pipe full of cloudy little crystals I wouldn't think twice.
And to those of you who read the full post of this incoherent dribble I apologize.
I didn't mean to subject you to this vomit.
Ciao.

Dry eyes

Everything is seemingly falling apart.
My life no longer resembles what it once was.
I do not resemble the person I once called me.
The world keeps spinning and I cannot seem to keep pace with the things happening around me.
Lives of people I used to know are moving forward; as I sit in my bed and watch them go.
People who used to hold my hand and walk with me have noticed that I have become immobile.

No one wants to be dragged down by a recollection.
I refuse to stop them as they wave their halfhearted farewells.
I find myself looking back farther wondering where it all went.
The time has come and gone and left me behind.
The people in my memory no longer exist.
They have grown and changed; Rachael is just someone they used to know.
Someone they don't care to know now.
That is the past and their minds look toward the future while mine dwells in thoughts of yesterday.
What could have been; who I could have been, the ideas of possibilities that long ago stopped being possible.
They plague my thoughts and hold my mind captive.
Who are you now?
Do you live your life the way you had hoped, or do those hopes differ now?
What is it like to wake up every day and face the world with your eyes?
Is it enjoyable; more so than it was when I was in it?
Your world, has it altered so much that I wouldn't recognize it; that I'd no longer have a place in it?
Have your dreams come true or have you left them in favor for new ones?
Who are the people that hold your heart; the ones you hold dear?
Who are those that occupy your thoughts?
Are they pleasant; your thoughts?
Have the anchors that damned your heart; made it too heavy to carry, have they released you finally?
Has your suffering been vanquished or is their a lingering ache in your chest?

Has your life been deemed worth while; or do you still search for death's hand to comfort you?
Are you satisfied with the person you've become or have you yet to discover the feeling of being whole?
Who are you now that me and my life's happenings do not effect yours?
What kind of person have you become?
Something in me wants the answers you could provide.
But another part of me wants to let the sleeping dog lie.
Why bring up unsettling feelings for both parties by inquiring what I might not want to know?
Why drag you back to the time I miss most; if in fact, you no longer feel that they were your best days?
Who am I to bring about painful memories you vowed to forget long ago?
Who am I to ask these things of you?
Who am I to ask you to share the things in your life?
I being the one who supposedly stopped caring long ago.
But,,
I think that's the main issue for me.
I never stopped caring.
Do you know that or are these thoughts only disturbing my slumber?
Whether you sleep peacefully or not,
I decided to let the past remain.
Maybe I will miss the opportunity to hold the place at your side again; but it's something I'm willing to give up if it means potential happiness for you.
I will always wonder.
But I will not shed tears for the memories I cherish.
I will not disrupt your peace in favor of my own gross curiosity.
I will dwell only in my own mind.
It may hurt me.
But I hope maybe; just maybe, you are able to smile now.

I miss him

I feel pathetic.
I can't go without speaking to Lukas for this long.
It hurts.

I'm not okay.
I don't feel good.
I don't feel like getting out of bed.
I don't feel like breathing.
I don't want to eat.
I'm fucking starving but I won't eat that.
I am not recovering;no where near it.
I don't want to use bio oil.
I don't want to be me.
To be this to be anything really.
I just want to go to sleep and I'm sorry but no I can't help you remodel your kitchen.
I'm too busy looking at pictures of self harm and watching suicide tapes to care about what the motherfucking sink will look like.

I'm at my Mom's.
I'm tired of playing the good daughter who smiles and is fine.
I'm exhausted.
I'm fucking done.
How am I supposed to last two weeks here?

Can I just

Lukas has a blogger and he made a post about me can I just share it with you?
Visiting! (Rachael)
I'm also really excited to visit Rach, whenever that is!
She lives in Ohio, so she's pretty far away too.
I hope I can visit her soon. I miss her and I don't tell her I love
her enough.
I wanna go on a walk with her and hold her hand and we
can share earbuds and listen to Del Amitri's "Roll to Me".
I wanna give her a piggyback ride at WalMart. I wanna
kiss her forehead and pet her hair while she falls asleep.
I wanna watch movies with her and let her lay on me and 
just be big gays without a care in the world. When I'm
with her, I just feel like the happiest guy ever?
I really wanna be with her, soon. I need to tell her I love
her. I want to see her get embarrassed when I do, and I'll
kiss her hair and let her hide her face in my chest and I'll
call her a pretty baby and she'll probably hit me. I'll let
her wear my clothes and I'll just look at her and wonder
how lucky I was to meet her.
She's beautiful, and she doesn't know it.
She has the prettiest smile and the cutest laugh and
she's just absolutely perfect.
I love her.
Also I'm sorry this post got so sappy, ahhhh.

adsfghjk,hgfsghjk he's perfect.
I love him so much and he just doesn't know how amazing he is.
I wish you could all meet him and just see how fabulous he is.
I don't think I've ever met someone I've loved so much.

129.6lbs

I hurt.
Everything is just really painful today.
Physically, mentally, and emotionally.
I feel that heavy feeling in my chest.
I'm thinner.
Getting thinner by the minute and everything is still wrong.
It'll always be wrong.
I try so hard to no avail.
The people I fall in love with love someone else.
The things I strive for are out of my reach.
Everyone is oblivious to the fact that I can't seem to keep on going.
Nothing is getting solved and everything is worse than it was.
I feel these horrible aches in my chest that are either entirely in my head or there is something wrong with this ticking heart of mine.
Either way I'm getting worse.
I stand up and the room goes black for a moment while I clutch to the back of my head board with shaky fingers.
My face is taught.
Empty and ghostly pale; I feel more dead than ever.
What happened to the promise of recovery?
What happened to my endless tomorrows and the invincible youthfulness I once possessed?
I look in the mirror and for a split second see the monster I have become.
I see her.
I see her bones start to poke out.
But it isn't right.
I wasn't this thin before was I?
It's off wrong.
This reflection is a dead girl.
Her eyes hold no meaning, no life.
Her skin is graying and she is tired.
She is oh so tired.
She will allow herself to eat but not without a few tears split into her applesauce.
Should I purge it?
Should I get rid of it?
Her head pounds.
She is confused.
She will decide to keep it, her stomach clinging to it for dear life.
And crawl back into her dark hole of a bedroom.
Faint memories of plans that she had made earlier in the summer will flash in her mind.
She will wave it off and drift into restless sleep.
Never quite shaking the feeling of deep clawing exhaustion.

Sorry for my absence

I've been a little stuck in my head as of late.
I have trouble focusing and I have trouble really remembering what I'm doing with my life and why.
I'll binge just for the simple fact that I can.
I'll allow it to sit in my stomach and tell myself I'm a disgusting cow.
Severely punishing myself for it the next day.
I had been a few weeks clean from cutting and yesterday I decided to pick up my lovely Sherice again(my blade is named for no reason other than I like her more than the others I've had).
I didn't eat anything yesterday.
I woke up late I got into a fight with my Dad; who then decided to play nice and ask me fifteen times if I was hungry before giving up and telling me to go to sleep.

I just get a little stuck.
I forget why school even matters.
I do my work in bursts of clarity and then I'll just let it pile up again conveniently letting it slip my mind that I am on the verge of being a junior for the second year in a row.
My Italian project is currently sitting in my folder not even half finished and it's due on Tuesday.
It makes no sense.
It's almost as if I'm reverting back to sixth grade me.
The one that would play video games(why hello there PS2, DS lite, and Game boy Advanced SP) and read and shut herself out from the world.
That girl woke up one day and realized she had no friends and they might be a good investment(wrong).
My destructive habits are the only real difference; that of course, and my weight.
132 lbs exactly and a nasty little tendency to throw up the things I shove in my face, I'm a complete disaster.
So I've made a decision.

I'm going to try.
I'm going to shower first thing in the morning.
I'm going to put on suitable clothes for the weather and running.
I'm going to walk to the wood-enclosed park and I'm going to run(jog-or attempt since I'm so out of shape it's laughable) the trails. Come home and shower again.
Then I'm going to try and dress in some sort of fashion without trying on a million things; dressing according to the weather rather than how fat I feel( UPDATE: I've been diagnosed with BDD-Body Dysmorphic Disorder on Wednesday. My therapist doesn't think it's "serious" though but he can be a bit of a twat).
I'm going to paint my nails.
I'm going to do my homework.
I'm going to clean my room.
I'm going to do sketches so I can pain my walls and put my new furniture in my room.
I'm going to go shopping.
I'm going to convince Dad I need purple hair dye.
I'm going to start studying for my drivers license because I'm going to be eighteen and I can't drive.
Notice this list involves no food.
The food of tomorrow will only consist of:
-one coffee with some non-fat creamer- iced: 100
-1/2 cup of cinnamon apple sauce w/ 1/4 a nature valley bar-crushed: 122.5
222.5 calories

I'm going to start trying. I need to start trying.
Stay strong loves <3
CHEERS
P.S. sorry it's so fucking long oh my god
oh and polyvore, LOOKBOOK (sorry no current looks but I'm going to try to put some up when I redo my room), tumblr (the eating disorders one), and tumblr (the "safe" or photography one)

One day

I had binged for a straight week and then went one day without eating.
I even allowed myself to have an Arizona Arnold Palmer Peach tea(150 calories).
I had been maintaining.
134.2lbs.
I had gained.
And then maintained.
One day without solid food.
And a tea.
And I weighed myself.
132.4lbs.
My head hurts.
I feel dizzy.
I think I'll have some apple sauce and some tea.

Pizza

I'd give anything if I could purge it.
I can purge whole pounds of pasta.
I can purge cake.
I can purge rice.
Basically everything I'm usually forced to eat on a daily basis can be purged except pizza.
I don't know why but for some reason I just can do it.
I'm going to fucking kill myself if I can't purge this.

Scary

I know what you mean about the elliptical lying to me.
I usually double my exercise and figure I burned half of what it tells me I did.
And I know how frustrating it can be when no one sees how sick you really are.
I have visible bald spots.
My fingers were full of hair when I went to wash the shampoo out today.
I had been making an effort to eat 1000 calories everyday.
Maybe a half-assed attempt at recovery?
It doesn't matter anymore because it all went down the drain (or should I say toilet?) this evening.
It's scary how easily I can slip back into my habits.
I don't need any reason.
I walk into the kitchen.
Panic.
Dad has gone shopping.
What was supposed to be a day of restriction has become seven cookies- one crunchy, six chewy- swirling down with a flush and a stench of bile.
Not a binge but what is chaos in my claimed to be world of order.
I do not enjoy it.
That dreadful feeling.
I know after I feel calm.
I know it will only last for a few hours.
I know what will be next.
It will be the broccoli and white cheddar soup, a used to be favorite.
I will eat it in less than five minutes and it will come up in less than two.
My throat will feel as though it is on fire.
I will not cry but I will want to.
Then even later it will be a key-lime yogurt.
Only 80 calories.
I will after throwing it up grab a propel zero and hop on the elliptical.
Then I will make myself hot tea WITHOUT honey.
And I will slash each of my fat legs before going to sleep.
Tomorrow will be the same.

Tea

I can't sleep.
I'm slightly dizzy and everything feels a little fuzzy.
I'm going to catch up on some reading and then do my math homework.
I'm almost done with tutoring I have this set of homework and then three take home tests to do for math.
I've officially completed English and Italian is continuing through the summer.
I'm just scared that I won't have enough requirements to be a senior next year.
If that's the case I don't know what I'll do.
I can't do another two years of high school.
Everyone keeps telling me "Oh Rachael it's not that bad" but it is.
I just can't do it.
And I have to make sure that this year going into school I look sick.
I'm so tired of hearing that there's nothing wrong with me because I 'look fine'.
It sounds horrible but if I'm killing myself might as well not hold back right?
So at some point tonight I'll probably go down stairs with my iPod and exercise.
It's hard with Ben sleeping on the couch.
I wish he would just leave but I need to get on the elliptical.
It tells me how many calories I'm burning and how long I've been exercising and it does more for me that crunches can.
My muscles will be screaming later today.
I'm only allowing tea because the passed few days have been nonstop binges.
I can stand this feeling.
I haven't been able to purge and these little voices keep screaming "buy laxatives".
Anyways.
shit post.
<3 more later. be nice to yourselves.
CHEERS

Maintaining

Makes me hate myself.
Makes me carve into my finally clean arms with my double edged blade.
Makes me go to the kitchen and binge wildly forcing myself to purge when I realize what's happened.
Maintaining physically hurts.
It makes me unable to think.
Makes me unable to concentrate on homework or anything really.
It makes me cringe when I look in the mirror.
The over sized sweater it is today then, least someone see how fat I've gotten since then number hasn't changed.
It puts irrational thoughts in my head.
Maybe if I don't eat for fifteen days...
Maybe if tomorrow I purge on an empty stomach and then weigh myself...
Maybe if I shave my head and chop off my foot...
Maybe this feeling would go away.
But I know better.
This feeling will not leave.
It will sit on my heart and weigh me down and I will be lonely and miserable.
Even if I do lose a foot along the way what difference does it make?
None.

I know she won't read it but

I just wanted to congratulate Julia on graduating.
I wish I could say it to her but I just can't.
I'm supposed to be the bad guy.
I'm supposed to be the one she blames for everything and hates.
So I'll keep quiet.
But I miss her.
I miss my friends.
I miss them all.
Most of them graduated today and I won't see them again.
Maybe it's better this way.
If this year goes the way I planned hopefully none of them will ever know what happened to me.
Hopefully none of them will have to care too much if they find out.

131.4

I feel weak and shaky today.
It took me a few minutes to stand up.
I don't have the energy to make myself tea.
I don't have the energy to do my homework.
I feel lost.
Lukas is probably sleeping.
I have this weird feeling in my chest every time he doesn't answer.
It's the same one I get when I look at pictures of Kelsey and I or read past notes she wrote me.
Sadness?
Longing?
I'm not exactly sure what it is.
I just know it hurts.
Then again everything does now.
stay strong lovelies<3
CHEERS
P.S.
it kills me that my weight is 'healthy'

I just keep getting worse

First lets all take a moment to look at the lovely new theme.
Yes now.
I fit into freshman years skinny jeans today.
And before I get an "oh my god Rachael congrats for getting your fat ass which is like size six into a size two!!":
this isn't an accomplishment.
This isn't something to be proud of.
It isn't something worth gloating about.
I looked fabulous in my flamboyant purple skinny jeans and my Dad's sweater from the seventies today but the reality of it is that I am dying.
Slowly but surely I am getting there and although I was really happy with myself and even allowed *GASP* not one but TWO handfuls of popcorn at the movie theater it doesn't change the fact that I'm beyond unhealthy.
My nails are blue have I yet told you the significance of blue nails to me?
Freshman year when I started reading Wasted blue nails became the thing I needed.
If it wasn't a thigh gap(which was another on the check list) I could get RIGHT NOW it was gonna be blue nails.
And bald spots.
And sores on my fingers.
And goddammit I was gonna fail that test.
The check list went like this:
{x}blue nails
{x}bald spots
{x}marks on my knuckles
{c}low blood pressure
{?}anemia
{}flat or concave stomach
{}sharp point hip bones(because they have to be sharp and POINTY to count)
{}a thigh gap
{}an arm gap
{}a space above my fingers when I put them together around my wrist
{}being able to fit my hands around my upper thigh
{}no hands purging
{x}keynotes in my urine
{x}muscles that eat away at themselves

c means sometimes
x of course means I have it and ? means I'm not sure.

do you see what I'm getting at? Does anyone else see how utterly sick and disgusting this list is?
Anyone?
And now that everything is starting to go "according to plan" it makes me want to cry. It makes me feel sick to my stomach with guilt and shame and worry. It makes me upset with myself.

My mom cried yesterday. She came in for a day and a half and she said to me "you know I see when I look at your arms? I see my you: two years old fat little baby arms holding a crayon scribbling away. And your arms were so perfect and you were just so beautiful. And then I see the reality. These scars. And I see all the people who have and who will judge you for them. And I don't want that. It hurts. I look at you and then look in the mirror and I'm disappointed with myself." and I just couldn't bear it. She had tears streaming down her face and she looked so heart broken. What if she knew the whole truth? All of it?
I fit into my jeans today and my mom will probably lose her daughter this year.
I fit into my jeans today and all those beautiful memories she has of me aren't true anymore.
I fit into my jeans today and I have and will disappoint my mom.
I fit into my jeans today looked in the mirror and thought I want to die.
And my mom just said "You look cute Rachie-butt."

I told my Mom

everything.
Well.
Almost.
I told her about my abuse.
and now she's going to be coming in next weekend to tell Dad about it.

PTSD

I told my therapist I was raped.
I've been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I don't know how I feel other than insignificant.
Everyone has been staring at me today.
I don't want to be me right now.

"You're just really stupid aren't you?"

Little things always stick in my head.
No one seems to remember that.
Everyone forgets.
Absolutely everyone.
Even the people I'm closest too.
"Rachael needs to do crunches."
"Flabby tummy."
"You gained weight."
"Did you put on a couple pounds?... No no you look good!"
"Did you eat all of this?"
"Woah slow down there."(referring to eating)
"How much you gonna eat tonight Rach?"
"Think a little next time Punky."
Over and over the little things.
There are thousands of them.
"You're just really stupid aren't you?"
You didn't mean it maliciously. It was innocent.
A little joke.
But now I can't get it out of my head and my six day cut free streak is going to end.
I just ate a cookie and a chocolate muffin and I'm going to purge them.
Stupid.
Insolent.
Insignificant.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Disgusting.
Repulsive.
The swirl around in my head sing song lullaby sings me to sleep at night.
Fucking kill me already.

I want to

Tell you about him.
Tell you about my life.
I want to tell you about everything that's happened.
I want to be like we used to.
I want to curl up next to you on the couch find the strength in me and cry on your shoulder.
I want you to wrap your arms around me and tell me "Rach, it'll be okay you've been through worse." Even if it's a lie.
I want you to turn on Madeline by Tickle Me Pink and tell me we're going for a walk.
I want to go buy a monster and straighten your hair and pretend I'm your best friend again.
I just hate how much everything has changed.
I have an amazing person in my life.
His name is Lukas, Kelsey.
He called the police the night I decided to try and take 150 pills.
It was my third over dose.
You weren't there but this stranger whom I had never met sat on the phone with me.
He was there when I was discharged.
He is still here miraculously 3 months later.
But you aren't anywhere to be found.
I want to talk to you about how bad everything has gotten.
I want to tell you about Julia, and Tommy and Eric and all my mistakes over the past couple of years.
I really fucked up here Kelse.
Did you know I'm not in school?
Not only that but right now I'm currently supposed to be working on my Math homework due tomorrow?
It's important or I'll never be able to keep up in Chem next year.
I can't draw for the time being.
Did I tell you I'm going to art school?
If I can make it in that is.
Have I told you yet that I miss you?
Because I do.
I miss everything.
Maybe it's me living in the past.
Maybe it's me refusing to move on but Kelsey we weren't just your average friends.
You were my very best friend an I wanted to set myself on fire when you left.
I almost did too.
But somehow I made it out of that.
Barely and it seems I left little pieces of me behind along the way.
I guess what I'm trying to say; if you happen to be reading this (which it wouldn't really surprise me) is that if you wanted to drop me an anonymous message I wouldn't mind all that much.
If you get lonely or need someone to talk to anonymously(or not) talk to me.
Because I don't know about you but I miss you an awful lot.
And maybe I can't even say that anymore.
Maybe I can't say I miss you because maybe I don't know who you are anymore.
But.
I'm wouldn't mind getting to know you again.
Which is probably selfish.
And maybe you want absolutely nothing to do with me but life is short you know?
It's becoming more apparent to me everyday that at any moment I could die and you might never know how much I wished you would have called me.
My number never changes.
Lukas asked me about that when we talked about the police tracking my number back to New Jersey.
I live in Ohio why not just get a new number?
Because of you Kelsey.
I know your number by heart.
You weren't always so good with that but I won't change mine just in case one day it hits you that you want to talk to me again too.
And if you're having a tough time and can't seem to sum up the courage or maybe just really don't want to talk to me;
stay strong Kelsey.
Because you really do NOT deserve the shit you put yourself through.

Vomit

There is a bag of vomit in my closet.
I purged in the kitchen sink.
I got vomit up my nose and in my hair and on my TOES.
I have no idea what is wrong with me.
I have 75 pills stashed.
It's a growing collection.
I lost 4.6 lbs in two days.
I am never satisfied.
When it gets to be 1:30 am I am taking my laptop and camping down stairs on the elliptical for a few hours.
And I will probably work out until I can't feel my legs.
And then tomorrow I will probably repeat this process.
This is going to kill me before I reach my 18th birthday.

I have news

First.
I lost 2.8lbs.
Making me 136lbs on the dot.
It sucks because I've been teeter tottering between 134 and 138 for the past month.
I want to get down to the 110's this month.
120's by the end of next week and the 110's by the end of the month.
If I keep up with my 'diet'
I should be okay.
I'm not allowing binges.
I can purge.
I have a NEED to purge.
So I can binge on my safe foods.
But for the rest of this month binges are out of the question.
Today I'm 'fasting'.
Basically the only thing I have is green tea with honey.
I allow extras like apple sauce if I get to pass out mode but I should be fine.
My stomach is tight and it hurts because I'm so fucking hungry.
I missed this feeling.
I am hoping by the end of this month I get that feeling of my calves cramping up in the middle of the night because that means they are eating away at themselves.

More.
Lukas.
The mushy stuff a lot of you probably don't care about.
He apparently likes me back.
Life is horrible but certain things are actually working out for me.
Like weight loss.
Fuck yes for weight loss.
And Lukas.
I wouldn't be here without him.
I love him too much.
Okay done being sappy.
<3 stay strong and be good to yourselves today
CHEERS

Purging

Does something to you.
It does something to your face; your eyes in particular.
It makes them look older.
It adds years and years onto them.
In what will seem like minutes.
It's been two weeks since my big purge fest began.
I've always purged but
it's begun to take on a life of its own.
And now.
My eyes have these rings around them.
Like yellowing bruises.
And a tiredness that wasn't there before.
Something that only hours with your finger shoved down to the back of your throat can bring about.
Its a feeling of deadness.
Of emptiness.
A hollow feeling that you can't quite grasp until you've felt the ache of your teeth after a good dousing with stomach acid.
You won't ever know this felling unless you know what it's like to purge.
It's the feeling of exhaustion.
The feeling of giving up.
The feeling of I don't want to fight anymore.

I try

Really hard not to kill myself.
Everyday.
It's a struggle to wake up in the morning.
To force myself out of bed.
I purged fourteen times yesterday.
It was just a normal day for me.
Get up.
Eat.
Purge.
Cut.
Eat more.
Purge more.
Cut more.
Repeat.
Over and over and over again. It just never ends. I do this constantly.
My throat is so swollen right now it's so hard to breathe.
I wish I would stop.
My lungs should stop working.
Just shut down.
I'm so tired,
So so tired.

It is killing me

First before I get into this post I want to say to you all:
I love you.
I do.
Those who have been there since I started this blog and those who had joined more recently I want you all to know that you mean very much to me.
That being said.
If any of you ever need any kind of help or anything at all you know how to get in touch with me okay?
I don't want anyone to hesitate.
I will try my best to help even though I am not a professional.
I can always help you find professionals if that's what you want or just be a shoulder to lean on.
There are so few now for many of us that we need all the friends we can get.
And that is what I would be to anyone who needs it.
A friend.

Now.
Post.
I almost asphyxiated on my own vomit in the shower today.
I was purging and I got vomit stuck in my throat.
Needless to say I'm still here but it opened my eyes to a few things.
One being this will probably kill me faster than starvation.
I will probably be found in a pool of blood and vomit and it will not be pretty.
Two being I have really fucked up my body already.
I have a heart that likes to teeter totter and beat out of tune.
I have a live that cannot process toxins anymore.
If I have alcohol or Tylenol my liver could start to fail.
I have a digestive system that likes to not digest.
I have a stomach lining that is faulty.
I have scarred yellowing skin.
I have eyes that used to see perfectly but now only see half of whats there and some things that aren't real.
I have a brain that doesn't function properly least I be doped up on proper meds and who exactly knows what those could be?
I have lungs that seem to be tired after a few short breaths.
I have a throat that is constantly swollen and ripped.
A mouth that burns and tastes of bile.
I have teeth that are sensitive to both hot and cold.
I have gums that are receding and bleed at the slightest touch.
Achy joint that don't move well.
A twitch in my neck and arm and torso that are probably related to my nonexistent eating disorder.
I have a faulty body and a broken mind.
I need a little more fixing than doctors could possibly do.
I am dying.
Right now.
With each heart beat I get closer.
Technically you could argue that he/she/it and you are dying too.
I think I'm getting closer than he/she and it though.
Now you?
I'm not sure.
You are the one writing your story and it is one I haven't read.
You could be no better off than me.
But there is always time to change that if you wish.

Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438


For those of you still hoping for a future.
Hoping to escape the hellish world you live in.
Don't be afraid to press the buttons that might save your life.
<3 stay strong
CHEERS