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.