Thursday, September 20, 2012


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. :*

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

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.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012


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

Sunday, September 16, 2012


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.
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.