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.