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.