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.